Hell did not celebrate.
That, more than anything, confirmed to Aurelian how deeply the Exterminations had scarred it. There were no riots of joy, no festivals of defiance. Instead, Hell reacted with caution—like an abused creature unsure whether the raised hand would strike or spare.
The announcement spread quietly at first. Whispers passed through bars, factories, brothels, and battlefields: The angels didn't come. Then louder murmurs followed: They might not come next cycle either.
Fear mixed with hope, creating something volatile.
Aurelian watched the reactions from afar, seated within the deepest council chamber of the Hive. Sigils glowed faintly across the circular table, each representing an Overlord, faction, or region bound—willingly or not—into the stability network he had woven over decades.
Beelzebub leaned back in her throne-like chair, boots propped on the table. "You just rewrote the rules of eternity," she said. "No pressure."
Aurelian didn't smile. "This is the most dangerous part."
Bee raised a brow. "The talking or the waiting?"
"The expectation," he replied. "Hell has been conditioned to survive annihilation, not peace. Give it space, and it might destroy itself out of habit."
Bee hummed thoughtfully. "So what's step one, oh secret prince of bad ideas?"
"Visibility," Aurelian said.
That earned her full attention.
"You're going public?" she asked.
"Not fully," he corrected. "But the system must become seen. Not as fear—but as structure."
Bee whistled low. "Overlords won't like that."
"They don't have to," Aurelian said. "They just have to comply."
Pentagram City adjusted in strange ways.
Without the looming certainty of Extermination, territories stabilized—but old tensions surfaced in new forms. Power vacuums threatened to form where fear had once kept order. Criminal enterprises grew bolder, testing boundaries Aurelian had deliberately left flexible.
And then there was Valentino.
He moved fast.
Propaganda flooded the city—posters, broadcasts, whispers—painting the armistice as a lie. As a setup. As a trick orchestrated by a hidden tyrant pulling strings from the shadows.
Alastor listened.
And smiled wider.
Loona felt the shift in her daily life more than she expected.
I.M.P. received fewer assassination contracts—but more requests. Protection jobs. Escorts. Retrievals that didn't end in bloodshed. Blitzø complained endlessly, but Loona noticed something unsettling.
People were asking for help instead of vengeance.
It made her uneasy.
She found Aurelian again—this time not in a palace or council chamber, but on a quiet street where neon signs flickered lazily overhead.
"You knew this would happen," she said.
"Yes."
"And you didn't warn anyone."
"I couldn't," he replied. "Hell needed to choose what it did with the silence."
Loona crossed her arms. "Some people don't know how to live without violence."
Aurelian met her gaze. "I know."
She hesitated, then asked the question that had been gnawing at her. "What happens when Heaven decides this was a mistake?"
He didn't look away. "Then this armistice becomes a precedent they'll regret breaking."
Her ears flattened slightly. "You're betting everything."
"I always was."
For a moment, she considered walking away—choosing distance over danger.
Instead, she stepped closer.
"Then stop carrying it alone," she said quietly.
Octavia's world shifted in subtler ways.
The Goetia court reacted to the armistice with outrage disguised as concern. Meetings dragged on endlessly, filled with debates about authority, tradition, and control. Some feared Heaven's scrutiny. Others feared losing relevance.
Her father avoided the subject entirely.
Aurelian found her late one cycle in the observatory, staring up at the sealed sky.
"They're afraid," she said without turning. "Not of Heaven. Of losing their excuse."
"Yes," Aurelian replied. "The Exterminations allowed them to justify cruelty as necessity."
She turned to him. "You're dismantling more than a system. You're dismantling identity."
"That's why it's fragile," he said.
Octavia stepped closer. "You'll need legitimacy. Not just control."
He nodded. "Which is why I'm creating a council."
Her eyes widened. "A real one?"
"A functional one," he corrected. "Representation beyond Overlords. Imps. Hellhounds. Sinners."
Octavia smiled faintly. "Heaven won't like that."
"Then we're doing something right."
Deep within Heaven, the Seraphim observed.
Data flowed like constellations across their halls—population stability metrics, violence reduction rates, contract compliance. Hell was… improving.
That frightened them.
"This was not the intended outcome," one said.
Another folded their wings. "Nor is it a failure."
The first bristled. "If Hell proves capable of self-regulation—"
"—then Extermination becomes indefensible," the second finished.
Silence followed.
Far away, something ancient stirred uneasily.
Back in Hell, Aurelian stood alone in the chamber of names once more. The sigils of the Overlords glowed steadily—except one, flickering violently.
Valentino.
Aurelian narrowed his eyes.
"Make your move," he murmured.
Above him, unseen by all but fate itself, Roo's laughter echoed softly through the fabric of Hell—not cruel, not kind.
Amused.
The armistice held.
But Hell had begun to choose.
And not everyone would accept that quietly.