The outer circles receded behind Delta like a dream already forgotten. The landscape shifted again—not gradually, but in sudden drops and rises, as though Hell itself exhaled in uneven breaths. Rivers of molten iron thickened into sluggish veins of lava, their surfaces bubbling with faces that never quite formed. Spires of obsidian grew taller, leaning inward like teeth in a closing maw.
The sky—if it could be called that—was a perpetual bruise, streaked with lightning that never thundered.
Delta walked the narrowing paths without deviation. The blade at his side no longer simply hung; it seemed to lean forward slightly, as if impatient, though his pace remained unchanging.
Demons watched from the edges now. Not the petty imps of the upper rings, but greater things—hulking brutes with wings of smoke, serpentine horrors that slithered through cracks in reality, and gaunt watchers whose eyes were pools of liquid night. They did not approach. They merely observed, whispering among themselves in languages that curdled the air.
The whispers carried fragments: "The gatekeeper knelt." "No pact was offered." "He spoke, and the chains dissolved."
Word traveled faster than flame in Hell.
Deeper still, the air grew dense, pressing against skin like wet velvet. The ground softened underfoot, not to mud, but to something organic—pulsing faintly, as though the realm walked on its own flesh. Here the pits opened wider, swallowing light and sound alike. Echoes died quickly, leaving only the low, constant hum of suffering that never quite became scream.
At the center of this layer stood the Crucible: a vast amphitheater carved from living bone and iron, ringed by thrones of blackened steel. At its heart rose a platform of fused obsidian, cracked like a broken mirror. Upon it lounged Nyx.
She was not a single form, but a shifting cascade—shadows and starless voids woven into the silhouette of a woman, tall and languid, crowned with horns that bled ink. Her eyes were twin abysses, reflecting nothing. Tendrils of darkness extended from her like living hair, tasting the air. Around her coiled lesser chaos-lords: faceless things, whispering courtiers, all bound to her will.
She had ruled this circle since before the first mortal sinned. She claimed what she desired. She broke what resisted.
When Delta stepped into the Crucible, the whispers ceased.
Nyx straightened slowly. The tendrils stilled. Her voice rolled out like oil over water—smooth, amused, edged with hunger.
"So. The anomaly walks into my court uninvited. No summons. No offering. No fear." She tilted her head. "Bold. Or broken."
Delta stopped at the edge of the platform. The obsidian cracked faintly beneath his boots, hairline fractures spreading outward. He said nothing at first.
The courtiers shifted, uneasy. One—a serpent-thing with eyes like burning coals—hissed, "Speak, intruder, or be unmade."
Delta lifted his gaze. "You assume I care for making."
The words landed flat. No echo. No menace. Yet the serpent-thing recoiled as though struck, scales flaking away in black dust.
Nyx laughed—a sound that vibrated through bone. "You speak plainly. I like that. Most who come here beg, bargain, or rage. You... simply are." She rose, shadows pooling at her feet. "I know what you did to Skrix. To Behemor. You unbound without claiming. You refused without rebelling. Such a rare thing in this place of chains."
She stepped closer. The air between them thickened, darkness pressing against the cold space around Delta.
"I could use such a thing," Nyx continued. "A blade that cuts gods without ambition. A shield that needs no master. Join me. Be my instrument. Hell will open wider for you. Thrones. Legions. The power to unmake Heaven itself."
Delta regarded her. The blade twitched once in his grip.
"Irrelevant," he said.
Nyx's smile faltered for the first fraction of a second. Then she laughed again, louder, forcing the sound.
"Defiance, then? How quaint."
She raised one hand. Shadows surged upward from the platform, forming spears of night that hurtled toward him.
The fight unfolded in layers.
First came the spears—dozens, silent, faster than thought. Delta did not flinch. He raised the blade in a slow arc. The chipped edge met the first spear; darkness shattered against steel like glass on stone. Shards exploded outward, but instead of dissipating, they curved back toward Nyx, drawn by her own power. She waved them aside with a flick, but the motion cost her—tendrils recoiled, smoking.
"You turn my strength against me?" she purred. "Clever."
Delta advanced one step. "No. Your strength is nothing."
The courtiers lunged then—serpents, brutes, faceless horrors—all at once. They swarmed like locusts.
Delta moved.
Not with speed. Not with fury. With inevitability.
The blade swept low. A serpent-thing met the edge; its body parted cleanly, essence pouring out in black mist that clung to Delta's cloak before evaporating. Another brute charged; Delta sidestepped, blade thrusting upward through armored gut. The creature roared, then fell silent as cracks raced across its form, flesh unraveling thread by thread.
One courtier—a thing of smoke and teeth—wrapped around him, trying to smother. Delta stood still. The smoke burned away where it touched him, leaving only ash that drifted upward.
Nyx watched, eyes narrowing. "Enough games."
She extended both hands. The Crucible itself answered.
The obsidian platform buckled. Cracks widened into fissures that bled void. Tendrils erupted from every fracture—thousands, thick as trees, tipped with claws and mouths. They lashed toward Delta, aiming to bind, to consume.
He walked forward into the storm.
The blade rose and fell in measured strokes. Each swing severed tendrils in perfect arcs. Darkness sprayed like ink, but the wounds did not close—they spread, rotting the platform itself. The air filled with the sound of tearing—wet, endless, like flesh pulled apart slowly.
Nyx snarled. "You will kneel."
She stepped into the fray herself.
Her form expanded—shadows blooming outward until she towered, a colossus of night. One massive hand swept down. Delta met it with the blade. Steel bit into shadow. A sound followed—not clang, but the low groan of reality straining.
The hand recoiled. A line of pale light—impossible in Hell—ran across her palm, smoking.
"You... wound me?" Nyx's voice cracked with genuine surprise.
Delta looked up. "You wound yourself."
He advanced again. The blade thrust forward—not at her heart, but at the core of her form, where shadows gathered thickest.
The strike landed.
Nyx screamed—a sound that shook the Crucible, sent fissures racing up the bone walls, caused lesser demons to collapse into dust.
Darkness poured from the wound in torrents. Not blood. Essence. Power. Memories of claimed souls, broken wills, devoured eternities. It flooded outward, pooling around Delta's feet before his presence burned it away.
Nyx staggered. Her colossal form shrank, tendrils wilting. She dropped to one knee, shadows flickering.
"Stop," she gasped. "Name your price. Dominion. Knowledge. Freedom."
Delta lowered the blade. A fresh chip glowed briefly on the edge, then faded.
"Freedom is not given," he said. "It is refused."
He turned away.
Behind him, Nyx remained kneeling, essence leaking slowly. She did not pursue.
The courtiers lay broken or fled. The Crucible stood ruined—platform cracked beyond repair, thrones toppled, the air thinner, colder.
The demons who had watched whispered anew.
"He refused Nyx." "She knelt." "He named freedom refusal."
The words spread downward, through deeper circles, carried on winds that no longer burned. The Lords Below felt the tremor grow—a chill spreading where fire had always ruled.
Above, in mortal realms far distant, seers and prophets felt the shift. Prayers faltered. A few began to whisper a new name, not in hope, but in dread.
Delta walked out of the Crucible. The path ahead narrowed again, descending further, but he did not follow it immediately. He paused at the edge of the ruin.
The blade felt heavier now, the weight of another refusal added to its edge.
He continued onward, into the next layer of Hell.
Behind him, the Crucible began to collapse inward—slowly, inevitably, as though the realm itself rejected what had happened there.