CHAPTER 19: CHAPTER NO.19 NINE LEVELS OF HELL (1)

[Location: Wrath’s Palace, Wrath Circle, Seventh Hell]

[Random Demon’s POV]

CRASH!

The obsidian doors of the throne hall didn’t just break — they exploded, splintering into a thousand shards of blackened stone that ricocheted across the blood-slick floor like shrapnel from a war engine. The echo thundered through the hall, rattling the marrow-bone pillars, sending cracks crawling up the ceiling of volcanic glass.

The sound was immediately drowned out by the guttural roar that followed.

RAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWRRRRR!

The vibration of that sound alone made my horns ache, the marrow in my bones scream. Flames burst into life along the walls of the hall, leaping from torches that had burned steadily for centuries, twisting themselves into serpents of fire that hissed and writhed in answer to the rage that saturated the air.

Even the paintings — grotesque tapestries that depicted ancient wars, victories of Wrath over rival circles — trembled on their hooks. Chains that suspended the gargoyle sentinels overhead rattled violently, the stone beasts straining like they might tear free from their bonds.

And then came the voice.

"I WILL FUCKING KILL THAT DAMN BITCH!"

The words weren’t just sound. They were law. Each syllable scorched the floor in glowing fissures, bleeding molten light into the cracks as though the very foundations of Wrath’s Circle buckled beneath the fury.

My knees hit the floor so hard I felt the bones crack. Instinct — no, survival — drove me to prostrate myself, forehead pressed against the burning obsidian tiles. Around me, dozens of courtiers, guards, and trembling attendants did the same. Not one of us dared to breathe louder than a whisper, for in the court of Wrath, even silence was preferable to being noticed.

But curiosity gnawed at me. Slowly, carefully, I lifted my gaze, risking the kind of glance that could mean execution.

At the end of the vast hall sat the throne of Wrath, a grotesque monument forged from a mountain of fused skeletal remains and rivers of molten iron. Skulls — some still screaming, eternally preserved in torment — lined its jagged frame.

And upon that throne sat him.

Amon Baelgorath, the Satan of Wrath.

Every inch of him looked as though carved by violence itself. Muscles bulged and knotted beneath his crimson skin, veins pulsating like rivers of lava that threatened to erupt through flesh. His horns curled back over his head like jagged volcanic blades, catching the glow of firelight and refracting it in bloody sparks. His mane of black hair whipped violently in currents of air that did not exist, each strand alive with the raw pulse of wrathful power.

But it was his eyes that froze me more than the flames, more than the bone and iron, more than the smell of smoldering stone.

Twin suns of pure hatred burned in their sockets, each glare a star collapsing in on itself. They radiated such heat, such endless wrath, that to meet them directly was to risk your soul being seared away entirely.

I dared not hold the gaze for more than a heartbeat, and even that was too much. My vision blurred, my lungs strained for air, my skin blistered simply from proximity.

The shattered doors behind us still smoked. In the midst of the rubble, the massive axe he had hurled in blind fury remained embedded in the wall beyond.

That weapon — Slaughterfang — was no ordinary axe. Forged from the crystallised core of a slain Archdemon, it pulsed with a hatred of its own. Its edge had cut through citadels, cities, even the flesh of angels. That Wrath had thrown it aside so casually, so wastefully, spoke to his state.

He wasn’t thinking. He wasn’t calculating.

He was rage incarnate, unshackled.

"She dares..." Amon growled, his voice grinding like tectonic plates colliding. Every syllable shook the bone-metal throne, causing molten iron to weep from its crevices. His clawed hands dug into the rests, gouging furrows as though they were clay instead of hardened relic. "She said... he was dead. Buried. Lost where no one could ever find him..."

His chest heaved, the muscles twitching with spasms of fury that made his skin ripple. The temperature in the room soared — hundreds of degrees in an instant. My armor seared against my skin; those further down the hall screamed as their flesh blistered and bubbled under the oppressive heat.

"She lied," Amon roared, spittle flying like molten acid. "She made a FOOL out of us... out of ME!"

The ground cracked, belching streams of fire that tore across the floor in branching rivers. The hall itself groaned as though it might collapse under the strain of its master’s fury.

Then it happened.

BOOOOOOOOM!

One of the servants — unfortunate, unlucky, too close to the throne — simply ceased to exist. Amon didn’t move. He didn’t swing. He didn’t even gesture. His aura alone detonated the wretch into a rain of ash and blood that spattered across us all.

I bit back the scream in my throat, forcing myself to remain bowed, trembling so violently that my claws gouged deep furrows into the molten stone beneath me.

The lesson was clear: his wrath needed no target. Merely being near him was a death sentence.

The courtiers around me began to chant low prayers — not to gods, for demons had no use for them, but to the Circle itself, begging Wrath to spare them another second longer.

"YOU WITCH BITCH! USE YOUR MAGIC AND CONNECT THE MUG-FACED SLOTH!"

The air thickened.

One moment, there was only the blistering, choking heat of Wrath’s fury, every molecule vibrating with hatred. The next, a ripple of alien energy crawled across the chamber — softer than the suffocating flames, yet sharper in its precision. Where Wrath was an ocean of rage, endless and crushing, this presence was like a blade sliding between ribs.

The hooded figure stood there, impossibly calm in the storm.

A Witch.

Her cloak was woven of midnight threads that seemed to drink the light, embroidered with sigils that shifted when stared at too long. Beneath the hood, I caught only a glimmer of pale lips and a flash of cold, amused eyes — human eyes. Too human. That detail alone was more terrifying than any demonic snarl. She did not belong here, in Wrath’s Circle, yet here she stood, untouched.

Only two things bought safety in this hall: strength, or usefulness. The Witch had the latter.

"Your anger scorches the walls, Lord Amon," she said, her voice calm, infuriatingly level, as if she were speaking to a spoiled child mid-tantrum. Not mocking — no, she would never dare that openly — but the tone carried an undercurrent of mercenary indifference. "You called me to connect circles. I assume the payment has already been prepared?"

Her words slithered through the choking atmosphere. Not even Wrath’s rage could drown them out.

Amon Baelgorath leaned forward on his throne, the flames wreathing his body snapping higher with the motion. The molten rivers on the floor surged, as though answering his heartbeat. His snarl cracked the obsidian air itself.

"Do it," he thundered, ignoring her demand for payment. "Bind me to Sloth! That fat sack of rot will explain why this—" he spat, literally, the saliva burning a hole through the floor, "—corpse I was promised is walking the realms again!"

I dared not move, dared not even twitch, but every instinct in my body screamed at the word corpse. Who? Who could drive Wrath into this frenzy? Who could survive the lie of death and return?

The Witch extended her hand. Rings of glowing symbols bled into existence around her arm — spirals, runes, tangled chains of geometry that no demon tongue could speak. I knew the basics: witches used sound, gesture, and will to shape their magic. But this was beyond the common tricks mercenaries sold to desperate warlords. This was deep work, circle-bridging, threading a spell across entire layers of Hell.

Her fingers twitched once, twice. She whispered words not meant for demonic ears. Each syllable bit into my skull like an insect crawling through bone.

The walls of Wrath’s throne hall howled. Yes — howled. That was the only word. The stone itself seemed to scream as the spell dug into it, stretching threads of force across dimensions.

The fire-serpents along the walls froze mid-hiss. The gargoyle sentinels rattled in their chains. For a breathless instant, Wrath’s fury itself bent under the Witch’s weaving, not extinguished, but momentarily shaped, as if she had caught lightning in a glass bottle.

And then—

RIPPPPPP.

A tear opened in the air.

Not clean, not precise like a demon gate. This was a wound. A jagged rip in reality, its edges sparking with greenish fire, dripping ash. Beyond it... rot. The smell hit us first, like a tidal wave. Decay. Sweet, sickly, endless decay. The stench of meat left too long in the sun, of feasts turned to sludge, of gluttony with no end and no satisfaction.

The connection had formed.

My claws dug into the burning stone to keep from retching. Others weren’t as fortunate — several attendants vomited black bile onto the floor, their stomachs unable to endure the scent of Sloth’s domain bleeding into Wrath’s Circle.

From within the tear, a voice emerged.

"Guuuuuhhh... Whyyy... must you screeeeam so loouuud, Brother Wrath...?"

The sound was lazy, drawn out, as if each word were dragged from the depths of a bottomless swamp. Yet it carried a weight — not the raw, skin-flaying fury of Wrath, but a suffocating heaviness. The voice pressed on the lungs, on the stomach, on the very will to stand. The voice of one who had never risen from his throne of rot, but whose mere existence made armies kneel in despair.

Sloth.

The Witch pulled her hand back, sweat glistening on her brow, though she quickly hid it with the shadow of her hood. The connection was stable. Fragile, but stable.

Wrath rose. The throne behind him cracked under the force of his movement, bones and iron snapping like twigs. He stepped forward, each motion booming like war drums, his aura slamming against the tear. "YOU!" His roar made the spell ripple dangerously. "You lied to me, you festering pig! You said he was DEAD!"

The voice of Sloth oozed from the wound, thick and oppressive. "Mmmnnnhhh... I diddd... not... lieee..." A low chuckle, wet and sloshing, reverberated. "I... only said... he was... gone. Buried. Lost... beyond reach."

Wrath’s aura flared, and I felt my skin peel, just peel, from the edges of my bones. My body screamed to disintegrate under the force, but still I clung to the ground, praying the Lord’s rage didn’t choose me as its outlet.

"Gone IS dead!" Wrath howled, spittle spraying molten sparks. "I hunted his shadow for centuries! I burned kingdoms to ash on your WORD, Sloth! And now I learn—" His massive hands clenched, claws tearing furrows into the floor so deep they bled magma. "—that HE WALKS AGAIN!"

Sloth’s chuckle became a gurgle, as though fat boiling in a cauldron. "Then perhaps... he was stronger... than even... we believed... Hmmmnnnhhh...?"

The silence that followed was worse than the rage.

Wrath froze. His entire titanic frame trembled — not with fear, never with fear, but with the kind of rage so deep it calcified into stillness. The kind of wrath that preceded apocalypse.

The Witch, still standing calmly at the edge of the spell, tilted her head. I swear, I saw the corner of her lips twitch in something dangerously close to a smile. Mercenaries always thrived in chaos.

Wrath spoke again, quieter now, but every syllable bled fire into the room.

"ARE YOU FUCKING WITH ME? HE WAS A NINE-YEAR-OLD BRAT AT THAT TIME?! WET BEHIND HIS FUCKING HORNS?!"

The last word cracked like a thunderclap. Wrath’s voice wasn’t just rage — it was disbelief curdled into volcanic spite. The hall shuddered with it, cracks spiderwebbing across the ceiling until chunks of obsidian rained down like meteorites. A jagged shard landed mere feet from me, still glowing red-hot, and I barely resisted the instinct to scramble back.

Sloth’s voice oozed through the tear in reality, each syllable bloated and dripping, like pus from a wound. "Niiine... yearsss... ten, perhaps... Time... matters not, Brother. The body was smalI... the power... not."

***

Stone me, I can take it!

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