Infernal Ascendancy

Selmora leaned closer, her glowing eyes fixed on Ban with an unsettling mixture of playfulness and hunger. Her voice was soft, almost hypnotic, yet carried the weight of command.

"Now, Ban," she said, tilting her head, "what method of… pleasure would you like?"

Her finger sparked with green flames, curling around the air as if it had a mind of its own. With deliberate precision, she pressed it against Ban's chest. A hiss of steam rose as his skin sizzled, and a strangled scream tore from his throat. Pain shot through him like a living thing, every nerve screaming in protest.

Ban's heart hammered in his chest. Fear clawed at him, his body trembling, yet he dared not move. He felt the heat lick his skin, smelled the sharp scent of ozone and burning flesh, and couldn't tear his gaze away from her.

Selmora's lips curved into a smile, almost innocent, almost sweet—but the fire in her eyes betrayed her. Without a moment's pause, she pressed her own lips against his, soft and deliberate. Shock froze him mid-breath. The sudden contact sent a wave of confusion and terror racing through him. Her saliva brushed against him as she withdrew, her eyes gleaming.

"Which would you like?" she asked, voice lilting with mock innocence. "There's more… it's your choice. You just have to tell me, and I will gladly be yours. Take this chance… for now."

Her hands slid around his shoulders as she settled onto his lap, weight pressing him into the cold surface beneath them. Her touch was both commanding and tantalizing, a contradiction that left him dizzy.

"You're in charge," she murmured.

Ban's voice came out shaky, barely a whisper. "I… I'm… in charge?"

Selmora's smile widened, predatory yet teasing. "Of course," she said, her tone light, almost childlike, but the fire dancing in her fingertips betrayed her intentions. "But if you would let me be selfish… I would like to have both."

Before he could process her words, flames erupted from two of her fingers. One pressed against Ban's chest, and he convulsed, every muscle tightening in instinctive agony. The other lingered on her own hand, yet she felt nothing—only the thrill of watching him react. The fire burned through them both, searing yet electrifying, a strange intimacy forged in pain.

Selmora leaned closer again, her lips brushing his. "And… romance," she whispered, pressing herself to him as if to balance the searing pain with the warmth of closeness. Their lips met, and Ban's breath caught in his throat. Fear, confusion, and an unbidden surge of helpless surrender roared through him.

When she finally pulled back, she blinked up at him with wide, innocent eyes, extinguishing the flames with a casual flick of her fingers. "Sorry," she said softly, almost guilelessly. "For being impatient. I almost forgot—you're in charge. I should let you decide… I'm sorry. Please don't be mad."

Ban's chest heaved, his body still trembling from the pain, the fire, the kiss. He stared at her, his mind reeling. What is happening with this woman? he thought. Just a minute ago, she was… chaotic, untamed… now—she's acting like an innocent little girl. Which is her real side?

---

Third Gate of Hell — The Chained Garden

The ground quaked with the rhythm of hammers and shovels striking against the earth. Blackened souls, their bodies smeared with soot and despair, labored under the molten sky. Chains clinked with every motion—thick, rusted iron links that coiled around their wrists, ankles, and necks like venomous serpents.

Xaltheon stood over them, tall and still, his eyes reflecting the infernal glow of the Chained Garden. Beside him, Amon—his silent shadow—watched the damned with dispassionate calm. The air itself burned here, dry and metallic, filled with the stench of sweat, fear, and decay.

Hell guards barked orders, tossing pickaxes and head pans to the new arrivals. Some dug into the scorched ground with trembling hands; others carried broken stones to unseen corners.

"These souls came in today," Amon said, handing a parchment to Xaltheon.

Xaltheon's gaze drifted over the list. "Hmm," he murmured, the firelight glinting in his eyes. "Not a large shipment." He let the parchment slip from his fingers—before it could touch the ground, it burst into green flame and vanished into ash.

Among the crowd, four souls paused in their labor. Their gaunt faces turned toward one another, whispering in hushed tones.

"Do you all understand what needs to be done?" one whispered. His voice trembled with both fear and hope.

The others nodded.

"Good. Then let's move."

As Xaltheon and Amon conversed, a commotion rose from the pit. Shouts. Clashing metal. The crack of bone.

Xaltheon's gaze flickered lazily toward the chaos. Two souls had turned their tools on each other. "Always the same," he sighed.

Amon motioned for the guards to intervene—but before they could, a guard's scream cut through the air. Blood misted the ground. Four souls now stood, pickaxes in hand, their chains rattling violently as they advanced.

The leader—a tall man with hollow eyes and a scar stretching across his cheek—smirked. "Guess this is your boss, huh?" he said, stepping up to Xaltheon.

Amon tensed, but Xaltheon raised a hand calmly. "It's alright," he said softly. "They're new arrivals. Let's hear them out."

The leader grinned, lowering his pickaxe to his shoulder. "Name's Dan."

"Your name no longer matters here," Xaltheon replied. His voice was calm—almost gentle—but it carried a weight that pressed against the air. "Down here, you're just another echo."

Dan's grin faltered, but he forced it back. "We tried talking to that scaled freak at the gate. He didn't listen. So, I'll talk to you. You seem… reasonable."

Xaltheon tilted his head slightly. "Reasonable?"

"Yeah." Dan stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "Are you gonna let us leave, or not?"

Xaltheon smiled faintly. "No one is holding you back. You can leave whenever you wish."

Dan blinked. "...What?"

"Go," Xaltheon said simply.

The men exchanged glances. Finally, Dan gestured to one of them. "You heard him. Try it."

The soul ran, his face breaking into a desperate smile as he shouted, "I'm free! I'm—"

CRACK!

The chain around his neck snapped taut, glowing with fiery symbols before piercing straight through his spectral body. His scream was brief. His form crumbled into ash.

Dan stumbled back, horror etched across his face. "What the hell did you do?!"

"I?" Xaltheon asked softly, his tone bored. "I did nothing. You saw me—I was here with you the whole time." He paused, eyes glinting. "But since you seem curious, I'll tell you the secret to freedom."

Dan stared at him, trembling.

"There's a timer," Xaltheon said, "tied to your soul. If you can outrun it… if you can reach the gate before it strikes zero… you live. If not, you die. Simple, isn't it?"

Dan swallowed hard, then looked back at his men. "Alright, you heard him. We just need to be faster than time."

They ran.

The sound of chains echoed like thunder. One by one, the souls convulsed and collapsed. Every death was the same—choking, tearing, dissolving into ash mid-scream.

Dan was the last. He sprinted, legs burning, lungs bursting with panic. "No! No, I can make it—I can—"

The chain impaled his back. His scream echoed across the Chained Garden before his body shattered into ash.

Silence returned.

Xaltheon sighed softly. "Human stupidity truly is… commendable, don't you think, Amon?"

Amon nodded. "Indeed, my lord. I didn't think they'd actually try to beat time."

Xaltheon chuckled. "Resume the labor."

The remaining souls, who had stopped to watch, flinched as Xaltheon's gaze swept over them. Instantly, they bent their heads and began working again.

Xaltheon raised his hand and snapped his fingers.

The ashes shimmered, twisting upward into ghostly shapes—Dan and his men reformed, gasping, their eyes wide with disbelief.

They touched their arms, their faces—alive again, yet trembling.

"You're welcome to try escaping," Xaltheon said, his tone light, almost playful. "But understand this—you'll die again and again, feeling every shred of pain as if it's the first time. Perhaps death will even become… familiar."

He turned away. "Do yourselves a favor—keep running. It'll make eternity less boring."

Dan and his men stumbled backward, faces pale with dread. Then, without a word, they snatched their tools and began working furiously.

Xaltheon smiled faintly. "That concludes the orientation for the new souls." He glanced at Amon. "Let's move on."

Together, they walked toward the crimson horizon.

---

Second Gate of Hell — The Arena of Flames

The ground here was cracked and dry, glowing from the magma pulsing beneath. A thousand charred corpses littered the arena floor—some still twitching, others whispering broken prayers.

Veymar stood in the center, tall and lean, his armor glinting like molten metal. The air shimmered around him, warping with heat.

"Blight," he called. "Bring the next contestant."

From the trembling crowd of human souls, Blight dragged forth a man. His knees buckled as he took in the sight of the battlefield—bodies reduced to ash, the smell of burnt flesh thick in the air.

"Please…" the man sobbed. "I don't want to die again. Please, spare me…"

Veymar tilted his head. "This isn't good," he said softly. "Why are you begging me?"

He looked around, gesturing at the corpses. "They're not dead," he added, his tone eerily casual. "Just… weak."

He kicked one of the bodies toward the man. The corpse twitched. The man gasped as the blackened lips moved.

"H…help… me…"

The man stumbled back in horror.

Veymar sighed, snapping his fingers.

In an instant, the burned bodies convulsed, flesh reforming, color returning to their faces. They gasped, clutching at their newly restored forms.

"I'm alive," one whispered in disbelief.

Veymar smiled. "Yes. You see? Death here is only temporary. I'm generous like that." He waved a hand lazily. "Blight, take them away."

As the revived souls were led out, Veymar turned back to the trembling man.

"So," he said. "What's your name?"

"R…Riven."

"Riven," Veymar repeated. "Do you have anything for me? A trick? A strategy? Something to make this interesting?"

"I—I can't fight," Riven stammered. "Please, I beg you. I don't want to die again."

Veymar sighed. "So, you admit you're useless."

Riven nodded frantically.

"Then you're right," Veymar said with a smile. "A boring fight would only waste my time. You may go."

Riven's eyes widened. "Th-thank you, my lord." He turned, taking a step away—

"Wait."

Riven froze.

A fiery parchment materialized in Veymar's hand, glowing with infernal script. "You said your name was Riven, correct?"

"Y…yes."

Veymar's eyes narrowed. "Interesting. It says here you killed five people during your life as a petty thief."

Riven's voice broke. "That was before! I—I changed! I found faith—I tried to repent—"

"Oh," Veymar said, feigning surprise. "You've changed?"

The parchment ignited, curling to ash.

"Tell me," he said quietly, stepping closer. "Do you really think repentance erases blood?"

Riven's breath caught. "But… I was forgiven—"

"By who?" Veymar interrupted, his tone sharpening. "Did your victims forgive you? Their families?" He smiled, cruel and beautiful. "To me, forgiveness without justice is meaningless."

Riven shook his head in disbelief. "That can't be true…"

"But it is," Veymar whispered. "God gave life. You took it. You crowned yourself His executioner. You think you can still breathe the air of heaven?"

Tears streamed down Riven's face.

"Don't regret it," Veymar said, stepping back. "Hell is your home now. No morals, no pretense. Lie, steal, kill—whatever you wish. You're already damned."

His lips curved into a smile. "And if you think you can kill me… try."

Something inside Riven snapped. His trembling stopped. His expression hardened. "Hell… is home," he whispered. "I can do what I want."

"That's the spirit," Veymar said softly.

Blight handed Riven a blade. It was crude, jagged, its edge glowing faintly red.

Riven gripped it tightly, muttering to himself, "No regrets. No fear. No gods."

He lunged forward, blade slicing through the air. Veymar dodged effortlessly, a grin spreading across his face.

Riven's swings grew wild, desperate. "I'm free!" he screamed. "I'm free in hell!"

Veymar raised a finger. The sword stopped mid-swing, shattering with a hiss. He thrust his hand into Riven's chest. Fire flared.

Riven gasped—then went still. His soul flickered once, then vanished.

Veymar pulled his hand back, glowing with embered light. "The rules of hell," he said softly, "are like no other."

He turned to the crowd of trembling souls, his eyes blazing crimson.

"Welcome," he said, voice echoing through the burning arena, "to hell."