Chapter 5 - The Shadow of Hunger

I saw him, a dark presence, floating behind me. His body wavered, as if it no longer knew what it meant to exist. Gluttony, once a force of nature, an avalanche that swept everything around it, now was nothing more than a shadow, a memory of its own sin. He was no longer in control. I had made him understand that hunger is not something that can be controlled, but something that consumes even the strongest, even those who think themselves unbreakable.

His presence beside me was disturbing. He no longer spoke or growled. He no longer felt the urge to devour. But his essence, the hunger that defined him, was there, in his spectral form, a shadow still carrying the weight of everything he had once been. The transformation I caused did not free him; it only diluted him into an empty specter, an echo of what he had been.

"You brought me here. What do I do now?" Gluttony whispered, his voice now full of uncertainty and despair. It was no longer the scream of an insatiable being but the plea of a lost creature, unsure how to exist without its sin.

"Now, you observe," I replied coldly, my voice relentless, emotionless. "You will follow me, but in silence. The shadow you are now is your only identity. What you were, Gluttony, no longer exists. And you will have to live with that."

He didn't answer, but moved closer, like a shadow stretching when the light fades. I knew he felt the loss, the emptiness of what he had become. I knew that deep down, he was no longer who he believed himself to be. But Hell, that endless labyrinth of pain and punishment, would soon show him that in his own sins, he would still be consumed.

Gluttony was a pulsating shadow, a black tumor crawling along the ground, sucking in the air, the space, as if the world around him was too little to satisfy his existence. He had no defined shape, but inside that shapeless mass, there was something. Two black holes that I could only call eyes, for they looked at me with the hunger of a thousand mouths. Her voice, when it came, was not a sound, but an overwhelming presence that penetrated straight into my mind.

"Tell me about humans, traveler," she whispered, but it sounded like muffled thunder. "What are they like in your land?"

I remained still, crossing my arms, observing her with disdain. There was no space for hesitation, nor for pleasantries. I answered as I always do: with the naked blade of truth.

"Humans?" my voice was dry, almost a spit. "Humans are animated carrion, walking flesh that believes it has a greater purpose while crawling over the corpses it creates. They call themselves rational, but they kill for symbols. Flags, coins, religions. They create wars because they cannot bear the emptiness of their own existence, and when they're not killing each other, they spend their time devouring the world around them."

The shadow twisted, as if absorbing every word with pleasure.

"But what do they desire?" Gluttony asked, her voice reverberating like a hungry groan.

"They desire everything, and at the same time, nothing," I continued, my voice sharp as a blade. "They want power, but become slaves to it. They want love, but reduce it to possession. They want freedom, but sell their souls for crumbs of comfort. They are holes in the fabric of the world, always hungry, always unsatisfied, always ready to destroy what they cannot have."

Gluttony laughed, a sound that seemed to come from the abyss.

"So they are like me," she said, as if she had discovered something new. "An endless hunger, a need that consumes everything."

"No," I corrected, my voice cutting. "You are honest in your hunger. They hide it behind veils of morality. They call their sins virtues and their virtues rights. They consume everything, but say it's for a greater cause. In the end, humans are worse than you. You devour because it's your nature. They devour because they choose to."

The shadow grew, moving closer to me, but I did not retreat. The black holes she had as eyes were fixed on me.

"Is there anything in them worth it?" she asked, as if it were a challenge.

I laughed. A dry, bitter laugh, echoing like the sound of breaking stones.

"Have you ever seen worms trying to be angels? That's what humans are. Creatures who lie to themselves, who rise over each other's corpses and call it progress. They create concepts like purity and goodness, but are incapable of living them. Every act of kindness they perform is a coin. A price. Even their love has a price tag, an invisible contract waiting to be broken. There's nothing pure in man, just rot they try to hide under layers of lies."

The shadow trembled, and for the first time, it hesitated. Gluttony seemed smaller, less imposing, but still restless, still hungry.

"You speak as though you're above them," she said, her voice now softer, as if weighing my words. "But you're human too, aren't you?"

I leaned toward her, my eyes fixed on the black holes that stared at me.

"I am human, yes, but unlike them, I don't lie to myself. I accept what I am, while they spend their lives building sandcastles to hide from their decay."

The shadow twisted, retreating a little, as if my words had struck something deep in its hunger.

"Maybe you're more human than you admit," she murmured, almost with disdain. "Or maybe less."

I remained silent, watching her move away, but there was no need to respond. I knew the truth. And deep down, she knew it too. Humans are neither creatures of light nor darkness. They are just hunger. Hunger that consumes the world and themselves, while pretending that's living.

The circles of Hell were vast, immense. Each deeper, more filled with suffering and corruption than the last. I walked beside Gluttony, her ethereal form floating silently, like a reflection of what she had once been. She did not touch the ground; she was a manifestation of eternal hunger, a shadow of what had once been an immeasurable force.

The Circle of Wrath was a whirlpool of chaos and incessant violence. The air seemed to vibrate with cries of hatred and lamentations. The landscape was overtaken by a dark swamp, where enraged souls tore at each other in endless combat, submerged in mud up to their chests, while the sky was always covered in crimson lightning, illuminating faces twisted with hatred. This was not just the place where wrath manifested; it was the place where it never ceased, eternally feeding on the condemned souls.

At the beginning of the path, I saw Cain, the first murderer. He was standing still, but his hands were never still. They dripped fresh blood, as if Abel's murder were repeating in an eternal cycle. His skin was marked with fiery runes, representing the weight of his guilt. In front of him, a translucent figure of Abel appeared and disappeared, with a calm expression that seemed to enrage Cain even more. He screamed, trying to reach him, but Abel remained always out of reach. "Why was he preferred?" Cain roared, his hatred pulsating like a drum. "I was the one despised, the forgotten! My wrath was my justice!" But every time he tried to move, the mud trapped him even more, rising to his neck, almost suffocating him. He was devoured by his own inability to forgive, his wrath imprisoning him in a cycle of impotence and frustration.

Further ahead, the sound of clashing weapons and cries of fury caught my attention. It was Saul, the first king of Israel. He was surrounded by shadows, each one taking the form of David, the man he hated so much. Saul brandished a spear, throwing it incessantly at these shadows, but the weapon always returned to him, embedding itself in his flesh before disappearing and reappearing in his hand. "I was betrayed!" he screamed. "My throne was stolen!" But his words were only empty echoes, as the swamp mud rose with each strike, preventing him from advancing. His eyes were burned with tears of rage, and his body seemed worn out by useless, eternal effort. He was trapped in his paranoia and envy, unable to accept that his own wrath had destroyed him.

Crossing a bridge of broken stones, I was greeted by the sound of an army marching. There stood Ares, the Greek god of war, clad in armor that dripped blood. His face was a mask of pure fury, and he wielded a sword that seemed to weigh more with each strike he dealt. Around him, an eternal war unfolded, with soldiers killing each other endlessly, only to be resurrected and begin again. "I am the fire of destruction!" Ares roared, his eyes glowing like embers. "I bring order through strength, power through chaos!" But the war he fueled also consumed him. Each blow wounded him, each victory left him emptier. He was a prisoner of his own nature, condemned to lead an army that would never win a battle.

Right after the battlefield, I found Medusa, isolated in a cave of shattered mirrors. Her body was twisted, her serpents coiling around her flesh, biting her relentlessly as she screamed in pain and rage. Her petrifying gaze didn't work here; instead, she was forced to face her reflection in the mirror shards surrounding her, seeing herself as the monster the world had made of her. "They turned me into this!" she hissed, blood tears running down her face. "I was innocent! My rage is my justice!" But the mirrors mocked her words, and every time she tried to destroy one, others appeared in its place. Her anger didn't set her free; it only bound her deeper into the pain of her transformation and betrayal.

Leaving the cave, I was confronted by an imposing and brutal figure: Genghis Khan, mounted on a horse made of flames. Around him, miniature cities were repeatedly destroyed by invisible hands, only to rebuild and be destroyed again. "I conquered the world with my rage!" he bellowed, his voice thunderous. "My fury was my weapon, my revenge my motivation!" But each time he advanced, the horse disintegrated beneath him, and he was forced to walk, with the swamp's muck clinging to his feet and preventing him from moving forward. His greatness was reduced to nothing; the conqueror was now just another damned soul, his rage the weight that pulled him down.

Finally, I found Ivan the Terrible, sitting on a broken throne, surrounded by distorted bodies representing his victims. He held a crown made of thorns that sank into his head, while his own son, whom he had killed in a fit of rage, stood before him, a bloody hole where his skull had been crushed. "I was a powerful king!" Ivan roared, trying to justify his fury. "My rage was my right, my duty!" But his voice was drowned by the moans of the souls around him, each crying out for justice. His crown seemed to weigh tons, forcing him to bow until his face was in the mud, unable to rise. He was a monument to self-destruction caused by rage, a king whose fury had reduced him to less than a man.

The setting of the Circle of Wrath is a muddy, terrifying hell called Iran. The ground is covered by a thick swamp of black, viscous, sticky mud that swallows the souls with every movement. The mud isn't just dirt; it's a reflection of the corrosive rage that permeates the depths of each condemned soul. The murky water is filled with poisonous miasmas, a nauseating smell mixing rotting flesh, coagulated blood, and burning fire. The sky is dark, filled with heavy clouds tinged in red and black, as though the very air is on fire, making breathing a difficult, suffocating task poisoned by rage. The atmosphere is oppressive, like psychological pressure mounting with every moment, making the damned feel their own fury boiling in their bodies, writhing in pain.

The souls of the wrathful are submerged up to their necks in this fetid mud, their bodies deformed and distorted, as if rage had altered their physical structure. Their eyes are bloodshot, their faces twisted in expressions of hatred and despair, their mouths barely emerging from the mud to emit screams of agony muffled by the swamp's sound, yet echoing in the air like a symphony of suffering. Each damned soul tries to move, but the mud sticks to their bodies, pulling them down, causing muscles and bones to tear, each movement a brutal, futile effort. The mud is almost liquid with an infernal viscosity that causes open wounds as they try to rise, their skin ripping, muscles bursting from the strain. The effort to breathe is torturous, with blood mixing with the mud as their lungs fill with the thick, rotten air.

The most horrible part is that the rage never extinguishes. With every attempt to move, the mud destroys their bodies even more, reopening their wounds constantly. Intestines fall out of their bodies, exposed and twisted by the force of their rage and despair. Boiling blood mixes with the mud, creating a whirlwind of entrails and torn flesh. Their eyes, blinded by fury, can see nothing but violence, their mouths continue to scream, but no sound is heard, only the roar of pain and hatred. The fire of rage burns within their guts like an endless fire, burning and consuming their organs, but never completely destroying them. They are forced to feel the pain of rage from the inside out, as if the flames that consume their soul manifest physically, burning their intestines, lungs, and heart, but in such a deep way that every burned piece grows back, intensifying the suffering.

The struggles are eternal and brutal. The wrathful do not stop attacking each other. There were extremely angry men and women doing anything to satisfy their rage, some raping and beating children to vent their fury, the same way the children did with the babies who became enraged after their parents killed them simply because they couldn't afford to treat them. Others fought each other, tearing off skin and reaching into flesh until they reached the organs, then beating the rest of the bodies until the intestines spilled out. Their hands are full of wounds and blood, and they beat each other, tearing flesh with claws, but all they gain are more wounds, more blood. There is no victory, only endless agony and destruction. Every soul tears and is torn, their mouths vomiting words of hate, but those words become only echoes of their insatiable rage, a noise that never ends, for nothing can erase the pain consuming their flesh. Their bodily orifices open again, draining fluids, blood, entrails, broken bones, all mixing with the swamp. There is no mercy, only a cycle of endless violence, where bodies destroy and regenerate constantly, as if rage itself were a regenerative force, bringing back suffering but never healing.

Here, suffering was not abstract. It was physical, tangible. The walls of Hell were not made of stone or fire, but of torn flesh, scattered entrails, and broken bones.

"And now?" Gluttony asked, his voice anxious, almost desperate. "What do we do now?"

"Now, we move to the others," I replied without hesitation. "Hell is divided. Each circle reflects a capital sin. And you, Gluttony, are just the first of many."

He didn't say anything, but his eyes, empty like the darkness itself, seemed to reflect a vague understanding. He knew his journey wouldn't end there. What awaited him was more than he could comprehend now. I was guiding him, but he no longer had control. Not in Hell.

We moved through the labyrinth of Hell, the air growing hotter as we approached the second circle. The wind carried screams, a mixture of pain and rage, an emotional violence that seemed to cut through the air itself. The sin of Wrath was there, taking form in every damned soul, every figure wandering in that infernal circle.

There, souls consumed by eternal rage fought relentlessly. Each one, deformed by the violence that consumed them, assaulted one another with irrational fury. There was no rest. They were trapped in a never-ending cycle of hatred, feeding off one another. I knew I couldn't waste time. The sin of Wrath had to be confronted, not with mercy, but with relentlessness. Every sin had to be faced in a unique way, forcing the souls to confront their own fragility. I had already done this with Gluttony. Now it was Wrath's turn.

"Look, Gluttony," I said, pointing to the enraged souls, fighting until there was nothing left. "Here, rage never finds relief. They consume each other in an eternal cycle of violence. There is no rest, no purpose. Each one is a reflection of the other, unable to escape what defines them."

Gluttony looked, but seemed incapable of understanding. Rage in Hell wasn't a flame that ignites and extinguishes. It perpetuated endlessly. Just as Gluttony had become a shadow of his hunger, those souls were now the shadows of their violence, condemned to infinite torment.

As we moved toward the next circle, the air began to grow dense, almost heavy. The pressure seemed to accumulate, as if Hell itself were molding into something greater. The heat increased, and with each step, a stronger malignant presence surrounded us. I knew what I was about to find.

At the center of it all, at the bottom of the abyss, was he: Lucifer, the fallen angel. His presence was overwhelming, a weight that seemed to crush everything around him. He sat on a throne made of ice, an imposing figure, reflecting the pain of his fall. But there was something else, something I couldn't ignore. Lucifer was not just the personification of suffering. He was the archetype of all sins, the leader of the fallen, the reflection of pride.

"Finally, you've arrived," Lucifer said, his voice deep, echoing in the walls of Hell. "I knew someone would come. But you, young mortal, seem to have something that the others do not."

I faced him, my posture calm, but my heart was pounding, aware of the great confrontation that was approaching. Lucifer was more than just a sin. He was pride, the fall, the emptiness of a being who rebelled against the divine order.

"You are an illusion, Lucifer," I said calmly, my voice steady. "Just like the other sins. But you are not invincible. All of you are slaves to what you've created for yourselves."

Lucifer smirked, a bitter, disdainful smile. "You're mistaken, young one. I've heard that you made Gluttony self-destruct using a trigger, you're quite clever. I am freedom. I am the desire to be more than any being could be. You, who walks with the shadow of Gluttony, think you can control Hell? What you don't realize is that it, like all the others, is already lost."

I knew what he wanted. He wanted to challenge me, to draw me into a game of power, a game I knew I couldn't win; his authority was practically absolute.

"I am not the one who is lost, Lucifer," I said, stepping forward. "I am the one who will make everyone here reveal what they truly are."

Lucifer laughed, and disappeared into the shadows.