Max stood at the far edge of his inverted garden — the hidden, forbidden heart of Hell — where gravity felt optional and reality behaved more like a suggestion than a rule. The forest stretched endlessly in impossible directions, roots hanging from the sky like veins and leaves drifting upward into a crimson void. The air here wasn't air. It was memory, sin, pressure — the accumulated weight of every decision that had ever gone wrong.
His hand curled into a fist.
Eyes opened across the bark of the nearest trees. Some watched him openly. Others blinked shut, pretending ignorance. They were extensions of the realm itself — and by extension, of him.
"Now…" Max exhaled slowly. "Let's see what I can actually do in this body."
He extended his hand and pulled.
Power answered instantly.
It didn't surge toward him. It recognized him.
The ambient force of the Reverse Eden folded into his palm like obedient fabric. Weapons began to manifest in a widening orbit around his body: mortal steel knives, jagged demon-forged axes, elegant infernal spears, blades etched with contracts, chains wrapped in screaming glyphs. Then came the angelic weapons — radiant, quiet, heavy with judgment. They hovered in silence, their glow cutting through the red haze like surgical light.
The halo of weapons rotated slowly around him.
Max reached out and grabbed the simplest object first: a mortal knife.
He dragged the edge across his forearm.
The skin parted cleanly — and sealed instantly, the flesh knitting together as if offended by the interruption.
"Expected."
He tossed the knife aside and took a demon blade next. The metal hummed faintly with cursed heat. He drove it deeper this time, testing intent as much as material.
Same result.
Pain, flash, closure.
His body rejected injury like a bureaucratic error.
Then he picked up an angelic sword.
The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, the realm reacted.
The forest went quiet.
The watching eyes stilled.
The blade didn't hum. It judged.
"Alright…" Max murmured. "Moment of truth."
He brought it down across his forearm.
The cut burned white.
Not heat. Not pain. Authority.
The wound stayed open. Steam rose from the edges, holy energy eating at the flesh like acid that refused to finish its work. His body tried to regenerate — he felt it trying — but something older than his biology held the damage in place.
Max hissed through his teeth.
"Interesting."
He stared at the glowing gash.
"When I built this body… I didn't cheat," he muttered. "High resistance. Not immunity. Proper overlord architecture."
He rotated his arm, watching the wound refuse him.
"And now I get to live with the consequences of good design."
He scowled.
"Well. Only one way to confirm."
Without hesitation, he lifted a demon sword and chopped off his own arm.
The severed limb dissolved mid-fall, scattering into luminescent dust. A new arm regrew instantly — smooth, perfect —
—marked by the exact same holy scar.
Max stared.
"…You have got to be kidding me."
He flexed his fingers. The scar glowed faintly, like a brand that existed on multiple layers of reality at once.
"Spiritual damage," he groaned. "Permanent. Of course it is. They have physical bodies. You'd think I'd have optimized around this. Sinners respawn. Demons regenerate. But no. I design myself like a dramatic idiot."
He shook his head and dismissed the weapons with a pulse of will. They collapsed into sparks and vanished.
"Fine," he muttered. "What else breaks me?"
He centered himself.
Power gathered.
A sigil unfolded beneath his feet — ancient geometry layered over itself infinitely, rotating in directions that didn't exist in mortal space.
"Jio Graze."
The realm recoiled.
A cannon assembled itself from shadow and gold light, pieces snapping into place with mechanical inevitability. It hummed with catastrophic energy. The charging sound wasn't loud — it was dense. Like a star being compressed into a single note.
His arm disintegrated again.
Not cut.
Erased.
It turned to dust and fell like dark snow.
Max stared at the empty shoulder.
"…That's inconvenient."
The cannon fired.
A beam of annihilation tore into the void beyond Reverse Eden. There was nothing out there to hit — and yet the explosion lit the realm like a second creation event. For a moment, every tree cast a shadow against nothing.
Then silence.
"Huh," Max murmured. "Anything above mid-tier costs an arm. That's a fun exchange rate."
A calm voice echoed in his mind.
"Estimated recovery time: one week."
Raphael. Clinical. Neutral.
Max sighed in relief. "Fair. Annoying, but fair. Energy conservation. I can respect that."
He wrapped cloth around the stump, tying it tight with one hand.
"This is going to be a nightmare to explain."
He snapped his fingers.
The shadows swallowed him whole.
Back at the Hazbin Hotel
The lobby was warm with noise.
Charlie was mid-story, wings fluttering as she talked. Vaggie leaned close, pretending not to smile. Octavia was curled beside Loona on the couch, the two sharing space in comfortable silence. Husk poured a drink like he'd done it a million times. Angel lounged across an armchair like a decorative problem. Sir Pentious coiled proudly among them like he'd always belonged there.
"And when we first met," Loona was saying, smirking, "he walked straight into a hellhound club drunk out of his mind. Thought he blended in."
Angel cackled. "No he did not."
"He did," Loona insisted. "I had to stop someone from eating him."
"Or mounting him," Husk added.
"Both were on the table," Loona admitted. "He was… cute though. Confused. I helped him. Then he asked me out. Then somehow we're here."
Max leaned in the doorway, smiling softly.
Angel perked up. "So how'd you all react when you realized he was dating everyone? I need the drama."
Octavia sighed. "He explained. Didn't lie. Didn't push. He hasn't tried anything we weren't ready for. He's… patient."
"That's what scares me," Vaggie muttered. "He changed too fast."
"Go big or don't change at all," Max said.
They turned.
And froze.
Charlie's smile shattered.
"Max—what happened to your arm?!"
The room detonated into motion.
Vaggie was on her feet instantly. Loona stood. Octavia's feathers flared. Even Pentious hissed.
Max raised his remaining hand. "I'm fine. Angel blades. Handled it."
"You were attacked?!" Charlie's voice cracked. "You should've come straight here!"
"I'm fine," he repeated softly. "Really."
Vaggie touched the bandages carefully. Her eyes went sharp.
"No leaving the hotel," she said. "For days."
Max winced. "Harvest Moon Festival. I promised Loona."
Silence.
Vaggie stared at him.
Then nodded once.
"Fine. Then you sleep with us so I can monitor you."
The lobby stopped breathing.
Angel dropped his glass.
Husk choked.
Charlie combusted silently.
Loona's tail puffed.
Octavia squeaked.
Max blinked. "I—what?"
Vaggie crossed her arms, blushing but unmovable.
"This is not up for debate."
And somehow, impossibly, that was scarier than the angel blade.