Chapter 2 - The Valley of Gluttony

Looking back, lights constantly descended from the sky, announcing the arrival of new souls, for God was about to pass His divine judgment.

Hell was a gallery of human horrors. It was not just the result of suffering, but an amplified and distorted reflection of humanity's darkest deeds. The pulsating walls of flesh were not merely organic; they were made of living bodies, forcibly stitched together in an eternal cycle of regeneration and destruction. Men and women merged, twisted like sculptures crafted by a mad god. Some still breathed, groaning in agony, while shattered hands emerged from the seams, trying to break free.

A viscous swamp of decaying matter. The earth was dark and muddy, swallowed by a dense fog of rot and putrefaction. The ground, covered in rotting food remains, was hailed by the damned, engulfed in a desperate and cruel hunger. But the damned could never satiate themselves, for the food was always changing, always slippery, escaping from their hands like a cruel mockery. They fought one another, crawling through the filth to bite pieces of rotten flesh or swallow dirty liquids that tortured them.

The bodies of the sinners were deformed and bloated, like balloons of flesh and fat, their faces distorted by infinite hunger. Their stomachs were swollen and sagging, yet they continued to burn with a hunger that never ceased, for the cycle of gluttony is eternal, a torture that is never satisfied. They swallowed incessantly, but found no pleasure, only a deeper emptiness, a thirst that deepened with each failed attempt at comfort.

As I walked through the circle of gluttony, various men came at me, trying to devour my flesh. By luck, I emerged unscathed, and in the background, I heard brutal sounds: the cracking of bones being broken, the nauseating sound of throats being torn apart in the attempt to swallow, the muffled screams of hopelessness and frustration. At times, grotesque creatures fed on their own limbs, eating and regurgitating, rejoicing in the decay of their own bodies. The flesh they consumed no longer offered relief, only a cycle of self-destruction, as if each piece ingested were an even harsher punishment.

Among these grotesque figures, a group of children appeared, or rather, what was left of them. Their empty eyes reflected no longer innocence but an ancient pain, a loss that transcended death. They were emaciated bodies, deformed by hunger, with exposed bones and stretched skin barely covering their shattered structures. Their features were unrecognizable, and their small fingers, now claws, stretched out toward me with a longing that surpassed reason. They were no longer children but echoes of suffering. There was something profoundly philosophical in their existence: they had been consumed before they even died, were they from a madhouse or an orphanage? It didn't matter… like souls that belong to the abyss, who never knew satiety and, now, had become wandering pieces of meat, eager to swallow what was left of life.

They lunged at me, a frantic mass of bones and viscera, with an inhuman growl that echoed throughout the circle. There was no difference between them and the beasts that haunt the worst nightmares. Like beings torn from a world where compassion no longer existed, they attacked me with animalistic violence, their grotesque mouths wide open, ready to tear my flesh. I stared at them, not with fear, but with the coldness of one who understands that here, in hell, death is not a solution—it's just a piece of endless torture.

With a gesture, I grabbed one of the children, so light it seemed like a puppet made of flesh and bones, and with a swift motion, I threw the others aside. They fell with a crack, swallowed by a boiling lake of fire and poison that bubbled like a miniature hell. The scorching flames devoured their bodies instantly, but death did not free them. Instead, they were consumed by an eternal fire, an unending cycle of suffering where pain never ends. Their screams were lost in the chaos of the abyss, their torn souls merged with the fire, and I felt nothing but the inevitable weight of an empty existence.

The remaining child, a pale and lifeless figure, looked at me with eyes that begged for mercy I could not offer. She was condemned, she pleaded with all the compassion that remained within her. Without hesitation, I ripped her skin off with my bare hands, tearing it with the brutality of a predator who no longer knew the difference between pain and pleasure. The shredded flesh came off with a sound of raw meat being torn apart, and the blood, hot and thick, poured into my hands like a river of sin. There was no struggle. Her life was extinguished the moment her flesh was torn apart, her body transformed into something so grotesque that not a fragment of her humanity remained.

I killed not just a human being, but the last spark of compassion that could have existed there. By tearing her skin, a symbol of her own loss, I turned it into a trophy, a bag where, with sadistic precision, I placed the still-pulsing, still-warm pieces of flesh. The corpse was no more than soulless meat, a grotesque sculpture that would accompany me on my journey. I heard that child screaming and agonizing in pain, but my philosophy was logic— I cannot survive here without killing others. What remained there, after the last breath of life, was a body that became only matter, something with no value except its ability to feed the emptiness.

In hell, death is not just an end, but a transfiguration. Hunger is an omnipotent entity that consumes both flesh and soul. Gluttony is not a simple need, but a philosophy of the abyss, an eternal principle of destruction that surpasses the desire for satisfaction. Desire is never satisfied, because the emptiness inside us can never be filled. I was left with the feeling that, in that place, souls do not die, but are deconstructed and reconfigured, turned into pieces of a great grotesque puzzle.

As I walked further, I saw.

Gluttons, with their mouths deformed from so much eating, were walking toward a source of food—but it was not just any food. What lay before them were hellish flames, a fire that seemed to have a life of its own, always dancing and transforming, but never consuming. When they tried to bite, the fire burned their mouths and tongues, as if a living fire had taken the place of food. The suffering was immediate and brutal, but the cruelest part was that, even burning their mouths and stomachs, the hunger never disappeared. The pain mixed with hunger, creating an insane cycle: always wanting more, but never being able to satisfy the desire.

As they struggled to eat, the gluttons were forced to swallow rotten food, withered and decayed vegetables, covered in dirt, infected, and tainted with poisons. Each piece consumed brought no relief. On the contrary, the food dissolved in their throats, releasing toxins and festering wounds that spread through their bodies. Their flesh rotted, and open sores appeared where pleasure once had been. They tried again, driven by the hunger that never ends, but with each attempt, the pain grew. The putrid, poisonous taste ate away at their organs, but the persistent emptiness within them did not cease. They could never stop eating because hunger consumed them more than the suffering itself.

Looking around, the scene was a sea of pain and despair. Many other gluttons were scattered, all in similar situations, their faces distorted by pain, their hands trembling as they tried to eat more, always hoping for a satisfaction that would never come. They screamed in agony, but the echoes of their voices were lost in the vastness of hell, as if the very environment had swallowed them.

To my left, I saw a mother holding the corpse of a child, both fused together by a misshapen tissue that pulsed as if alive. Her hands were buried in the child's chest, removing organs to consume. Her eyes showed no guilt, only desperation, as if this was the only way to continue existing.

Further ahead, men and women were chained to iron chairs. Mechanical arms fed them continuously with pieces of searing flesh ripped from other damned souls. They screamed, but did not stop chewing, even as their mouths bled. The metal burned their skin, and the flesh they swallowed seemed to regenerate them just to begin the cycle anew.

In the center of this spectacle of brutality, grotesque sculptures made of human flesh stood tall. They were not simple statues, but living works, fed by rivers of blood that flowed from open veins in the ground. Each sculpture represented acts committed by humans in life: genocides, betrayals, excesses. One depicted a figure with multiple arms holding severed heads, its eyes still moving, while a cascade of blood poured from its open mouth.

Around these sculptures, a group of human figures worked tirelessly. They were not demons, but human souls forced to carve others as punishment for their crimes. I saw a man using a chisel made of bone to cut a piece of living flesh from a woman who screamed. He did not hesitate; his hands trembled, but he kept going, as if he knew that stopping would result in something worse.

The demons were not the executioners here. It was humans who did the work. Those hands, those minds, were the same ones that, in life, had created weapons, exploited others, or consumed the world without limits. Now, they were condemned to turn their own species into grotesque art, each piece a reminder of what they had done or allowed to be done

I climb over a pile of broken bones and watch the spectacle. Those who were once powerful now crawl, sinking into the mud of their own evil. Each one of them has a story of betrayal, of blood spilled, of trust destroyed. They all thought they were invincible, with their golden crowns stained with dirt. They might smile, but their eyes say otherwise. They are rotten inside. The pain they caused is now turning against them, and it's delicious.

And I, with a voice as sharp as glass blades, do not hesitate.

"Attention, rotten minds of this hell..."

All of you who thought you could trample souls to rise in the world: If you are capable of crushing dreams, betraying trusts, and tearing pieces of those who cross your path just to feed your ego, know that you are not strong — you are despicable. Your ambition is not grand, it is cowardly. Every life you crushed, every tear you ignored, every lie you wore as truth… all of it doesn't prove your power, but reveals the emptiness of who you are. You are a monster disguised as human, a shadow that believes it is the sun.

While you celebrate your 'victories,' remember: what you call victory is just the rotten smell of everything you destroyed. You can even deceive the world with fake smiles, but in the silence of your conscience, you know that your name is written in blood in the scars you've left. You are the living proof that there are people so devoid of humanity that they can breathe while rotting from the inside.

And when the mirror finally shows you who you really are — not a winner, but a parasite surviving off others' pain — maybe you'll understand: no trophy, no compliment, no success will fill the hole you dug in your own soul. You will be remembered not for what you built, but for what you killed in yourself and in others. And in the end, when everything crumbles, all that will remain is the echo of the voices you silenced… and the deafening silence of knowing you did it for nothing."

And when you finally realize this... there will be no one left. No one to admire your false victories, no one to remember the trophies you accumulated at the cost of shattered lives. Only the deafening silence of your own damnation will remain.

"This is not a judgment, it's a shattered mirror, spitting back the filth you call a soul! God is ashamed to have you as creation! Humans with rotten souls! You are so miserable, so unworthy, that even death dares not end this repulsive existence!"

When I finally reached the valley, the sight became even more hideous. The ground was made of human fat, slippery and fetid, and the rivers running through it were filled with a yellowish, thick liquid that boiled with the heat of hell itself. Trees made of bones protruded, their branches adorned with pieces of flesh dripping blood. Beneath these trees, human creatures crawled like animals, devouring the remains that fell.

I walked through the valley like a king without a kingdom, but with a throne made of abysses. The human fat that formed the ground slipped beneath my feet, but I did not fall. Not because I was strong, but because emptiness does not fall — it is the ground. The smell of decay was unbearable for any living being, but for me? It was a sweet melody, a grotesque chant echoing inside my skull, a symphony made for one who has never belonged anywhere.

I looked at the rivers of yellowish liquid boiling, spitting bubbles that burst with a sound that seemed like distorted laughter. Those creatures crawled beneath the bone trees, clutching pieces of rotting meat as if they were grabbing salvation. I smiled, not out of contempt, but understanding.

"You cling to pieces of decay as if there's some meaning in it," I said, my voice low, almost as if I were speaking to old friends. "But what's worse? Eating the flesh or being the piece that falls? You crawl to feed a cycle that leads nowhere. And you want to know the truth? It's beautiful. Because it's empty. Because it's nothing."

I approached a tree, running my hand over the twisted bones. The blood dripping onto my skin was warm, almost comforting.

"The emptiness doesn't lie. It doesn't promise anything, it doesn't hide anything. That's why I like it. You? You prefer the deception of humans, the sweet scent of hope that rots faster than flesh. The emptiness has never betrayed me. It never promised me love, redemption, or purpose. And that's why I worship it."

I knelt beside one of the creatures crawling, its hollow eyes like caverns, its bony hands trying to reach a piece of meat that was too far away. It looked at me, and I felt the lack of soul within it. That should repulse me, but instead: I envied it.

"You and I aren't so different," I whispered, leaning my face closer to theirs. "But you still cling. You crawl. And me? I accept. There's nothing for me, nothing for you. And that's exactly why I win. Because nothing is pure. Nothing is perfect. Nothing doesn't decompose."

I stood up, surveying the valley, feeling the heat of the boiling liquid on my feet and the smell of decay burning my nose.

"If fate wants to erase me, it won't find anything to erase. Because I already am what it tries to make me: a vacuum. And hell? Hell has no power over me. If it wants to deny me, I will do it first. I will deny hell to the point where it consumes itself, turns to dust. If emptiness can be absolute, then I am the emptiness walking."

My laughter echoed, a grotesque distortion that didn't match the scene — and maybe that's exactly why it was so perfect.

"I am what's left when God tires of playing. I am the echo that remains when even sound gives up. And you? You crawl towards nothing. I walk towards it."

My laughter reverberated through the valley in an uncontrolled frenzy. Any being inhabiting that place would see me as a madman, but that's not what I was. I was the absence of everything, the absolute emptiness, and that made me unique. Unique? But how can I be something if I am nothing? Ah, that's right... nothing is the only concept that doesn't require meaning because it is devoid of anything. It is simply... nothing! Hahahahaha!