Ren learned that hell wasn't always made of fire—sometimes it was built of endless dirt, salty sweat, and the incessant sound of rocks crashing overhead.
Three days after his father's funeral, he was back at the bottom of the half-finished well behind Mr. Weller's old inn. The hole was no more than fifteen fathoms deep, but it felt like an open grave ready to swallow him at any moment. Sunlight seeped in thinly from the well's mouth, broken into pale blades by the wooden winch that squeaked in the wind.
Ren dug through the thick mud, then swung buckets of dirt up with a rickety pulley. The muscles in his arms screamed, the skin on his palms peeled, but he kept working. Every shovelful of dirt seemed to lift a little of Gareth's debt—a debt that had now been transferred to his only son.
He counted silently: thirteen coppers per fathom, five more to go before the first payment tomorrow morning. If they failed, Brutus Ironhand—a metal-toothed debt collector—would come to collect in a way that was never humane. Ren shuddered at the thought of Brutus's giant hand that could supposedly crush bricks; most of the Mudbrook villagers believed, the rest kept quiet after their bones were crushed as proof.
Between the creaking of the pulleys, gossip would occasionally drift down. "That graveyard boy is still digging, huh?" "His shovel must be cursed, you know… just look at his father!" They laughed, as if other people's misfortunes were a special treat at a harvest festival.
Ren turned a deaf ear—literally. He stuffed his ears with scraps of cloth so that the taunts wouldn't penetrate deeper than the dirt fingers that clawed at his ankles. But every time he picked up the old shovel, the bitter urge returned: sell it. One look at the cracked, hollow iron blade, the mold-eaten wooden handle… anyone would agree that the shovel was worthless. But here he was, squeezing his lungs, his heart, and his time, just to prove that his "trash" inheritance still had meaning.
The afternoon turned into night. The oil lamp above the well was lit by Mr. Weller out of pity, but the orange light was only enough to reflect the tired curve of Ren's face. When the last pulley squeaked to swallow the bucket, he forced himself to look at the work: the wet earth wall shook softly, mockingly, as if to say, Still a long way to go, boy.
By the time he surfaced, the sky was already purple-black. The night wind carried the scent of nettles and kitchen ashes. Ren dragged the shovel along the muddy path, toward the rickety cottage on the edge of the village. There, a small candle still burned in the window. He entered, tossing the bag of coins on the table—not enough. Not enough—always not enough.
Outside, the creaking of the wagon wheels stopped. There was a three-pronged knock on the door. The clink of metal against wood followed.
Ren knew that sound.
When he opened it, a large silhouette blocked out the moonlight. Brutus Ironhand loomed like a death statue in a dark wool coat. The left side of his jaw was attached to an iron plate; every word that came out sounded like steel being hammered.
"Time is running out, boy," he growled. "Tomorrow at dawn—a hundred silver coins. No less."
Ren reached for the coin pouch on the table, offering it. "This… the first payment…"
Brutus poured its contents into his iron hand. The copper coins jingled quietly. He weighed them—then laughed at the amount, a metallic echo of laughter. "This? Even a skinny goat is worth more."
Ren swallowed. "I have… other things." His gaze fell to the shovel in the corner of the room.
When his eyes returned to Brutus, the debt collector was staring at the shovel's handle with shallow interest. "Rotten wood and rusty iron? Your offer offends me." His hand—large and covered in metal clamps at the knuckles—smacked the table, cracking. "Dawn, brat. If it's not enough, the installments turn to your bones."
After the shadow disappeared, Ren leaned against the wall. His knees buckled. The shovel now seemed a cursed burden, not an heirloom. He slumped onto the straw couch, covering his face with his arms. His thoughts whirled: sell the shovel, pay off the debt, live quietly—or hold on to his foolish pride and die.
Darkness swallowed the hut. The candles burned themselves out.
Ren finally fell asleep in despair.
—
He stood in an endless field, only barren soil cracked like the skin of a dead snake. The sky rolled gray; a distant rumble echoed without lightning. The only object on the horizon: a mound of fresh earth with an old shovel stuck in it.
Ren walked, his feet sinking halfway to his ankles. Each step made the ground rustle, as if there was something alive beneath the surface. He arrived in front of the mound. The old shovel—his father's shovel—gleamed faintly, as if its blade were made of wet obsidian.
Then came the voice—hoarse, yet familiar.
"Dig deeper, my son."
Ren turned. There was no one. The voice came again, chattering his molars: "Dig… deeper."
Ren's hand rose as if pulled by an invisible rope. He grasped the shovel and pulled it out. The ground on the mound cracked, black blood seeping out like thick tar. Ren jerked back, but his feet were rooted; the shovel in his hand forced itself to cleave the earth. As the blade stabbed, a mouthless scream erupted from the depths—the sound of hundreds of throats choking at once.
The ground collapsed beneath him. Ren fell, the shovel left on top, but the handle grew longer, like a stiff hand refusing to let go. He plunged into a dark trough, plunging deeper, engulfed by darkness—
Ren woke with a scream, his chest wet with sweat. Drunk with fear, he looked around; the hut was quiet, only the sound of crickets and the wind slapping the dull walls. A dream. But the trembling in his hands was real—and the shovel stumbled on the floor, shifting as if it had just been dropped.
Ren rubbed his face, trying to calm his breathing. But when his eyes refocused, he froze: the shovel's handle, dull yesterday, was now engraved with faint lines that glowed dark red, like a slow-beating pulse.
Ren swallowed. "What…?"
The light faded quickly, leaving the old wood as it had always been—but where the glimmer had been, a small crack formed in the shape of an ancient rune he didn't recognize.
Before he could touch it, there was a loud banging on the door of the hut. The sun hadn't risen yet—the sky outside the window was still indigo. Brutus wasn't supposed to come until dawn.
The knocking grew more brutal, the doorposts rattling on their fragile hinges. Brutus' voice could be heard behind it, but this time it was soft… hesitant?
"Open… Ren…"
There was fear in the tone, a contrast to his iron laughter from last night. Ren approached slowly, pressing his ear to the wood.
"Brutus?" he asked.
There was no answer, only a harsh, strangled gasp. Ren reached for the door latch—hampered by hesitation.
From the crack beneath the door, something seeped in. Not a shadow, not water—but a thick black mist, like thick smoke but heavy like liquid. The mist spread quickly across the floor, coiling around Ren's feet like a living creature seeking a host. The temperature of the room dropped drastically; a thin layer of dew formed on the walls.
In confusion, Ren stepped back, his hand feeling for the shovel. As his fingers closed, the red runes flared again, burning brighter. The black mist pulsed—then moved away as if afraid.
Ren turned toward the door just as the wooden bar cracked. The planks flew inward, revealing the silhouette of Brutus… or something that was wearing Brutus's body. His eyes were white, his mouth wide open, and from the cavity poured a thick black mist, rippling through the air like a thorny river.
"Gal—i… li… bih… da—lam…" Brutus said in a double voice, one belonging to the giant man, the other a whisper of hell riding on his back.
Ren raised the shovel, the runes roiling in a blinding red. The mist receded, but Brutus's body stepped forward—
THE SHOVEL BLADE FLASHED, screaming bloodshot.
And just before impact, the world was torn apart by a flash of dark red—