The eighth circle of Hell greeted me with a landscape that, even for this cursed place, looked especially horrifying. There was no fire or ice here—there was pain in its purest form. The ground beneath me was living flesh, pulsing and quivering, and from it protruded human faces frozen in eternal agony.
Thousands. Tens of thousands. Millions of faces, each with its own story of sin and fall. They were embedded in the flesh of the earth up to their necks, and their eyes—those that remained open—followed my every step. Some tried to say something, but from their mouths came only choked groans and wheezes.
I flew through this sea of suffering with a stone face, not allowing myself to stop for even a moment. Not out of cruelty—simply because I had a mission, and I couldn't let emotions slow my path. Each of these faces had once belonged to a living person, each had made its choice, and now paid for it. This was justice in its harshest form.
My wings, half-hidden under the cloak of reality, trembled from the strain. Even for an archangel, being in the depths of Hell was a trial. Nothing weighed on me. But to feel all this… Here, space itself was saturated with despair; every breath filled the lungs with the essence of hopelessness. But I was the Sword of God, and my resolve was unshakable.
Susanoo, I thought, continuing my path among the groaning faces. Wherever he is, he will answer for his actions. No one has the right to my brother's wings.
The faces underfoot changed—old and young, male and female, of all races and nationalities. Sin knew no boundaries. Here were murderers and thieves, traitors and liars, those who had sold their souls for power or gold. I tried not to look at them too closely, not to read the stories of their falls. I had no time for pity.
But suddenly, after several hundred steps, something made me stop.
One face among thousands of others. Young, female, with features that even in agony retained traces of former beauty. Chestnut hair tangled and darkened by hellish grime, but the eyes… those green eyes I would recognize among millions.
"Oh, sweet Adele," I whispered, descending from the air to my knees beside her face. "How did this happen…"
She heard my voice. Her eyelids fluttered, and those same eyes that had once been full of hope and gratitude looked at me. Now they held only horror and despair.
"M-Michael?" she rasped, and dark liquid trickled from the corners of her mouth. "Is… is this really you?"
Memories flooded in like a torrent, pulling me back in time…
***
It was three weeks ago. In New York.
Night had enveloped the city in its dark embrace, but for a place like Manhattan, that meant only a change of scenery. Neon lights, car headlights, illuminated skyscraper windows—all created their own special atmosphere, where night became just another kind of day.
I walked along Fifth Avenue, observing the people around me. In human guise, I stood out in no way—a tall man in an expensive dark suit, with neatly combed-back blond hair. No one could suspect that beneath this appearance hid one of the most powerful forces in creation.
I had come to New York for a reason. I wanted to observe people, to understand how humanity had changed over the last millennia. I had started with different places on this Earth. After the events of recent years, after the boundaries between worlds had become more permeable, I had grown more interested in the lives of mortals.
People hurried past me, each absorbed in their own cares and problems. Businessmen with phones to their ears, tourists with cameras, loving couples, street musicians—all this bustle of human existence fascinated me. In it was life, real, pulsing life, which had never existed in Heaven's perfect order.
And that was when I saw her.
Adele Morrison stood on the edge of the Empire State Building's observation deck, looking down at the city lights. Even from a bird's-eye height, her posture betrayed inner tension—a slightly forward-leaning figure, hands gripping the railing tightly, gaze fixed on the abyss.
I didn't need to read her thoughts to understand what she was thinking. An aura of despair surrounded her like fog, and in her soul, I discerned that particular emptiness that precedes the darkest decisions.
I appeared a few steps from the observation deck and approached her, moving slowly and non-threateningly. She didn't notice me until I stood beside her and placed my hands on the railing.
"Beautiful view," I said calmly, looking at Manhattan's lights.
She turned sharply to me, and I saw a face that had once graced the covers of fashion magazines. Even now, despite traces of tears and weariness, Adele remained strikingly beautiful. But in her green eyes, there was no life—only burned-out emptiness.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," I added, noticing her flinch.
"It's… it's okay," she replied in a trembling voice. "I'm just… enjoying the view."
A lie. But a lie born of a desire to hide pain, not to deceive. Such a lie was not a sin—it was a protective reaction of a wounded soul.
"Adele Morrison," I said, and she flinched again. "Yes, I know who you are. Heiress to the Morrison empire, model, philanthropist. Your charity galas raised millions for children's hospitals."
"Did," she smiled bitterly. "Past tense. Now I have no money, no reputation, no… no reason to exist. Sorry if you're a fan, but I don't have time for…"
I turned to her, and our eyes met. In that moment, she saw something in my eyes—I don't know what exactly—but her posture changed. Her shoulders straightened, her breathing deepened.
"Tell me," I said simply.
And she told me.
Adele's story was both banal and tragic, as human fates often are. Born into a wealthy family, raised in luxury, knowing no denial. Beauty opened doors to the world of fashion, family money—to high society. At first glance, she had everything one could dream of.
But material goods couldn't fill the spiritual void. A father consumed by business, a mother living in a world of social receptions and gossip—neither gave her what she needed most: true love and understanding.
"I tried to find meaning in charity," she said, looking at the lights below. "Thought that if I helped others, I'd find purpose for my own life. But it was just an attempt to buy myself peace of mind."
The first blow was the bankruptcy of the family company. It turned out her father had been hiding financial problems for years, borrowing against all family assets. When the truth came out, the Morrisons lost everything in months.
The second—the death of her parents in a car crash. They were on their way to meet creditors, trying to save at least the house. A truck whose driver had fallen asleep at the wheel crushed their limousine like a tin can.
"But the worst wasn't even that," Adele whispered. "The worst was realizing no one truly loved me. All my friends vanished as soon as the money ran out. All the men who courted me turned out to be fortune hunters. Even the charities I worked with no longer answer my calls."
She fell silent, gripping the railing so tightly her knuckles whitened.
"You know what I realized?" she said, not looking at me. "That my whole life I was just a pretty doll in an expensive dress. No one cared about my inner world, my thoughts, my feelings. I was just an accessory to my family's money."
"And now you think life isn't worth continuing?" I asked softly.
She turned her face to me, and I saw surprise in her eyes.
"How do you know?"
"Why else would a beautiful woman stand on the edge of an observation deck at two in the morning, looking down?" I replied. "You want to end the pain, and you think death is the only way."
Tears streamed down her cheeks.
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, exactly. I can't anymore… I'm tired of waking up every morning and realizing my day will be as empty and meaningless as the last. Tired of there being no one in the world who truly needs me."
I slowly reached out and gently touched her shoulder.
"But you're wrong," I said. "There is someone."
"Who?" she asked with a bitter smile. "You?"
"God," I replied simply.
She recoiled as if I'd struck her.
"God?" she laughed hysterically. "If God loves me, why did He take everything I had? Why did He let my parents die? Why…"
"Because material goods and human love aren't what you were created for," I interrupted. "You were created for something greater. For service, to bring kindness and compassion into the world. Your wealth and beauty were just tools, not the goal."
"Tools for what?" she asked, stopping her tears.
"To help those who need it. Not out of guilt or to buy indulgence, but out of genuine love for people." I turned to her fully. "Tell me honestly: when was the last time you felt truly alive?"
Adele fell silent and thought, looking into my eyes.
"A year ago," she said finally after minutes of reflection. "In a children's hospital. There was one girl… Leukemia. She was only seven. When I visited her, she gave me a drawing—a little person with wings. Said it was her guardian angel, and now he'd protect me too."
"And what did you feel in that moment?"
"Like… like a light ignited in me," she whispered, smiling. "As if for the first time in my life I was doing something right. Something important."
"And where is that girl now?"
Adele's face changed.
"She died three months ago. I couldn't even go to the funeral—by then I had no money for a new dress, and I didn't want to appear in old ones."
"So you let pride stop you from saying goodbye to a child who saw you as her angel?" There was no judgment in my voice, only a statement of fact.
Adele doubled over as if in pain.
"God, yes… Yes, that's exactly what I did. I was so focused on my own self-pity that I forgot about those who truly needed my help."
"But it's not too late to fix it," I said. "There are other children in that hospital. They don't need your money or expensive gifts. They need your time, your attention, your care. They need that light you felt a year ago."
"But I have nothing to give them," she objected.
"You have the most valuable thing one person can give another," I replied. "You have a heart capable of love. You have hands that can hug. You have a voice that can tell a fairy tale or sing a lullaby. Isn't that enough?"
She turned away from me. She was silent for a long time, looking at the city lights. I saw the struggle in her soul—between the despair pulling her to the edge and the hope my words had kindled.
"And what if I can't do it?" she asked finally. "What if I don't have the strength?"
"Then ask for help," I replied. "From God, from other people, from the children you want to help. Strength isn't in carrying everything alone. Strength is in admitting your weakness and accepting support."
Adele slowly stepped away from the railing and turned to face me.
"Who are you?" she asked. "How do you know exactly what I need to hear?"
I smiled—the first time in many centuries sincerely.
"Just someone who sees more in people than they see in themselves," I replied. "Go home, Adele. Tomorrow morning, call the hospital and offer your services as a volunteer. Not for redemption, not to drown out the pain. But because the world needs people like you."
"Like me?" she asked incredulously. "Broken? Having lost everything?"
"Like those who have passed through darkness and found the strength to return to the light," I corrected. "Kind. Who better to understand a dying child's pain than one who has stood on the edge of the abyss? Who better to give hope than one who has found it herself?"
She nodded, and for the first time that evening, a spark of that very light appeared in her eyes.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Whatever your name is, thank you."
"Call me Michael," I said, extending my hand. "And remember: you are never alone. Even in the darkest moments, someone is watching over you and ready to help."
We descended from the observation deck together. In the elevator, she told me about her plans—a small apartment in a not-so-prestigious neighborhood, job hunting, volunteering at the hospital. A simple life, but filled with meaning.
At the subway entrance, we said goodbye. I watched her disappear into the crowd and felt satisfaction. Another soul saved, another life given meaning.
The next day, I left New York for London. In my soul was certainty that Adele would find her path, that the light ignited in her heart would burn long and bright.
I was wrong…
***
"Michael," Adele rasped, and in her voice were centuries of torment, though only three weeks had passed. Time here, as always, flowed differently. "I… I tried. Honestly, I tried…"
"What happened?" I asked, feeling anger boil in my chest. Not at her—at the one who had brought her to this state.
"I went to the hospital, as you said," she said with difficulty. "Became a volunteer. Worked with the children, told them stories, played with them. And for the first time in years, I felt needed."
"Then what went wrong?"
Tears—real tears, not hellish liquid—flowed from her eyes.
"There was one girl… Emma. Eight years old, brain cancer. She reminded me so much of that little one who gave me the angel drawing. Just as brave, just as bright." Adele's voice trembled. "The doctors said she had weeks left. But I believed… I believed so much that if I prayed hard enough, if I did enough good deeds, you… God would save her."
I was beginning to understand where this story was leading, and my essence clenched with foreboding.
"I spent every day with her," Adele continued. "Read to her, sang lullabies, held her hand when she was in pain. And at night, I prayed as never before. Begged God to take my life instead of hers. Promised to serve Him for the rest of my life if only Emma would live."
"And what happened?"
"She died," Adele said simply. "Died in my arms at three in the morning, when no one was in the ward. Her last words were: 'Adele, why don't the angels come for me?' And I… I didn't know what to answer."
The pain in her voice was physically palpable. Even here, in Hell's heart, she retained the ability to suffer not for herself but for others.
"After her death, something broke in me," she confessed. "I began to doubt everything. If God loves us, why does He let innocent children die in agony? If good deeds matter, why do the best people suffer most?"
"And you lost faith," I said quietly.
"Worse. I hated God." A wild gleam appeared in her eyes. "I stood in the middle of the hospital chapel and cursed Him. Screamed that He was a cruel tyrant who played with human lives for His own amusement. Said it was better to be in Hell with honest sinners than in Heaven with a hypocritical deity."
The hellish ground around her face trembled, responding to the intensity of her emotions.
"And then… then he appeared," she whispered.
"Who?"
"A man in a red suit. Very handsome, very charming. Said his name was Louis, and that he understood my pain. That he too had once served an unjust master and knew what it was like to be disillusioned in what you'd believed in all your life."
I focused, allowing my consciousness to enter a state of Omniscience. Events, the past, actions. There the girl dies. There Adele screams. And there he is. Azazel. Of course, it was him. My fallen brother always appeared in such moments—when souls balanced on the edge between faith and despair.
"He offered you a deal," I said, and it wasn't a question.
"Not right away. First, he just talked to me. Was so understanding, so sympathetic. Said the right words at the right moments. And gradually convinced me that I had the right to revenge."
"Revenge? For what?"
"For Emma. For all those children who die without help from an indifferent God. Louis said there was a way to punish the Creator for His indifference—just show Him that people can be better than their creator."
I closed my eyes, imagining how skillfully my brother wove his webs. Appealing to noble impulses, turning love for people into hatred for God, using grief as fuel for anger.
"And what price did he name for this opportunity?"
"My soul," Adele answered without hesitation. "But it seemed a fair price. If my demise would help even one child avoid the torment Emma endured, I was ready to pay it."
"Oh, Adele…" I sighed, understanding the full tragedy of the situation. "Do you understand now that he deceived you? That your death saved no child? That you simply became another victim of his manipulations?"
New tears flowed down her cheeks.
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, I realized it too late. When I ended up here and saw what his 'justice' really was. There's no noble revenge here, no fair punishment. Just pain for pain's sake."
"But why did you agree to the deal?" I pressed. "After our conversation, after you felt the light… Didn't you remember it?"
"I did," she replied. "But Louis said that light was an illusion. That you were sent to calm me, give me false hope, and then watch me break again. He said it was typical of God—to tease people with a phantom of happiness and then take it away."
A masterful move. Azazel had used my help against me, turning an act of mercy into proof of cruelty. And Adele, in grief and despair, believed him.
"He lied to you," I said firmly. "That light was real. Your desire to help the children was sincere. And what happened to Emma…" I paused, choosing words. "Death is part of life, Adele. Even the most sincere prayer cannot cancel the natural order. But that doesn't mean God doesn't hear us or love us."
"Then where was He when Emma was dying?" she asked bitterly. "Where was He when I begged for help?"
"He was right there with you," I replied softly. "In her final minutes, Emma wasn't alone. She was in the arms of someone who loved her with all her heart. Isn't that an answer to prayer? Not your prayer for her salvation, but her prayer not to die alone?"
Adele looked at me with wide eyes, and I saw understanding and despair battling in her mind.
"God doesn't always give us what we ask for," I continued. "But He always gives us what we need. Sometimes it's healing, sometimes strength to endure pain. And sometimes—just loving arms in life's final moments."
"But then it means I betrayed her memory," Adele whispered. "Instead of continuing to help other children in her honor, I chose revenge and self-destruction."
"Yes," I said honestly. "But this isn't the end of your story, Adele. Even here, even in Hell, you have a choice. You can continue to blame yourself and suffer, or…" I leaned closer to her face, "you can repent. Truly repent, not out of fear of punishment, but from understanding you chose the wrong path."
"But will that change anything?" she asked in a weak voice. "Can a deal with… with the devil be undone?"
"Azazel is my brother," I said, and this admission made her eyes widen in surprise. "And he, like all of us, is bound by certain rules. Yes, he can make deals with human souls. But only with those who do so of their own free will, fully understanding the consequences."
"But I did understand…"
"No," I interrupted. "You understood only what he wanted you to see. He used your grief, your pain, your love for Emma against you. He gave you no time to think, didn't explain the true price of your choice. And most importantly—he lied about the deal's very nature."
I rose to my feet, and light began to emanate from my body—not the scorching, merciless fire I'd used against Hell's guardians, but a warm, soft glow like dawn's sun.
"Adele Morrison," I pronounced solemnly, and my voice echoed throughout the eighth circle. "In the name of the Almighty and His infinite mercy, I declare your deal with Azazel null and void. You were misled, manipulated in your moment of greatest vulnerability. Your choice was not free."
The ground beneath her face began to crack. The hellish flesh holding her captive softened under the divine light's influence.
"But remember," I added sternly, "this is a second chance, not a third. What you do with it depends only on you."
Adele began to rise from the earth, her body restoring from spiritual substance. She was still pale, still weakened by her time in Hell, but in her eyes burned that same light I'd seen that night on the Empire State Building.
"Thank you," she whispered, standing. "Thank you, Michael. I… I don't know how to repay you."
"Live," I said simply. "Live as Emma would have wanted. Help those who need it. And remember: sometimes the most important thing we can give is simply to be there for those who suffer."
She nodded, tears of joy glistening on her cheeks. Then her figure began to fade—my power was transporting her soul back to the world of the living, giving her a new chance.
"Take care," she said in farewell. "And… tell Emma, if you meet her up there, that I haven't forgotten her."
"I will," I promised, and she vanished in a stream of golden light.
I remained alone amid the sea of suffering faces. Some looked at me with hope, others with envy or hatred. But I couldn't save them all. Each soul had to walk its own path to redemption. Adele was an exception—deceived by a fallen one.
Slowly lowering my hands, I felt weariness descend upon me. Saving Adele had required significant energy, and I knew a far greater trial awaited ahead. But it wasn't that which tired me. This Hell… Susanoo was somewhere here, in Hell's depths, and our meeting was inevitable. Constantly restraining all my power was difficult. Difficult not to snap and change everything around. Difficult to see these souls. Their suffering. To know… To know I could change it all. Alter it.
Make a choice…
But first, I had to deal with another surprise.
I turned sharply and instantly teleported several thousand kilometers using a spatial leap. Reality blurred around me, and when it regained clarity, I stood on the edge of an enormous abyss plunging into Hell's deepest depths.
And here, sitting on the abyss's edge as if a man simply enjoying the view, I found him.
A young man with tousled green hair, dressed in a black suit with green accents. He seemed completely relaxed, dangling his legs over the void as if sitting by a lake shore, not at the entrance to creation's darkest depths.
In one motion, I grabbed him by the collar and lifted him into the air. He didn't resist, only raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"What are you doing here, Loki?" I asked, looking into his emerald-green eyes, where cunning and amusement always danced.
Loki—god of deception, trickster, whose pranks sometimes led to catastrophic consequences. One of the few gods even archangels preferred not to deal with unless absolutely necessary across worlds. Not because he was especially powerful—though he had plenty of power—but because predicting his actions was nearly impossible.
"Whoa-whoa-whoa, Mikey," Loki laughed, completely unimpressed by hanging in an archangel's grip. "Such aggression! And here I thought we were friends."
"We were never friends," I replied calmly, knowing where he was going with this. "And you haven't answered my question."
"And you haven't said hello," he parried with a smile. "Where are your manners, winged one? First 'Hi, Loki, how's it going?', then questions about motives and goals."
I tightened my grip on his collar.
"I have no time for your games. Answer: what are you doing in Hell?"
Loki sighed theatrically.
"Fine, fine. You see, Michael, I'm here for the same reason as you. I'm interested in a certain Japanese god digging in these basements for souvenirs."
"Susanoo?" I loosened my grip slightly. "What do you want from him?"
"Oh, nothing special," Loki replied carelessly. "Just want to see what happens when he finds what he's looking for. It should be very… educational."
There was something in his tone that made me even more wary. Loki never did anything just out of curiosity. He always had a plan, often so complex and layered that understanding his true goals was nearly impossible.
"And what do you know about Lucifer's wings?" I asked directly.
Loki's eyes gleamed.
"Oh, so you're already in the know? Excellent! That simplifies the conversation." He paused as if thinking. "Tell me, Michael, what will you do when you catch our stormy friend? Try to stop him? Kill him? Or just have a heart-to-heart?"
"It depends on him," I answered honestly. "If he voluntarily abandons the search and leaves Hell, I'll let him go. If not…"
"If not, you'll use force," Loki finished. "And that's where it gets interesting."
He pointed down into the abyss.
"You see, dear archangel, our Susanoo isn't quite who he claims to be. Yes, he's truly a Japanese storm god. Yes, he's truly seeking your brother's wings. But his reasons are… somewhat different from what he declares."
"Explain."
Loki shook his head.
"No-no-no, that would be too easy. Where's the element of surprise then?" He smiled widely. "But I'll tell you this: be ready for surprises. This conflict may end very differently than you expect."
I pulled him closer, our faces inches apart.
"Loki, if you're involved in some conspiracy against…"
"Against whom?" he interrupted, and for the first time, a serious note entered his voice. "Against Heaven? Against Hell? Against humanity?" He shook his head. "Michael, you think too narrowly. What's happening now goes far beyond politics between various supernatural factions."
"Then what exactly is happening?"
Loki was silent for a long time, looking into my eyes. For the first time in our conversation, his face was completely serious.
"Someone is playing a very dangerous game," he said finally. "Someone whose power far exceeds any of ours. And we all—I, Susanoo, other gods—are just pawns on this board."
"Who?"
"If I knew, do you think I'd be sitting here dangling my legs?" Loki smirked, but without his former amusement. "No, my winged friend. I'm here for the same reason as you—trying to figure out what's going on before it's too late."
I released him, and he landed gracefully on the abyss's edge.
"Suppose I believe you," I said, frowning. "What do you propose?"
"A temporary alliance," Loki replied, brushing off his suit. "You go to Susanoo, I go with you. We watch what happens when he finds the wings. Then we decide how to proceed."
"And what do you get from this alliance?"
Loki smiled widely, his former amusement returning.
"The pleasure of watching one of the most intriguing plots in world history unfold," he answered. "Plus the chance to say later: 'I told you so!'"
I looked at him for a long time, weighing pros and cons. Loki was an unreliable ally—his loyalty belonged only to himself, and he could betray me at any moment if it suited his plans. On the other hand, he was one of the few beings whose intellect and cunning could rival any archangel. In a situation where I didn't understand all the circumstances, such an ally could prove useful.
"Fine," I said finally. "But I have conditions."
"Of course you do," Loki nodded. "I'm listening."
"No games behind my back. No attempts to manipulate the situation for your own interests. And if I realize you're trying to use this alliance against me or to harm the innocent, I will kill you. Despite you being a god of this world."
"Wow," Loki whistled. "Serious conditions. And what do I get in return?"
"My promise to hear your explanations before using force," I replied. "And protection if someone tries to kill you while we're allies."
"Fair," Loki agreed, extending his hand. "Deal?"
I shook his hand, feeling a spark leap between our palms—a magical seal binding the agreement. Now neither of us could betray the other without serious consequences for ourselves. Of course, as he thought, the magic should affect me. But no.
"Excellent!" Loki exclaimed, rubbing his hands. "Now that formalities are observed, maybe tell me how you plan to find our Japanese friend in this labyrinth of curses and torments?"
I closed my eyes and extended my senses, allowing my divine perception to encompass the surrounding space. Hell was vast, its circles stretching across thousands of worlds in every direction, but I wasn't seeking an ordinary presence. I sought the trace of power that didn't belong here—Shinto energy, starkly different from angelic and demonic auras.
And I found it.
"Deeper," I said, opening my eyes. "Much deeper. He's in Hell's very heart, where Lucifer kept his most valuable treasures."
"Ah," Loki drawled. "In Pandemonium. Interesting choice. Think he's already found what he's seeking?"
"We'll find out when we get there," I replied, preparing for a spatial leap.
Loki grabbed my arm.
"Wait," he said. "Let's not barge in like bulls in a china shop. If something important is really happening there, it's better to observe from afar first."
I was about to object—direct action had always been my preferred method—but stopped. Perhaps in this case, caution was the wiser choice.
"Fine," I agreed. "But if I see Susanoo in the process of obtaining the wings, I'll intervene immediately."
"Fair," Loki nodded. "And now, if you don't mind, let me share a little secret about traveling in Hell."
He snapped his fingers, and an illusion began to form around us. Our figures became blurry, like a mirage in the desert.
"Voila," he said with a satisfied look. "Now the local demons will see us as… well, say, a pair of lost souls looking for the way to more comfortable circles. Not perfect, but it should work long enough for us to reach our destination without unnecessary fights."
"Clever," I admitted. "Ready?"
"Born ready," Loki replied with a smile.
I took his shoulder and activated the spatial leap. Reality around us blurred and reshaped, carrying us deeper into Hell, to the center of this cursed realm, where answers to our questions awaited.
But as we raced through Hell's layers, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were approaching not the end of this story, but only its true beginning.
***