Chapter 3 - The First Sin

Hell was not just horrifying; it was a tangible nightmare, designed to slowly consume the soul. Every fragment of this place was an affront to humanity. The ground was a web of shattered bones, sharp as blades, piercing with every step, releasing muffled screams from forgotten bodies. Each skull staring at me was lifeless, yet its empty sockets still carried the pain of those abandoned before their suffering ended.

The "walls," if they could even be called that, were made of pulsating, blackened flesh, as if Hell itself were a living organism, breathing in a deranged rhythm, ready to devour anything that dared to touch it. Rivers of lava didn't flow; they oozed, like coagulated blood, slithering over mountains of intertwined bodies, their limbs twisting and writhing in a dance of agony. Their mouths hung open in silent screams, as if even sound were a luxury denied to them.

And the sky? A cruel joke. A whirlwind of flames and shadows formed faces distorted in agony for a moment, only to dissolve into muffled wails, as though even death itself could not satiate the despair saturating the place. Glimpses of furtive eyes hunted me, seeking solace for a fleeting second before being consumed by eruptions of fire.

The air was heavy, saturated with the nauseating stench of burning, rotting flesh, as if every molecule of Hell was a fetid, unrelenting reminder impossible to escape. It wasn't the kind of smell that dissipates. It was the kind that embedded itself into the skin, burrowed into the flesh and mind, like a torment that never ends.

And there I was, walking with a hollow in my chest that no suffering could ever fill. Each step confirmed one thing: this place was a work, a cruel masterpiece, and I wasn't here to be the story's victim. I would be the executioner.

But then, a thought crossed my mind: what was I? What did I mean? What am I?

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

Value. A word that once seemed solid, full of purpose, now dissolves like blood in the putrid 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 breathed, that 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 worth, no superiority. There is only the void and the struggle to fill it with anything—blood, flesh, or the lies I tell myself.

My mind twists in search of meaning, but the more I try to find something, the more I realize meaning is a fragile construct, something we invent to avoid madness in the face of the absolute chaos of existence. Here, where the walls breathe and the air reeks of eternal decay, every philosophy I once held seems like a joke. Thinkers who spent their lives seeking universal truths never set foot in this place. They never felt the hunger tearing at their insides, never had to choose between chewing human flesh or dying. So how can they speak of morality? Of purpose? Of value?

I no longer believe in them. I don't believe in their words. Here, the only purpose is to continue. To continue even when the body wants to give up. To continue even when the mind screams that it's all pointless. To continue because stopping is admitting defeat, and to defeat oneself is to be completely lost in the void lurking in every corner of this hell.

And maybe the void is the only truth. It's in everything. It's in me. It always has been. It devours the meaning of things, turning 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've never faced the grotesque, the absolute, the real.

I am no longer a moral man. Perhaps I never was. But here, amidst the blood and flesh, I realize even the concept of morality is something to be stripped away, discarded like dead skin. If morality defines us, then what are we when it's removed? Hell gave me the answer: we are mere survivors. Animals pretending to be more, but ultimately driven by the same basic impulses. Hunger. Fear. Pain.

But if we're all just survivors, what sets us apart? The cruel truth is, there is no difference. There's 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—crawling, bleeding, even chewing what was once alive—keeps us going. Not because it has value, but because it's all we can do.

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

Hell hasn't changed me. It has only removed the veil.

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

"He's close," the shadow beside me murmured, appearing from nowhere.

It was the demon who had greeted me at the entrance, with eyes as red as burning coals and a smile more like a deep wound.

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

"The first sin. Gluttony."

The word sounded like a warning, but I didn't feel fear. I felt only a growing fervor, an anticipation of what was to come. Gluttony wasn't just an insatiable desire for food. It was the voracity for everything one could consume. The hunger to devour 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. A living monstrosity.

"What is it?"

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

"Defeating a cardinal sin might not be so hard," I murmured, my voice cold, indifferent to the warning.

The demon laughed. "You've got confidence, boy. That'll make you even tastier to him."

I ignored the provocation. I looked at my hands, feeling my fingers stretch, seeking strength that wasn't there. I didn't need weapons; the mind had always been sharper than any blade.

"How do I defeat something that's never satisfied?"

"You don't," it said with sick satisfaction. "You bargain. You deceive. Or you let yourself be consumed—but no one has ever managed that."

I knew it wanted me to give in, to be swallowed by this place's despair. But I wasn't a victim. I wasn't here to play Hell's game.

"Then show me the way."

The demon extended a hand, pointing toward the valley ahead. The ground there moved, melting into a viscous, fetid grease, as slick as the darkness saturating the air. Grotesque structures of bone and flesh rose, twisted, like dead trees in a forest of pain. At the center, a colossal form shifted—a shadow blending with the mist, indistinct but monstrous in its presence.

"He knows you're coming," the demon said, a cruel smile spreading across its face. "And he's… waiting."

Without another word, I began to descend. The heat was unbearable, the air as hot as a predator's breath. The ground beneath me sucked at each step, trying to swallow my feet as if warning me of what lay ahead.

As I approached, a low, ravenous voice echoed in my mind. It wasn't the demon's, nor mine, but a primal voice—a whisper of insatiable desire that chilled me to the core:

"You are already mine. You always were."

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

I was eager—it was my first time facing a cardinal sin. It's not every day you get that chance!