Chapter: The Seventh Circle of the Underworld, Violence

As we reached the end of the Sixth Circle, the oppressive heat and the flickering flames behind us, I knew this wasn't the end. There were still darker places ahead, deeper sins to confront. The world of Dis was just the beginning, a prelude to the horrors that awaited us in the circles below. But even as the tombs burned and the air shimmered with the heat of suppression, a part of me clung to a glimmer of hope—hope that somewhere, somehow, the voices that had been silenced might one day rise again.

But that hope was short-lived as we descended further. The path to the Seventh Circle was rough, a chaotic mess of shattered stones and jagged rocks, as if the earth itself had been torn apart by some violent force. As we made our way down, I could feel the ground shifting beneath my feet, the instability of this place a fitting prelude to the violence that awaited us.

When we finally reached the Seventh Circle, the landscape that unfolded before us was like nothing I had ever seen. The air here was thick with tension, crackling with the energy of raw, unbridled violence. It wasn't just a physical place—it was a manifestation of the world's most brutal, savage instincts, laid bare for all to see.

As we moved deeper into this circle, the scene began to take shape around us. The violence here was not hidden in dark alleys or behind closed doors. It was on full display, played out in the open, for all the world to see. The streets were filled with people fighting, their anger and hatred spilling over into fists, kicks, and weapons. But this wasn't just a brawl—it was a performance. Cameras were everywhere, held aloft by eager hands, capturing every punch, every scream, every drop of blood. It was as if the violence itself had become a commodity, something to be packaged, sold, and consumed by a ravenous audience.

I watched in horror as people fought with a ferocity that was both terrifying and mesmerizing. They seemed to feed off the attention, the knowledge that their actions were being recorded, broadcasted, and shared across the world. There was no shame, no restraint—only the brutal, primal urge to dominate, to destroy, to be seen.

"Is this what we've become?" I asked, my voice shaking with disbelief. "People fighting in the streets, not out of necessity or survival, but for the sake of entertainment? For the sake of going viral?"

Virgil's face was grim as he nodded. "This is the world we live in now, Durante. Violence has always existed, but in this circle, it's been amplified, glorified. The fight isn't just about the physical struggle—it's about the spectacle. The cameras, the audience, the likes, the shares—they all feed the violence, encourage it. People are willing to destroy each other, just for a moment of fame, for a chance to go viral."

As we continued through the circle, the scenes of violence grew more intense, more grotesque. There were street brawls, groups of people ganging up on lone individuals, weapons flashing in the dim light as they struck with deadly precision. Blood splattered across the pavement, and the sound of fists connecting with flesh echoed in the air, a sickening rhythm that seemed to drive the chaos forward.

But it wasn't just the fighting that horrified me—it was the way it was being consumed. Everywhere I looked, people were watching through their screens, their eyes glued to the violence as if it were the most captivating show they'd ever seen. Some were recording, others were live-streaming, their faces lit up with excitement, with the thrill of being part of something so raw, so real. They weren't just bystanders—they were participants, complicit in the violence by their very presence, by their need to capture and share every brutal moment.

"They glorify it," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the cacophony of violence. "They glorify the violence, turn it into entertainment, into something to be admired and emulated. It's like the more violent, the more brutal it is, the more they crave it."

Virgil's expression hardened. "Violence has always had a dark allure, Durante. But in this modern world, with the power of social media, it's taken on a new form. It's not just about the act itself—it's about the reaction, the audience, the attention. The more extreme, the more shocking, the better. It feeds a cycle of violence, where people push themselves to go further, to be more vicious, because that's what gets noticed, that's what gets rewarded."

I shook my head, trying to make sense of it all. "But what about the consequences? Don't they care about the damage they're doing, to themselves, to others?"

Virgil sighed, his eyes heavy with the weight of the truth. "In this circle, the consequences don't matter. It's all about the moment, about being seen, about making an impact. The violence is the point, and the destruction it causes is just collateral damage. And the worst part is, it doesn't end here. The violence spreads, infecting others, encouraging more of the same. It becomes a cycle, one that's nearly impossible to break."

As we moved deeper into the Seventh Circle, I could see the truth of his words playing out before me. The violence wasn't just confined to these streets—it was spreading, seeping into every corner of society. The more it was watched, the more it was shared, the more it grew, feeding on itself like a ravenous beast.

As we ventured further into the Seventh Circle, the landscape of violence stretched out before us, a dark and twisted reflection of our world. But what struck me most wasn't just the brutality of the physical fights; it was the way that violence was being stoked, amplified, and exploited by those who controlled the flow of information. The media had become the master of this circle, not just reporting on the violence but actively fueling it, turning every clash, every brawl, every moment of chaos into a spectacle for the masses.

Virgil and I walked through streets that were littered with the aftermath of countless battles—shattered glass, pools of blood, and the broken bodies of those who had been caught in the fray. But above it all, like a toxic cloud hanging over the city, was the constant buzz of social media. Everywhere I looked, screens flickered with images of violence, the latest riot, the most recent confrontation between opposing groups. And it wasn't just being shown—it was being celebrated, dissected, analyzed, and, worst of all, encouraged.

I stopped in front of a large digital billboard, its surface alive with a montage of violent clips. Fights in the streets, people smashing windows, mobs setting fire to cars and buildings. The footage was raw and unfiltered, captured by countless cell phones held aloft by eager hands, desperate to be the first to share the chaos with the world. Each punch, each kick, each explosion of violence was replayed over and over, looped endlessly as if to imprint it on the minds of anyone watching.

"They're feeding on it," I muttered, my voice thick with disgust. "They're not just showing what's happening—they're making it worse. They're turning violence into entertainment."

Virgil nodded, his expression grim. "The media has always had power, Durante. But in this age, that power has been twisted. The more sensational the story, the more clicks, the more views, the more money they make. And nothing sells better than violence."

As we continued walking, I could hear the voices of commentators, their tones excited, almost gleeful, as they described the latest clashes. They weren't just reporting on the events—they were fanning the flames, pitting one side against the other, turning every disagreement, every protest, into a potential flashpoint. They didn't just want to tell the story; they wanted to create it, to be the spark that ignited the fire.

"Look at this," one voice said, the words dripping with anticipation. "Another protest turned violent today as tensions between opposing groups reached a boiling point. It seems like these conflicts are only escalating. What do you think, should we expect more of this in the coming days?"

Another voice chimed in, equally charged. "Absolutely. People are angry, and they're not backing down. It's only a matter of time before things really explode. This is just the beginning."

I felt a wave of nausea as I listened, the realization sinking in that this wasn't about informing the public—it was about inciting them. The media wasn't just covering the violence; it was provoking it, pushing people to the brink, knowing that the more chaos there was, the more content they would have to share.

We passed another screen, this one showing a live stream of a riot. The camera was shaky, the person holding it clearly caught in the middle of the action. People were throwing rocks, smashing windows, setting fire to cars. The sound of breaking glass and screaming voices filled the air, a cacophony of rage and destruction. And in the corner of the screen, I could see the number of viewers climbing higher and higher, the comments section filling up with messages of support, encouragement, and even more violence.

"This is what they want," Virgil said, his voice tinged with sadness. "They want people to fight, to destroy, because it keeps the cycle going. It keeps the audience engaged, keeps the views coming in. And the more people watch, the more they feel like they're part of it, like they're justified in their anger, in their actions."

I could see it now, the insidious way the media was manipulating the violence, turning it into a self-perpetuating machine. Each act of brutality was shared, amplified, and glorified, inspiring others to follow suit, to take to the streets, to add their own voice to the chaos. And it wasn't just the physical violence—it was the conversations, the debates, the arguments that were being stirred up, pitting people against each other in a never-ending cycle of outrage.

"They're not just reporting," I said, my voice thick with anger. "They're orchestrating. They're pulling the strings, making sure that people keep fighting, keep tearing each other apart, because it makes them money."

Virgil sighed, his eyes heavy with the weight of the truth. "It's a dangerous game they're playing, Durante. But it's one that's been going on for a long time. The difference now is the reach, the speed. With social media, with the internet, everything happens in real-time. The moment something happens, it's out there for the world to see, to react to, to add fuel to the fire."

As we continued our grim journey through the Seventh Circle, the violence we'd witnessed on the streets began to take on an even darker, more terrifying dimension. The individual acts of brutality we'd seen—the fights, the riots, the bloodshed—were just the beginning. The violence was no longer confined to personal vendettas or street-level chaos. It was growing, spreading like a virus, fueled by the very platforms that were supposed to connect us, bringing the world to the brink of total destruction.

The more we walked, the more I realized that this wasn't just about people hurting each other in the streets. It was about something much bigger, something far more dangerous. Social media, the very tool that had been designed to bridge gaps and foster understanding, had become a weapon of mass destruction in its own right. The violence it stirred wasn't just physical—it was ideological, national, and global.

Everywhere I looked, screens were filled with images of war. Not the sanitized, distant images you might expect, but up-close, visceral footage that showed the true horror of conflict. Tanks rolling through city streets, missiles being launched from hidden silos, soldiers firing at enemies they could barely see. The violence wasn't just being reported—it was being glorified, turned into a spectacle that people couldn't tear their eyes away from.

I stopped in front of a massive digital billboard, the images flashing in rapid succession—a missile streaking through the sky, a fighter jet roaring over a battlefield, explosions lighting up the night like fireworks. But the captions that accompanied these images were what truly sickened me. They weren't somber reflections on the cost of war—they were celebrations, cheers for the power and might of the weapons being used. "Watch this missile obliterate its target!" one headline screamed. "Check out the firepower of this new tank!" another boasted. The weapons of war were being marketed like toys, their destructive capabilities turned into selling points, their use in real conflicts a source of pride rather than shame.

"This is madness," I muttered, my voice trembling with anger and disbelief. "They're turning war into entertainment. They're making people excited about killing, about destruction. How can this be happening?"

Virgil, walking beside me, looked at the screen with a heavy heart. "It's the nature of the beast, Durante," he said quietly. "Social media, the news, the talking heads—they're all part of the same cycle. They're not just reporting on the violence—they're feeding it, glorifying it, making it seem like war is something to be celebrated rather than feared."

As we moved deeper into the circle, I began to hear the voices of those who had taken up the mantle of spreading this twisted message. The talking heads, the commentators, the so-called experts who were always on hand to dissect every move, every decision, every conflict. Their voices dripped with certainty, with conviction, as they laid out the positions of the nations involved in these growing conflicts. But there was no talk of peace, no discussion of compromise or understanding. All they did was stir the pot, fanning the flames of enmity, making it seem as though war was the only option left.

"This is a battle we can't afford to lose," one voice declared, the screen showing a map with nations divided by bold, red lines. "Our enemies are gaining ground, and if we don't strike now, we'll be left in the dust."

Another voice chimed in, just as strident. "There's no room for negotiation here. We've reached a point of no return. The only thing they understand is strength, and we have to show them we're not afraid to use it."

I felt a cold dread settle in my stomach as I listened. These weren't just opinions—they were calls to action, demands for escalation. And the people watching, the millions glued to their screens, were eating it up, nodding along, agreeing, calling for more, more, more.

"This is how it happens," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "This is how we end up in a war no one wants, because they're making it seem like there's no other choice. They're pushing people, pushing nations, until there's no way out but violence."

Virgil nodded, his face lined with sorrow. "The leaders of the world are driven by the will of the people, and when the people are whipped into a frenzy, when they're made to believe that war is the only solution, the leaders have no choice but to follow. It's a dangerous cycle, one that's all too easy to fall into. And once it starts, it's almost impossible to stop."

As we walked, the scenes of violence escalated. The skirmishes we'd seen before were nothing compared to what was happening now. Entire cities were being reduced to rubble, nations torn apart by conflict. The talking heads kept up their relentless commentary, never letting up, never offering a way out. The world was being driven to the brink, and no one seemed willing or able to pull back.

And then, the ultimate horror—images of nuclear warheads being prepped, silos opening, the ominous countdowns beginning. The screens flashed with maps of the world, targets highlighted in bright red, the paths of the missiles plotted out like some grotesque game. But this was no game. This was real, and the consequences were unthinkable.

I stopped in my tracks, staring at the screens in disbelief. "They're actually going to do it," I said, my voice hollow. "They're going to push us into nuclear war."

Virgil's hand rested on my shoulder, his touch a small comfort in the face of such overwhelming terror. "This is where the cycle of violence leads, Durante. When the voices of reason are drowned out by the calls for war, when the glorification of weapons becomes more important than the lives they destroy, this is the end result. And it's all happening because people can't—or won't—see another way."

The countdowns continued, the talking heads kept up their endless chatter, and the people watching, the ones who had been whipped into a frenzy by the media, were cheering it on, calling for the final, devastating blow. It was as if the world had gone mad, and there was no one left to stop it.

But as I stood there, watching the inevitable unfold, a thought occurred to me. This was the ultimate form of violence, the final act in a play that had been building for years, fueled by anger, by fear, by the relentless push for more power, more control. But it didn't have to end this way. There had to be another way, a way to break the cycle, to stop the violence before it consumed us all.

I turned to Virgil, my voice shaking but resolute. "We have to find a way to stop this. We can't just stand by and let it happen."

Virgil's eyes met mine, filled with a quiet determination. "Then let's keep going, Durante. There's still time. The journey isn't over yet, and as long as we keep moving, as long as we keep searching for another path, there's hope."

I nodded, steeling myself for the road ahead. The images of war, of violence, of a world on the brink of destruction, still played out on the screens around us, but I refused to let them define what was possible. There had to be a way to change course, to find a solution that didn't involve tearing the world apart. And as long as there was a chance, no matter how small, I was determined to find it.