Hells Escape: A Journey of Redemption

The whistle echoed again—cold, piercing, and merciless—bouncing off the canyon walls like a song of death.

Just like before, the Cohort paused, confusion flickering across their faces… only for it to vanish. The whistle faded, and with it, their memories, not just of the sound, but of the missing tents, the strange march, and everything in between.

Joseph suffered the worst of all.

Every time the whistle rang out, he forgot the theft. And every time he rediscovered it, he exploded in rage, shouting threats, tearing through supplies, only to lose it all again hours later—a cruel loop he was doomed to repeat.

But Damien's attention was elsewhere now. Joseph's tantrums, the stolen food, none of it mattered anymore.

Because Blythe had given them water.

Water from the river.

Water tainted by something far beyond their understanding.

And once again, the Cohort marched. They were like puppets drawn by invisible strings, shuffling forward beside the winding stream, their minds silent, and their limbs not their own.

Only two remained aware: Damien… and Blythe.

Though "Blythe" was hardly the right word anymore.

The creature inside her, or the whistler as Damien called it, had hollowed her out completely, left her smiling, empty-eyed, and evil.

Good thing I tricked it.

The moment she offered him water, Damien felt the weight of the choice. No one else knew, nor could anyone else suspect, so they drank, grateful and unknowing.

Aware of what would happen if he were to accept the treacherous water, he raised the bottle to his lips, but didn't swallow.

The water stayed in his mouth until the creature's eyes drifted elsewhere, then he turned his head and spat it into the dust.

She never noticed, but every step forward now carried the weight of performance, of staying just lifeless enough not to draw suspicion.

Fully aware and alert, Damien moved with measured deception, mimicking the lifeless shamble of the others while keeping every sense sharp. From his place at the front of the Cohort, he had no view of Blythe, only the steady rhythm of her footsteps behind him. If the creature followed a pattern, as he suspected, then he would need to be at the front like last time.

All he could do was listen.

Suddenly, the echoing steps against the canyon's orange stone came to an abrupt stop.

Damien, relying solely on sound, reacted a beat too late.

Shit… shit.

Panic surged through his chest, more painful than his shackle, which had been searing his insides the entire march. Deception is still deception even if it's justified.

If she realized he was faking, if she even suspected, he'd be dead before he could blink. A creature that could puppet six bodies at once wouldn't struggle to crush a single virtueless devil.

Then,

Wheeeeeew!

A whistle screamed through the air.

Three heavy thuds followed, and, from the sound of it, Damien guessed they were the supply boxes.

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

She didn't notice.

Not this time.

Rummm rummm.

Behind him, the Whistler sifted through one of the three supply crates. The rummaging ceased, then came softer, slower steps.

Clank.

Clank.

Blythe's boots edged closer, the sound sharp against the stone, forcing sweat to pool down Damien's back despite the canyon's shade.

...Silence.

She didn't stop beside him, and based on the footfalls, she passed Joseph... then James... heading toward Jenna.

One minute ticked by, then another without sound or motion.

Damien's nerves frayed as he imagined what the Whistler was doing, but he was confident he knew its agenda. After all, it was his own.

First, a mimic of me… now this. Is someone watching? Guiding it? Or is there something deeper behind it all?

He couldn't be sure. But between the lingering cold crown his double left behind and the demon who, for some reason, aided in his plans, a single truth anchored in his thoughts.

This first circle... I have to be tied to it in some way.

Then a low, inhuman voice tore through the quiet, carving a hole straight through Damien's chest.

"You can stop pretending now."

His breath caught. Slowly, he turned his head, eyes wide.

Blythe stood in front of Jenna, just behind the Grey Monk, staring directly at him. Her gaze was narrow and dead, her face twisted into something unrecognizable.

Then her lips curled.

"I don't wish to hurt you, my liege."

Liege?

Damien's brow twitched.

What is she talking about?

He opened his mouth to ask, but before a word could leave, another sharp whistle tore from her lips.

Wheeeeeew!

The sound cracked through the canyon, and just like that, the others snapped awake, confusion already clouding their faces.

Damien was on the verge of unraveling. He loathed not understanding, and this marked the third time since his descent into Hell that something had left him completely unmoored. First was Jack's sacrifice. Then, his mimic.

And now this.

Something has to die. I need to feel blood.

Only through the downfall of another could Damien quiet the storm inside him—only through violence could he reclaim a sense of control.

As if summoned by that desire, a voice cracked through the canyon, raw with panic.

"Lizard Riders!"

It was Joseph, afraid and confused.

Just like that, Damien's peace was within reach.

...

The virtueless devil tore through the Lizard Riders like a man possessed. He carved open the giant Jeroba rats they rode, then turned his blades on the lizards themselves—killing not cleanly, but with cruel precision, slicing them apart with a thousand deliberate cuts.

The first time the Cohort faced these creatures, it had nearly broken them. On their own, the riders were worth only half a star, but they hunted in coordinated packs—each duo of lizard and rat a savage, skittering threat.

But that was then.

Now, with his senses sharpened by an unquenchable bloodlust, Damien made short work of them. Nothing could keep up—not their speed, their coordination, or their savagery. In this state, he felt unstoppable.

If Joseph stood in front of him now, neck bared, Damien was certain it would fall by his blade.

Around him, the rest of the Cohort battled their share of riders. But even as they fought, their eyes lazy, half-lidded, and fogged from the whistle's lingering touch, remained fixed on Damien.

He was stealing their kills.

He moved like fire, darting around the Grey Monk's spear, James's fists, and Blythe's short sword. He danced around Joseph's flames, while weaving past Jenna's orange katana, the very one that once belonged to his mimic. Every movement was calculated, merciless, and inevitable.

They were lucky something else had arrived.

Otherwise, the canyon floor wouldn't be scattered with the bodies of rats and lizards.

It would be littered with theirs.