Chapter 5 - The Shadow of Hunger

I saw it, a dark presence floating behind me. Its body wavered as if it no longer knew what it meant to exist. Gluttony, once a force of nature, an avalanche dragging everything around it, was now 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 you control but something that consumes even the strongest, even those who consider themselves unbreakable.

His presence beside me was unsettling. He no longer spoke, nor growled. He no longer felt the impulse to devour. But his essence, the hunger that defined him, remained in his spectral form, a shadow still bearing the weight of all he had been. The transformation I had caused didn't free him; it merely diluted him into an empty specter, an echo of what he once was.

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

"Now, you watch," I responded coldly, my voice unyielding, devoid of emotion. "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 reply but drew closer, like a shadow stretching when the light fades. I knew he felt the loss, the void of what he had become. I knew, deep down, he was no longer who he thought he was. But Hell, this endless labyrinth of pain and punishment, would soon show him that in his own sins, he would still be consumed.

The circles of Hell were vast, immense. Each one deeper, more filled with suffering and corruption than the last. I walked alongside Gluttony, his ethereal form floating silently, a reflection of what he once had been. He didn't touch the ground; he was a manifestation of eternal hunger, a shadow of what was once an immeasurable force.

Gluttony was a pulsating shadow, a black tumor crawling across the ground, sucking in the air, the space, as if the world around it wasn't enough to satisfy its existence. It had no defined form, but within that shapeless mass, there was something. Two black holes I could only call eyes, for they stared at me with the hunger of a thousand mouths. Its voice, when it came, wasn't sound but a crushing presence that penetrated directly into my mind.

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

I stood still, arms crossed, observing it with disdain. There was no room for hesitation, no room for pleasantries. I answered as I always do: with the naked blade of truth.

— Humans? — my voice was dry, almost a sneer. — Humans are animated carrion, walking flesh that believes it has a higher purpose while crawling over the corpses it creates. They call themselves rational but kill for symbols. Flags, coins, religions. They create wars because they can't 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 writhed as if it absorbed every word with pleasure.

— But what do they desire? — Gluttony asked, its voice reverberating like a hungry moan.

— 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're holes in the fabric of the world, always hungry, always dissatisfied, always ready to destroy what they cannot have.

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

— Then they are like me, — it said, as if it 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 theirs behind veils of morality. They call their sins virtues and their virtues rights. They consume everything but claim it's in the name of something greater. In the end, humans are worse than you. You devour because it's your nature. They devour because they choose to.

The shadow grew, inching closer to me, but I didn't step back. The black holes it had for eyes were fixed on me.

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

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

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

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

— You speak as if you're above them, — it said, its voice now lower, as if weighing my words. — But you're human too, aren't you?

I leaned closer to it, my eyes fixed on the black holes staring back at me.

— I'm 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 slightly, as if my words had struck something deep within its hunger.

— Perhaps you're more human than you admit, — it murmured, almost with contempt. — Or perhaps less.

I remained silent, watching it withdraw, but there was no need to respond. I knew the truth. And deep down, so did it. Humans are not creatures of light or darkness. They are hunger. Hunger that consumes the world and themselves while pretending it's life.

The Circle of Wrath was a whirlwind of chaos and unending violence. The air seemed to vibrate with screams of hatred and lamentation. The landscape was overtaken by a dark swamp, where enraged souls tore each other apart in endless combat, submerged in mud up to their chests, while the sky remained perpetually covered in crimson lightning, illuminating faces twisted with fury. This was not just a place of manifested wrath; it was where it never ceased, eternally feeding on the damned souls.

At the beginning of the path, I saw Cain, the first murderer. He stood still, but his hands never rested. They dripped fresh blood, as if the murder of Abel repeated in an eternal cycle. His skin was marked with fiery runes, symbolizing the weight of his guilt. Before him, a translucent figure of Abel appeared and vanished, wearing a calm expression that seemed to enrage Cain even more. He roared, trying to reach him, but Abel always remained out of reach. "Why was he favored?" Cain bellowed, his hatred pounding like a drum. "I was the despised one, the forgotten! My wrath was my justice!" But each time he tried to move, the mud clung to him tighter, rising to his neck, nearly suffocating him. He was devoured by his inability to forgive, his wrath imprisoning him in a cycle of impotence and frustration.

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

Crossing a bridge of broken stones, I was greeted by the sound of an army on the march. There stood Ares, the Greek god of war, clad in armor dripping blood. His face was a mask of pure fury, and he wielded a sword that seemed heavier with each blow. Around him, an eternal war raged, with soldiers endlessly killing each other, only to rise again and begin anew. "I am the fire of destruction!" Ares roared, his eyes glowing like embers. "I bring order through force, power through chaos!" But the war he fueled also consumed him. Each strike 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.

Beyond the battlefield, I encountered Medusa, isolated in a cavern of broken mirrors. Her body was twisted, her serpents coiling into her flesh, biting her incessantly as she screamed in pain and rage. Her petrifying gaze no longer worked here; instead, she was forced to face her reflection in the shards around her, seeing herself as the monster the world had made of her. "They turned me into this!" she hissed, tears of blood streaming down her face. "I was innocent! My wrath is my justice!" But the mirrors mocked her words, and each time she tried to destroy one, more appeared in its place. Her anger did not free her; it only trapped her deeper in the pain of her transformation and betrayal.

Leaving the cavern, I was confronted by a towering, brutal figure: Genghis Khan, mounted on a horse of flames. Around him, miniature cities were destroyed repeatedly by invisible hands, only to rebuild and be destroyed again. "I conquered the world with my wrath!" he thundered, his voice reverberating like thunder. "My fury was my weapon, my revenge my motivation!" But each time he advanced, the horse disintegrated beneath him, forcing him to walk, the swamp's mud clinging to his feet, preventing him from moving forward. His greatness was reduced to nothing; the conqueror was now just another damned soul, his wrath the weight pulling him down.

Finally, I found Ivan the Terrible, seated on a broken throne, surrounded by distorted bodies representing his victims. He held a crown of thorns that dug 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 wrath. "My fury was my right, my duty!" But his voice was drowned out by the wails of the souls around him, each one crying 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 the self-destruction caused by wrath, a king whose anger had reduced him to less than a man.

Finally, I found Ivan the Terrible, sitting on a broken throne, surrounded by twisted bodies representing his victims. He held a crown made of thorns that pierced his head, while his own son, whom he had killed in a fit of rage, stood before him with a bloody hole where his skull had been crushed. "I was a powerful king!" Ivan roared, attempting to justify his wrath. "My fury was my right, my duty!" But his voice was muffled by the groans of the souls around him, each clamoring 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 the self-destruction caused by wrath, a king whose anger had reduced him to less than a man.

The setting of the Circle of Wrath is a dreadful, muddy hell called Iran. The ground is covered by a thick swamp of black, viscous, and sticky mud, swallowing the souls with every movement. The mud is not merely dirt but a reflection of the corrosive anger permeating the entrails of each condemned. The murky water is filled with poisonous miasmas, carrying a nauseating stench of rotting flesh, clotted blood, and burning fire. The sky is laden with dense, threatening clouds tinged with red and black, as if the very air were burning, making breathing a suffocating, poisoned task. The atmosphere is oppressive, a psychological pressure mounting with every moment, making the condemned feel their fury bubbling in their bodies, writhing in pain.

The souls of the wrathful are submerged up to their necks in this foul mud, their bodies deformed and distorted, as if their anger had altered their physical structure. Their bloodshot eyes and faces are twisted into expressions of hatred and despair, their mouths barely emerging from the mud to emit agonizing screams that are drowned out by the swamp's sounds but echo in the air like a symphony of suffering. Each condemned soul tries to move, but the mud clings to their bodies, pulling them down, tearing muscles and bones apart, each movement a brutal and futile effort. The mud is nearly liquid, with an infernal viscosity causing open wounds as they struggle to rise, skin ripping, and muscles bursting from the exertion. The effort to breathe is torturous, with blood mixing into the mud as their lungs fill with the dense air and decay.

The most horrifying aspect is that the wrath never extinguishes. With each attempt to move, the mud destroys their bodies further, reopening wounds constantly. Entrails spill out, exposed and twisted by the force of anger and despair. The boiling blood mixes with the mud, creating a whirlpool of entrails and shredded flesh. Their eyes, blinded by fury, see nothing but violence, and their mouths continue to scream, though no sound is heard, only the roaring of pain and hatred. The fire of wrath burns within their entrails like an unending blaze, consuming their organs without ever destroying them completely. They are forced to feel the pain of anger from the inside out, as if the flames consuming their souls were physically manifesting, burning their intestines, lungs, and hearts, in a cycle of regeneration that intensifies the suffering.

The fights are eternal and brutal. The wrathful never stop attacking each other. There were men and women consumed by anger, doing everything to satisfy their wrath—some raping and beating children to vent their rage, while children did the same to babies who were angered by their parents killing them due to financial inability to care for them. Others fought one another, ripping off flesh down to the muscle until they reached the organs, then smashing them against the remaining bodies until viscera spilled out. Their hands were covered in wounds and blood as they beat each other, tearing flesh with their claws, only to earn more wounds and more blood. There was no victory, only endless agony and destruction. Each soul tears and is torn, vomiting words of hatred that echo as an endless noise of insatiable rage. Every orifice of their bodies reopens, draining liquids, blood, entrails, and broken bones, all mixing with the swamp. There is no mercy, only an infinite cycle of violence where bodies are destroyed and regenerated endlessly, as if wrath itself were a regenerative force bringing back pain 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 go to the others," I replied without hesitation. "Hell is divided. Each circle reflects a deadly sin. And you, Gluttony, are just the first of many."

He said nothing, but his eyes, empty as darkness itself, seemed to reflect a vague understanding. He knew his journey would not end here. What awaited him was more than he could comprehend now. I guided 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 very air. The sin of Wrath was there, taking shape in every condemned soul, every figure wandering that infernal circle.

There, souls consumed by eternal rage fought without ceasing. Each one, deformed by the violence consuming them, attacked with irrational fury. There was no rest. They were trapped in an endless 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. Each sin needed to be faced uniquely, forcing souls to confront their own fragility. I had already done so with Gluttony. Now it was Wrath's turn.

"Look, Gluttony," I said, pointing at the enraged souls, fighting until nothing remained. "Here, anger never finds relief. They consume themselves in an endless cycle of violence. There is no rest, no purpose. Each one is a reflection of another, unable to escape what defines them."

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

As we moved toward the next circle, the air became denser, almost heavier. The pressure seemed to build, as if Hell's very essence was shaping into something greater. The heat increased, and with each step, a stronger malevolent presence enveloped us. I knew what was about to appear.

At the center of everything, at the bottom of the abyss, he was there: 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 more, something I could not 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 deep voice echoing against the walls of Hell. "I knew someone would come. But you, young mortal, seem to possess something others do not."

I stared at him, my posture calm, though my heart pounded heavily, aware of the great confrontation approaching. Lucifer was more than just a simple sin. He was pride, the fall, the void of a being who rebelled against divine order.

"You are an illusion, Lucifer," I said calmly, my voice firm. "Like the other sins. But you are not invincible. Everyone here is a slave to what they created for themselves."

Lucifer smiled, a bitter smile of disdain. "You are mistaken, young one. I've heard you made Gluttony self-destruct with a trigger. You are quite clever. I am freedom. I am the desire to be more than any being could be. You, who walk with the shadow of Gluttony, think you can control Hell? What you fail to see is that he, like all the others, is already lost."

I knew what he wanted. He sought to challenge me, to lure me into a game of power, which I knew I could not win; his authority was nearly absolute.

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

Lucifer laughed and vanished into the shadows.