the world is divided into three planes of existence:
Heaven, where the gods reside.
The Overworld, where mortals and men dwell.
And the Underworld,a hellish realm, ruthless, and devoid of mercy.
On a moonless night, when the heavens themselves seemed to hold their breath, the sky was swallowed by a total eclipse.
No stars. No light. No comfort.
Only a suffocating darkness that pressed upon the world like the weight of judgment.
Inside the Imperial Palace of Alzareth, silence shattered when the first cries of labor echoed through the grand, cold halls.
The rain did not fall, yet the heavens roared.
BOOM!
Thunder cracked three times across a sky without clouds, the sound echoing over the land like divine hammers upon an anvil.
Old priests later swore the heavens were rejecting what was about to be born.
...
The child's first cry did not bring joy.
The last Empress of the Alzareth Empire,once the most radiant, unshakable woman in the realm,screamed, but it was no mortal pain of childbirth. It was worse.
Her cries were the kind that made hardened soldiers flinch and servants cover their ears.
Blood spilled not just from her womb, but from her eyes, ears, and every pore in her body. Her veins bulged black against her skin, boiling from within as if her flesh was being cooked alive.
The midwives wept in terror.
The court healers shouted useless orders.
"This is not a sickness!" one cried.
"It's, it's something else! Something unnatural!"
The Empress convulsed, clutching at the sheets with such force her nails tore through the fabric. Then she looked at her newborn son, and through the haze of agony, her lips trembled with one last word.
"…Forgive…"
Her voice broke, and she collapsed, lifeless, before she could finish.
It was divine punishment.
The gods of Heaven had cast down the Curse of Eternal Suffering upon a child who had not even opened his eyes.
...
He was the symbol of mankind's sin, the product of a forbidden union between imperial blood and a sealed, profane power that the Empire had once buried at any cost.
A baby prophesied to bring calamity.
From that moment on, his name was recorded not in the palace archives, but in the forbidden tomes.
A name whispered in fear.
Arzael.
...
From his earliest days, Arzael's life was an endless corridor of cold walls and colder stares.
His hair was white as bone, his eyes red like dying embers that refused to fade. His skin was pale, cold to the touch,always. Even the warmth of the sun seemed to recoil from him, leaving him in a shadow that followed wherever he walked.
Servants refused to draw near.
Some cried after simply delivering a meal outside his door.
Others tossed the trays in hastily, like feeding a caged beast.
...
When he was five, a palace tutor took one look at him and stepped back.
"I will not teach a cursed child," the man spat, refusing to even cross the threshold.
One by one, every appointed scholar, sword instructor, and etiquette mentor refused their duty.
At seven, he wandered into the garden,only to have noble children point and scream.
"Demon spawn!"
"Cursed Child"
"Monster!"
"Don't look at him, you'll be cursed too!"
They ran away laughing, but not before pelting him with dirt and stones.
Even the palace hounds barked and snapped whenever he passed. The cats would arch their backs and hiss, as if something deep in their instincts screamed danger.
Every birthday passed like a funeral.
No music, no gifts, no guests.
Only silence, and the sound of the wind against the cold palace windows.
Only one person remained by his side,Neria, an old maid who had once served the Empress herself.
She loved him as her own. She was the only one who had ever stroked his hair, the only voice that spoke his name gently.
But even Neria's kindness could not stitch shut the wounds that no one could see.
...
At ten years old, Arzael returned to his quarters with a bleeding forehead. A rock had struck him, thrown by another noble boy.
"I never asked to be born like this," he muttered, clutching the injury.
Vaelric Agareth,his half-brother through a palace concubine,stood smirking in the courtyard, flanked by his friends.
"You don't belong in this palace!" Vaelric shouted for all to hear. "My father says you're a walking curse! You should be chained in the dungeon, not living among royals."
...
The taunting only grew over the years.
"Hey, demon eyes, do you drink blood too?"
"I heard your mother died because she saw your face."
"Careful, if he touches you, your skin will rot!"
Sometimes, Arzael ignored them.
Sometimes, he clenched his fists until his nails drew blood from his own palms.
But one day,one specific day,Vaelric went too far.
In front of dozens of servants, Vaelric sneered at Neria as she passed.
"She's lower than a dog," he said loudly, "and smells worse too. No wonder she serves a curse."
...
In an instant, he closed the distance. His fist smashed into Vaelric's face with a force no one expected. Blood sprayed from the boy's nose and mouth, staining the palace steps.
It wasn't just a punch,it was years of humiliation, isolation, and grief erupting all at once.
The courtyard fell silent, save for Vaelric's groaning.
Gasps echoed.
Servants froze.
A noble girl dropped her parasol in shock.
And from that moment on… everything began to crumble.
.....
....
...
..
.
He was only fifteen when the chains of the curse bound his body.
His skin burned as glowing runes flared into the air.
The court mages chanted the exile spell.
He was forced to kneel before the Emperor of Alzareth,his biological father.
But the Emperor never looked at him.
There was no sorrow. No tears.
Only cold, unwavering resolve.
"A cursed child has no place in this world," he said flatly.
"W-Where… are you sending me?" Arzael asked, his voice cracking.
"To the place that should've been your home all along… to hell."
There was no trial. No chance to plead.
In the dead of night, they transported him in secret.
Dragged by four guards who wouldn't even touch his skin bare-handed.
They brought him to the edge of the empire,to the Black portal, an ancient portal linking the world to the Underworld.
The ground around it smoldered.
Obsidian stones cracked under searing heat.
There was no ceremony. No farewell.
Only the night wind cutting like blades.
Neria arrived,her old body trembling, her breath shallow.
She knelt and begged the Emperor.
"He's not a monster… he's just a lonely child…"
But the only response was a silent gesture.
The guards shoved Arzael into the gaping abyss.
And he fell.
No ceremony. No goodbyes. Arzael was thrown into the portal.
"What did I do wrong with them? Why did they do all this?"
Bruakkk!!
When he woke up, he was in an unknown place, a crimson sky, searing air stabbing into his lungs, and the screams of foreign creatures echoing in the distance.
Underworld, First Layer.
His body was full of wounds, his bones shattered, but he was still alive. He dragged his body toward the nearest cliff for shelter. There, he heard the first voice of the 'system.'
> [Curse System Activated...] [Analyzing trauma and suffering...] [Synchronization complete. Initiating Initial Level...] [Level 7 achieved. Unique skill awakened.]
"Sistem?....W-what is this?" He says.
Arzael stared blankly into the air, seeing a panel only he could see. Then, he let out a faint laugh.
"So this... is the price of all my suffering?"
> [You have acquired Skill: Pain Conversion (Lv.1)]
A demon approached, its body as large as a horse, eyes glowing green, and claws tearing through the ground.
Arzael couldn't run. But this time, he didn't want to.
With a scream, he fought, and killed for the first time.
The demon's mangled body twitched one last time.
Its eyes, clouded yet fixated on Arzael, glimmered with a strange recognition.
"Heir... the underworld awaits you."
Arzael froze, his grip tightening.
"What...? It can speak? What the hell does that mean?"
> [You have slain a Lesser Demon. +120 EXP] [Level Up!]
Blood and pain. They were his fuel. And in hell, the supply was endless.
System Note:
"The more you suffer,the stronger you become. Return to the surface, or descend deeper. Hell is your forge".
"Not bad huh?" Arzael smirk and continue his journey in the first layer of hell.