EXT. HELL'S OUTER CRATER – NIGHT
The battlefield seethes. Thirty-eight survivors clash against demons that crawl from fissures like shadows given form. Screams and steel echo against the blackened cliffs. Some hold their ground. Others are dragged screaming into the dark.
Lyra Mei: (slashing through a beast) Don't stop! Keep fighting!
Kwame Oba: (swinging his hammer) Every one of them falls! Every one!
His roar rallies those nearest. With each strike, he crushes demons to dust, pushing fear back with raw force. The circle holds, though barely. Elias Ward commands near the supplies, directing fighters to protect their lifeline.
Elias Ward: Shields in front! Nobody touches the crates!
Demons shriek from every angle. Then, chaos splits the formation. A surge of clawed monsters tears through the center, scattering survivors. Small groups are thrown apart, swallowed by the smoke and fire.
Among them—Arven. He rolls across the ground, a blade in hand, cut off from the main circle. His eyes dart around, but the others are nowhere in sight.
Arven: (panting) Damn it... Kael! Cassian! Anyone!
No answer—only the growl of approaching demons. Arven steadies his grip, jaw tightening.
Elsewhere, Kael fights alone, his strikes precise but desperate. He keeps moving, cutting through smaller demons, but exhaustion begins to show. Cassian, too, is seen in the distance—fighting in silence, his blade carving through demons with grim efficiency. Alone, separated, but unyielding.
Narration: The battlefield had no mercy. Groups shattered, leaders divided. Each survivor was forced to stand or be erased.
EXT. CRATER EDGE – CONTINUOUS
Some, instead of despair, turn to rivalry. Bloodied but laughing, two men drive their blades into the corpses of demons, sneering at one another.
Survivor A: That's eight for me! How many you got?
Survivor B: Eleven. Try harder next time.
Survivor A: (clicking his tongue) Tsk. Show-off.
Their grim competition spreads, a twisted way to fight back against fear. Numbers become pride. Each kill feels like proof that they belong here, that maybe they can survive.
EXT. NEAR SUPPLIES – CONTINUOUS
Back at the main defense, Elias Ward steadies the line. His voice cuts through fear like steel.
Elias Ward: No matter what, the supplies stand! If they fall, we all fall!
Fighters nod, forming a tighter wall. Elias drives his blade into a demon's skull, pushing it back into the flames. Behind him, crates of rations and water remain untouched, still safe. His presence anchors those who would otherwise break.
EXT. CRATER WIDE – NIGHT
Cassian cuts down another wave, his face cold and unreadable. Even separated, his voice carries across the chaos.
Cassian: (yelling) They bleed! Remember that—they bleed like us!
Those who hear him surge with newfound confidence. If Cassian could cut through them like this, maybe they all could. His presence, though distant, becomes fuel for their courage.
Nearby, Riku carves through demons with speed and precision. Blood drips down his face, but his grin never fades.
Riku: (mocking) That's twelve. Who's keeping score?
Laughter breaks through the screams, bitter but alive. For a moment, morale rises.
Narration: And then the truth struck them—their weapons here, forged by Hell itself, cut through demons with ease. Stronger than bullets, sharper than steel, these blades made them executioners. Guns on Earth had barely scratched such beasts. Here, one swing could end them.
In just minutes, the crater floor was littered with fading corpses. Black smoke curled upward from nearly three hundred demons slain.
Kwame Oba: (panting, triumphant) Three hundred... three hundred dead, and we're still breathing!
Lyra Mei: (nodding, blood-streaked but fierce) Then maybe this war is ours to win.
Narration: Where fear had ruled, now pride crept in. Confidence took root—not in safety, but in strength.
EXT. CRATER OUTER RIM – LATER
The battle slows. Demons retreat into the cracks, their growls fading into the ash-dark. The survivors regroup—scattered, fewer, but still standing. Blood drips into the scorched earth, mingling with the blackened corpses of their enemies.
Lyra Mei: (panting) We... we survived.
Kwame Oba: (nodding firmly) More than survived. We fought. And we won.
The words ripple through the group, stubborn hope rising despite their wounds. For the first time since the fall, survival no longer feels impossible.
Narration: Yet beneath the ash and silence, Hell kept its secrets. Old corpses of demons, marked with strange sigils, lay buried in the stone. Weapons long rusted—too old to belong to this war—waited in the shadows. Remnants of those who had come before.
Arven, still separated, stumbles near one such ruin. His eyes widen at the sight—a scorched sigil glowing faintly, pulsing as though alive. He reaches out, hand trembling.
Arven: (to himself) What... what is this place?
The sigil's glow flickers faintly, like a heartbeat calling to him. His breath quickens, but before he can react—distant footsteps echo through the ash. Someone approaches.
Narration: Thirty-two remained. Divided, bloodied, and scarred. But not broken. And as the smoke of battle faded, the first shadows of Hell's deeper mysteries began to reveal themselves.
To be continued...