Hell, the fiery place for the damned, the cursed, and the abominable, was a machine built for chaos. Usually, it was the source of trouble for every dimension near it. But today, Hell was experiencing its own, very specific calamity.
Ever since that abysmal rock called Earth advanced its technology, the quality of sacrifices had plummeted. Genuine, potent damnation was rare. Most souls arriving via cultist sacrifice these days were bland grey-area people who tasted like stale beer and were barely worth the effort to process. The truly rotten humans, the trash, were at least reliably disgusting.
But it had been centuries since stupid, desperate cultists had forced the infernal realm into its current state of emergency: child sacrifices.
These weren't just souls; they were pure souls. A cursed delicacy.
The problem was fundamental: pure souls do not belong in Hell. The architecture of the underworld, the very gates themselves, could not contain them. By the cosmic rules, they should not be here. But because they were ritually sacrificed, they were trapped in transit.
For low and mid-level demons who hadn't yet gone through metamorphosis, a pure soul was holy light or an atomic bomb. Their mere presence erased them from existence in a flash of unwanted light.
For high-level demons and Demon Lords, it was just annoying. They were supposed to follow the rules, move the souls up the chain of command, to the Demon Kings and Princes who couldn't use the raw energy themselves but demanded the proper procedure.
But will any self-respecting demon follow the rules?
The answer echoed through the nine circles of Hell: Absolutely not.
The bureaucracy was collapsing under the weight of pure innocence, and every demon in the hierarchy was about to get a taste of the one thing they couldn't stomach: a moral dilemma and a procedural nightmare.
Lord Malphas stared at the flickering white ember held in the palm of his hand. It was Alex, or what was left of him. The soul was blindingly white, a "pure" anomaly that made the shadows in the room hiss and retreat. In its current state, it was a nuisance. It was a nuclear reactor with no lead shielding.
The demon leaned closer. The soul pulsed with a rhythmic, sickening throb: Despair. It was no longer pure white; a vein of pitch-black ink was beginning to mar the center.
"It's almost ready," a lesser demon whispered from the corner, cowering from the light of the soul. "We can harvest the despair now, my Lord."
"No," Malphas snapped, his eyes narrowing. "This despair is shallow. It is the despair of a child who lost a game. It lacks the complexity of a man who has lost a world."
Malphas closed his fist around the soul, stifling the light.
"He thinks he reached the bottom of the hole. He doesn't realize he's only at the entrance." The Demon Lord smiled, a sight that would have made Ms. Harper look like a saint. "We will give him a new world. We will give him power. We will let him build a life, find new friends, perhaps even find a way to 'atone' for the Rabbits."
"He needs to taste hope again," Malphas whispered. "He needs to believe he has escaped us. Because when he realizes that every 'good' deed he did was just another line of ink in my ledger... that is when the soul truly ripens."
With a flick of his wrist, Malphas tossed the flickering ember into a rift.
"Go, little Shepherd," the Demon Lord chuckled. "Build me something beautiful and delicious. I'll be waiting to collect the bill when its due."
He was floating. His body felt weightless, stripped of the grime of the alley and the blood of the basement. He was naked, pale as bone, drifting in a lake that stretched into a horizon of golden mist.
The surface was choked with white lotuses thousands of them, their petals so perfect they looked like they had been carved from frozen light.
A figure sat on the shore, watching him. It wasn't the radiant warrior of a Sunday school painting. The "Angel" was a towering silhouette of overlapping wings and too many eyes, draped in a robe that looked like it was woven from the first clouds ever formed.
"You are awake," the Being said. The voice didn't come from a mouth; it echoed from the center of Alex's own chest.
"I died," Alex whispered, his voice small against the vastness.
"You saw a shadow," the Angel replied, tilting its head. "The ink is just a tool. The debt is just a story told by those who want to own you."
Alex stepped out of the lake, the water vanishing from his skin the moment he touched the sand. He looked at the Being, his heart hammering. "They told me I was the Shepherd. They told me I led them to the shearer. If you're an angel... then you know I'm a sinner. You know I sold them for a meal."
The Angel was silent for a long moment. The lotuses in the lake began to turn, facing Alex in unison.
"I am Az-Bogah I have spent millions of your years hunting the things you call demons," the Angel said. "I have torn the wings from the proud and the hearts from the cruel. My hands have ended civilizations. Tell me, Little Shepherd does that make me a sinner?"
Alex blinked, confused. "But... they were demons. You were doing it for the light. You're allowed to kill them."
"Allowed?" Then you are a fool," " Az-Bogah hissed, and the silver water turned into a mirror, reflecting a version of Alex with hollow eyes and ink-stained hands.
"I am a killer because the Light demands a blade. I am a monster because Purity is too weak to defend itself. If I were 'Good' by your human definition, the demons would have eaten the Heavens before the first day was over."
Az-Bogah leaned closer, the heat of its presence drying the last of the lake-mist from Alex's hair.
"Purity is not the absence of blood, Alex. Purity is clarity of purpose. You did not sell your friends for a meal you chose mercy over neglect, peace over rot."
"But they're gone," Alex sobbed.
Az-Bogah stepped aside.
Something lay half-buried in the pale sand at its feet.
It was a lower jawbone. It wasn't made of gold or silver; it was yellowed, pitted bone, still sharp and heavy.
"This is the first lesson of the Divine," Az-Bogah said, holding the bone out. "The first murder was committed with a piece of a beast. Not for gold, not for land, but because the world is a Rabbit Hole, and only the one who bites first survives the night."
"Take it. If you believe you are a sinner, then be the finest sinner to ever walk the stars. If you believe you are a monster, then be the monster that makes the demons pray for a basement to hide in. Fate is not a gift, Alex. It is a claim. Wreak your havoc. Build your hole so deep that even the King of Hell cannot find the bottom."