“Zero.”

  An exhausted voice echoed in Hell.

  The Imp was standing on a black surface— it was crumpled and filled with creaks. Cracks in the environment invisible to the naked eye, however Zero stood in Hell. He was surrounded by darkness, the reverbs of flames everlasting in the distance however he remained stagnant. The scent of chlorine filled the atmosphere— burning into the false ozone as the Imp solely stood on a forever expanding surface.

  Unable to move, unable to see anything.

  “Zero of Invalia.”

  The Imp’s attempt to turn around failed, enclosed in a captive state he was forced to stay still— above him, unbeknownst to him was a glass. However, it reflected pure darkness.

  Except for the centre.

  In the middle of Hell on the ceiling, was a plant. More exact, a flower. A singular olive-grey flower rustling in a world with no wind, the petals fluttered rapidly whilst stigma stayed straight. The true existence of Hell.

  “It’s named as the Fern Flower. A representation of—” The same boresome voice groaned.

  “Who are you?” The Imp tried to speak but he was forced into submission, Hell didn’t permit such liberties. His mind spoke for him whilst his cracked lips were forcibly sealed away.

  “Hell is the deepest hatred within a person’s heart.” The voice echoed.

  “I don’t want to know about stuff like that!” Zero exclaimed, “So simply answer the question.”

  A pause.

  A small gap in time where nothing excruciatingly detailing happened. The Imp stood in place awaiting an answer whilst the voice— it was stubborn, refusing to tell. But for that small period of time, nothing truly happened.

  “I’m Masalor Schrodinger, the only other Imp in existence.” The disembodied voice let out a faint chuckle. “You are trapped within Hell. However, before you completely died I gave a part of essence into your spirit hence wh—”

  “Essence? Oh, I see what you mean. I’m now trapped in Hell and you are gonna offer a deal?” Zero scoffed, “I’d rather stay trapped in Hell than give up my soul for resurrection, I fought as stable as I could anyway.”

  He tried to move, but the air itself held him down — dry and hot, like a thousand invisible hands pressing on his shoulders.

  Oppression.

  “That’s why you are the perfect vessel to enact my sloth— I won’t scam you of your body as that’s not genuine.” Masalor snorted, “But I’ll give you some abilities upon your resurrection of your mind.”

  “My mind?”

  “Yes, your body will comeback and same with your soul. But you got to find that inner peace— that’ll give you the true powers of Sloth.”

  “Sloth?”

  “The most slothful thing a person could ever do is not bother with the true future and instead try and force your own into existence— hence my power. The power to rewrite history into the fate you want, without the drawback of actually working for it. A nepotistic power bestowed upon you without your actual efforts meaning anything— all you done is try resist as like the rest but you get to survive for no substantial reason, it’s the true Sloth.”

  “So you intend to make me a vessel for your power, so your essence may live on?”

  “Hehe.” Zero laughed.

  “You’ll regain your true self as time goes on— but you’ll be addicted to the hunt for a while. Do you accept the conditions of your rebirth? Temporary loss of identity and my influence but for the grand ability of slaying those ‘Gods’ who made you and Invalia suffer.”

  “I don’t care for Invalia.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  I don’t care for my people.

  I don’t care for any of it.

  I just want the excuse to kill, regain my true identity? I am always the truth that I see in my heart, there is no explanation for the wholeness I feel without this said pain. Love is a myth which is told solely by the foolish to enlighten more of the foolish, such is respect and morality. All such things can be bended to it’s maximum capacity. Do you believe that I’ll be justified in enacting my hatred of Floria all because of one lunatic’s actions— hence my actions be lunatic themselves. I accept your conditions and I’ll show Hell towards my enemies with grandiose.”

  “I see.” Masalor spoke.

  “What do you see with that all seeing eye of yours?”

  “I see the fake within you. You’ll forever be a sinner— the genocide would’ve never been the end of something like you. I wondered why a survivor of such atrocity would be placed into Hell, however I see now. You masked your evil for so long to make individuals think you were philosphical.

  Now you are just the incarnation of insanity; you’ll make the world rule for what you want.

  Which is utter carnage— you’ll be resurrected in five years, once the Trial system is implemented. Albeit your malevolence you do have the intelligence to at least acknowledge the truth behind it.

  Samiel has been struck with such grief, her soul and powers split. Whilst Eliza, her power, remains as Lord of the Invalia with no soul— with no army, taunted by the other two and played as a joke during the future. Her soul will re-emerge in decades to come.

  Do with that information what you want as the devil itself.

  There is no need to shake the hand of something so vile.”

  Then the voice left.

  “The world of Floria is so distant… but of course it is as land of scum.” An Imp was strolling through a scenery.

  “God forbid me.”

  The compact steel walls layered with rusted blood.

  Bodies — hundreds, maybe more — lay twisted across the grey floor. Some were still intact. Most weren’t. They didn’t decay, they didn’t rot. They simply sat, as if frozen mid-suffering. Faces stuck in agony. Mouths stretched too wide. Eyes rolled back or missing entirely. A symphony of failure preserved in silence. The iron floorboards creaking with each step the devil utilised to traverse the area. In their veiny claws was a bronze medal— he flicked it throughout his fingers. The fabric layering across their nodes before smiling as they began to skip, their feet scraping against the iron floorboards underneath. Releasing chalk scrapings as echoes that rippled throughout the room.

  But then they stopped.

  Their gaze which was once laid on the path ahead— a wooden door slightly creaked open revealing a golden shine. It had averted to a body on the ground.

  The Imp walked over to the corpse, it was laying on it’s back as if a dog and their pupils were rolled entirely over. Revealing just pure white sockets. The body was stripped naked, bright wounds and slashings marked across his entire body as his head was shaved entirely bald.

  Matter of a fact, he didn’t even have a face— just pure pink pigmented flesh as it possibly was just ripped off with one attack.

  However, the Imp simply tilted their head at the body.

  “Slashings across the body, perhaps the foe I’ll face will be utilising a whip or mane in that sorts.” The Imp stared at the ceiling, a mural of blood sprayed across the wall.

  “So if I were to be in the same position as where this human was, the individual who did such an act must’ve been a couple meters away.” They cupped their chin, the nails caressing onto their narrow face. “Perhaps the individual’s enchant boosts the range of how long they can reach.”

  (“Think more about the motive.”)

  “Which one is this? Geek, Stoic or Girl?” The Imp’s gravel voice raked at the vibrations in the air. “I’ve been dealing with a bunch of phantoms in my skull for a while now.”

  (“Don’t worry about it, I can split my voice into three to make it easier for you. Matter of truth, I’m just a soul you killed definitely— killing souls makes you have more voices, more company. Trust me!”)

  “Elaborate on the motive.”

  (“Precisely. If the possibly winner of this Trial in the Mars is behind that door— I assure you that they are…”)

  The Imp dashed forward towards the door, dropping the corpse as it splatted onto the metal floor.

  As blood-lusted as me.

  The Fiend emerged through the door— a black cloudy mist circulating around their body as they stood still, their yellow moons piercing into the silhouette ahead.

  In front of them was a young man: dressed in plain white dress, a uniform. His head was shaved as he turned around, mere inches from the Angel’s Light which was in arms reach. The pillar of light radiantly beaming as his pitch black eyes laid on the Imp.

  “The Invalian Mutilator— named after their birthplace, the Imp who goes around killing Trial participants due to their hatred for the Gods. Due to an unknown event which happened a century ago.” The man lifted their right arm, index squarely pointing at the Imp as the began to smile.

  A smudge of yellow teeth wrapped around his mouth as he lifted his dark black eyebrows, “You’ve been killing for a hundred years, Imp. Haven’t you grown weary of blasphemy?”

  “Don’t you get bored of trying to imitate the Gods?” The Imp’s voice softly spoke as if a child. Outstretching his right hand to the ground as a small thin indigo purple unveiled.

  Showcasing a ruby spear, before hiding it inside the floorboards.

  “It isn’t imitation— I’m becoming one, simply as that. Not even some creature like you could stop. Be thankful you even gotten through, I destroyed all the traps on the way here— take the Saints a bunched before fixing it.” Quixote folded his arms, closing his eyes.

  “Are you going to attempt to retaliate? A human such as you should acknowledge that every breath you take currently is mercy from me.”

  “Bleh.” The young man stuck out his white stained tongue, opening his left eye. “Enchant.”

  BRMMMMMMMMMMMMMM.

  A loud sound, like a fire truck resonated throughout the Mars as the dungeon began to quiver. Quixote was standing still as the earthquake began, the Angel’s Light behind him not trembling same with the Imp.

  PHEW.

  The Imp easily dodged air.

  “Your enchant is utilising the air as a weapon, that’s how you killed that man. You made a gale of wind so powerful it slit across his entire body. You are like that Saint, Merlin Pronasces.” The Demon spoke with minor emotion.

  “Hmph.” Quixote batted his eye as he continued using the dungeon to send gales of air.

  The Imp dodging each easily without attempt.

  “I’ll attack— it’ll be the only attack I do, no need wasting effort on pitiful humans with no talent.” The Imp gave off a faint chuckle.

  “No talent? Don’t you understand that hardwork triumphs all?”

  “Naturally.”

  The Imp’s ruby spear emerged from underneath Quixote— piercing him directly through the skull, crimson blood leaking out instantly.

  He was dead.

  The Imp began to walk over to Quixote’s corpse, held up by their spear— snatching it away as the body collapsed limp to the ground.

  “Humans…” They shook their head before looking at their medal— it showcasing a checkmark sign.

  (”That’s true intelligence— letting him gloat so the perfect opportunity arises.”)

  Masalor cheered.

  “I appreciate your compliments.” The Imp snapped their fingers, the checkmark warping into a name on the medal.

  Elliot.

  Thank you for reaching the end of this chapter!

  A lot went down, and from here the story begins to accelerate even faster. Every character is being tested, and every decision is reshaping the world around them.

  If you have thoughts, theories, or reactions, I’d love to hear them, comments genuinely help the story grow. If you’re enjoying things, don’t forget to follow the series so you don’t miss upcoming updates.

  More chaos awaits next chapter which also segments the next arc.

  "Arc 7: Desire of Death" -- "Chapter 87: Alice’s Rabbit Hole"