Brain Matter Entertainment

**Before beginning here, you may wish to start at the beginning. Or at the very least, Chapter One.**

Navigating the treacherous landscape of the Eighth Circle, Lucifer Morning-Star and the Trio of Betrayers found themselves encircling the base of a gargantuan stone funnel, stretching upwards and culminating in a vast, yawning opening. The concentric rings of this particular Circle were home to a series of ditches, each one lovingly crafted to inflict a unique brand of torment. Lucifer cast a horrified glance over the scene unfurling before him. “Is it possible that all these souls genuinely warrant such suffering?” he pondered.

The inhabitants of this Circle, it seemed, were being punished for acts of fraud committed during their mortal lives. A veritable menagerie of bankers, politicians, and opportunists who had preyed upon their fellow humans now found themselves condemned to eternal suffering. Their punishment consisted of navigating an endless labyrinth of ditches, each brimming with a novel form of agony. The first ditch contained flames that licked and gnawed at the souls, the second boasted an array of razor-sharp spikes, the third writhed with a medley of venomous serpents, and so forth.

The cacophony of screams echoed throughout the Circle as the damned were compelled to traverse these torturous ditches, their bodies assaulted by fire, spikes, and the slithering coils of snakes. Despite the knowledge that they merited punishment, Lucifer couldn’t help but feel a twinge of compassion for the souls in their plight. A seed of doubt took root in his mind, as he began to entertain the notion that perhaps, just perhaps, there might be a way to deliver them from their anguish.

The motley quartet heaved themselves from the depths of the Central Well of Malebolge, the ominous gateway to the Ninth Circle. The Well was an immense, chasmic pit, its sides lined with jagged rocks that seemed to sneer menacingly at them. A viscous, ebony liquid filled the Well, exuding a pungent stench of death and decay that lingered long after they had left its presence.

Lurking nearby, a group of giants huddled in various states of bondage, their gaunt bodies appearing starved and defeated. Their flesh hung limply from their bones, like the curtains of a long-forgotten theater. Eyes devoid of light stared blankly into the abyss, a look of utter despair and hopelessness etched upon their faces. Were it not for the subtle rise and fall of their chests as they breathed, Lucifer would have easily mistaken them for lifeless husks.

As the travelers pressed on, they caught the eye of one such giant, the ancient Babylonian king known as Nimrod. Shackled to a boulder, a weighty iron collar fastened around his neck, Nimrod’s eyes were sunken and hollow, his skin stretched taut over his skeletal frame. It was apparent he hadn’t feasted in an eternity. His hair was matted and filthy, and his beard hung long and unkempt. A guttural growl escaped his throat as the four companions drew near.

Reclining on a makeshift bed of decaying leaves and soil, the former monarch’s eyes tracked the group’s progress, his vision blurred and uncertain. At first, he dismissed the visitors as nothing more than the product of his fevered imagination, as delirium was a frequent companion in his wretched existence. Yet, as his sight gradually cleared, he discerned the unmistakable figure of Lucifer and called out to the fallen angel, imploring him to pause for a moment’s conversation.

Lucifer acquiesced, approaching the withered king with an expression of pity etched upon his face. It was clear that the once-mighty ruler was now little more than a shadow of his former glory.

“Regrettably, I haven’t the luxury of time to engage in idle chatter, Nimrod,” Lucifer declared, his voice betraying a hint of impatience.

“But it has been an age since I’ve had the pleasure of conversing with anyone of note. My company in these forsaken depths has been limited to the wretched souls condemned to share my bleak existence.”

With a creak of ancient joints and the grinding of the chains that bound him, Nimrod shifted his emaciated frame. The ground trembled beneath his movements, sending a shudder through the very fabric of Hell itself. The long-forgotten king extended a bony limb, effectively blocking the path that lay ahead for the travelers. His body, taut with tension, and his face twisted into a sneer of disdain.

Lucifer, all too aware of his brother Michael’s relentless pursuit, could scarcely conceal his frustration at this blatant obstacle to his escape plan. The fallen angel had no interest in engaging in idle conversation, particularly when the clock was ticking and every moment mattered. With Michael undoubtedly hot on their heels, Lucifer could ill afford any detours or delays, least of all for the sake of exchanging pleasantries with a chained giant. In any case, it wasn’t as if Lucifer had anything pressing to discuss with Nimrod, nor any particular desire to rekindle their past acquaintanceship.

The muscles in Lucifer’s jaw tightened to the point of near combustion as he fought the urge to unleash a torrent of insults upon the pitiable Nimrod. He could feel the anger frothing up within him, like a volcano on the verge of eruption. However, he steadfastly refused to give Nimrod the satisfaction of a volcanic outburst. Instead, he locked his gaze with the other’s, a silent challenge exchanged between them. “What is it that you want?” he queried, his voice dripping with icy disdain.

A twisted grin, more akin to a warped knot of wood, slowly spread across Nimrod’s emaciated face, revealing his jagged and yellowed teeth. As he spoke, his saliva dribbled and oozed from his lips in a steady stream, pooling in the dirt below him. His voice was cracked and brittle, yet somehow laden with a hint of malicious glee. Lucifer could sense that the words were cloaked with some devious intent. Nimrod’s eyes sparkled with the gleam of madness, and his grin was that of a predator stalking its prey. He leaned in closer, his fetid breath wafting over Lucifer like a noxious breeze, the stench of decay emanating from him.

“I’d be simply overjoyed to engage in some amicable banter,” Nimrod bellowed, his voice almost mocking in its sincerity. “It’s been eons since I’ve had the pleasure of unburdening my woes upon a willing listener. What a stroke of fortune that it should be you who stumbles across my path! We’re two peas in a pod, you and I.”

Nimrod’s words sliced through the air, each syllable a dagger that pierced Lucifer’s ears. The fallen angel found himself employing his wings as a makeshift shield against the relentless onslaught of Nimrod’s drool. Lucifer peered up at his towering interlocutor, feeling suddenly diminished in his presence. He couldn’t help but feel like a cornered mouse under the watchful gaze of a ravenous hawk. “You are sorely mistaken,” Lucifer retorted, his voice betraying a slight quiver. “We are nothing alike.”

“Are we not?” Nimrod countered, his tone dripping with condescension. “We both harbored grand aspirations of claiming the celestial throne for ourselves! It seems to me that you may yet have a chance to seize that lofty prize. Now that you’ve wriggled free from your infernal prison, that is.”

“I haven’t escaped just yet,” Lucifer admitted begrudgingly, his pride wounded by the reminder of his precarious predicament.

“That remains to be seen, indeed,” Nimrod hissed, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm. The fire in his eyes seemed to have been ignited by some otherworldly fuel, burning with a fervor that would make even the most passionate pyromaniac blush. Lucifer could feel the scorching heat radiating from Nimrod’s taut, emaciated frame, as if he were perilously close to being engulfed by a raging inferno. Nimrod’s fists clenched tightly, and his entire body seemed to quiver with the tension of a tightly wound spring poised to strike at any moment. The fallen angel was acutely aware of the imminent danger he faced and knew that he had to concoct a plan for a swift and stealthy escape.

Lucifer’s eyes flitted about, scanning the dismal environs of the Circle in search of a viable escape route. The sheer, treacherous walls of the chasm posed a formidable challenge, even for one of angelic origin. His thoughts of taking flight were promptly dismissed; the ever-vigilant demons patrolling this level of Hell would undoubtedly spot him in an instant. Reluctantly, he concluded that traversing the Circle on foot would afford him the best opportunity to evade detection. He turned his gaze back to Nimrod, his voice betraying a hint of trepidation as he inquired, “You’ve languished here for quite some time, I presume. Might you know of a more expeditious means of reaching the next Circle?”

Nimrod snorted derisively, clearly miffed by Lucifer’s inquiry. “So eager to abscond from my delightful abode, are you?” he retorted, his tone dripping with contempt.

“As enthralling as your humble dwelling may be,” Lucifer replied, his voice strained, “I must make haste. My brother is undoubtedly hot on my trail.”

A sinister grin, more akin to a predatory leer, once again contorted Nimrod’s haggard features, precipitating a deluge of saliva that rained down upon the hapless travelers. Cassius, finding the experience most distasteful, let loose a torrent of indignation. “You vile, repugnant oaf!” he seethed. “We deign to engage you in conversation, and this is the thanks we receive? If I had but a sword at my side, you’d soon find yourself choking on your own sanguine lifeblood!”

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