.After a moment, I asked, my voice quieter than I meant it to be,
"What do you actually do… in your world?"
He did not look at me immediately. His gaze remained fixed ahead, somewhere beyond the horizon of clouds.
"I enforce order," he said.
The way he said it made the word sound colder than it should have been.
"In Hell?" I pressed. "Doing what exactly?"
"There is a division assigned to punishment," he replied. "Structured. Tiered. Precise. Suffering is not random. It is measured."
A faint unease crept into my chest.
"And you…?"
He turned slightly then, just enough for me to see the sharp edge of his expression.
"I preside over Level Ten."
The air seemed to thin.
"That's the highest," I whispered.
"Yes."
No hesitation. No drama. Just fact.
"The souls that reach me," he continued, his voice lower now, "have already endured the lower levels. Pain no longer terrifies them. They have grown accustomed to it. Regret has been offered to them repeatedly. They refused it."
The clouds beneath our feet shifted, darkening slightly, as if responding to his tone.
"So what happens on Level Ten?" I asked.
His eyes finally met mine.
"Level Ten is not about pain," he said. "Pain is simple. Pain is crude. Level Ten is exposure."
A chill ran through me.
"There, a soul is stripped of distraction. No flames to focus on. No tormentors to blame. No darkness to hide in. Only itself."
His voice sharpened.
"They experience every harm they have caused — not as memory, but as reality. Every wound. Every betrayal. Every destruction. They feel it from the other side. Continuously."
The silence around us thickened.
"And if they still don't change?"
"Then they calcify."
The word landed heavily.
"They lose the final fragment of flexibility within them. At that point, transformation becomes structurally impossible. Release is denied."
I struggled to swallow.
"They stay there… forever?"
"They remain," he said. "Eventually, they adapt. Consciousness reshapes itself to survive the environment. What you call demons are not crafted from nothing. They are souls that chose defiance over accountability for so long that Hell became compatible with them."
A faint, almost imperceptible curve touched his lips.
"Hell does not create monsters. It reveals them."
The wind moved between us, colder now.
"And forgiveness?" I asked, forcing the word out. "If someone truly wants Heaven?"
He looked toward the endless expanse of shelves now faintly visible through thinning cloud.
"Wanting escape is common," he said. "Accepting responsibility without excuse is rare."
"But if they do?"
"There is a path," he replied. "It requires absolute recognition. No self-pity. No justification. No blame placed elsewhere. A soul must look at itself and say: This was me. I chose this."
His gaze darkened.
"Most cannot endure that clarity. It burns deeper than any fire."
"So there is a way," I said softly. "It's just… almost impossible."
"Yes."
"What is the final step?"
He stepped closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming.
"It is not knowledge meant for you."
The authority in his tone silenced further questions.
After a long pause, I glanced toward the endless shelves I had seen before.
"There are many worlds, aren't there? Many dimensions. The shelves I saw… they're real. Earth is just one of them."
"Yes."
"And the souls from those worlds come here too?"
"They do."
"What happens when they arrive?"
Without another word, Lucian opened the dark-bound book he had taken from the deeper, more unsettling section of the library. The moment it opened, the atmosphere shifted. The pages were thick, inked in a meticulous script.
He turned it toward me.
"This," he said, pointing to the first entry, "is the Chamber of Arrival. Every soul is recorded upon entry. Identity. Origin. Time of death."
His finger moved down the page.
"After arrival, they are taken to the Judicial Chamber. There, their existence is reviewed in totality. Not selectively. Not emotionally. Factually. Every action. Every consequence. Nothing is omitted."
He turned the page.
"Based on the weight of their deeds, they are assigned to Levels One through Ten."
Another page.
"Punishment is not arbitrary. It is corrective. Each level confronts a different form of denial. At any stage, recognition can occur."
His voice lowered slightly.
"If recognition is genuine — not fear of suffering, but true understanding — the soul is transferred to the Departure Chamber."
The word felt almost fragile in contrast to the rest.
"From there, they are returned to their world. Reborn. The cycle continues."
He tapped a darker column of ink near the margin.
"And here, Alexander records recurrence. How many times a particular soul has entered Hell."
The entries stretched endlessly down the page.
"For some," he added calmly, "the number is… substantial."
I felt small standing there, surrounded by infinite shelves and records of centuries.
"It's enormous," I whispered.
Lucian closed the book with deliberate care.
"This is not chaos," he said. "It is administration."
The deeper corridors of the library seemed to pulse faintly around us — heavy, ancient, aware.
And for the first time, I understood something clearly.
Hell was not fire and screaming.
It was structure.
And he was part of its design.
what they are — without self-pity and without justification. Most souls cannot endure that clarity."
"And then?"
"They choose suffering."
The wind moved softly between us, but the silence felt heavier than before.
I hesitated, then asked quietly,
So this isn't how you truly look there."
"No."
A faint tension moved through me.
"Then… this form," I said carefully, "is it your real face? From before you became a demon?"
A brief pause followed — longer than his previous ones.
"Perhaps," he said at last. "Fragments remain."
The way he said it did not sound sentimental. It sounded factual — as though he were describing something archived rather than remembered.
"What happened to you?" I asked.
The space between us tightened almost instantly.
"You ask many questions," he said, his tone cooling. "Not all of them are necessary."
The wind shifted through the corridor, brushing past the endless shelves.
"Some histories," he added quietly, "are sealed for a reason."
"Let's go," he said.
.He asked for my hand. I gave it.
I placed mine in his to stand — and the moment our fingers closed together, the clouds dissolved around us. They didn't fade slowly. They broke apart, like they were never meant to last.
We were back in the library.
The Earth section.
The same endless shelves grown from living wood. The same golden haze floating quietly in the air. The same silence that felt like it was always listening.
His hand slipped from mine.
"It's your time to leave," he said. "Walk."
"Yeah."
We started walking.
The same silent space. The same endless shelves. I was behind him. He was walking fast — too fast. I had to quicken my steps, almost rushing, trying to match his pace but never fully reaching it. The distance between us felt intentional.
"Do not come here alone," he said while walking. "Got it?"
"Yeah, yeah."
"
"I looked at his half-formed figure ahead of me. The corridor had grown quieter as we walked. We were now near the main library side.
All the thoughts about the soul journey started rushing into my mind.
"I have one question," I said.
"You asked many already," he replied.
He took two more steps, then added, "What do you want to ask?"
"—
"Before me and Alexander, you worked with many humans for centuries… right?" I asked quietly as we walked. "When those souls died — some went to Heaven, some came to Hell… if they came here… did you ever meet any of them?"
"I did," he said. His tone was even. "But they didn't remember me. I told you already."
I asked "So if they did bad deeds… and ended up in Level 10… you punished them?"
"Yes," he said. His tone was steady. "I did. Most end up here. And I have to punish them."
He didn't slow down. His steps remained even, echoing softly against the wooden floor.
"It must be really hard… to work with someone and then have to punish them."
This time he stopped.
Not abruptly. Just enough to break the rhythm between us.
He turned his head slightly toward me. "I'm a demon. I don't have mercy," he replied. No anger. Just fact. "When they stand here, they are no different from any other soul. You are thinking too much."
Then he faced forward again.
"Let's go. It's already time, Cristina."
He began walking down the corridor toward his cabin.
The air was quiet. Heavy. Only the faint sound of his steps touching the stone.
I stopped.
The thought wouldn't let me move.
Before I could think too much, I stepped forward and lightly caught the edge of his T-shirt near his waist.
"L… u… c… i… a… n…"
My voice trembled on each letter.
He stopped instantly.
I didn't look up. My gaze stayed on his half-formed body — the solid line of his shoulders, the faint shadow moving beneath his chest as if something ancient breathed there.
He turned toward me. I could feel it without seeing his face.
"Are you alright?" he asked quietly.
I swallowed.
"What if… I die in my world and—"
The words broke before I could finish them.
"No. You will not," he said immediately.
The way he said it — firm, almost sharp — made my heart shake even more. I tightened my grip on his shirt.
"What if… I will?" I forced out softly.
I couldn't complete it. I couldn't say the rest. The fear of becoming the worst soul… of standing before him as someone to be judged instead of someone he stands beside..
"Lucian… what if I come and ," I whispered, forcing the words out properly this time, " end up in Level 10… where I don't remember anything… standing in front of you?"
The thought itself made my chest ache.
His expression darkened — not in anger at me, but at the idea.
In one slow, decisive movement, his other hand came to my waist and pulled me closer. Not gently — firmly. The distance between us disappeared. I felt the strength in his hold as he drew me against him.
Then his hand moved to my face, cupping it securely, steadying me.
His voice dropped, darker now, serious in a way that made my breath hitch.
"You will not come here," he said. "Do you understand me?"
It wasn't just reassurance.
It sounded like a promise.
"Lucian…" I breathed.
"You will not come," he repeated, his thumb resting against my cheek. "I know you. You are not that type of person."
There was no hesitation in him. Only certainty.
"Lucian…" I breathed, my palm pressing lightly against his chest.
.
I opened my mouth to speak.
But before the words could leave—
The sharp buzzing of the corridor clock cut through the air.
It was time.
Three o'clock.
The sound echoed around us, heavy and final.
His hand was still at my waist. His other hand still cupped my face, holding me close.
I started vanishing from him slowly… turning into air in his arms, and then I faded back to my world.