You know, I've started noticing more and more often that Hell, paradoxically, can be quite comfortable. If it weren't for this fucking influence of the Darkness, I might have even built myself a small, cozy little house somewhere on the outskirts of one of the Circles. In some wild, untamed lands, near an ocean or a pond. Just for a change of pace. All in all, Hell is, of course, a real shithole, but with the right mood and good company, it can even be… fun? It's just a shame that this damn Darkness can't just "live peacefully" and has to get in everyone's business. Seriously, it sometimes acts like some hysterical, jealous woman who's always sticking her nose where it doesn't belong, fucking with your head over trivial things, and just won't let you live a normal life. I wonder if I'll ever be able to cleanse this world of it completely? Or at least significantly weaken its influence? Looking at the current progress of my powers and abilities… I think so, yes. I can. But not soon, that's for sure…
Meanwhile, I was already standing in front of the familiar door of the Hazbin Hotel. I knocked a couple of times with my knuckles. It's worth noting that the atmosphere in the hotel had really changed a bit lately. It had become… friendlier? Calmer? The constant arguments and tension that initially pushed me away from this place had almost completely vanished, and now it was surprisingly comfortable and even… cozy? Apparently, Charlie's sincere enthusiasm and her belief in "redemption" were finally starting to bear fruit. And that, perhaps, is another important factor needed for the rehabilitation of lost souls. It's a shame, of course, that in my past life, all that shit started before the second season of Hazbin Hotel came out. I'm sure the creators would have properly explained the whole redemption mechanic and shown some real results. From what was shown, Charlie's hotel got much bigger and more popular, so I think we would have seen that "mass redemption" I'd like to achieve. And Luci, too… supposedly, back in the day, when he had just become the King of Hell, he also tried to do something with sinners, to "fix" them somehow. True, back then there was no Pentagram City and no Exterminations, and the capital of Hell had a completely different name, location, and structure… but whatever, that's a whole other story…
"Yes, yes, who is it?" The door swung open sharply, and Charlie appeared on the threshold. Seeing me, she froze for a second, and then her face lit up with such a sincere, childlike joy that I couldn't help but smile back. "Oh, Adam! It's you! Hi! We weren't expecting you! Come in, quick!"
She immediately threw herself around my neck, hugging me tightly and nearly knocking me off my feet. I'll be honest, in my past life, when I was still a mere mortal watching this charming, albeit slightly naive, princess of Hell through a monitor screen, I had certain "designs" on her. You know what I mean. So now, as she hung on my neck so openly, making me feel her body and inhale the faint scent of some kind of infernal flowers coming from her hair… it was a little embarrassing. And it made me remember those "lonely nights" and a very active imagination. Ahem.
"Hey, kiddo," I got a grip, smiling at her and hugging her back. "How are you guys holding up without me? No one's causing trouble? Didn't trash the hotel?"
It's damn hard not to smile when you're talking to Charlie. She's like a walking generator of positivity and good vibes. Her inexhaustible optimism, her belief in the best – it was so contagious that even a hardened cynic like me sometimes succumbed to her charm.
"Pentious tried to cook dinner for everyone recently and burned down the kitchen, but other than that, everything's just great! Can you believe it, Adam, Angel voluntarily gave up drugs yesterday! He said he wants to try and last at least a week! And Husk… Husk barely drank at all today! It's such progress!" She started chattering again, pulling me by the hand deeper into the hotel, as usual, pouring a ton of absolutely useless information and her endless positivity onto my poor head. Yep, she hadn't changed at all since our first, very peculiar, meeting. Unlike me. In that time, I'd managed to deal with my own past, save Heaven, and almost start a new war with Hell… Just the usual routine for an Archangel, you know.
Looking at her face, shining with happiness, at her childlike, naive faith that even the most hardened sinners, the most rotten bastards, can change and atone for their sins… those treacherous thoughts began to surface in my soul again. Thoughts that maybe she was right. That not everything was so hopeless and everyone had a chance for redemption. But every time I encountered the filth and abomination that saturated Hell and most of its inhabitants, those thoughts would cowardly hide in the furthest corner of my mind.
"You've changed a lot, by the way, Adam!" Charlie suddenly declared, interrupting my philosophical musings. "I really like your new style!"
Hold on. What is she talking about? What "change"? Did she notice something? Did she sense the Darkness that sat somewhere deep inside me?
"What do you mean, 'changed'?" I tried to make my voice sound as carefree as possible, but inside, everything tensed up.
"Well… you have a new suit…" Charlie answered, a little surprised, looking at my clothes. "It's very elegant! It suits you!"
Ah, just the suit… Phew, dodged a bullet. Ever since I finally learned about and accepted the presence of the Darkness within me, I've been a little worried that it might affect me somehow, manifest itself externally. So I got a little nervous.
"Ah, yeah, the suit's something else, isn't it," I smirked nonchalantly and plopped down into one of the armchairs in the lobby. "The Seraphim hooked me up. This is my new 'battle suit' now. Like, it doesn't tear, doesn't break, protects from everything, and is just generally comfortable and practical." I spread my arms, accepting a cup of fragrant tea from Niffty, who had materialized out of nowhere with a tray and started staring at me.
"Battle…?" Charlie immediately singled out that word from my story. Oops. I think I let that slip. "Did something happen, Adam?"
"Hm? What are you talking about, Princess?" I put on my most innocent face, sipping the tea, but Charlie, whatever anyone thought about her naivety, was far from stupid. She knew how to read between the lines.
"Adam, don't pretend," she came over and sat in the armchair opposite me, her gaze turning serious and worried. "After what you told me last time, I… read a little about you. In the old chronicles of Hell. For millennia, you made do with that old robe of yours, and now suddenly—some fancy 'battle suit' from the Seraphim…" She looked at me with concern in her eyes. "Adam, what really happened? What's going on?"
"Ah, Charlie, Charlie…" I sighed heavily and placed the cup on the table. It seemed an honest conversation was unavoidable. I saw Vaggie and Angel already heading our way. Well, all the better. Maybe this will be easier. "Remember how I advised you to talk to your father? About your hotel? And about… some other things?"
"Yes, but…" she immediately blushed and looked away. It seemed she was still ashamed or awkward about asking her father for help or advice. Such "wonderful" parenting from Lilith. That old bitch not only failed to raise her own daughter properly, to instill even a drop of self-confidence in her, but she also bailed from Hell at the worst possible moment, leaving her to deal with all this shit alone. No matter how good and caring a mother some sources portrayed her as, in reality, she was a shitty mother. Much worse than Eve, who at least tried to protect her children… Before the fall, at least…
"Charlie, just invite him over," I said softly. "Discuss your hotel with him, your successes, your problems. And then… then ask him about everything else. I'm sure he'll find the right words to explain what's happening. You understand, as a representative of Heaven, I can't tell you everything. Diplomacy and all that."
No, theoretically, I could have told her everything myself—about Eve, the new threat, the mobilization in Heaven. But it wasn't the right time or place: too many ears around, and I didn't want to see this sweet, naive kid suffer again. It's better if her own father prepares her for potential troubles.
"Adam, good to see you again," Vaggie approached and sat next to Charlie, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. She looked… at peace today? Yes, that's probably the word. After our recent conversation and the return of her wings and eye, she had really changed. She became calmer, more confident. And she even stopped looking at me with suspicion. Progress!
"Yo, 'Big A'! What's kickin'? Long time no see!" Angel plopped into the armchair next to me, grinning widely and winking. Usually, he'd immediately start getting handsy and making lewd jokes at my expense, but today… today he was just acting like a friend. No sexual harassment whatsoever. Amazing. The canon is actually working! And this guy, it seems, can really be redeemed! At least, I could now clearly see that "spark of Light" in him that Charlie so often talked about. And if he keeps it up, he'll definitely be able to meet his sister someday…
Hm, I don't think I've mentioned that yet, have I? Angel, besides his mobster brother and asshole father who were also hanging around somewhere in Hell, also had a sister. Molly. And she, unlike the rest of her family, was a good kid—went straight to Heaven after she died. And, as far as I remembered from Adam's memories, she even tried to help her screw-up brother a few times. I think she even approached me to arrange a meeting with Anthony (that's Angel's real name), to talk, to try and reason with him. But that Adam, of course, just told her to fuck off (albeit gently). Like, it's not an angel's place to care about some sinners who ended up in Hell through their own foolishness. He didn't know back then that there was a real possibility of redemption, and the one to blame for this ignorance was, as always, our beloved God, who for some reason "forgot" to tell the Seraphim about this little detail.
Speaking of Heaven… I could totally arrange a little introductory tour to the Pearly Gates for "Charlie's flock" now. Why not? I have the authority for it. And the precedent with Carmilla was already set, and the result there was very positive. Why not, say, once a year, take the most distinguished sinners from the Hazbin Hotel to Heaven? So they can see with their own eyes what awaits them if they truly want to change and atone for their sins? Look at Carmilla, she's trying her best now to "do good" and help others. And all it took was showing her once that in Heaven, she and her daughters could find a true, eternal life full of happiness and peace, instead of trembling in fear every day that some new, powerful, and arrogant idiot would kill them over their territory or business.
"Adam, could you… tell us about the first war between Heaven and Hell?" Charlie's voice pulled me out of my thoughts. She was looking at me with such hope and curiosity that it was impossible to refuse.
Yeah, her character wasn't really fleshed out in the show, even though they tried, which is why many viewers later said her behavior was "unrealistic." Like, she's all good and naive, the Princess of Hell who believes in redeeming sinners, yet she rejoices in the deaths of angels and kills them without a second thought. Total nonsense. In reality, the problem with her perception was that she wasn't just "good." She was… young. Yes, she was over two hundred years old, but by the standards of immortal beings in Hell and Heaven, that's practically a child. A young, idealistic, slightly naive girl who sincerely believed in the best and wanted to make this shitty world a little kinder. Yes, she understood that she was surrounded by murderers, rapists, traitors. That there were wars, death, suffering. But she desperately wanted to believe that even the most hardened sinner had a chance for redemption, that in every soul, even the darkest, there was at least a spark of Light.
I wonder why she's trying to ask me about this specific topic now. It seems this little schemer hasn't given up her idea of prying all the information she needs out of me first, instead of her father, with whom, in her own opinion, her relationship was "not great" right now. Well, why not? I was just about to experiment a little with my newfound abilities for creating illusions. Adam's memory of these events was clear and detailed, so it wouldn't be too hard for me to not just tell them, but to show them everything visually. I'm still a complete amateur at this, after all, so any practice would definitely be useful.
"Alright, Princess," I smirked, looking at her impatient face. "I'll tell you a story. A story about a young warrior who managed to survive where hundreds of experienced veterans perished. Listen closely, this will take a while…"
The figure of Ioann stood frozen at the cliff's edge, his gaze fixed upon the bottomless blackness of the encroaching horizon. The gloom, alive and hungry, advanced, devouring the last glimmers of light. In his eyes, like shards of a frozen sky, danced the cold reflections of the moon—one of the abilities of the Goetian Count, Bifrons. Whoever gave their soul to that bastard was doomed to serve him eternally, turned into a mindless creature—undead.
Below, the warriors of Heaven prepared for battle. Not a shadow of nervousness, not a single wasted movement. Only the unbreakable discipline forged in countless battles. Ioann knew this fight would be fierce, bloody, and long, but he believed that the Light could not lose, and as long as he lived, he would not stop fighting.
"Ioann! Our patrols report movement. It seems to be new waves of those creatures," the voice of his deputy, Stefan, cut through the tense stillness. A warrior in identical armor of pure gold, from which a soft, warm glow emanated, approached. Despite the alarming news, his voice held unwavering confidence.
Ioann did not stir, his eyes never leaving the pulsating darkness where there was no hint of life, only the premonition of its vile imitation.
"So this isn't his entire army?" he said quietly, frowning. "Let them come. We will show them they made a mistake when they invaded our home."
There was no hint of panic in his tone, not a single drop of fear, only a will of granite. He knew: his warriors were not just soldiers marching blindly to the slaughter. They were the Children of Heaven, whose very essence was to fight and win not by chance, but through strength of spirit and righteous fury.
He turned slowly, his gaze sweeping over the ranks of his subordinates. Hundreds of faces, illuminated by the scant, ghostly light of distant stars and the glint of sacred weapons. These were not faceless soldiers, but true warriors with the wrinkles of long, grueling months of war, eyes in which a single, all-consuming purpose was frozen—the defense of Heaven, whatever the cost.
"Prepare the traps!" Ioann commanded, and for a moment, an icy shadow of anticipation crossed his eyes as he turned his gaze back to the field of the coming slaughter.
Soon. The carnage was about to begin.
Only a few agonizing minutes passed before the first wave of undead poured from the eastern flank, out of the depths of the wild forest. The vile croaks and guttural screams of the dead tore through the night's silence, merging into a hideous cacophony. Skeletons draped in desiccated skin, with empty eye sockets where unholy fires danced; zombies whose decaying flesh hung in tatters, revealing blackened bones; shapeless monstrosities molded from rotten flesh—all of them crawled relentlessly, dragging their mutilated bodies, driven only by the thirst for destruction. But Ioann, even in the face of this endless, writhing army of the dead, remained calm.
He watched as the warriors on the front line, like a single organism, closed ranks, forming an unbreakable bastion. The light, swift angelic exterminators, whose wings sliced the air with a barely audible hiss, prepared to unleash their full righteous wrath upon the enemy. A faint, predatory smirk flickered across Stefan's usually stern and focused face. Did these brainless creatures really think they could defeat the angelic host with sheer numbers, with waves of rotting meat? Such naivety. Such foolishness.
"Give the command, Stefan," Ioann clipped out, his voice like a hammer striking an anvil. "Let this be the final battle for these creatures. Send their souls where they belong—to oblivion!"
And in that same instant, the entire army of angels, in a single rush, like an unstoppable storm, surged forward.
As captain, Ioann did not rush into the thick of it first. His weapon was not only steel, but a mind as sharp as a blade. He was a master of strategy, and in his arsenal were not only flawless combat skills honed over centuries of training, but also the ability to manipulate the enemy, to set traps, to make his opponent dance to his tune, bleeding at every step. For him, this was more than just a war. It was a mortal combat where the very essence of Heaven, its existence, was at stake.
A heavy, suffocating fog, saturated with the stench of burning flesh and the dampness of the grave, swirled over the battlefield, concealing the already monstrous scene. In the rare moments of quiet, only the measured, dull steps of thousands of feet and the repulsive, hoarse grinding of bones could be heard—the relentless horde of undead drew ever closer to the last lines of defense, losing hundreds of dead soldiers in the traps, yet they pushed forward. Skeletons with rusty blades, zombies with glassy eyes and pieces of armor, and massive, clumsy golems woven from blackened bones and the compressed flesh of dead sinners, moved forward like a tide ready to sweep away everything in its path. Their numbers were so great that the entire land was carpeted with their dark silhouettes.
Atop the hill, at the very heart of the defensive formation, stood Ioann. His eyes burned with cold determination, and his golden armor, reflecting the scant light, blinded with bright flashes. Beside him, shoulder to shoulder, warriors prepared for the final battle, their faces focused, but in the depths of their eyes, each silently said goodbye to life, sacrificing it for a higher purpose.
"They won't stop, Ioann," Stefan's voice was quiet, almost completely drowned out by the roar of the approaching horde. He saw the undead swarm fill the entire visible space. They hadn't counted on such a monstrous number. A few tens of thousands of damned souls brought by that degenerate Bifrons was one thing, but what was moving towards them now surpassed all imaginable nightmares. The entire land, to the very edge of the fog, was teeming with them. Anyone with a shred of sanity left would understand: it was impossible to win this meat grinder. Retreat? No, never! Behind them was the "inversion point"—the thinned-to-the-limit boundary between Hell and Heaven, a portal through which hordes of demons could pour into Heaven, bringing chaos and destruction, until Adam could intervene. But he was currently locked in battle with one of the Deadly Sins in another Circle of Hell, and the hope of victory without monstrous losses was fading with every second. "Even your magic won't be able to hold them back forever. There are too many of them."
"I know," Ioann's steady, low voice did not waver. He did not tear his blazing gaze from the advancing nightmare. "But we will not take a single step back. Behind us lies Heaven. Our home. Our brothers and sisters. And if we are destined to fall here, then we will fall as befits warriors of the Light—defending what we hold dear, to our last breath and our last drop of blood!"
Stefan wanted to object, but the words stuck in his throat. If this horde broke through, if they reached the inversion point, the losses would be unimaginable. Heaven would drown in blood.
"Warriors!" Ioann's loud cry rolled over the ranks, causing every angel to straighten up and raise their head. His voice, amplified by will and fury, drowned out even the hum and howl of the advancing undead. "Listen to me! There will be no easy victory today! Perhaps there will be no victors at all! But today, we will show these spawn of hell what true Light is! We will show them the fury of Heaven! Our enemies will wash in their own blood before their foul feet touch this sacred ground!"
The ranks of angels answered him with a deafening, furious roar. Their eyes flashed with golden light, their fingers gripped the hilts of their swords and spears so tightly that their knuckles turned white. They were ready. Ready to die, but not to retreat a single step.
When the first, swiftest waves of the undead, snarling and growling, reached the defensive lines, Ioann, like all those with enough Light within them, threw up his hands. His palms erupted in a blindingly bright, golden fire, and from them burst a short but devastating impulse of golden Light. Powerful explosions scattered the front ranks of the attackers, illuminating the battlefield with bright flashes, turning the dead to ash and smoke. But the enemy, mindless and innumerable, continued to advance, stepping over the remains of their kin. The ancient warriors, the most experienced and battle-hardened angels, veterans of hundreds of wars, charged into a suicidal attack with a battle cry. Their consecrated swords whistled, tearing rotting flesh to pieces, their movements were swift and honed to perfection, but even their incredible strength, their art of combat, paled before this endless, living avalanche.
Stefan fought alongside Ioann, his sword, like an extension of his arm, carving deadly arcs, disemboweling one zombie after another, severing the bony limbs of skeletons. Blood—black and thick—gushed in all directions, settling on his golden armor. But then a deafening, powerful blow shook the earth. Stefan spun around sharply and his heart momentarily froze in terror: a huge, lumbering golem, molded from dozens of decaying bodies, swung a monstrous bone club and brought it down on their commander.
"IOANN!" the ancient warrior's raw, despairing scream was lost in the din of battle. But it was too late. Ioann had fallen.
"We will not retreat!" roared one of the ancient warriors, leaping to cleave the skull of the very golem that had struck down their leader. His blade bit into the bone with a sickening crunch.
Stefan, crazed with fury and grief, snatched the sword that had fallen from Ioann's hands and raised it high above his head. The blade flared with light.
"We will fight to the end! To our last breath! For Heaven! For the Light!"
Inspired by his cry, the warriors, with their last ounces of strength, threw themselves back into the fray. Their fury was boundless, their attacks lethal, but even that could not change the outcome. The undead, like locusts, continued to press on, their numbers undiminished.
Stefan fought his way to Abel. Abel—outwardly still a young warrior, almost a boy, but already the unofficial leader of the young angels, those who in life had not known the art of war and could not be called "ancient warriors," but whose hearts were still full of Light.
"We have to… have to kill that bastard!" Stefan rasped, fending off another corpse. He meant Bifrons, the demon controlling all the undead. "Only then… only then can we stop this madness! Try to survive while we break through to him!"
"It's suicide, Stefan!" Abel cried out, his face pale but his eyes burning with resolve.
"It's our only chance!" Stefan said quietly, but with unbreakable steel in his voice. There was no fear left in his eyes, only cold calculation and a readiness to sacrifice himself.
And so Stefan led the best of the remaining warriors into one final charge. They tore through the roaring ranks of the undead, fighting with unimaginable ferocity, leaving mountains of mangled bodies in their wake. Every blow was filled with grief for the fallen and hatred for the enemy. But when they finally reached the center of the enemy formation, where the necromancer Bifrons was weaving his vile magic, surrounded by clouds of black smoke, they were immediately encircled by the demon's elite guard—monstrous creations superior to the common undead in both strength and intellect.
"Keep… fighting… as long as you have strength…" Stefan cried out, delivering his final, crushing blow to one of the demonic guards before he himself was pierced by dozens of blades.
He fell, as did the rest of the warriors in his unit. But their sacrifice was not in vain. In their death throes, gathering the last vestiges of their strength, they managed to reach Bifrons and destroy the demon, decapitating the army of the undead and giving the exhausted young angels a phantom chance at victory.
By the end of the battle, amidst mountains of corpses, in a bloody haze, only Abel remained. His body was a single wound, his armor shattered, his strength gone, but he did not retreat. Gathering his will, he destroyed the last, staggering corpse, and only then did he collapse to his knees, breathing heavily, feeling tears of grief for his fallen comrades stream down his cheeks.
Several agonizingly long days passed before Abel could stand before his father. Adam himself bore the marks of a recent battle—a deep wound above his bruised eye was still bleeding, but his gaze, as he looked at his son, shone with pride and tenderness. Abel had survived. He had endured this hell and protected the inhabitants of Heaven.
"You fought honorably, son," his father's voice, as always, was deep and melodic, but now tinged with notes of exhaustion.
Abel slowly bowed his head, unable to bear his father's gaze. The weight of his loss pressed down on him like an unbearable burden.
"I lost my friends… I lost all my brothers-in-arms… I am the only one left…"
"But you found something," Adam interrupted him, gently but firmly. "You found resolve within yourself. The resolve to fight for others. To protect the weak, even when there is no hope. To fight when everything around you is collapsing, when the chances seem to be none."
He slowly raised his hand, and the vast hall where they stood was filled with a soft Light, healing and bestowing peace.
"I am proud of you, my son. From this day forward, you will lead Heaven's Defense Headquarters. We need your talent as a strategist here. I must admit, I am not very strong in these matters myself…"
"But I… I am not worthy of such an honor, father," Abel whispered, his voice trembling.
"You are more than worthy, because you stood firm when all others fell."
Abel clenched his hand around Ioann's shining sword. He raised his eyes, and in them, there was no longer any doubt—only a will of steel and an understanding of his new path.
"This is not the end," he said quietly but firmly, looking at his own resolute reflection in the polished blade. "This is only the beginning."