Damien drifted again.
Not in water or air, but in something colder than either—a void between pulses, between places, between meaning. He existed here, yet not entirely. However, this time, he could feel, think, and see.
And he saw… nothing.
The darkness surrounding him wasn't just black—it was endless and oppressive. But he could somehow see into it, which made it worse—there were no shapes or walls, just an infinite, watching silence.
The cold touched him next.
Not like wind or ice, but something spectral—an ache that started at his spine and crawled through his veins, nestling deep behind his ribs. His bones felt hollow. His breath, if he still had one, curled like mist and never returned.
He floated there, unmoored, thoughts spinning.
'They're going to let me climb out of Hell?' He wondered, incredulous. 'Don't they know what I've done?'
He shook his head. That thought alone was absurd.
Damien wasn't stupid.
He was a monster—and not in the way people glamorized in stories. He was the kind of monster who had to hide the things he did. That was the real sign—the knowing. If you had to conceal it, it was probably evil.
And Damien had hidden a lot.
He scoffed in the void, the sound ripped away before it could echo.
'I won't let it go to waste. I'll climb out.'
Already, his mind itched toward possibilities.
The organization. Was there anything left to control there? Summer, would she see him again and flinch, or smile and shoot first?
Unclear, but anything sounded better than endless stillness.
Then—something shifted.
A low hum shimmered into being, as though the void itself exhaled. It slithered up his back, electric in its crawl, piercing his spine like fangs of frozen current.
> [SYSTEM DIAGNOSIS COMPLETE] > Scanning residual soulprint... > Analyzing dominant impulse patterns... > Determining core ethical fracture...
A long, heavy chime followed, like a cathedral bell tolling beneath his ribcage.
> Sin Registered: Deception > Pattern recognized: chronic dishonesty, identity manipulation, false presentation of intention, and calculated obfuscation of truth for personal advantage. > Shackle Engaged: DC01 – The veil of truth.
Pain bloomed—not outward, but in. Like iron vines threading into bone, curling around the center of his chest. It wasn't shackles on his limbs.
It was inside him now.
"What is going on!" He yelled into the void, pained.
> No active or dormant virtues detected. > Subject enters Hell unbalanced. > System advisory: This soul is classified as null-aspect.
Another beat passed.
Then a voice—not mechanical, but ancient and low—rose like thunder cracking through ash:
> You come with no light inside you. > But even the damned may kindle flame... > If they choose to burn for it.
A wind without origin gusted through the darkness, followed by a final tone, clearer now, colder.
> Status: Shackled. Branded. Initiated. > > Welcome to Hell, Damien Veyne.
Then it hit him—
A jolt like stone slamming into steel. Damien crashed chest-first onto solid ground, the breath punched from his lungs in a strangled gasp. For half a second, the world blurred into sharp, concussive, disorienting pain.
But that was only the beginning.
A wave of heat surged through his body—no, not heat. Fire. It wasn't on his skin. It was inside him. As if flames had licked into his bones, coiled beneath muscle, and set his soul to smoldering.
He coughed and pressed a trembling hand to the dirt beneath him. It was rough, grainy, orange-red dust that clung to his fingers like rusted ash. The smell hit next: scorched metal and old sweat, like blood left to bake on iron.
Panicked, he whipped his head around, searching for water, shade, anything to cool the burn that gnawed through his nerves.
Nothing.
Still, the pain was familiar.
He'd been through worse hells from the organization. Unbelievable torture that puts the fire to shame.
His gaze locked upward, and his stomach dropped.
Above him stretched a dome—glass, curved perfectly overhead like a frozen sky. Beyond it: a red horizon, not scarlet but arterial, like the heavens themselves were bleeding.
He was kneeling in a crater of orange dust. A circular platform sealed inside the dome, maybe five hundred meters across. But that wasn't what made his blood run colder than ice.
The ground was writhing.
Hundreds—maybe thousands—of people sprawled around him. Crawling, moaning, and reaching out for water that didn't exist. Some screamed. Some whispered. Others lay still, trembling like fish on sand.
Damien scanned their faces twisted in horror, mouths dry, limbs twitching as if memory alone could conjure relief.
But in the center of it all, someone stood.
She stood.
A woman, poised at the heart of the chaos, clad in pristine silver armor that caught the ambient light like moonlight through glass. Her silver hair fell to her shoulders in waves, untouched by sweat or dirt. Both hands gripped the hilt of a sword, its tip buried in the cracked earth. Her light blue eyes swept the bodies, haunted and sad.
Damien narrowed his gaze.
The memory returned like thunder: the clouds, the voice, the diagnosis.
'I'm in Hell.'
He swallowed, mouth dry.
'And so are they.'
'This must be the trial. That pompous fool in the clouds had said something about tests and redemption. It sounded laughable before. Less so now.'
His eyes returned to the woman.
She didn't writhe, didn't shake, didn't burn, and unlike everyone else, her presence didn't smother—it calmed.
'She's different.'
And Damien hated how small he felt beneath her gaze.
People around him groaned and collapsed again, but he refused.
Not just because the fire still gnawed at his organs, but because… he wouldn't be like them. Weak, begging, and forgettable.
With a slow, ragged breath, Damien stood.
His legs protested, joints aching under invisible heat. He brushed the orange dust from his jacket—black and immaculate, but now scorched and sticky—and locked eyes with the silver knight.
She blinked.
Through her years of service, Evalyn had seen millions arrive, yet none had stood so soon, not without screaming and begging for help.
Her surprise melted into something softer—a smile, faint but discernible.
Damien didn't return it.
Her voice followed, calm and clear like a breeze through a burning room:
"Welcome to the Hell Trials. I am the Knight of Selflessness, one of the Seven Knights of Virtue. I have been tasked to welcome and prepare you for the First Circle."
She glanced around, toward the bodies clutching their sweat-stained limbs and blistered mouths.
"Please... try to stand. The fire will dull in time. And when you rise, look to the underside of your right wrist."
Damien did as instructed.
He curled back the black sleeve of his jacket, revealing pale skin marred only by the burning sting of Hell's breath—until he saw it.
There, etched into the underside of his wrist, was a marking.
A black horizontal line—maybe a couple of inches long—ran clean up his forearm like a tattoo stitched by a machine.
At the far right end of the line: a symbol. A cracked theatrical mask, half-smiling, half-frowning. One side gleamed like polished ivory; the other was dulled and fractured, thin black lines spidering across its surface.
Just beneath the eyes, faint sigils curled like script—but they shifted subtly when stared at, blurring meaning.
Just to the mask's left, a single vertical line pierced the horizontal band, splitting it. It extended slightly above and below, like a tick mark on a gauge. Beneath that vertical slash, glowing faintly in red:
100%
At the very start of the gauge—far left—a faint, circular symbol: a hollow ring with a diagonal line through it.
The universal symbol for "none."
Damien stared.
He didn't need someone to explain it. Not really.
His mind snapped back to the void. To the voice that invaded his thoughts and gave him a diagnosis.
'Sin registered: Deception.'
He narrowed his eyes at the cracked mask burned into his wrist.
"So that's me, huh? Half a smile, half a lie... Fitting.'
He slid his gaze to the far-left symbol.
The ring with the slash.
'No active or dormant virtues.'
A bitter laugh erupted from his throat. A raw, manic noise that cracked across the stillness and made several nearby souls flinch.
Evalyn's head turned toward him, her silver eyes narrowed slightly in confusion. She'd seen suffering, fear, fury—but laughter?
That was new.
Damien kept laughing.
'Of course, I have no virtue,' he thought, teeth bared in a crooked grin. 'I can't even remember the last time I did something good.'
Around him, the others had begun to recover—slowly. Their groans filled the dome like wind rattling dry leaves. One by one, they pushed themselves up—some on hands and knees, others using one another for balance.
They, too, began to roll back their sleeves.
Evalyn stepped forward, her voice cutting through the heat like silk through sand.
"The markings on your wrist represent your Sin and your Virtue."
She raised her hand and turned her wrist upward, revealing a mark similar to theirs, though hers shimmered faintly in silver-blue.
"The symbol on the far right is your dominant sin—the one flaw that defined you in life. The symbol on the left is your starting virtue. The one quality that may still save you."
She paused, letting the words sink in.
"The vertical line is your current standing. Below it, you'll see a number. That is your corruption ratio—the percentage of sin within you. The lower the number..."
Her gaze shifted to Damien, still standing, still smirking.
"…the higher your virtue."
Her voice dipped slightly—softer now.
"And the stronger your magic is."
Damien's grin faltered just for a second. He looked down again.
100%.
Perfect score.Perfect monster.
He clicked his tongue and muttered under his breath.
"Shit."