---
MAVEL — THE LAZIEST GOD
System messages popped up like pings in a forgotten Discord server.
[Your clone has been acknowledged by celestial entities.]
[Gift Received: 100 Message Voucher (Celestial-Class Communication)]
Mavel blinked at his screen. Soda can in hand.
One sock on. Hoodie halfway zipped.
He scrolled through the details, eyes still half-lidded.
"So... I got rewarded 'cause my clone accidentally did a good deed?"
He leaned back, cracking his neck, opening the message tab.
[Send Message to Clone #1?]
He thought for a second.
Then typed:
"You're doing good. Keep going."
Click.
Sent.
And with that, he went back to watching the live feed of Michael turning Hell into his personal gym.
"No idea what this guy's becoming," Mavel thought to himself.
"But it's kinda dope."
---
MICHAEL — LAYER 6
The gate opened with a whisper.
No fire. No blood.
Just a dim, decaying opera hall.
Shadows clung to the rafters like they were afraid to fall.
A thousand empty seats faced the stage — each filled by a ghost, their eyes blank, their mouths silent.
And there, atop a shattered piano made of bone and silver, stood her.
---
GATEKEEPER #6: The Siren of Despair
Height: 8 feet, statuesque, not beautiful — haunting
Skin: Pale gray, vein-riddled, stretched unnaturally tight
Mask: Silver, smooth, cracked once down the left cheek
Hair: Flowing shadows, weightless, alive
Dress: Woven from old opera curtains, torn but regal
Aura: Music — but not sound. Memory. Regret. A melody that burned out hope
She didn't speak. She sang.
And the moment her voice touched the air, the world shifted.
---
ILLUSION
Michael stood in a graveyard of ash.
Alone.
No Hell.
No sky.
Just silence.
His body felt heavier. Like gravity had tripled.
Like life had already ended, and he just hadn't realized it yet.
---
Then came the voice — soft, faint, echoing through his mind:
"You're doing good. Keep going."
He blinked.
And something cracked.
Not the illusion — his own stillness.
"That voice… where did it come from?" Michael thought to himself.
"A king? A god?"
He clenched his fist.
No answer.
But a feeling remained.
Not like a command.
More like… a memory of who he was about to become.
---
BACK IN REALITY
He lunged.
The Siren kept singing.
Notes became blades.
Her arms waved — sheets of sonic force tore the opera to pieces.
Michael took a blade to the shoulder — and didn't flinch.
His blood painted the stage.
She soared above him — floating, ethereal, untouchable.
He used her song against her — timing her next note and leaping mid-pitch to grab her leg.
One hand. Tight grip.
He yanked her down.
And crushed her larynx.
---
The music stopped.
And the ghosts in the audience?
They began to stand.
Not in fear. Not to fight.
To applaud.
Slow. Hollow.
Then faster.
They glowed.
And vanished — into light.
---
Michael stood on stage, blood dripping from his jaw, chest rising and falling.
"What was that voice?" he thought.
"Why did it feel… like me?"
He turned.
The gate to Layer 7 was already open.
---
LAYER 7 – THE VOID BENEATH
No floor.
No sky.
Just… absence.
Michael stepped in — and immediately began to fall.
He landed on something solid but unseen.
A voice greeted him.
Not words.
Breaths.
Growls.
Chewed fragments of forgotten names.
From the dark came a form.
---
GATEKEEPER #7: The Devourer of Hope
Size: Towering. Limitless.
Body: Made of arms — hundreds, thousands. All reaching.
Mouths: Spiraling down its torso. Whispers escaped every one.
Eyes: None. It did not see — it felt fear and fed on it.
Aura: Hopelessness. Wherever it stood, ambition died.
---
"You climb… but you are empty," it said.
"You fight… but have no future."
Michael responded by sprinting forward.
First punch — absorbed.
Second — redirected.
Each attack he landed only made the thing stronger.
It didn't block.
It welcomed pain.
Michael was buried under a wave of hands.
---
DARKNESS
He was pinned.
No light.
No breath.
The voices in the Beast's body whispered:
"You are not real."
"You were made. Not born."
"You cannot rule."
Michael's fists trembled.
His strength was burning out.
And then—
"Keep Going."
That voice again.
Same words.
Same tone.
But this time?
He knew.
"That wasn't someone else," Michael thought.
"That was me."
He roared.
And the void shook.
---
FLAME OF COMMAND – AWAKENED
[Skill Mutation Triggered: Absolute Authority → Infernal Will]
[New Trait Gained: Sovereign Pulse]
Michael exploded upward in a cyclone of red-gold fire.
He grabbed a hundred arms — and tore them all apart.
The Devourer shrieked.
Michael dove straight through its chest — igniting its core from the inside.
"You devour hope?" he thought with disgust. With an face looking at it as it was Pathetic.
"Then choke on mine."
The Beast convulsed.
And died.
---
Souls poured out.
Not stumbling.
Not confused.
They walked to him.
One by one, touched his hand, or nodded.
"You freed us."
"You stood where we died."
"You are the King who comes without a crown."
Michael didn't respond.
He just watched.
As the souls rose.
---
HEAVEN
The Seraphim bowed.
The Choir whispered.
The soul-count climbed.
Another Gatekeeper slain.
More than 40,000 souls now freed.
And the angels began to speak his name:
"He is not holy…
…but he brings peace."
"He is not ours…
…but the world watches."
They gave him a name.
"The one who walks in Flames."
----
He stood alone at the gate to Layer 8.
The battlefield behind him — ashes.
No enemies.
No music.
No whispers.
Only the echo of that voice.
One more time.
"Keep Going."
Michael didn't look up.
He closed his eyes.
And smiled.
"That voice wasn't a gift," he thought to himself.
"It wasn't divine. Wasn't from above."
"It was my will."
"It was my crown."
"I am not a servant."
"I am not a pawn."
"I am the King."