CHAPTER 20: CHAPTER NO.20 NINE LEVELS OF HELL (2)

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

[Amon Baelgorath’s POV]

I WAS ANGRY. I AM ANGRY. I WILL BE ANGRY.

The words echoed in my skull like the clash of iron upon iron, each repetition striking louder than the last. In Wrath, silence did not exist—only the ceaseless howling of rage, the gnashing of teeth, the eternal frenzy of those who had surrendered their hearts to wrathful ruin. Yet, in my chambers, the silence that pressed down was far heavier than the cacophony outside.

My throne, hewn from the bones of behemoths slain during the Primordial Wars, groaned under the weight of my body as I leaned forward. Before me, the banners of Wrath swayed in the smoky drafts, crimson cloth dripping as though it bled perpetually. The palace was built not of stone, but of iron-black basalt fused with the molten rage of the circle itself. Flames licked along the walls in jagged streaks, refusing to burn steady—ever flickering, ever hungry, as though mocking even me.

I clenched my clawed fists. A river of fury ran through me, a current without beginning or end. My essence was Wrath incarnate. I did not need to think, for thought was ash; I did not need to reason, for reason was weakness. Yet something gnawed at me. Something unfamiliar.

The ripple.

The Aetheric quake that had spread across the circles days ago had not been a mere disturbance. It was not the tremor of a dying realm, nor the tantrum of a lesser demon clawing for attention. No—this had been something deeper. A shiver that reached even into Wrath’s infernal core, setting its flames to shriek louder, brighter. Even the damned legions had fallen silent in the aftermath, trembling in confusion before their madness reclaimed them.

And I had felt it. Not as a passing ripple, but as a brand carved into the marrow of my soul.

Dominic Nocturne von Morningstar.

The name rose unbidden, like a curse, like a wound reopened after centuries of battle.

That boy. That husk. That forgotten carcass of a prince who had once been paraded as heir. I remembered him well—not for his strength, for he had none. Not for his cunning, for his wit was shackled and drained. No, I remembered him for the humiliation. For the day when the daughters of the Seven Satans bound him and bled him dry, each one leeching what was his. I had laughed then. We had all laughed, for Wrath finds amusement in the breaking of pride.

But now? Now his shadow stretched long across the Nine Hells.

"SLOTH, I WILL FUCKING RIP YOU APART!"

My wrath again detonated the air itself. The witch bitch was unharmed as a barrier of sorts shimmered around her... but everyone else in the close vicinity disintegrated.

The nearest courtiers — armored demons, loyal since before the last Conquest — burst like overripe fruit. Their flesh and bone became vapor, nothing but a red mist that hissed as it clung to the molten cracks of the throne hall. Their souls barely had time to scream before Wrath’s aura shredded them into fragments unworthy even for devouring.

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t regret. Why would I? Regret was a luxury of cowards. Only anger lived eternal.

The Witch lowered her pale hand from the spell-circle, her face hidden beneath that abyssal hood, but I caught the twitch of her jaw. Annoyance. She had worked her threads carefully, and my fury had nearly torn the connection apart. Nearly. Not quite.

The wound in reality still gaped before me, seeping rot into my Circle.

"Wrath..." Sloth’s voice oozed through, drawn out, mocking in its sluggishness. "...your tantrums... wasteful. You always... destroy... more of your own... than your enemies."

I bared my fangs, flames roaring up my arms. "Say that again, pig."

"Mmmhhhnnn... no."

The hall shook as my claws dug trenches into the basalt floor. Molten blood wept from the stone, rivers of fire licking up the skeletal throne behind me. I could feel my domain responding — the Wrath Circle hungered for slaughter. It demanded war. It demanded vengeance.

And yet.

Beneath my rage, beneath the endless furnace of wrath that had no beginning and no end, something else pulsed. Something foreign. Unease.

That name.

That corpse.

That child.

Dominic.

He had been nothing. A lamb led to slaughter. A tool for amusement before the inevitable discarding. I had seen his eyes when the Satans’ daughters drained him. Dull. Empty. Already broken. And yet now, the ripple that carried his name shook even me.

"Don’t lie to me again, Sloth," I growled. "Tell me what you know."

From the wound came a wet, bubbling laugh — the sound of fat sizzling on fire.

"Barbaras for Glutonny was the one who reported that, the ripple was caused from the Sanctuary of the Seven Vows—"

My ire exploded mid as Sloth uttered at name.

The name Sanctuary of the Seven Vows struck me like a spear rammed through my chest.

The molten air inside the hall imploded. For a single breath, the fires, the rivers of magma, even the eternal screaming of Wrath’s Circle—everything froze. It was not silence. Silence could be endured. This was suspension—the second before eruption, the breath drawn before the scream.

And then—

BOOOOM!

The entire throne hall detonated. Walls of basalt ruptured outward in a shockwave that carried flame, stone, and pulverized bone. Half the chamber collapsed into firepits beneath, gargoyles fell from chains shrieking as they shattered upon the floor, and what remained of my courtiers was erased.

The Witch alone stood untouched, wrapped in her little thread-shield, her sigils flickering as though mocking my fury. Even Sloth’s connection in the air rippled and warped dangerously, green fire spurting from the wound like bile.

"DO NOT—" my voice shredded the obsidian sky above, "—SPEAK THAT NAME IN MY PRESENCE!"

The Sanctuary. That festering scar. That place of betrayal where the Satans’ spawn had bound the boy, had carved him open, had used him like a chalice for their schemes. A prison made holy not by sanctity, but by treachery.

And now Sloth dared to breathe it in my hall.

The tear in reality burbled like a throat choking on grease. Sloth’s laugh came again, slow, bloated, dragging itself through the air."Mmmmhhh... Wrath, Wrath, Wrath... You roar... but you do not listen. The ripple... it came

from there. The boy... the corpse... the brat..."

My claws clenched until magma poured from my palms. My mind howled denial, but Wrath’s Circle—my Circle—did not lie to me. I felt it too. That cursed quake had come from the Sanctuary’s direction. The fires in me twisted, a new heat lacing them, not anger but something I despised more.

Doubt.

I stood from my throne. The throne cracked apart, unable to hold the weight of my fury. Bone-sculpted armrests shattered, skulls wailing as their eternal screams were silenced forever.

The Witch’s head tilted. Calm. Too calm. I wanted to rip the smirk from her pale lips, tear her in two and grind her magic into ash. But she was useful still.

"You..." I snarled, pointing a clawed finger at her. "Find me every record. Every rumor. Every trail that reeks of that cursed Sanctuary. I don’t care how deep you dig, Witch—I will know who walks this realm under his name."

Her voice slithered, quiet and collected:"Payment first."

My flames roared higher. The basalt beneath her feet began to bubble. Her hood turned just slightly, and for an instant, I thought I saw her smile.

"You dare—"

"—Yes."

The single word was sharper than any blade. Calm as ice in the middle of an inferno. And in that heartbeat, I realized she was not afraid of me. She should have been. All should have been. But she wasn’t.

Good.

Her usefulness outweighed her insolence. For now.

I turned my gaze back toward the wound, where Sloth’s presence still lingered like a rotting carcass. His voice dripped slow, heavy, suffocating.

"You cannot... burn away what is already ash, Brother Wrath... The Sanctuary hides secrets older... than us all. Even your flames... cannot cauterise that place..."

He pressed. "As for who awakened him... well, don’t you already have a guess?"

Of course, I do.

But admit that means... acknowledging ’her’.

The word curdled in my skull. Her.

Even in Wrath’s Circle, where rage burned eternal and memory was carved into flesh, there were names I did not speak. Names that stank of betrayal, of schemes wound so tight that even fury could not unravel them cleanly.

The Sanctuary of the Seven Vows had been hers as much as the Satans’ spawn. Her hand had guided the chains, her whispers had stitched the wards. And if Dominic’s corpse had twitched back to life, if his shadow now rose from that pit of mockery, then her stench would be upon him.

I hated that thought.

I hated that it fit.

Flames surged from my back, wings of fire that devoured the ceiling in a storm of cinders. The Witch shielded herself with her threads, expression unreadable. Sloth’s bloated voice continued to seep from the tear, every syllable oozing rot:

"Ahhh, you remember now... Yes. She never plays fair, Brother Wrath. She plants seeds... lets centuries pass... and then watches as they bloom in blood. Hnnnnhhh... and you rage, always rage... but never see her hands."

My jaws cracked with the force of my teeth grinding together. The basalt palace itself groaned under the tension. For a moment, I wanted nothing more than to plunge through the wound, to smother Sloth’s swampy breath with fire until even his lethargy boiled away.

But the Sanctuary... the ripple... her.

The Nine Circles trembled with a game I had not authored. And that thought gnawed worse than any chain.

I spat molten sparks, my voice low, volcanic:"If she dares set her hand upon Wrath again, I will grind her bones into the mortar of my halls."

The Witch’s voice, calm as ever, drifted from her hood:

"Grayfia Lucifuge, did you dirty? Tch~ Tch—"

"STUP YOUR TRAP BITCH! BEFORE RIP THAT APART FOR YOU!"

My flames erupted in pillars, splitting the cracked hall into rivers of magma that roared upward, clawing the ceiling like the hands of the damned. The Witch didn’t move. Her hooded head tilted, that damned calm etched into her pale lips as though my rage amused her.

"You cannot rip what you cannot reach," she said smoothly. "And you cannot silence truths carved into the marrow of your own Circle."

Her insolence was a needle driven into my skull. I lunged forward—every step collapsing the basalt floor into molten pits—and stopped a hand’s breadth from her ward. My claws slammed against her barrier, sparks detonating in a spray of blood-red fire. The shield flared, groaned, and still held.

Her eyes glimmered beneath the hood, human eyes. That was what sickened me. Too human. Soft, calculating, mortal in flesh but armed with threads strong enough to withstand a Satan’s fury.

The Wrath in me screamed for her annihilation. But my domain, my flames themselves, whispered something different. Not yet.

Sloth’s gurgling laughter sloshed from the wound, rippling the green fire around the tear."Wrath... you shout at shadows. You threaten phantoms. She is not your enemy today."

My head snapped toward the wound. "Shut your festering mouth before I choke you on it, pig."

"Mmmmhhhnnn... no," came the oozing reply.

The Witch let out a breath. "Your brother speaks truth. For once."

I turned back to her, fire dripping like venom from my claws. "Do you think your riddles protect you, Witch? Speak the name again. Say it—"

"Grayfia Lucifuge."

The name slid from her tongue like a knife.

My Circle froze. My flames guttered. Even my wrath... paused.

Grayfia.

The name was not to be spoken. Not in Wrath’s halls. Not in my presence. Not after what she had done.

...done to me.

***

Stone me, I can take it!

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