Chapter 1 - The Invitation

The world has always been nothing more than a theater of shadows: a desolate stage where the dust of conformity extinguished the spotlights, and the actors, puppets without strings, recited lines from a decaying script. Every word was an echo of centuries-old lies, every gesture a choreography of illusions. The broken laughter, the masked hatred, the cardboard loves — all choreographed to fuel the farce. And at the center, I, the spectator and prisoner, choking on the dust of the masks society insists on calling 'truth.' How much longer will we dance in this carousel of hypocrisy, pretending not to hear the creak of authenticity's bones beneath our feet? But the library was different. There, the lies lost their echo. Not because of the stories printed on the pages, but because the books, in their stillness, offered something the world could not: true silence. I didn't love them, nor did I hate them. I merely respected them because, unlike people, they did not pretend to be something they were not.

Since I was a child, I understood that truth was a burden, too heavy to carry without falling. I preferred lies — flexible, malleable, perfect instruments for shaping reality to my liking. It wasn't a pursuit of power or recognition. I didn't long for justice or redemption. I wanted control, absolute dominion over a world that insisted on deceiving me. Lying was my art, my weapon, and my shield.

But in the end, I discovered that lying to others was easy; the hard part was lying to myself. Every lie, every illusion created, was a silent cut to my own flesh. And when the blood began to spill, I realized there was no audience to applaud my pain. The fall was mine, the weight was mine, and no one came to save me.

You can build castles of lies, but only you will inhabit the ruins. The pain is yours, the fall is yours, and no one will come — persevere or rot in silence, but never expect the scars of others to justify your fear of cutting.

Life does not negotiate. You bleed alone, you rise alone, or you wither. Judging others is wasting breath on what doesn't heal your own wounds. Perseverance is not heroism — it is the cowardly refusal to give up, even knowing the world will remain cold. And in the end, only the blood that dried on your own terms matters.

My day always began the same way, a meticulously calculated routine where every gesture was yet another piece of the play I directed for myself. I woke the moment the morning light began to insinuate its presence through the cracks in the curtain, not out of necessity or desire, but out of habit. The awakening wasn't marked by dreams or reveries; it was dry, like a page turned with no purpose.

In the bathroom, the mirror returned a reflection I never bothered to examine closely. The face, tired but not worn, bore the marks of sleepless nights and relentless thoughts. I brushed my teeth slowly, staring into the void, as the water ran down the sink like a river without destination. The shower came next, not to purify the body, but to temporarily numb it, muffling the inner noises with the sound of falling water.

Breakfast was a ritual without pleasure. There was no rush or indulgence, just the functionality of keeping the body moving. Bread, black coffee, the occasional piece of fruit — all chewed mechanically, without taste or relevance. It was like fueling a machine to keep it running, without caring about the type of fuel.

Afterward, I dressed in the same monotony. The clothes were always neutral, without color or style that revealed personality. The world may have been a stage, but I preferred to be an invisible extra. Yet, before leaving the room, there was a moment of hesitation. An instant where I looked around, observing the disheveled bed, the books stacked on the floor, and the empty glass left on the nightstand. It felt as though I were perpetually on the brink of something, but never knowing what.

In the library, the world finally silenced its noisy farce. It was there I breathed, even if only superficially. My desk was a personal fortress: dark wood, with marks of time that told stories I would never hear. On it lay a stack of books chosen with precision, a notebook I rarely used, and a glass of wine, almost always by my side. Wine had been a constant for years, a small indulgence that made reading smoother. But that day, while reading Ego and Archetype, I realized it no longer gave me anything. The glass, with its ruby liquid, seemed an empty accessory, a symbol of a pleasure I no longer recognized.

I took a sip, trying to force a memory of the taste, but it was merely sour and purposeless. I pushed the glass aside, and with an almost irritated gesture, grabbed the water glass next to it. The simplicity of the water felt more honest. It didn't pretend to be something it wasn't, unlike the wine, which promised a pleasure that never arrived.

I returned to the book. Jung's words danced on the page, and for a moment, I lost myself in them. The concept of the "Self" as something greater than the ego was an idea that provoked me. Was it possible for something to exist beyond the masks we wear? The answer seemed to slip away, like all truths. But I wasn't there to find it. I was there because the silence of the books reminded me that, as long as I read, the world outside would remain trapped in its grotesque performance, without me. And that was enough.

One night, like so many others, the library was empty. There was nothing but the constant hum of fluorescent lights, illuminating rows of shelves that seemed to rise to infinity. My steps echoed in a space I knew so well it became tedious. Cataloging books was an almost automatic task, a repetitive dance without music, without purpose, but it was my routine. Until he appeared.

The book had no presence, yet it was impossible to ignore. It was there, at the center of an abandoned table, as if it had always belonged there and yet, at the same time, had not. Its black leather cover looked like something taken from a feverish dream, pulsing with a vitality that defied reason. There was no title, author, or mark of origin. It was an enigma that seemed to watch me, even without eyes.

Approaching it wasn't a choice. It was a necessity. A magnet pulling me, not out of curiosity, but something deeper, almost visceral. My fingers hesitated for a brief second before touching its warm, almost alive surface. And the moment I did, the world around me collapsed.

There is no metaphor that can capture what happened. It was like being torn into fragments, each part of me crossing a whirlwind of darkness and fire. Memories I had buried were ripped from their tomb. Secrets I barely knew existed surfaced, like monsters emerging from a black lake. The book didn't transport me; it devoured me.

When I finally opened my eyes, the ground was no longer solid. I was in Hell. Not a figurative or psychological Hell, but the true one. Flames danced around me, and the air weighed with the weight of a thousand condemnations. I wasn't afraid; I was anxious about what was about to happen. The resolution to a monotonous life is surprise.

The ground was an exposed cemetery, covered with dry bones that cracked under my feet. In the distance, rivers of blood and lava ran between black mountains, their peaks disappearing into a sky made of pulsating fire and ash storms. The air was dense, filled with a heat that burned my lungs, mixed with the stench of rotten flesh and sulfur.

Souls were everywhere, twisted, screaming, fighting each other in endless cycles of violence. Men and women, or what was left of them, attacked each other with a brutality that surpassed anything I could conceive as human. Every action seemed driven by something deeper than desperation — it was as if the very essence of these people was tainted, reduced to pure predatory instinct.

I saw a man, or what seemed to have been a man, gouge out another's eyes with his own hands. Nearby, a woman with disheveled hair devoured a piece of still-bleeding human flesh, while in the distance, a group gathered in a ritualistic frenzy, dancing around a pyre where something screamed, being consumed by fire.

And in the midst of it all, I was utterly calm. I was accustomed to pain and how grotesque human cruelty was; I wasn't an ordinary person, I was amoral, not caring about common norms, and people often saw me as a monster.

"Welcome," said a voice.

I turned and saw a figure emerging from the shadows. Its body was a grotesque amalgam of forms, shifting with every moment, but its eyes remained constant: two pits of fire that seemed to pierce my soul.

"You know where you are," it continued, a smile spreading across its shifting face.

"Yes," I answered without hesitation.

"God chose you," it said, its voice echoing like thunder. "You have been chosen by Him, you have the honor—or the curse—of being here. But the question that matters is not why you were chosen. It's what you'll do now. The First Circle of the Seven is Gluttony."

I looked at the gates in the distance, towering and terrible. Carved with scenes of pain and sin, they pulsed as if alive.

"These gates lead to the heart of Hell," said the figure. "There, every sin that ever dwelled in a human heart takes form. They are your task. Free the souls they imprison, if you can. But remember: here, every choice has a price. And you are no less vulnerable than the souls you intend to save."

"What if I don't want to save anyone?"

The creature's smile widened. "Then you will just be another piece on this board, destined for the same fate as the others. Death, pain, eternity—it doesn't matter to us. But to you..." It pointed to the gates, which began to creak, slowly opening.

The sound from inside was a maddening symphony of screams and guttural laughter, a discord so shrill it felt like nails scratching the skull, threatening to shatter my fragile sanity. The air, dense with the stench of rotten flesh and burnt sulfur, squeezed my lungs with every breath, suffocating me. Yet, against all reason, my feet began to move, drawn to the horror like a moth to a flame.

I didn't hesitate. Not because I was brave, but because I knew hesitation meant weakness, and weakness had never been an option.

As the gates fully opened, I swallowed hard and murmured to myself:

"If Hell wants to consume me, let it try. But I won't be a puppet in this place."

And with that, I took my first step into Hell.

Crossing the Circle of Gluttony was falling into an abyss of self-destruction, where sin became living flesh. The damned were unrecognizable: swollen bodies, torn skin, exposed flesh drenched in rotten sweat. Every step deepened the terror—deformed hands tore pieces of flesh from others, chewing savagely, teeth sinking to the bone. Their stomachs were open, a vortex of intestines, endlessly swallowing, devouring everything until their own bodies disintegrated. Gluttony wasn't excess; it was the agony of being consumed, piece by piece, until nothing remained but the excruciating pain of existing only to lose oneself in the insatiable hunger.

The first being I encountered was Esau, a man who traded his spiritual inheritance for a bowl of lentils. He was sitting on the ground, surrounded by a massive pile of lentils boiling in an infernal cauldron. The lentils twisted like worms, but the most grotesque thing was that every time Esau tried to grab a handful, they bubbled and exploded into flames. Esau's skin, already covered in burns, split open into raw flesh every time he touched the lentils. His insatiable hunger, which in the mortal world had led him to despise his blessing, now consumed him from the inside out. "I wanted a momentary satisfaction," he said, his voice torn by pain. "Now, I am a prisoner of my own need, and still, I can never satisfy my hunger." Every lentil he tried to eat disintegrated into ash, only to regenerate in an infinite repetition of pain. Gluttony, which was once a fleeting desire, was now an endless torment, leading him into a cycle of self-sabotage that reflected the choice to despise what truly mattered.

Moving forward, I encountered Balaam, the prophet corrupted by greed and the desire for material rewards. He was at a table covered with mounds of filthy gold and piles of coins. However, every time he tried to grab a handful of gold, the coins melted, flowing through his hands as if liquid, turning into a viscous, rotten substance that seeped under his skin. He was drenched in a golden substance that burned him from within, but he kept trying to grab more. "I sought the gold, but now the gold devours me," he murmured, his eyes nearly blind from trying to grasp the emptiness. "The greed I fed on consumes me, as if I were nothing but a reflection of my own covetousness." The coins didn't bring the promised wealth, only destruction. His mouth was filled with a sticky substance, impossible to swallow, forcing him to vomit repeatedly, but still, he did not stop trying to swallow the emptiness that had become his only desire.

As I moved away, an increasing sense of discomfort surrounded me, until I came face to face with Tantalus, standing beside a lake of murky water. Before him, sweet fruits hung from the trees, but they were always out of his reach, floating in a space that seemed like a moving nightmare. Every time Tantalus tried to lean in to drink, the water retreated, pulling away from his mouth. When he reached for the fruits, they moved higher, as if mocking him. He struggled, his body sinking into the mud of the lake, the roots of the trees digging into his flesh, as if each temptation were a new pain to be felt. "Why torment me with desires I can never reach?" Tantalus cried, his voice desperate and full of frustration. "I made a horrible mistake, I killed my own son to feed the gods, but now I am a prisoner of my own hunger, unable to touch him, unable to satisfy the emptiness that consumes me." He looked like a skeleton, his skin almost disintegrating, hunger having eaten even his identity. The eternal distance between what he desired and what he could never have was his eternal punishment, a suffering deeper than mere deprivation: he desired, but he would never be able to possess, to satisfy.

As I moved away from Tantalus, an even more monstrous figure appeared. Cerberus, the three-headed dog, was devouring everything in sight. But the most horrifying part was that with each piece of flesh he swallowed, Cerberus's own body disintegrated, as if gluttony had become a poison that ate away at his flesh. One head snarled while chewing on humans, another swallowed rocks and stones, and the third, with an insatiable appetite, devoured the very fire around him. His eyes burned with a hunger that could never be satisfied, and his flesh was tearing apart, never filled. "I am hunger," Cerberus growled, his voice an echo from the three mouths. "I devour everything, but I am never fed. The hunger I feel is my eternity, an eternity without end." His mouth seemed like a chasm from Hell, each piece of meat he devoured only increasing his agony, leading him further into the destruction of his own body. He was a grotesque representation of insatiable appetite that, the more it was satisfied, the further it moved from its own identity, from the meaning of who he truly was.

Further along, I encountered Nebuchadnezzar II, the king who, in his arrogance and gluttony, was driven to madness and transformed into a bestial creature. He was in a field, eating "grass" like a cow, but his body was grotesquely distorted. His skin was covered with thick fur, and his hands, which once held scepters, were now in the shape of paws, chewing on the earth made of mortal remains. "I gave in to vanity, to power, to luxury," he said, his voice deep and muffled by the "earth" he ate. "And now, I am reduced to this. What I sought now consumes me, and my hunger will never be satisfied. I was undone by my own hunger for power." He looked at me with an empty gaze, as if he were no longer a man, but just a shadow of his own guilt. The image of the king transformed into a beast was a warning, the loss of all power when one gives in to the gluttony of ego, to the insatiable desire for more.

Finally, I encountered Henry VIII, the king who gave in to luxurious feasts and endless excesses. He was surrounded by an endless table, piled high with rotting meats and dishes that disintegrated into decay. He tried to eat, but every piece he put in his mouth instantly disintegrated into filth and decomposition. "I lived for pleasure, for banquets, for momentary satisfaction," he said, his voice muffled by the fat covering his throat. "And now, I am consumed by my own gluttony. What I sought with such effort now devours me." Each piece of food he tried to eat turned into a mass of decay, poisoning him, making him more repulsive by the second. The banquet never ended, but the pleasure he sought was always out of reach, slowly consuming him, turning him into a reflection of the very decadence he had sought in life.

And then I shouted to the men devoid of happiness:

"You are slaves to your own pleasure, swallowing pieces of lives you will never live while your body becomes a tomb of excess. Every bite is cowardice, an escape from the pain you have no courage to face. You crawl to children and women abruptly in search of flesh, gnawing in secret, filling your mouths with trash to silence the shame of who you are, and still think this is 'just a slip'. Your bodies are screaming for help, but you treat them like garbage. Every fold of fat is a monument to your weakness, a proof that you prefer the rotten comfort of a 'full plate' to the dignity of standing up and changing. You hide, but deep down you know: you are prisoners of a mouth that won't stop destroying you. And the worst part? While you waste health, time, and self-love, some of those who were saved are fighting for a chance to live and be purer—what about you? You're busy dying slowly, bite after bite. Wake up. What you call 'pleasure' is just the excuse of cowards to keep on hating yourselves. How long will you trade your own life for crumbs of false happiness?"

"You are nothing but slaves to your own appetite, unable to see beyond the plate you devour. Your hands tremble not from weakness, but from the impotence of controlling what already controls you. You are devoid of strength, of will, of humanity, reduced to empty shells that only know how to consume. And the worst part? You know this. You know that every bite is a betrayal of yourselves, every sip a deeper descent into the well of your own misery. And yet, you continue. You continue because it's easier to fill your mouth than your soul, easier to swallow than to face the emptiness that consumes you. Look at yourselves and see what you've become: no more than shadows of who you could have been, dragging yourselves through life like corpses that don't know they're already dead."

Bastards!

They don't respond, they just accept their sin and continue practicing the same.