Chapter 13: Tetanus Goes to Hell

Empire of Brazil — Unknown Dungeons, 1666

Four years.

Four years of darkness, pain, and humiliation in the bowels of this dungeon.

Tetanus, now a grown man standing two meters tall, was unrecognizable from the man who once faced guards and princes.

His body, lean but sculpted with muscles hardened by deprivation and resilience, was a map of scars. Whip marks crisscrossed his back and chest like winding rivers, mingled with deep blade cuts and burns from red-hot irons. Makeshift bandages, torn from filthy rags, wrapped around his arms and torso, stained with dried blood and pus.

His hair, now falling in disheveled purple strands down to his waist, tangled and dirty, bore witness to the time he spent chained. The mark on his chest, the spiral of the Anti-God, still pulsed, calmer this time, as if it had accepted becoming part of his very flesh.

Tetanus’s mind, however, was another story. Himiko, the torturer, had broken something within him. Not his will to fight, but his sanity, shattered by years of physical and psychological torment. Yet his body endured, driven by a force he didn’t fully understand. Perhaps it was those years of torture, forcing him to survive on insects and his own urine.

In the damp corners of his cell, he had found unlikely allies: the rats. The filthy creatures, the insects crawling through the dungeon’s stones, digging tiny tunnels in the walls and ceiling, became his only companions. Tetanus had learned to understand their squeaks, their movements, and, over time, with the help of his new “slaves,” they gnawed at the chains binding him, nibbling at the wooden pillory holding his hands above his head, weakening the restraints bit by bit, year after year.

The iron door creaked on yet another of the three hundred and sixty-five days of relentless torture. Himiko entered, as she did every day. The woman carried the same metal-tipped whip and the pincers Tetanus had learned to hate.

Her eyes gleamed with that mix of cruelty and sadistic pleasure that had haunted him for four years. “Good morning, my little dog,” she purred, cracking the whip in the air. “Ready for another session? The prince still wants to know about that mark of yours, and I swear you’ll agree to spill everything, even if it takes another four years.”

Tetanus didn’t respond. His single yellow eye, now burning with deep hatred, fixed on her, but his mind was elsewhere.

He heard the rats squeaking in the corners, a sound Himiko ignored but which to him was as clear as a command:

Now, master...

The torturer raised the whip, delivering a blow that tore through the air and struck Tetanus’s chest, ripping a piece of bandage and opening a new wound. He didn’t scream, merely ignored the pain, his body trembling—not from pain, but from the mark, pulsing with an energy he felt growing, as if responding to something beyond the cell.

Before Himiko could strike again, a sound echoed in the corridor—a series of deep croaks, as if mocking Tetanus’s suffering, so profound they made the dungeon walls vibrate.

Himiko stopped, her brow furrowed, turning toward the door. “What the hell is that? Interrupting my fun.” She muttered, taking a step toward the corridor.

It was the opening Tetanus had been waiting for. With a primal roar, he forced his hands with all his strength, his muscles straining to their limit. The restraints, weakened by years of the rats’ work, gave way with a snap, the wooden pillory breaking like twigs.

Himiko spun around, eyes wide, but Tetanus was already on her. He knocked her to the ground with a single movement, his weight crushing her against the floor. The pincers flew from her hand, and the whip was torn away, flung to the corner of the cell.

“No… you…” Himiko tried to scream, but Tetanus silenced her with a brutal punch to the mouth, dislocating her jaw. She thrashed, her nails scratching his chest, but Tetanus’s rage was an unstoppable force now. He delivered another punch to her stomach, making her cough blood, then grabbed her throat with both hands, his calloused fingers squeezing tightly. Himiko gurgled, her eyes rolling back, and in a few seconds, her body went limp, the cruel glint extinguished forever.

“You masochistic bitch, I should fuck your filthy pussy like you forced me to all these years, but fuck you instead. I’ll see you in hell,” he spat on her.

Tetanus stood, panting, blood dripping from his first opponent in years. He looked at Himiko’s body, the filthy cell reeking of sex, feces, and piss.

“Well. That took a while,” he said, his voice deeper, almost unrecognizable, laced with a coldness he hadn’t had before.

Wasting no time, he searched for the key the torturer carried, unlocking the cell’s iron door. The dungeon corridor stretched before him, damp and dark, lit only by sparse torches.

Tetanus ran, barefoot, his body still naked, moving with surprising agility for someone so marked by torture. He kicked down every door he found, the rotten wood splintering under his feet, but each cell was empty—only rusted chains, forgotten bones, and the stench of death. No sign of his friends. The hope of finding them alive was fading, but Tetanus refused to give up.

The dungeon corridor was a maze of cold stone and darkness, the torches on the walls casting shadows that danced like mocking specters.

Tetanus moved slowly, his bare feet stepping in fetid puddles.

Each step echoed in the oppressive silence, but he didn’t hesitate. The pain that would have once brought him to his knees was now just background noise, dulled by years of torment that had hardened his flesh and mind. The mark on his chest pulsed faintly, like an exhausted heart, but still alive.

Four years of torture had transformed Tetanus. His body, lean but sculpted with muscles defined by constant struggle and survival, moved with mechanical precision. Those scars were medals of a war he hadn’t chosen, one that had barely begun in earnest.

His mind, fractured by Himiko’s sadistic sessions, no longer felt the weight of trauma. The horror, the fear, the humiliation—all had been consumed by the rage and willpower that now drove him through that filthy dungeon.

As he moved down the corridor, Tetanus kicked open the cell doors, the rotten wood giving way easily under the force of his kicks.

Each cell revealed only desolation: rusted chains, scattered bones, the smell of death ingrained in the stones. There was no sign of them, and with every door broken, the hope of finding them dwindled, but none of that mattered. If they were dead, he would avenge them. If they were alive, he would find them. But now, he needed something to cover his body and continue his escape.

At the end of the corridor, he found a small room, more a storage chamber than a cell. In the corner, a skeleton lay slumped against the wall, its bones yellowed by time, draped in tattered clothes, along with a cloak sewn to a hood.

It was a mercenary’s uniform, perhaps from some forgotten prisoner, with a torn leather vest, linen pants, and boots barely holding together. Tetanus approached, ignoring the musty stench, and carefully stripped the clothes from the skeleton, the fabric creaking as if protesting being worn.

He donned the vest, which was tight across his broad shoulders, and the pants, snug around his thighs. The boots, though worn, were better than the cold floor. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

His body seemed to have learned to ignore suffering, turning it into fuel. His mind, though fractured, was a sharpened blade, focused on a single goal: escape that dungeon and make the prince pay.

He picked up a rusted chain from the floor, wrapping it around his fist as an improvised weapon. It wasn’t his old two-handed sword, but it would do.

Tetanus was now alone, with only the company of the vermin around him.

The corridor ended in a steep stone staircase leading to a reinforced trapdoor. Tetanus paused, hearing the distant sound of voices—guards, perhaps. He had no idea where he was; his sadistic captor had never mentioned it. He just wanted to escape. He climbed the steps slowly, the chain clinking in his fist.

Tetanus ascended the stone steps with firm strides, the rusted chain wrapped around his right fist, the cold metal against his calloused skin. The air grew heavier with each step, thick with the smell of dampness and the odor of an unknown place. He reached the top of the stairs, where a reinforced iron trapdoor blocked the way. Without hesitation, he tested the latch, which gave way with a low creak, revealing the trapdoor. Tetanus pushed it with his shoulder, the rotten wood groaning before opening into the inner courtyard of an unknown castle.

The light of a smiling moon bathed the courtyard, revealing high stone walls and a worn dirt floor. Dark towers rose in the background, their silhouettes cutting into the starry sky. Tetanus had no idea where he was—the dungeons had isolated him from the world for four years, and this castle could be anywhere in Brazil or beyond. The silence was broken only by the crackling of torches on the walls and the sound of boots against the ground. Guards patrolled the courtyard, their armor clinking softly.

Tetanus crouched in the shadows, his eyes fixed on two guards walking a few meters away. They spoke in low voices, oblivious to his presence. The first was short, with a spear resting on his shoulder; the second, taller, carried a sheathed sword and wore reinforced leather armor.

Tetanus tightened his grip on the chain, adrenaline surging through his veins.

Moving like a predator, he advanced through the shadows, his shod feet barely touching the ground. The first guard didn’t notice when the chain wrapped around his neck. Tetanus pulled hard, the metal biting into flesh, and the man collapsed without a sound, eyes wide as he suffocated.

The second guard turned, hand reaching for his sword, but Tetanus was faster. He swung the chain like a whip, striking the man’s face with a crack that broke his nose. Before the guard could cry out, Tetanus grabbed him, crushing his trachea with a precise punch. The body fell beside his companion, blood pooling on the cobblestones.

Tetanus didn’t waste time. He dragged the bodies into the shadows, away from the torches, and began stripping the taller guard. The leather armor was tight, pressing against his broad shoulders, but it offered more protection than the tattered vest he’d found in the dungeon. He adjusted the straps with quick fingers, feeling the familiar weight of armor, even if it wasn’t his own.

The guard’s sword, a straight and well-balanced blade, was sheathed at Tetanus’s waist, while he kept the improvised chain. He slung the guard’s belt over his shoulder, checking for anything useful—a small pouch with coins and a flask of water, which he tied to his waist.

The courtyard was empty now, but the castle’s high walls were an obstacle. Tetanus scanned the surroundings, his eyes narrowed in the darkness. Climbing directly would be suicide—the stones were smooth, and the torches would reveal any movement. But in the distance, he spotted a tall tree, its canopy brushing the edge of the outer wall. It was his best chance.

He ran across the courtyard, staying in the shadows, his heart beating steadily but controlled. Reaching the base of the wall, he found a pile of wooden crates, likely used to store supplies. Tetanus quickly stacked a few, creating an improvised platform.

But before leaving, Tetanus looked back at the castle. That place had been his personal hell for four years. He couldn’t just walk away. Not without leaving a mark.

He approached, grabbing one of the torches lighting the courtyard. The flames danced, reflecting in his single yellow eye, now filled with cold fury.

“Time to return the favor,” he muttered, his voice hoarse.

Moving quickly, he tossed the torch through the windows, into the rooms, onto anything that looked flammable.

The fire spread fast, flames licking the walls like hungry tongues. Smoke began to rise, filling the corridors with an acrid smell. Tetanus didn’t wait to see the chaos unfold. He knew that in minutes, the entire castle would be ablaze.

With a leap, he grabbed a ledge in the stone, his muscles protesting but holding his weight. He climbed with precise movements, using cracks and dents in the wall for support. The cold night wind hit his face, carrying the smell of salt and forest.

Reaching the top of the wall, he looked down. The tree was a few meters away, its thick branches swaying slightly. Tetanus didn’t think twice. He took a running start and jumped, his body cutting through the air. The branches caught him with a crack, the leaves cushioning his fall, but a limb snapped under his weight, and he tumbled through the canopy, hitting the ground with a thud. Pain exploded in his back, but he ignored it, standing quickly.

The terrain outside the wall was a slope covered in grass and rocks, descending into a dense forest, while the castle burned behind him.

Tetanus stood, the sword at his waist, the tight armor creaking with every movement, the chain within reach, the pouch tied to his waist. He looked back at the castle one last time, its towers collapsing in flames and smoke.

Facing the pale sky, he raised his arms, letting out a liberating scream that echoed across the field. Now, it was time to move on.

His new goal: figure out where the hell he was and where to go next.

The forest swallowed Tetanus with its dense darkness, twisted branches brushing his back as he advanced. It felt almost like home, the ground covered in damp leaves and exposed roots, the air heavy with the smell of earth and decay.

He walked cautiously. The night was silent, except for the occasional rustle of a small animal or the snap of a twig under his feet. Tetanus didn’t know where he was going, only that he needed to get away from the castle and find a place to spend the night.

After hours of walking, the forest began to thin, bidding him farewell, the trees giving way to an open field bathed in the silvery light of the moon, below the hill where the castle he’d escaped from stood.

Unknown Village

Ahead, he spotted the ruins of an abandoned village, wooden and stone houses crumbling, roofs sagging under the weight of time. The wind whistled through the buildings, carrying an emptiness that seemed to echo Tetanus’s desolation, his eyes scanning every shadow for threats.

The streets were deserted, the broken cobblestones covered in moss. Doors hung crooked on their hinges, and shattered windows revealed dark interiors filled with dust and cobwebs. Tetanus passed through a central square, where a dry fountain lay cracked, a headless saint statue toppled beside it. Something caught his eye on the wall of a house still standing: a piece of white paper, stuck with sticky resin, fluttering in the wind.

He approached, frowning. Paper was rare, something only the wealthy or clergy used, and this one seemed strangely intact for such a dilapidated place. The moonlight revealed its contents, and Tetanus felt a chill that didn’t come from the cold or wind.

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Pasted on the wall of a ruined house, a piece of white paper, held by sticky resin. The image on it was too strange to ignore.

“HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?”

image [http://mothrainstitution.wikidot.com/local--files/have/The_Suited_One.png]

The drawing showed a smooth face, without lips, bald, with empty eyes and a serious expression. The figure wore something the text called a “suit and tie,” garments Tetanus had never seen. There was something deeply wrong with that image—as if the man on the paper was staring directly at him, despite being just ink on paper.

He read the rest, his fingers touching the words, too mechanical, as if they hadn’t been written by something human:

“During the night, thousands of people report dreaming of this figure in a suit and tie. If you see this ‘suited one’ in your dreams, do not panic. Contact us: 669-6969-66-99.”

Tetanus frowned. What the hell was a “suited one”? And who, in their right mind, would write something like this in an abandoned village?

The face on the paper seemed to follow his movements. He felt a chill down his spine, the mark on his chest pulsing faintly, as if it recognized something.

Without thinking twice, he tore the paper from the wall, folded it, and stuffed it into the pouch. Something about it disturbed him, but it also intrigued him. If thousands of people were dreaming of this creature, maybe it wasn’t just a delusion.

He continued exploring the village, his boots crushing broken glass and animal bones. The houses were empty, but not entirely abandoned—in some, furniture was covered with cloths, as if the residents had left in a hurry. In others, plates still sat on tables, covered in dust and mold.

Tetanus felt the air grow heavier as he entered an eerily intact but strangely abandoned tavern. Someone—or something—had haunted this place before everyone fled. And now, that same something was spreading, invading the dreams of people elsewhere.

He looked at the sky. The moon still hadn’t moved from its place. He had no intention of spending the night there.

But as he turned to leave the tavern, a sound made him stop.

A hiss.

It wasn’t an ordinary hiss, like that of a rat or other vermin; it was a low, hoarse hiss, as if someone were trying to speak with a throat full of water.

It came from inside one of the houses.

Tetanus drew his sword.

Someone—or something—was still occupying the village.

Tetanus froze, his single eye narrowing toward the hoarse hiss coming from inside the house. The sound was unsettling.

He began to advance slowly. The door to the house next to the tavern was ajar, the hiss growing louder, mingled with a slow dragging, as if something were moving across the floor.

Tetanus pushed the door with the tip of his sword, the wood creaking on its rusted hinges. The darkness inside was almost solid, but moonlight filtered through a broken window, revealing a figure standing in the center of the room.

It was him. The “suited one” from the poster.

The man—or whatever it was—wore a strange, tight black suit with a black strip hanging from its neck. A suit and tie, exactly as described. Its face was identical to the drawing: bald, with hair slicked back, without lips, the skin smooth and pale as wax, the sunken eyes gleaming with a void that seemed to suck in the surrounding light. It didn’t move, but the hiss came from it, a sound that seemed to scrape at Tetanus’s soul.

“Who are you?” Tetanus growled, raising his sword, the chain clinking in his fist.

The suited one didn’t respond.

Its eyes locked onto Tetanus, and in a blink, it advanced, moving with supernatural speed, as if gliding through the air. Tetanus tried to strike, but the suited one raised a hand, and an invisible force hit Tetanus like a punch to the chest.

He staggered, the sword falling from his hands, and felt something tighten around his throat, as if invisible hands were strangling him. He clutched his own neck, trying to fight the pressure, but there was nothing to grasp.

The air wouldn’t come, his lungs burned, and the suited one merely watched, its face expressionless, as the hiss intensified.

Tetanus fell to his knees, his vision darkening, pounding the floor in desperation for one last breath, but the suited one’s force was relentless. The world spun, and then, darkness.

…

…

…

Hell

Tetanus opened his eyes with a scream trapped in his throat, his body drenched in sweat. The heat was unbearable, as if he were inside an oven. The air burned his lungs, and his eyes watered, irritated by a pulsing red light around him.

He was naked, his equipment—the sword, the armor, the chain, the pouch—gone, as if they had never existed.

He stood, the ground beneath his feet rough and hot, a surface of cracked black stone that seemed to burn his skin.

He looked around. He was in the middle of a colossal ravine, jagged rock walls rising to a sky that wasn’t a sky—just a pulsing red expanse, like clotting blood. The heat made the air shimmer, and the smell of sulfur and charred flesh filled his nostrils.

He knew where he was, as he had read in passages from the Bible at the orphanage, or at least what this place seemed to be: hell. Or something worse.

Tetanus took a step, the scorching ground hurting his bare feet. He tried to ignore the pain, as he had done for years in the dungeon.

But then, something pierced his right foot. He grunted, looking down, and saw a rusted nail driven through his sole, the blood sizzling as it touched the hot ground. He yanked the nail out with a tug, the pain searing but familiar, and tossed the metal aside. The wound bled, but he had no time to tend to it.

The ravine stretched ahead, the narrow path flanked by giant teeth that seemed to pulse in grotesque gums embedded in the walls, like a monstrous portal.

At the same time, he heard distant sounds—muffled screams, cries of pain, and something like the roar of beasts.

Tetanus clenched his fists, his body tense, but his mind remained sharp. He didn’t know if he was dead, trapped in a nightmare, or somewhere in between.

He scanned his surroundings, his anxiety growing the longer he lingered. As he walked, limping slightly from the wound in his foot, his eyes fixed on the red horizon, determined to face whatever this place threw at him.

Tetanus passed through the pulsating teeth portal, the infernal heat scorching his naked skin. Each step hurt, the wound in his foot throbbing, but he ignored the pain—he had endured far worse.

The ground beneath his feet shifted to an even rougher surface, as if made of crushed bones. The ravine opened into a vast plateau, a nightmarish landscape that defied sanity.

Ahead, he saw the architects of hell, deformed creatures with long, skeletal limbs, their eyeless faces covered in masks of stitched human flesh. They worked with terrifying efficiency, stacking colossal bricks to build walls that stretched into the red sky.

But the cement they used wasn’t mortar—it was babies, their fragile forms crushed under the bricks with a wet, nauseating sound. The children’s screams, brief and cut off, echoed before being silenced, their bodies reduced to a bloody paste that sealed the stones.

Dozens of these babies were stored in sacks or piled beside the architects, waiting as if they were mere cement.

Tetanus stopped, his stomach churning, turning his gaze away.

He had seen horrors throughout his life, but this was beyond human cruelty. He couldn’t allow himself to feel—not now. His mind forced him to keep going, limping across the uneven terrain, his eyes fixed on finding a way to escape this place or, at least, to understand why he was here.

Further ahead, he reached the edge of a gigantic pit, its size making Tetanus feel like an ant, a fetid abyss exuding a stench so intense his eyes watered even more.

The pit was filled with a viscous, dark liquid, people struggling on the surface, their faces contorted in despair as they sank slowly, their hands reaching for something they’d never grasp. From above, more people were thrown into the depths.

Their moans were a chorus of agony, sending a chill through Tetanus as he realized some still stared at him, as if begging for help he couldn’t give.

He looked away, forcing himself to move forward, but the sound of guttural laughter made him stop.

Above, on stone platforms suspended on the ravine’s walls, legions of demons stirred. They were grotesque creatures, with twisted horns piercing their own eyes, scaly skin, and eyes glowing like embers.

They were busy, their claws tearing the clothes and flesh of hundreds of blonde women, who screamed as they were violated in a frenzy of violence. The demons laughed, oblivious to Tetanus’s presence, their bodies moving in a feverish rhythm that made the air vibrate with malevolent energy.

Tetanus clenched his fists, rage swelling in his chest. He wanted to fight, to tear those creatures from their victims, but he was unarmed, and he certainly couldn’t take on an entire legion of rapist demons.

He forced himself to look away, limping away from the pit and the platforms, following a path that descended even deeper into hell.

Hell — Depths

Tetanus limped along the tortuous path of the ravine, his wounded foot leaving bloodstains that evaporated behind him. The heat was a living presence, pressing his naked body like an invisible hand, sweat streaming in rivers that stung his old scars.

The red sky pulsed above, a sickly heartbeat mocking his existence. The air was saturated with sulfur, rot, and something worse—a smell of despair that permeated everything.

The hell’s walls narrowed, the rock now studded with rusted iron spikes, each dripping a viscous black liquid that hissed as it hit the ground. Tetanus passed carefully, avoiding the spikes, but the space was so tight that some grazed his skin, leaving thin cuts that burned like fire.

Ahead, the path opened into a vast underground chamber, lit by an orange glow from lava rivers running in deep grooves in the floor. The heat here was even more intense, making the air shimmer like a mirage.

In the chamber’s center, a colossal stone wheel turned slowly, driven by creaking chains pulled by hooded creatures with deformed bodies, their muscular arms stretched to the limit. Strapped to the wheel, people screamed as they were crushed by it, their bodies ground into a bloody paste that dripped into the lava rivers below.

The screams were cut off abruptly, replaced by new faces that appeared, as if the wheel were fed by an endless source of suffering. Tetanus saw men, women, even children, their eyes wide with terror before being reduced to nothing.

He looked away, bile rising in his throat, but another sight awaited. On the banks of the lava rivers, demons with eyeless faces and mouths full of serrated teeth dragged chained prisoners.

They forced them to plunge their hands into the lava, the smell of burning flesh filling the air as the prisoners screamed, their arms dissolving into ashes. Some begged, crying and pleading for forgiveness, but the demons only laughed, their voices like metal scraping stone, and tossed the mutilated bodies into piles where other crawling creatures devoured them alive, piece by piece, defecating and urinating on their corpses.

As he crossed the chamber, dodging lava pools and avoiding the demons’ gazes, another scene caught his eye: a hooded figure overseeing the chaos, holding a chain that bound a group of chained souls. They were forced to dig the stone with their own hands, which were severed, ending in bloody stumps as they tore at rock and earth.

The hooded figure whipped anyone who stopped, the whip’s tips studded with blades that shredded flesh. Tetanus noticed some of the souls had familiar faces—not his close companions, but mercenaries he’d known years ago, now reduced to eternally tortured souls. He didn’t know if they were illusions or remnants of his memories, but the sight hit him like a punch.

He kept limping toward a stone arch. The ground beneath his feet trembled, as if hell itself protested his presence. As he passed, he heard a whisper, low and hissing, from a crack in the wall. It was a voice, or several voices, speaking in unison: You don’t belong here… but you can’t leave either…

Tetanus ignored it, quickening his pace, but the whisper followed, crawling in his mind.

Reaching the arch, he looked back one last time. The chamber was a spectacle of cruelty, an endless cycle of pain and destruction.

He passed through the arch, entering an even darker corridor, where the smell of sulfur gave way to something worse—a void that seemed to swallow even Tetanus’s last drop of hope.

Tetanus limped through the dark corridor, which ended at a smooth wall, where a rusted iron door stood, etched with symbols that seemed to writhe under the pulsing red light. In the center was a rusty lever. Tetanus hesitated, fists clenched, but the distant screams and roars of beasts reminded him that stopping wasn’t an option.

He pulled the lever with force, and the door creaked, revealing an elevator—a twisted metal cage, suspended by chains that vanished into the ceiling.

He stepped inside, the cage’s floor trembling under his weight. There were no buttons or levers inside, but as soon as the door closed, the cage began to descend with a jolt, the chains creaking as if groaning. Inside the elevator, music played, like a demonic soundtrack from another world. (Korn — Twist)

The heat intensified as it descended, the air growing so thick Tetanus could barely breathe.

The cage stopped abruptly, the door opening with a clang. Tetanus stepped out, limping, and found himself in a room that seemed out of place in that abyss of horrors.

The floor was polished marble, reflecting the light of bone chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Red and gold tapestries covered the walls, embroidered with scenes of suffering that seemed to move when he looked away. In the center of the room, a figure swept the floor with a broom of black bristles.

It was a succubus, her deep red skin gleaming as if oiled, voluptuous curves barely covered by leather strips that revealed more than they hid. Curved horns adorned her head, and a thin tail swayed behind her, ending in a knife-sharp point.

She raised her golden, gleaming eyes, and a slow smile formed on her lips. “Well, well,” she purred, her voice laced with seduction, like poisoned honey. “Such a… robust mortal.” She leaned the broom against the wall, approaching Tetanus with a provocative sway of her tail. “What do we have here? A lost warrior? I could help you… relax.” Her fingers brushed Tetanus’s bare chest, her sharp nails tracing lines that made his skin tingle.

Tetanus glared at her, his yellow eye cold as ice. “Keep your hands off, demon. Where am I?” His voice was a low growl, leaving no room for games.

The succubus laughed, a sound like broken bells. “So direct. I like that.” She stepped back, her tail whipping the air. “You’re in the Hall of the Seven Princes. They want to see you.” She pointed to a double ebony door at the back of the room, carved with faces twisted in agony. “And believe me, mortal, you don’t want to keep them waiting.” She winked, licking her lips, but Tetanus ignored her, heading toward the door. His wounded foot throbbed, but he didn’t want to give the succubus the satisfaction of seeing him seem weak.

He pushed the doors, which opened with a low groan, revealing an even more opulent chamber. Seven thrones lined up in a semicircle, each occupied by a figure exuding power and centuries of malevolence.

The air felt heavier here, as if their presence doubled the gravity. Tetanus stood before them, naked and bloodied but unyielding, his eye fixed on the seven princes of hell, each embodying a deadly sin.

In the center, Gluttony dominated the scene. A giant, obese Asian man, so large he seemed fused to his stone throne. His body was a mountain of flesh, his belly opening into a grotesque mouth full of teeth that chewed human bones nonstop, while he himself didn’t eat. A skirt of human bones hung from his waist, clinking with every movement. His small eyes gleamed with insatiable hunger.

To his left, Envy was a gaunt figure, draped in tattered rags that barely covered her slender body. A crow mask hid her face, but her voluptuous breasts under the rags suggested she was female. Her hands were covered in gloves studded with knives, the blades glinting as she flexed them, as if eager to cut something—or someone.

Beside her, Sloth was a shapeless mass, almost indistinct, slumped in a throne covered with blankets and a fan at its side. Its form was vague, as if it refused even to maintain a defined appearance, its half-closed eyes exuding an apathy that seemed to drain the room’s energy.

Wrath, to Gluttony’s right, was a two-meter-tall Arab man, muscles defined under skin marked by scars. He held a flaming sword, the flames licking the air without consuming the blade. A black-maned lion roared softly at his side, its eyes fixed on Tetanus as if he were the next prey. Wrath’s presence was a contained storm, ready to erupt.

Greed, beside Wrath, was tall and lanky, dressed in royal garments that seemed out of place in hell. His body, however, was grotesque—sacks of skin hung from him, filled with coins, jewels, and precious stones that clinked with every movement. He clutched them with long fingers, counting and recounting his “treasure” in a nervous tic, his eyes gleaming with a sickly obsession. His throne was a pile of gold, but each piece was stained with dried blood.

Pride, the most majestic, occupied the highest throne. His beauty was supernatural, his face perfect like an angel’s, but with black wings of broken feathers and a crown of thorns bleeding on his forehead. He didn’t look at Tetanus, his eyes fixed on some point beyond, as if a mortal were unworthy of his attention. His throne of pure crystal reflected the red light, but internal cracks made it seem on the verge of collapse.

Finally, Lust, a dark-skinned woman whose beauty was almost painful to behold. She was naked, her body covered by severed hands that moved as if alive, caressing her breasts and sliding between her legs, pleasuring her as she moaned softly. Her eyes roamed Tetanus’s naked body, assessing him with predatory desire. “Such a… resilient mortal,” she murmured between moans, licking her lips. “You must be fun to play with.”

Tetanus faced the seven princes, his yellow eye flashing with a mix of hatred and defiance. “What do you want with me?” he growled, his deep voice cutting through the heavy air.

Pride finally turned his face, his gaze sharp as a blade. “You don’t ask questions here, mortal,” he said, his voice echoing like low thunder. “You were brought because you’re an anomaly. A mistake. And we will decide what to do with you.”

Gluttony laughed, the mouth in his belly chewing a femur with a crack. “Maybe he’s… tasty,” he said, his voice gurgling.

Envy hissed, the knives in her gloves scraping together. “He has something he doesn’t deserve. I feel it.”

Tetanus clenched his fists. “If it’s a fight you want, I’m ready.”

The air in the chamber of the seven princes was suffocating, saturated by the weight of their presence.

Gluttony licked his lips, the mouth in his belly chewing incessantly; Envy kept hissing until Pride broke the silence.

He descended from his cracked crystal throne, his black wings of broken feathers dragging across the floor like a living cloak. Each step echoed with an authority that made the air vibrate, and the blood dripping from his thorn crown left a red trail on the marble. He stopped before Tetanus, his supernatural beauty almost blinding, but his eyes were cold, as if seeing through flesh and bone to something deeper.

Tetanus held his gaze, refusing to back down.

“Your existence is an affront,” Pride said, his deep, resonant voice seeming to come from every corner of the room. “A mortal who survived life’s greatest adversities, the persecution of faith, and never succumbed to insanity, not even in hell itself. Your life is suffering and pain, and that… that pleases us.” He tilted his head, the thorn crown cutting deeper into his forehead, blood streaming like tears. “But you don’t belong here.”

Tetanus gritted his teeth, his hoarse voice cutting through the air. “Then why am I here? What do you want with me?”

Pride raised a hand, silencing him. “You will be our hunter.” He paused, his eyes gleaming with a malevolent purpose. “You will return to the world of the living, but not as a free man. Your existence now has a purpose: to hunt souls for us. Every life you take, every drop of blood you spill, will be an offering to the princes. Refuse, and the hell you’ve seen so far will be just the beginning.”

Gluttony laughed, the mouth in his belly gurgling. “He’ll feed us well,” he murmured, gnawing on a human thigh.

Lust licked her lips, her eyes roaming Tetanus. “Bring me beautiful souls, mortal,” she whispered between moans. “I’ll reward you… in my own way.”

Wrath, holding the flaming sword, merely grunted, the lion at his side roaring softly. Greed counted his jewels, his eyes gleaming with avarice, while Sloth remained motionless, as if it didn’t care.

Tetanus opened his mouth to respond, but Pride raised his hand again, and a wave of darkness engulfed Tetanus.

He felt the floor vanish beneath his feet, the heat of hell dissipating, replaced by a cold void. The last thing he saw was Pride’s perfect face, his eyes burning with a promise made. “You will hunt, or be hunted,” he said, and then everything faded.