**Before beginning here, you may wish to start at the beginning. Or at the very least, Chapter One.**
Nestled within the penultimate Bolgia, Lucifer found himself grappling with a mixture of anticipation and dread. Gazing up at the apex of the Eighth Circle, his stomach churned in apprehension. The journey thus far had been nothing short of arduous. On two occasions, he’d been captured, and only by the skin of his teeth had he managed to elude the surprisingly agile hellions. Despite their ungainly appearance, these infernal creatures were astonishingly nimble. Lucifer knew he needed to rest, to gather his strength for the impending ascent. But time was of the essence.
He discovered a modest outcropping of rocks and secreted himself behind them. From his concealed vantage point, he observed the hellions scuttling about below, reminiscent of a frenzied swarm of ants. They were on the hunt, and he was their quarry. He couldn’t afford to tarry.
With a cautious glance over the edge of his precarious perch, Lucifer surveyed the chaotic scene below. Demons of all shapes and sizes wheeled through the air, their eyes blazing a sinister, blood-red hue. Above him, the sight was no less harrowing, as he had to skillfully evade the swooping demons diving into the very trenches he occupied. Sticking as close to the wall as possible to avoid detection was a challenging feat, given his own considerable stature. The wall itself was coated in a viscous, slick slime, making it difficult to maintain a secure grip. Each time he shifted, he felt as though he might lose his footing and plummet into the depths of the Bolgia below.
As he clung to the wall, the acrid stench of rancid water assaulted his senses, threatening to unsettle his already queasy stomach. The situation seemed nearly insurmountable, but he had no choice but to forge ahead. With a deep breath and renewed determination, Lucifer steeled himself for the treacherous climb that awaited.
In the depths of a repugnant trench, Lucifer and the Betrayers found themselves surrounded by the most unsavory of substances. A viscous black sludge churned and bubbled beneath them, releasing noxious gasses that made the air heavy and difficult to breathe. The occupants of this circle, damned souls filled with rage, were locked in an eternal game of cat-and-mouse, chasing and pummeling each other in a relentless cycle of violence. The moment one of them was beaten to a pulp, they’d spring back to life, only to be dragged back into the fray. The ground, slick with blood and viscera, bore testament to the unending carnage. The air, thick with the reek of death and decay, was almost unbearable. Lucifer and the Betrayers couldn’t help but long for their hasty departure from this wretched place. However, they couldn’t help but notice that it was, at the very least, a touch warmer than the Ninth Circle.
As they sought refuge near an oddly-shaped stalagmite, they observed the frenzied souls, biding their time and awaiting the opportune moment to make their escape. Cassius, ever the gambler, quipped, “Ten hits on the little guy,” treating the gruesome spectacle as if it were some perverse form of entertainment.
Brutus and Cassius found themselves chuckling, albeit with a hint of unease, as the putrid stench of excrement assaulted their nostrils. The macabre humor in the situation wasn’t lost on them, as they watched the smaller soul valiantly, albeit foolishly, attempt to stand his ground against a much larger adversary. It was a scene both absurd and grotesque, a fitting metaphor for the absurdity and grotesqueness of their own predicament in this hellish realm.
“The little one? Surely you jest,” Brutus chortled, incredulous at Cassius’ wager. “The poor chap he’s attempting to tackle is at least two feet taller and considerably more muscular. Frankly, I’m amazed the diminutive fellow can even remain upright on those spindly legs of his.”
“Ah, so we have a bet then?” Cassius inquired, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
“You’re on,” Brutus agreed, shaking his head in amusement.
Both the smaller and larger souls, coated in the repulsive sludge, engaged in their gruesome dance of violence. The larger soul seized the smaller one by the throat and slammed him into the muck. Brutus roared with excitement, much like he had during the numerous gladiatorial events he’d attended in his mortal life. But suddenly, the smaller soul burst forth from the filth, eyes vacant and expression feral. He sank his teeth into the larger soul’s neck and tore out a sizeable chunk of flesh. The two tumbled to the ground, the smaller soul pounding his chest in a triumphant, simian-like display, his jaw dripping with blood. The onlookers erupted in cheers, and Brutus couldn’t help but pump his fist in the air to celebrate the unexpected victory.
With a smug grin, Cassius turned to Brutus, his slow, mocking laughter echoing through the dismal pit. “It appears I’ve won, my friend. Ten hits, as per our bet, if memory serves me right.”
“I must admit, I’ve never had a talent for selecting winning fighters,” Brutus conceded.
Over the next few moments, Cassius gleefully doled out the ten hits he’d won, varying between punches and elbows, reducing Brutus’ face to a swollen, bruised mess. He giggled like a mischievous schoolboy, reveling in the fruits of his victory. Miraculously, Brutus’ visage was soon restored to its unblemished state, as though the beating had never occurred. All the while, Lucifer observed from the shadows, mulling over the peculiar antics of his unlikely companions.
As Lucifer observed from his shadowy vantage point, he simultaneously kept an eye out for any route of escape, any glimmer of hope. In his preoccupation with finding a way out, he failed to notice the presence of another soul lurking nearby. Judas, however, was quick to spot it and leapt between Lucifer and the newcomer. The fallen angel, his senses heightened, whipped around, ready for a confrontation.
Much to their collective surprise, the soul displayed no desire for violence. A weary figure, the soul seemed to be on a desperate quest for a safe haven in which to rest. His emaciated form, clad in tattered garments, conveyed the impression of a man who had endured the very depths of torment. Exhaustion weighed heavily upon him, his eyes beseeching for even a moment’s reprieve. He appeared utterly disoriented, and Judas couldn’t help but empathize with the pain etched across the soul’s visage.
“I appreciate your restraint,” the soul managed to utter, his voice laden with agony.
The man’s eyes were devoid of life, his complexion an ashen gray. His hair, a patchy, disheveled mess, bore evidence of having been torn from his scalp. The soul crumpled to the ground, hands quivering as they stared at the blood encrusted on his knuckles, much of which was not his own. The floor beneath him was unyielding and frigid, its chill seeping into his bones. The blood, however, was viscous and warm, congealing on his skin. “I just need to rest,” the soul murmured weakly. His voice was coarse and strained, suggesting hours of relentless screaming. His body, a canvas of bruises and cuts, bore testimony to his physical and mental exhaustion. Yet rest was not an option; he had to persist, to continue fighting.
Judas compassionately removed his cloak and draped it around the frightened soul. “What’s your name?” he inquired gently.
“I think—I think when I was alive my name was Rockefeller. John Rockefeller. But I can’t remember. Nothing’s clear anymore,” the soul confessed, his confusion palpable.
“Well, John, I’m Judas,” Judas introduced himself, slurring his words slightly. “And this is Lucifer Morningstar.”
At the mention of those names, the soul’s eyes widened in terror. He had heard those names before, and he knew they were names to be feared. Lucifer observed the mounting fear within the soul and hastened to assuage it. “Now, before you go screaming, remember, I am an inmate here too!”
“No! You are the Prince of Darkness! It was you who led me down the path of sin! Both of you!” the soul protested vehemently.
This idea took Lucifer by surprise. Bizarrely, it was a notion he had never considered before. The concept puzzled him. Judas, however, was familiar with the idea of the devil possessing or influencing people to commit heinous acts. But once he had been relegated to the Ninth Circle, his perspective changed. Witnessing Lucifer as a fellow prisoner rather than a ruler, Judas realized that humans bore sole responsibility for their sins. The concept had even become an inside joke among the Three Betrayers.
Rockefeller’s initial panic subsided, and he glanced up at Lucifer from beneath the enormous finger. Sensing the pressure easing, he seized the moment to let out a piercing scream, hoping to attract the attention of the circling demons above. However, Lucifer was not about to let that happen.
In one swift, decisive motion, Rockefeller found his skull pinned beneath the devil’s colossal index finger. His vision blurred, and he felt the warmth of his own blood cascading down his face. The chilling sound of his bones crunching under the relentless pressure filled his ears, while the metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth. The force was so immense that Rockefeller’s eyeballs threatened to burst from their sockets. His desperate screams reverberated through the air, only to be abruptly silenced by the sickening crunch of his bones succumbing to the weight of the devil’s finger.
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