The gates groaned shut behind us with the sound of grinding stone and screaming metal.
I resisted the urge to look back.
Once you pass a gate like that in Hell, you either come back stronger… or not at all. My money was on the former.
Inside the Crimson Bastion, the air changed immediately. Thicker. Heavier. It tasted like rust, sweat, and something faintly sweet—blood that had been sitting out too long. Torches lined the walls, their crimson flames burning without smoke, casting warped shadows that crawled across the stone like living things.
Demons were everywhere.
Big ones. Small ones. Horned, scaled, furred. Most were male, built like walking slabs of muscle, armor hanging off them more for decoration than protection. They laughed loudly, shoved each other, drank from massive tankards, and toyed with chained figures huddled in the corners of the main courtyard—slaves—mostly females—their spirits broken, their eyes empty.
This wasn't a fortress. It was a frat house for the damned. And I was stuck in the middle of it, wearing a "welcome new recruit" sign I couldn't see.
Beatrice moved with a casual ease that made my skin crawl. She strolled through the crowd of brutish demons like she owned the place, her head held high, her hips swaying with a practiced, masculine swagger that didn't quite hide the predatory grace beneath. Every leer sent her way, she met with a cool, dismissive glance that made the lechers look away, suddenly confused and slightly ashamed.
Impressive.
I had to actively stop myself from snapping necks. The casual cruelty, the stench of unwashed bodies and stale fear, the sheer noise of it all grated on my nerves like a file on bone. I kept my hands shoved in the pockets of my illusory cloak, my shoulders hunched, trying to project an aura of "don't fuck with me, I'm having a bad day." It seemed to be working.
The red-cloaked squad didn't slow down. They moved with the easy confidence of men who belonged here, and thanks to Beatrice's work, so did we.
We crossed the main courtyard, past a group of ogre-like demons arm-wrestling over a screaming imp, and headed toward a large, unassuming building built right into the fortress's inner wall.
This was it.
The entrance to the labyrinth.
Two more guards stood outside the door. These were different from the gatekeepers. Taller. Leaner. Their armor was black, not the mismatched iron of the courtyard thugs, and their eyes had a cold, dead quality that spoke of real training. These weren't brawlers; they were killers.
The leader of our charmed squad approached them, and the exchange was brief, silent. One of the black-armored demons looked us over, his gaze lingering on me for a second too long, then nodded and stepped aside.
The leader pushed open a heavy, iron-bound door.
A wave of cold, dry air washed over us, carrying the scent of dust, ancient stone, and something else. Something faintly chemical. Sterile.
We stepped through.
The door slammed shut behind us, plunging us into near-darkness. The only light came from flickering torches spaced far apart along the walls of a long, narrow stone staircase spiraling down into the earth.
The noise from the courtyard vanished, replaced by a profound, echoing silence. The only sounds were our footsteps on the stone and the distant, rhythmic drip... drip... drip... of water somewhere in the depths.
"Cozy," I murmured, my voice a low rumble in the confined space.
"Their security is focused on keeping things in, not out," Beatrice whispered back, her illusory form already starting to shimmer and distort at the edges. The strain of maintaining the disguise was becoming apparent. "They fear an uprising from their 'livestock' more than an external attack."
"Hmph," I scoffed. "Arrogance is a hell of a drug. Usually ends with a blade in the throat."
"Exactly."
The staircase went on far longer than it should have. Step after step carved into ancient stone, worn smooth by centuries of traffic. Slaves dragged down. Goods hauled up. Secrets buried deep. I felt the structure of the place pressing in on me—not physically, but conceptually. This wasn't just a dungeon. It was layered. Planned. Obsessive.
Halfway down, the air shifted again. Warmer now. Damp. The faint chemical scent grew stronger, stinging the back of my throat.
I didn't like that.
The staircase finally opened into a wide corridor supported by thick pillars etched with old runes—containment glyphs, suppression marks, pain triggers. Subtle, but effective. The kind of magic you used when you didn't trust chains alone.
Along the walls were doors. Iron-bound. Each was marked with symbols that made my skin itch.
Behind one of them, something screamed.
Not loud. Not frantic.
Tired.
I clenched my jaw.
The red-cloaked demons kept walking, unbothered. One of them even yawned.
Further in, the corridor split into multiple paths, each marked with a crude sigil carved into the stone. This was the labyrinth proper. No symmetry. No logic at first glance. Just chaos pretending to be designed.
"Here," Beatrice whispered. "This is where they usually stop."
As if on cue, the squad halted before a circular chamber lit by a dull red crystal embedded in the ceiling. Several black-armored demons stood guard, their attention fixed on a wide lift platform stained dark with old blood.
One of them stepped forward, eyes narrowing.
"Delivery ends here," he growled. "You know the rules."
The leader of the squad nodded stiffly and motioned behind him.
The guards barely glanced at Beatrice.
They did look at me. Long. Measured.
"What about these two? New faces." The black-armored guard sneered.
The leader in red didn't say anything and simply watched as his men dragged the black-haired succubus forward, pushing her onto the lift platform. Their work was done.
"Alright," the guard huffed, unimpressed. "Send her down."
The platform creaked as the chains tightened, metal groaning under its own weight.
The black-haired succubus stood motionless where they shoved her, head lowered. She didn't resist. Didn't look back. Just stood there like a thing already broken.
Then the lift began to descend, vanishing into the yawning darkness below.
I expected Beatrice to act then. To use her control on the squad and order an attack, or attack herself.
But she didn't. She simply stood there staring at the darkness below with a look I didn't like.
"Get out," the guard said to the red-cloaked demons.
So they did.
And we followed them back up the stairs.
I wanted to ask why we didn't attack now when the guards were minimal, but I held my tongue.
Back in the main courtyard, the squad split up, each one walking in a different direction, as if their business here was truly done.
I followed their leader with Beatrice right behind me.
He led us to a room in the western wing. It was a small space, furnished with two crude cots and a table littered with empty bottles.
The leader walked over to one of the cots and sat down, his movements stiff and unnatural. Still under Beatrice's control.
Once the door was closed and barred, Beatrice let out a long, slow breath. Her illusory form flickered violently for a moment before solidifying again.
"Phase one complete," she said, her voice calm but tight with restrained energy. "We're in."
"Phase one?" I asked, leaning against the wall, my male form feeling too large, too aggressive for the cramped space. "We just let them take her. The goods. We could have taken the whole damn lift platform."
"Patience, my dear Aza," Beatrice said, a sly smile touching her lips as she finally let the illusion drop.
Her true form bled back into view—the tall, elegant succubus with skin like a pale moon, horns curling back from her forehead, and eyes the color of fresh blood. The shift was seamless, as if the purple-haired male demon had never been.
I had to admit, she was stunning in her true form. In a dangerous 'I'll eat your soul, and you'll thank me for it' kind of way.
"You're thinking like a warrior, not a spy," she continued, walking over to the controlled demon leader. She tilted his head up, studying his blank face with the cool detachment of a scientist examining a specimen.
"I scanned it with my eyes. That lift platform only goes to the first level of the labyrinth. A receiving area. A chokepoint. Killing the guards there would only alert the entire facility. Our goal isn't just to kill, Azariel. It's to burn this whole nest to the ground. For that, we need to get to the king."
"I don't see a king," I said, my gaze drifting to the door. "I see a lot of stupid, violent brutes who'd love an excuse to start a riot."
"And that's why we wait," Beatrice's smile widened. "That succubus wasn't just a lure. She's a key."
She reached into her own cleavage—I tried not to stare—and pulled out a small, dark crystal, no bigger than her thumbnail. It pulsed with a faint, weak light, like a dying ember.
"A soul tracker. Linked to her life force. As long as she's alive, we can see exactly where they take her. She is our unwilling map to the Red Baron's doorstep."
'Smart,' I thought. 'Dangerously smart.'
I watched her place the crystal on the table. A tiny wisp of light rose from it, hovering in the air before forming a shimmering, three-dimensional map of the fortress, complete with a single, blinking dot descending rapidly through the layers.
"So we just wait for her to get there and then what?" I asked, my arms crossed over my chest.
"We study," Beatrice said, her eyes still on the map. "We gather information, we find their weaknesses, we learn their routines."
"How long will that take?" I asked.
"A day... two tops," she said.
"That's a long time."
"Not really," she shook her head. "In the meantime—"
She turned to face me, slashing a seductive smile as she began to remove her clothes.
"We are going to have some fun," she said, her eyes glinting with mischief. "I need to recharge my mana."
'Fuck... Like mother, like daughter.'