The first thing Glenn noticed going through the portal was the noise.

  Not the burn of fire, the harsh world of stone or the groan of the damned, but the overlapping chatter like an airport terminal at rush hour. Voices from every era and tongue mingled together. There was ancient Akkadian clashing with modern English, celestial dialects buzzing like insects around a fluorescent light.

  He stepped forward trying to make of what he was looking at in complete awe. No awe was wrong more like confusion. The hallway before him curved forever in both directions, lined with chrome arches and flickering gate signs. A Minotaur in a tailored charcoal suit brushed past him, snorting.

  “Move it, pal. Praise Zues, I hate when people just stop in the middle of the aisle.”

  The hoof-steps clacked away toward Gate omega. Glenn opened his mouth to apologize but only caught the faint scent of burnt coffee and feces.

  Behind him, another ripple of light announced the arrival of Anubis. The jackal-headed god adjusted the cuffs of his linen sleeves as if this were all routine. On his shoulder, Deathnibbles twitched his whiskers, eyes darting across the endless concourse.

  “Come,” Anubis said simply, voice low and resonant. “We must keep moving.”

  They walked. The floor beneath them wasn’t tile but tempered glass, and beneath the glass flowed a pipeline of wires like rivers of light. Similar to what he saw back at the scales in the reaper office, these were the souls traveling through fiber-optic arteries that pulsed toward distant horizons. Glenn looked up. Directional signs blinked overhead, rotating languages every few seconds:

  LOWER MANAGEMENT ↑

  → TRANSFERS TO UPPER MANAGEMENT TERMINAL →

  → ACCESS TO EARTH DEPARTURES ↗?

  And behind them, the sign he’d stepped through still glowed faintly:

  LOCAL REAPER OFFICE 1- INFINITY.

  Glenn tracked the same black cables he’d seen woven through the scales of Judgment coiled along the ceiling here too, pumping luminescent energy into everything in the terminal including the doors of the local reaper offices. Some streams returned, dimmer, others vanished into nothing.

  “Are those…” Glenn hesitated. “the souls we pass on?”

  Anubis followed the current with his golden eyes and gave a small grunt. “Aye. We merely guide them. Once through, they become the currency of creation itself. Upper and Lower quarrel endlessly over who controls the greater flow. Whoever commands more souls strengthens their realm… and through that influence, they bend Earth to feed them more. It’s a endless cycle.”

  He paused beside a glass railing and pointed to where one cable split, diverging into a web of threads. “Everything is powered by them. Even this place. Souls are not bound by dimension. They travel freely unlike the beings that walk amongst you now. So we learned to harness them and use them.”

  Deathnibbles flicked his tail. He thought “So you’re saying every door here, every elevator, every celestial latte machine runs on… ghosts?”

  But all that came out was a long jaw dropping “Squeeeeek.”

  Anubis’s jackal snout twitched with what might have been amusement. “Not ghosts. Energy. Essence. The stubborn leftovers of existence. Most prefer this to torment below. The darker souls make worse energy; but the quantity makes up for the weight of their choices.”

  Glenn swallowed. “Did you just understand that Squirrel?"

  Deathnibbles took offense making offensive gestures.

  Anubis continued. “I understand all. Language is just a construct of understanding. This one seems to have great disdain for you.”

  Glenn scratched his head in confusion, “I am starting to get that feeling.” He looked back at the direction they came through. “So when I walked through that last door…”

  “…you walked through someone’s afterlife,” Anubis finished. “A condemned soul powering a shortcut. A being turned battery. Don’t dwell on it.”

  They resumed walking. The farther they went, the more surreal the crowd became. A centaur argued with a harpy about carry-on limits through a gate. A feathered serpent from Mesoamerica sipped tea beside a baboon-headed clerk. Even gods waited in line here; bureaucracy, apparently, spared no one.

  Glenn glanced up again at the signs. “Why can’t we just head to Upper Management now?” Glenn asked, nodding toward the sign flashing TRANSFERS TO UPPER TERMINAL. “If that’s who runs the show, why not go straight to the source?”

  Anubis’s golden eyes cut toward him, sharp as knives. “They would not allow it. Not even I enter without invitation.” His tone hardened. “I have met some of them through Ra. You are not ready. That is all you need to know.”

  They stopped before a large intersection where the concourse branched downward into a vast escalator glowing the color of molten iron. A plaque overhead read:

  ARRIVALS TO LOWER MANAGEMENT – PLEASE HAVE ID READY.

  “This is where I leave you,” Anubis said.

  Deathnibbles’ tiny paws clenched the god’s shoulder fur. “Wait, you're ditching us?”

  “I must return to the office,” Anubis replied to Deathnibbles. “You two proceed together.”

  Deathnibbles squeaked a tirade of high-pitched protests.

  “You must,” Anubis cut him off, voice final. “Settle your differences later. Cause trouble now, and you’ll find yourself repurposed to power a desk lamp.”

  The squirrel gulped.

  Anubis knelt so that his golden eyes met Glenn’s. “You will find seven gates ahead. Pass them all and you will reach Lower Management. Think of them as… security restrictions. Do not be distracted. You will see a familiar face waiting for you, a guide to The PITT. That is where we meet again.”

  He produced two small, glowing rectangles. “Your new identification cards. Provided by Lower Management. Lose them and you lose your entry.”

  Glenn took his. The surface shimmered with faint hieroglyphs of the omega symbol that rearranged into his own reflection.

  “Don’t lose track of your goal.” Anubis said.

  “What’s the real goal?” he asked.

  Anubis only smiled. The kind of smile that carried centuries of secrets. He set Deathnibbles on Glenn’s shoulder; the squirrel immediately turned his head away in disgust. With a casual wave, Anubis stepped back toward the departing elevator. “You’ll know when you see it.”

  And then he was gone, lost in the crowd of creatures and gods.

  Glenn exhaled. “Guess we keep walking?”

  Deathnibbles chittered angrily, a squeaky rant Glenn couldn’t decipher. “Okay, okay. Geez.”

  They followed the glowing arrows toward the first checkpoint. Ahead stretched seven colossal arches, the Seven Gates, each guarded by a different culture’s demons in immaculate uniforms. Signs overhead blinked: GATE 1: WEAPONS DECLARATION.

  A line had already formed. The air smelled of metal and incense.

  “Move along!” barked a crimson-skinned demon behind a desk. “Weapons at the first gate! No exceptions!”

  Glenn watched as the line shuffled forward. The demon looked like a TSA agent crossed with an Ifrit; clipboard in one hand, fire smoldering behind the eyes. Someone near the front, a broad-shouldered warrior in shining armor, began shouting.

  “You expect me to surrender my bow? Do you know who I am? They’re expecting me!”

  The Ifrit barely glanced up. “No weapon. No entry.Next.”

  The warrior kept ranting until two larger demons seized him by the arms and dragged him toward a side corridor marked FULL BODY INSPECTION.

  “Wait! You’ll pay for this!”

  The line moved again as if he’d never existed.

  Deathnibbles nudged Glenn.

  They reached the desk. The demon looked up, unimpressed. “Identification?”

  Glenn handed over his card; Deathnibbles slid his forward with a tiny paw. The demon studied them, then snorted. “Reapers? Being summoned for the PITT tournament? The gods really are hilarious.” He pointed toward a metal bin. “Weapons in. Walk through the gate.”

  Glenn hesitated, fingers tightening on Mora’s scythe. The weapon pulsed faintly, alive with her memory.

  “I…I can’t. It’s part of me.”

  The demon sighed like a clerk who’d heard every excuse. “See that line? Put it in or step out and go back to your little cubicle reaper job. Besides, you’ll get it back after onboarding.”

  Before Glenn could answer, Deathnibbles leapt onto the counter, shoved the scythe into the bin, and scampered through the arch without looking back.

  Glenn stared down at the blade. “I’ll see you soon,” he whispered, then placed it gently beside the others and walked through. The gate hummed, scanning him with a blue shimmer.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  One down. Six to go.

  The second gate loomed ahead, run by a different set of demons with sleek, angular beings in embroidered vests. A sign read MAGICAL ITEMS / ENERGIZED ARTIFACTS INTO BIN BEFORE PASSING.

  Deathnibbles, already seasoned to the routine, tossed in his golden earring, necklace, and ring. Glenn blinked. “You let go easy.”

  “Hmph” the squirrel muttered.

  When Glenn stepped forward, the demon’s eyes locked onto his lantern. “That.”

  “This? It’s uh just a light,” Glenn lied.

  “Nice try,” the demon replied flatly. “In the bin.”

  He hesitated. Inside that lantern were souls he’d saved, sparks of people he couldn’t abandon. The demon’s stare didn’t waver. Finally Glenn set it down. As another guard reached to tag it, the lantern flared. An accidental burst of radiance that washed the demon’s face blank and empty.

  Glenn caught the fading guard by the elbow. “Careful. It’s fragile.” Then he stepped through Gate 2.

  At Gate 3, the sign read MAGICAL CLOTHING / ATTIRE WITH SENTIMENTAL ENCHANTMENT.

  Without waiting, Deathnibbles kicked off his tiny boots and padded through barefoot. Glenn sighed and removed his Reaper cloak. The last tangible link to his sisters. The fabric shimmered like oil. He folded it reverently before placing it in the tray. “See you soon, Nyra.”

  The archway pulsed green. He moved on.

  The crowd had thinned by the time they reached Gate 4 but there was still a line. The air buzzed with nervous murmurs. A Gorgon in line ahead suddenly shrieked, “I can’t!” and bolted backward, disappearing into the terminal’s distance. No one followed.

  A sign above the desk read simply: MEMORY STORAGE.

  The attendant, a tall, ink-black demon with eyes like mirrors, smiled. “Memories. Please prepare to surrender your old memories.”

  Glenn frowned confused. “Surrender? What do you mean?”

  “Exactly what it says. We hold your memories for safekeeping.” He gestured toward the arch. On the far side, travelers stepped out dazed, eyes glassy, guided away by attendants.

  Deathnibbles wiped a tear from one beady eye. “Guess this is it,” he thought softly, then stepped forward. As the light swallowed him, his fur shimmered silver for a heartbeat. He turned back, managed a small smile at Glenn. The first real smile Glenn had ever seen from him but Glenn knew why.

  Glenn froze. The thought of losing his memories,Yoshiko’s face, his friends, Mora’s laugh. To lose those felt worse than his death. Then a whisper echoed in his mind, deep and calm: Remember the goal.

  Anubis’s voice.

  He clenched his fists, inhaled, and walked through.

  It felt like a wind tunneling through his skull, vacuuming photographs from an album faster than he could flip the pages. When it stopped, he stood blinking beneath harsh light, unable to remember why his chest hurt.

  A demon ushered him forward. “Come on, newbie. Keep the line moving.”

  Gate 5 IDENTIFICATION SURRENDER waited ahead, gilded in brass. The clerk, a winged creature with too many eyes gestured lazily. “Identification badge.”

  Glenn handed over his glowing card. Deathnibbles did the same.

  “New hires, eh?” the clerk said, stamping both with a sizzling seal. “You’ll get new names at your assignment. For now, you will be these.”

  A mechanical arm returned their badges. Glenn looked down. His read: Contestant 6. Deathnibbles’s read: Contestant 7.

  GLenn frowned. “Is this… me?”

  “Yes,” the clerk said. “Until termination or promotion. Next!”

  As they moved on, Glenn tried to remember what name he’d had before. Nothing came.

  Gate 6 was mercifully quick. A sign flashed EMOTIONAL AUDIT / DEACTIVATION.

  A bored demon waved them through a gate that dulled the world into gray. Glenn felt something turn down inside him, like someone lowering the volume on his soul. The grief, the anger, even curiosity, all hushed to static. Deathnibbles walked beside him in the same hollow calm. Together they joined the synchronized shuffle of the others, a quiet army of the newly numbed.

  The rhythm of their footsteps echoed like a drumbeat through the concourse.

  At last, Gate 7. The final arch was massive, carved from obsidian shot through with veins of light. Above it hung the placard:

  FINAL CHECK / UNIFORM ISSUANCE.

  A demon with a clipboard scanned the crowd. “If you are not in proper uniform, you will be stripped and issued standard attire. Move smartly.”

  Neither of them were. Without hesitation, without shame, they removed the remnants of their clothing and handed them to waiting attendants. Glenn noted the indifference on everyone’s faces, including his own. Somewhere deep inside, he realized, this was the point: obedience through exhaustion.

  “Here,” the demon said, tossing him a folded gray toga. “You’ll get departmental uniforms after placement.”

  He glanced at Deathnibbles, who was already dressed in a miniature version, tail poking through a neatly-cut slit. The sight should have been funny.But his emotion to laugh was gone.

  They joined the final queue. Each person stepped into the gate’s light; a chime sounded green and they vanished. Occasionally, a red buzz echoed and someone was flung backward down the corridor, tumbling into obscurity.

  When their turn came, the attendant nodded. “Next. Step forward.”

  Glenn and Deathnibbles crossed the threshold together. The green light pulsed, brighter, brighter then the gate swallowed them whole.

  Glenn and Deathnibbles crossed the threshold together.

  When they popped out on the otherside, it wasn’t flame or darkness that greeted him. It was a honk. Then another.

  Glenn blinked and found himself standing in the middle of a sidewalk. Neon signs blazed overhead in languages that no living eye had seen in centuries. Egyptian hieroglyphs sharing real estate with Sanskrit, runic scripts, and scrolling LED tickers. The smell of oil, smoke, and ambrosia filled the air. Somewhere nearby, a siren wailed half mechanical, half demonic.

  They were in a city.

  He turned slowly. Behind him, the massive arch they had stepped through had transformed into something that looked like Grand Central Terminal in New York rebuilt by gods with questionable taste. Marble pillars rose into infinity, covered in celestial graffiti and carved reliefs of the damned waiting for customer service.

  Over the main doors, glowing letters spelled out:

  LOWER MANAGEMENT TERMINAL.

  The crowd poured in and out like a tide, heroes, monsters, accountants, angels in trench coats, spirits carrying coffee cups labeled Infernal Brew #2. Everyone seemed late for something.

  A mechanical chariot screamed past overhead, pulled by translucent horses and driven by a bearded man in a toga wearing aviator sunglasses. Below, a three-headed cerberus in a parking-attendant vest waved a glowing baton, guiding traffic into a subterranean garage.

  Billboards flickered along the skyline advertising things like “AFTERLIFE ENERGY POWERED BY REAL SOULS!” and “HELL IS HIRING INTERVIEW WITH HR TODAY.”

  Glenn took it in silently.

  No fire. No brimstone. Just corporate chaos with better architecture.

  His gaze climbed upward. The skyline itself looked alive: every skyscraper seemed to reflect its cultural owner. One tower twisted like an obelisk with eyes blinking across its sides, the Egyptian district. Another rose like a mountain crowned with blue flame, the Hindu division. A darker one loomed beyond, Gothic and red-stained: the Christian holdings. Across a bridge, a jade-green pagoda stretched to the clouds, the East Asian department. And in the distance, carved into a cliff of obsidian, sat something vast and ancient: the Sumerian quarters, where Ereshkigal’s crest glowed faintly like an ember refusing to die.

  He turned a slow circle, still feeling nothing. No fear, no awe, not even curiosity. The emotional audit from Gate 6 had hollowed him out, leaving only observation.

  Beside him, Deathnibbles straightened his little gray toga and sniffed. The squirrel’s fur was singed at the tips, eyes half-lidded with the same dull calm. Together they looked like tourists who had lost both their luggage and their will to live.

  A taxi rolled by if it could be called that. It was a floating sarcophagus plastered with bumper stickers: HONK IF YOU’RE DAMNED. A horned driver leaned out. “Hey nice clothes! You new hires need a ride to onboarding?”

  Glenn stared, expressionless. The driver shrugged and sped away, muttering about “rookies.”

  He felt a tug at his sleeve. Deathnibbles pointed a tiny paw across the plaza.

  There, amid the crowd, stood a figure holding a cardboard sign that read in scrawled ink:

  CONTESTANTS 6 & 7.

  The figure was humanoid, wearing a tattered courier uniform once bright white but now ash-gray.

  Golden winged shoes gleamed faintly on its feet except the wings had been clipped, the metal edges melted and scorched. Its sleeves were torn, and missing one arm. A small badge on its chest read: H.A. – HERMES ASSISTANT PITT DIVISION.

  The creature’s eyes flickered like low batteries as it scanned the crowd.

  Glenn and Deathnibbles approached through the stream of pedestrians. When they stopped in front of it, the Hermes Assistant blinked twice, head tilting with a movement of old exhaustion.

  Glenn’s voice came out flat, mechanical, devoid of inflection.

  “That is us.”

  The Assistant’s mouth twitched into something approximating a smile. “Contestants Six and Seven confirmed. Welcome to Lower Management. Please follow me for orientation and onboarding at The PITT.”

  It turned on its heel, wings sparking faintly as it walked. Glenn and Deathnibbles followed, their steps swallowed by the endless noise of the city.

  The Hermes Assistant led them down a boulevard that grew quieter with every step. The noise of the city faded behind, replaced by the deep, mechanical hum of something vast. The street curved and then the world opened up before them.

  At the center of Lower Management stood The PITT.

  From afar it might once have been a colosseum, but whatever it had been, it had been rebuilt too many times, each era leaving its architectural fingerprints. Its lowest levels were rough black stone, ancient, volcanic, ringed with carved reliefs of heroes long forgotten. Above that rose tiers of steel and glass like a corporate campus fused to a temple, complete with skybridges and scrolling digital banners. The highest spires glittered gold, twisting into shapes that made no earthly sense, like a M?bius strip trying to become a crown.

  It wasn’t round; it wasn’t square. It shifted shape as you looked at it. Part amphitheater, part skyscraper, part stadium, part courthouse.

  A dozen doorways gaped along the perimeter, each labeled in glowing letters that flickered between languages: Performance Improvement Tournament & Trials.

  Glenn stared. Even through the emotional numbness, he could feel the building’s pull, a gravitational importance that said this was where fates were decided.

  The Hermes Assistant’s welcomed them. “A stadium, a campus, a coliseum, a court. Management could never agree on a single design, so they approved all proposals. Efficiency through indecision.”

  The explanation made perfect sense only if you didn’t think about it.

  From somewhere deep within the structure came the roar of a crowd thousands of voices overlapping into a single, hungry sound. The air itself vibrated. Neon lights strobed across the facade, and banners of every pantheon rippled in an unfelt wind: serpents for the Aztecs, crosses for the Christians, black suns for the Norse, lotus petals for the Hindus, jackals for the Egyptians.

  Glenn watched the swirl of symbols, the endless motion, the bureaucratic beauty of it all. He couldn’t tell if it inspired awe or dread. Maybe both.

  The Hermes Assistant gestured toward a side entrance marked New Hire Onboarding →. “This way, contestants. Your orientation begins shortly.”

  Glenn and Deathnibbles followed, their gray togas fluttering in the rising heat of the crowd’s anticipation.

  Behind them, the city lights blinked like a million eyes watching