The wasteland gave way without ceremony. One moment the ground was cracked earth baked under a dying sun; the next, it sloped downward into a chasm that swallowed light. No wind announced the change. No thunder. The horizon simply folded, revealing a rift like a wound in creation's skin.
Delta walked to the edge.
Below, the outer circles of Hell sprawled in tiers of crimson and obsidian. Rivers of molten iron wound between jagged spires. Smoke rose in pillars that never dispersed, carrying the low moan of souls too broken to scream. The air tasted of rust and sulfur, thick enough to chew.
He stepped over the lip.
The descent was not a fall. Gravity bent around him, slowing his steps as though the realm itself hesitated to claim him. Rocks shifted underfoot but made no sound. Shadows stretched longer in his wake, fleeing instead of following.
Lesser imps and wraiths sensed him first. They skittered from crevices, eyes glowing like dying coals, then froze. One—a spindly thing with too many joints—opened its mouth to shriek a warning. The sound died in its throat, strangled by an absence it could not name. The creature crumpled, form unraveling into smoke that drifted upward, back toward the rift.
Delta continued downward.
The path narrowed to a ledge of blackened bone. Chains hung from unseen heights, swaying without wind. At the bottom of the descent waited the Gate: a towering arch of obsidian and iron, twice the height of mortal cathedrals, etched with runes that pulsed like veins. Massive links, each thicker than a man's torso, draped across it, sealing the way deeper.
Guarding the seal stood Behemor.
The warden was colossal—thirty feet of armored muscle and horn, skin the color of cooled lava cracked with glowing fissures. His helm was a single slab of blackened steel, featureless save for two slits that burned with infernal light. In one fist he clutched a flail of chained skulls; in the other, a spear forged from the spine of a fallen seraph. Chains wrapped his limbs like living serpents, each link inscribed with oaths of eternal vigilance.
Behemor had stood here since the first rebellion. He had broken legions, bound archdemons, devoured angels who strayed too close. His voice was thunder trapped in stone.
He saw the figure approaching.
The warden tilted his head, slits narrowing. "Halt, anomaly."
Delta stopped ten paces away. The blade hung loose in his right hand, tip grazing the ground. No posture of threat. No readiness.
Behemor laughed—a sound like boulders grinding. "You walk where none are summoned. You carry no pact, no brand. Yet you descend. Speak your purpose, or be broken."
Delta regarded him. Silence stretched, heavy as the chains.
Then, in that low, unhurried voice—like distant thunder over empty plains—he answered. "Purpose is for those who serve."
The words landed. Not shouted. Not whispered. Simply spoken. And in the speaking, the air shivered. The runes on the gate flickered once, uncertain.
Behemor's laughter died. "You mock eternity?"
"I name it." Delta lifted the blade slightly. The chipped edge caught no light from the rivers of fire. "Irrelevant."
The warden roared. Chains snapped taut as he swung the flail in a wide arc, skulls screaming as they hurtled toward Delta.
The fight began.
Delta did not dodge. He stepped forward into the arc, blade rising in a single, measured motion. Steel met chain. Sparks erupted—not bright, but cold, like frost on flame. The skulls shattered mid-flight, fragments dissolving into ash that rained down in silence.
Behemor lunged, spear thrusting with the force of an avalanche. The point aimed for Delta's chest, trailing hellfire that scorched the air black.
Delta shifted—barely. The spear passed through empty space where he had stood, burying itself in the ground with a boom that cracked stone. He pivoted, blade sweeping low.
The edge bit into Behemor's armored calf. Not deeply—only a shallow cut—but the steel drank. A line of darkness spread from the wound, cracks racing up the warden's leg like ink in water. The glow in the fissures dimmed, as if light itself recoiled.
Behemor bellowed. "What sorcery is this?"
"None." Delta's voice was calm. "Only necessity."
The warden wrenched the spear free, swinging it in a brutal overhead arc. Delta met it blade-to-shaft. The impact rang—a single, clear note that echoed through the circles. The spear's seraph-bone cracked. Splinters of divine ivory fell, crumbling to dust before they touched the ground.
Behemor staggered. His chains writhed, lashing out like whips. One wrapped Delta's wrist; another coiled around his ankle.
They burned. Not with heat—with absence. The links glowed white-hot, then blackened, flaking away as though corroded by time itself. Delta did not flinch. He twisted his wrist once. The chain shattered, links scattering like broken promises.
"You cannot unmake me!" Behemor roared, charging. His bulk shook the ledge. Fissures in his skin flared brighter, hellfire pouring from them in torrents.
Delta waited.
When the warden was close enough that the heat warped the air, Delta stepped aside—not evading, but guiding. He drove the blade upward in a clean thrust, point entering beneath Behemor's breastplate where armor met flesh.
The strike was precise. No flourish. No rage.
The blade sank to half its length. Behemor froze. A low groan escaped him—not pain, but the sound of something vast realizing its own fragility.
Darkness spread from the wound. Not blood—essence. It poured out in wisps, carrying echoes of ancient oaths, broken pacts, devoured souls. The fissures in his skin widened, light guttering like candles in wind.
Behemor dropped to one knee. The chains that bound him slackened, then dissolved entirely.
"What... are you?" The warden's voice cracked, thunder reduced to gravel.
Delta withdrew the blade. It came free without resistance, edge now bearing a fresh chip that glowed faintly before fading. He looked down at the kneeling giant.
"The mistake you were told to prevent."
Behemor stared up. In the slits of his helm, the infernal fire dimmed to embers. "Then end it."
Delta considered. "No."
He turned away.
The warden remained kneeling, broken but not slain. His essence leaked slowly, a slow hemorrhage of eternity. He would not die—not yet—but the gate behind him... the gate stood open.
The chains had fallen. The runes had gone dark.
Delta walked through.
Behind him, lesser demons who had watched from the shadows began to whisper. "The warden knelt." "He spoke... and the warden knelt." "No pact. No binding. He named us irrelevant."
The words spread downward, through pits and rivers of fire, carried on smoke that no longer rose. The Lords Below felt the tremor—a chill where heat should reign.
Above, in the lower choirs, seraphim paused in their endless hymns. A single note faltered.
Delta continued deeper into the circles. The landscape warped in his passage: rivers slowed, flames guttered lower, shadows stretched thin and fearful. He did not look back.
The gate remained open behind him, a silent invitation no one would dare accept.