The steps led them to an open space, and the hero stopped, disbelieving his eyes.
The Citadel.
The colossal fortress towered before them, rising into the darkness where its spires were lost. Built of blackened metal, it didn't reflect light—it absorbed it. The walls were curved, unnatural, like frozen screams. The towers jutted out at impossible angles, as if the very geometry here obeyed pain, not logic.
Everything in the architecture was a weapon. The sharp edges of the walls, the jagged loopholes, the spikes protruding from the stone. Even the gates were shaped like a gaping maw with metal fangs.
"Gods..." Medusa whispered, the snakes on her head pressed against her skull, hissing in alarm. "What is this place?"
The hero didn't answer. He simply stared at the citadel, feeling something heavy pressing on his chest. Not physically, but deeper. As if the very air here was saturated with something dark, hopeless.
They approached the gate. It stood ajar—like an invitation or a trap.
The hero pushed the door. The metal was cold, a dead chill felt even through his glove.
They entered.
The hall greeted them with silence. Unusual—heavy, oppressive, filled with thousands of silent screams. The hero heard them on the edge of his consciousness—echoes of suffering absorbed into the walls over centuries, millennia.
The floor was black stone, polished to a mirror shine. Stains were visible on it—dark, ingrained. Blood. Lots of blood.
The walls were decorated with frescoes—depictions of torture, executions, torment. But they were executed with such detail, with such mastery, that it was a terrible beauty. Majestic agony forged into art.
"It's... hard to breathe here," Medusa pressed her hand to her chest. "As if the air itself... is crushing me from within."
The hero nodded. He felt the same. Each breath brought not only oxygen, but something else as well. Despair. Hopelessness. The will to resist was corroded, as if acid were being poured into his lungs.
They moved deeper into the citadel, down a long corridor. Statues stood on either side—demons, executioners, frozen in the act of striking. Too realistic. The hero wasn't sure they were statues, or petrified creatures.
The corridor led to the next hall. There were already living beings here.
Demon executioners. Tall, dressed in black leather robes covered in spikes and blades. Their faces were hidden by masks—simple, without detail, just slits for the eyes. They held tools in their hands—not swords, not axes. Pliers, hooks, needles, scalpels. Tools for inflicting pain, not quick death.
Three of them stood around a table on which lay a translucent figure—a spirit, a ghost, something intangible. The executioners worked—inserting needles, twisting hooks, and the figure writhed, screaming silently.
They weren't torturing the body. They were torturing the very essence of the being.
One of the executioners raised his head, noticed the hero and Medusa. He froze. The others turned around too.
A second of silence.
Then they moved. Slowly, methodically, their tools in their hands ready for use.
"New samples," said the voice of one of the executioners. Not from behind the mask—from somewhere within, resonating. "Living flesh. With souls. A rarity."
Medusa assumed a fighting stance, trident forward:
"Try to approach."
The hero drew his dagger.
The executioners attacked.
Not quickly. Not furiously. Measured, like surgeons approaching the operating table.
The first one swung his pincers, aiming for the hero's arm. Not to chop it off—to grab, to squeeze, to inflict pain.
The hero dodged, and the dagger sank into the executioner's side. The blade entered easily, but the demon didn't even flinch. He tore a chunk of flesh from the hero's shoulder with his pincers.
The pain was disproportionate to the wound. A small piece of flesh, but the pain was as if someone had ripped off his entire arm. The hero screamed and retreated.
The executioner held the chunk of flesh in his pincers, studying it like a specimen:
"Interesting. The pain resonates more strongly than usual." The soul remembers multiple deaths.
Medusa attacked the second executioner. The trident pierced her chest and exited through the other side. The demon looked down at the prongs protruding from her body.
"Physical damage," he stated calmly. "Not enough."
His hand with the hook darted forward, caught the snake on Medusa's head, and yanked.
The snake tore off by the roots, blood spurting. Medusa screamed, pain piercing her—not from the wound, but deeper. The snakes were part of her, part of her soul.
The hero threw the dagger. The blade pierced the executioner's eye, passing right through. The demon froze, but he didn't stop. He continued to advance, tearing the blade from its socket, tools at the ready.
"It's not working!" the hero shouted. "They feel no pain!"
"How to kill?!"
The third executioner approached Medusa, a needle in his hand—long, thin, glowing. He plunged it into Medusa's chest, not her physical heart, but somewhere deeper.
Medusa froze. Her eyes widened. A scream tore from her throat—not from physical pain, but from something worse.
Memories surfaced—the temple, Poseidon, Athena, the curse. But intensified, magnified a thousandfold. Humiliation, pain, despair—all came crashing down on her, crushing her mind.
She fell to her knees, the snakes on her head writhing, screaming with her. "Medusa!"
The hero rushed toward her, but the first executioner intercepted him, the pincers clamped down on his ankle, and yanked.
Bones cracked. The hero fell. The executioner pulled him toward the table where the translucent figure lay.
"On the table," the executioner said. "The work begins."
The hero writhed, trying to break free, but the grip was iron. The second executioner approached, the scalpel descended on the hero's chest.
The blade touched the skin.
Pain exploded.
Not a physical cut. This was something else. The scalpel wasn't cutting flesh—it was cutting memories, emotions, attachments. Each cut opened a new wound in the soul.
The hero saw himself, dying in the monster's stomach. He saw Medusa, dissolving in acid. He saw every death, every agony, all at once, amplified to the limit.
His mind began to break.
Then—a sound.
Not metallic. Not a grinding sound. Something else.
A deep, low hum. A vibration that passed through the walls, the floor, the air.
The executioners stopped. They turned their heads toward the far passage.
"He's calling," said one.
"The altar," agreed another.
They stepped away from the hero and Medusa, moved toward the passage, and disappeared into the darkness.
The hero lay on the floor, breathing heavily. Medusa was nearby, still trembling, tears streaming down her green cheeks.
"What... what was that?" she croaked.
"I don't know. But..." The hero forced himself to stand and helped her up. "Someone called them, and that saved us."
They looked at the passage where the executioners had gone.
"The altar," repeated the hero. "They said 'altar.' Shall we go?" Medusa nodded. The snakes on her head were limp, one missing—torn off. The wound was bleeding, but she ignored the pain.
"Come on. Whoever was there... they helped us. Maybe they need help themselves."
They moved through the passage, deeper into the citadel.
The corridors grew wider, higher. The architecture changed—from functional to majestic. Columns of blackened metal supported vaults etched with scenes of suffering—not ordinary torture, but something more abstract.
Here they showed how hope is torn apart. How love is burned out. How faith is drowned.
The hero stopped in front of a fresco. It depicted a man holding a glowing object—a heart? Hope? And around him, the demons didn't physically touch him, simply stood there, and the light in the man's hands slowly faded, blackened, rotting from within.
"They don't destroy the body," the hero whispered. "They destroy what makes us human."
Medusa pressed herself against him.
"This place is terrible. Worse than all the previous ones."
"I agree. But we're close. I can feel it."
The passage opened into a huge hall. The central one. The heart of the citadel.
The altar towered in the center—massive, made of the same blackened metal, covered in runes that pulsed with a blood-red light. Executioners stood around it—dozens of them, maybe hundreds, all frozen, looking at the figure chained to the altar.
The hero and Medusa stopped at the entrance, hesitating to approach.
The figure was enormous—three meters tall, muscular, yet emaciated. Chained—not ordinary ones, but magical ones, with glowing runes. The chains dug into his wrists, ankles, and neck, digging into his skin.
His entire body was covered in scars. Thousands of them, from ancient tortures, layered one on top of the other. Burned marks—symbols of suffering—covered his chest, back, and arms.
His dark hair was long and tangled, falling over his face. His face was gloomy, haggard, with deep, dark eyes that had seen too much.
And nearby, leaning against the altar, stood a sword. Two-handed, black, two and a half meters long. The runes on the blade pulsed in time with the runes on the altar.
The figure raised its head and looked at the hero and Medusa.
His eyes were bottomless, filled with eternal melancholy. But deep within, a spark smoldered—stubborn, undimmed even after centuries of imprisonment. "Alive," the voice was low, hoarse from disuse. "Here. In my prison."
The hero stepped forward.
"Who are you?"
"Dolor," the figure answered simply. "The God of Suffering. Or what's left of him."
Silence. Medusa squeezed the hero's hand.
"A god?" the hero repeated.
Dolor nodded slowly.
"He was. Long ago. Serving... those who suffered. Easing their pain, taking it upon himself. But the gods decided otherwise. They decided... that suffering is useful. That it teaches. Strengthens." His voice grew harsher. "They locked me here. Turned me into fuel. My agony feeds this citadel. Every stone is saturated with my torment. Every torture here is amplified by my power."
He looked at the chains.
"For centuries. For millennia. I burn so that others can burn brighter."
The hero stepped closer. The executioners didn't move, just watched.
"Why did you call us? Save us from the executioners?"
Dolor smiled—bitterly, wearily:
"Because I saw. Your pain. Your deaths." He nodded at the hero. "You know suffering. Firsthand. You've lived it. Many times. And still you walk."
His gaze slid to Medusa:
"And you. Cursed. Betrayed. Suffering. But not giving up."
He exhaled:
"I'm tired. Of existence. Of pain. And... I don't want this place to continue to exist. I don't want to feed the torment of others."
"How can I free you?" the hero asked.
Dolor looked at the altar, at the runes:
"The chains cannot be broken. They are part of me. But... I can share the burden. Take on part of my suffering. If someone takes enough... the chains will weaken. I can break free." The hero frowned:
"Accept the suffering? How?"
"Touch the runes. They will transmit it. But..." Dolor looked straight into his eyes. "...it will hurt. Every worst moment of your life, amplified a thousandfold. You will relive it all. All at once. Can you do it?"
Medusa grabbed the hero's hand:
"No. It will kill you. Your mind won't be able to handle it."
"I will return," the hero replied. "I always return."
"But the pain will remain! You know that!"
The hero nodded:
"I know. But..." he looked at Dolor. "He doesn't deserve this. He's suffered for centuries for others. It's time someone helped him."
Medusa opened her mouth to object, but the hero had already stepped toward the altar. He reached out for the runes.
"Don't..." Dolor began, but the hero had already touched them.
The world exploded with pain.
Every death. Every agony. All at once.
Crushed in the stomach. Dissolved in acid. Burned by the seraph. Chopped by the reaper. Devoured by worms. Drowned. Frozen. Aged. Grinded by gears. Crucified by hunger.
All. At once. Amplified a thousandfold.
And not just his pain. Someone else's. Millions of sufferers, whose agonies passed through Dolor. He felt them. All. At once.
His mind cracked. His body writhed. A scream tore from his throat—animal, inhuman.
Medusa rushed toward him, but an invisible barrier pushed her back. She thrashed against him, screaming his name, but the hero heard nothing. Only pain. Only an eternity of agony.
The runes on the altar flared brighter. The chains trembled and began to crack.
Dolor watched, his eyes wide with shock:
"He... he accepts everything... Madness..."
One chain snapped. Then a second. A third.
The hero fell to his knees, his hand still pressed to the runes. Blood flowed from his nose, ears, eyes. His body refused to obey, but he held on. He didn't let go.
The last chain snapped.
Dolor was free.
He rose—slowly, uncertainly, his muscles atrophied from centuries of immobility. Dolor grabbed the sword leaning against the altar. The blade glowed and whispered—a chorus of suffering voices, blending into a single cacophony.
The hero released the runes and collapsed to the floor. His consciousness was on the brink.
Dolor approached and knelt beside him. He placed his hand on the hero's shoulder. The touch was warm, despite everything around him.
"Thank you," the voice rang out—for the first time in millennia, it carried gratitude, not just pain. "You... gave me freedom. You accepted what you shouldn't have to bear."
The hero tried to speak, but only a croak escaped his throat.
Medusa finally broke through the barrier, fell beside him, and embraced the hero.
"Idiot! Why?!"
The hero smiled weakly.
"I couldn't... leave him..."
Consciousness was fading. The pain was too great. Even for an immortal.
Darkness.
He came to outside the citadel. He lay on a stone, Medusa holding his head in her lap, stroking his hair. The snakes on her head hissed soothingly.
Dolor stood nearby, leaning on his sword. He looked at the ruins.
The citadel was crumbling. Without his power to fuel it, the walls were cracking, the towers were falling. The executioners were disappearing, dissolving into thin air. The majestic agony was crumbling.
The hero sat up, Medusa helping him. The pain was still there—new, monstrous, layered on top of all the previous ones.
But he was alive.
"How are you?" Medusa asked, her eyes red from tears.
"I've been... worse," the hero tried to joke. But it wasn't very convincing.
Dolor turned to them. He dropped to one knee—an ancient gesture of respect.
"You freed me. I owe you. Forever." He looked into the hero's eyes. "Let me follow you. Protect. Serve. This... is all I can offer."
The hero looked at the God of Suffering—exhausted, weakened, but free. His eyes blazed with determination, gratitude, something akin to hope.
"I do not seek servants," the hero said. "Only companions. Friends."
Dolor blinked, surprised. Then he smiled slowly—the first smile in millennia, weak but real.
"Friend. Yes. I can be a friend."
He stood, extended his hand. The hero took it, and rose. 999 984.
Behind them, the citadel was crumbling. Ahead, steps were visible.
Now there were three of them. The Hero, Medusa, and Dolor—the God of Suffering, now an ally.
"Let's go," said the Hero, taking the first step. Medusa and Dolor followed.
The dungeon continued.
But now—the three of them.