Chapter 3 - The First Sin

The Hell was not just horrific; it was a tangible nightmare, designed to swallow the soul slowly. Every fragment of this place was an affront to humanity. The ground was a network of shattered bones, sharp as blades, piercing with every step, releasing muffled screams from forgotten bodies. Each skull that looked at me had no life, but its empty sockets still carried the pain of those who were forgotten before their suffering ended.

The "walls," if we can even call them that, were abysses around me, made of pulsating, black flesh, as if Hell were a living organism, breathing at an insane rhythm, ready to devour anything that dared to touch it. Rivers of lava didn't flow; they oozed like coagulated blood, winding over mountains of intertwined bodies, whose limbs twisted and contorted in a dance of agony, their mouths open in silent screams, as if even sound was a luxury denied to them.

The sky? A cruel joke. A whirlwind of flames and shadows that formed distorted faces for an instant, only to dissolve into a muffled scream, as if even death itself couldn't satisfy the despair that permeated this place. Stealthy gazes hunted me, eyes that, for a second, sought comfort but got lost in the explosion of fire that consumed them.

The air was heavy, thick with the nauseating stench of rotting, burnt flesh, as if every molecule of Hell was a foul, stubborn reminder, impossible to escape. It wasn't the kind of smell that dissipated. It was the kind that embedded itself in the skin, sunk deep into the flesh and the mind, like a torture that never ceases.

And there I was, walking with an emptiness in my chest that no suffering could fill. Each step was another confirmation: this place was a work, a cruel work of art, and I was not there to be the victim of the story. I would be the executor.

But then, I had a thought, about what I was, what I meant, what I am?

Hell is a brutal lesson that no book ever managed to teach me. Here, there are no metaphors, no room for elegant abstractions or hidden meanings. Everything is visceral, direct, and cruelly honest. It is a world stripped of masks, of illusions, of ideals. Every step I take on this pulsating ground, every breath I draw into my lungs, is a reminder of something I always avoided admitting: nothing has value.

Value. A word that once seemed solid, full of purpose, but now dissolves like blood in the fetid waters around me. What does value mean here? Does the flesh I chew have value because it sustains my life, or because it was once part of something that once breathed, that once thought? This question haunts me, but the answer is always the same: nothing is worth more than the hunger I carry. There is no intrinsic, no superiority. There is only the emptiness and the struggle to fill it with anything—even if it's blood, flesh, or lies I tell myself.

My mind twists in search of meaning, but the more I try to find something, the more I realize that meaning is a fragile construct, something we invent to avoid going mad in the absolute chaos of existence. Here, where the walls breathe and the air is thick with the rot of eternity, every philosophy I've carried seems like a joke. Thinkers who spent their lives searching for universal truths never stepped into this place. They never felt the hunger that tears at the gut, never had to choose between chewing human flesh or dying. And how can they speak about morality? About purpose? About value?

I don't believe in them anymore. I don't believe in their words. Here, the only purpose is to continue. Continue, even when the body wants to give up. Continue, even when the mind screams that it's all useless. Continue because stopping is admitting defeat, and to defeat oneself is to get lost completely in the emptiness that lurks in every corner of this Hell.

And perhaps the emptiness is the only truth. It's in everything. It's in me. It always has been. It is the one who devours the meaning of things, who turns life into a game without rules or end. And when everything is empty, what remains? Morality? Philosophy? These are luxuries, artifices created by those who never had to face the grotesque, the absolute, the real.

I am no longer a man of morality. Perhaps I never was. But here, in the midst of blood and flesh, I realize that even the concept of morality is something to be torn away, discarded, like dead skin. If morality is what defines us, then what are we when it's removed? Hell gave me the answer: we are nothing but survivors. Animals pretending to be more than that, but deep down, we're driven by the same basic instincts. Hunger. Fear. Pain.

But then, if we are all just survivors, what makes us different? The cruel truth is that there is no difference. There is no superiority in being human, in being conscious, in thinking. Thinking doesn't save us. Feeling doesn't redeem us. Only the act of continuing—no matter how we crawl, how we bleed, how we chew something that was once alive—is what keeps us. Not because it has value, but because it's all we can do.

And I? What am I now? A librarian? A man? Or just another manifestation of the emptiness that rules this place? The only certainty I have left is that amorality is not a choice; it is the natural condition. Here, there is no right or wrong, only need. There is no goodness or evil, only action. And perhaps, in the end, that is the truth we've always avoided: life is an abyss without morality, and we dance on the edge, pretending that there is something more than nothing.

Hell didn't change me. It just removed the veil.

In the distance, a guttural voice struck me, as if made of a thousand distorted echoes, a hissing roar that made the air vibrate. It came from a valley where the ground seemed to disintegrate, swallowing everything that approached, as if it were a black hole of decomposition.

"He is near," the shadow beside me murmured, appearing out of nowhere.

It was the demon who had greeted me at the entrance, with eyes red as glowing coals and a smile that looked more like a deep cut.

"Who?" I asked, not taking my eyes off the horizon.

"The first sin. Gluttony."

The word sounded like a warning, but I felt no fear. I only felt a growing fervor, an anticipation of what was to come. Gluttony was not just an insatiable desire for food. It was the voracity of everything that could be consumed. The desire to swallow not just the body, but the essence, the soul. And I knew: in this place, every sin was more than a concept. It was flesh and blood. It was a living monstrosity.

"What is he?"

The demon tilted his head as if amused by my doubt. "Gluttony is a hunger that can never be satisfied. An infinite, insane desire. He will devour what you are, not what you have. He will take your soul, your essence, until you become nothing."

"Defeating a capital sin, maybe it's not so hard," I muttered, my voice cold, indifferent to the warning.

The demon laughed. "You're confident, boy. That will make you even tastier for him."

I ignored the provocation. I looked at my hands, feeling my fingers stretch, searching for a strength that didn't exist. I didn't need weapons; the mind was always sharper than any blade.

"How do I defeat something that never satisfies?"

"You don't defeat it," he said, with sick satisfaction. "You negotiate. You deceive. Or you let yourself be consumed, but no one's ever managed that."

I knew he wanted me to give in, to be swallowed by the despair of this place. But I wasn't a victim. I wasn't here to play by the rules of Hell.

"Then show me the way."

The demon extended his hand, pointing to the valley ahead. The ground there moved, melting into a viscous, fetid fat, slippery like the darkness that permeated the air. Grotesque structures of bones and flesh rose, twisted, like dead trees in a forest of pain. In the center, a colossal shape moved, a shadow that merged with the mist, still indistinct, but with its monstrous presence.

"He knows you're coming," the demon said, a cruel smile forming on his face. "And he is... waiting."

Without another word, I began to descend. The heat was unbearable, the air hot as the breath of a predator. The ground beneath me sucked me in with every step, trying to swallow my feet as if it were a warning of what was to come.

As I approached, a low, hungry voice echoed in my mind. It wasn't the demon's, nor mine, but a primitive voice, a murmur of insatiable desire that froze me inside:

"You're already mine. You've always been mine."

I smiled, feeling the tension rise. "We'll see who devours who."

I was excited; it was the first time I'd fight against a capital sin, it doesn't happen every day!