Father Black said nothing.
For several long seconds, his mind simply… stalled.
The King of Hell.
Hell was not some common battlefield or lower realm. Every universal scholar worth their ink knew the truth—or at least feared it.
Hell was an anchor.
A metaphysical counterweight to existence itself. The inverse pillar that balanced creation. Not merely a plane, but a conceptual engine that kept the universe from collapsing inward.
Heaven ruled order.
Reality ruled form.
But Hell ruled consequence.
Even Lucifer—Morningstar, rebel, tyrant—had never truly been its king.
He had searched.
For eons.
Scouring layer after layer, throne after throne, devouring his own demonic hierarchies, enslaving the primordial demon horrors—yet the Heart of Hell had always eluded him.
Some said if Lucifer couldn't find it, then no one could.
Others claimed Hell didn't even possess a core—that it was infinite, paradoxical, a primary plane that both existed and did not.
