Chapter 6 - Dancing with Fury

The Circle of Wrath was a furnace of chaos. Not a literal fire, but an oppressive heat emerging from the incessant violence. Screams turned into echoes, crashing against the distorted walls like invisible fists. The ground seemed to pulse beneath my feet, moved by the intensity of anger. There was no rest here. No moment of pause, only an unchecked energy consuming everything – and itself.

The souls around me fought, their eyes burning with a fury that had no face or cause. It simply existed.

And there sat Gluttony, perched on a grotesque rock shaped by human remains, slowly chewing something I couldn't identify. He watched me with disinterest, as if my presence were just another insignificant movement in the chaos he ignored.

"It's ironic," I began, looking at the souls around us. "Here, hatred is king, but it has no throne. It's pure, without purpose, without barriers. It only destroys. That's why this place exists. A perfect reflection of what we are."

Gluttony glanced at me sideways, chewing even slower, and spoke with a drawn-out voice, almost lazy: "I don't care about them. Or this place. There's no flavor in wrath, only harshness. But you... you like to talk, don't you? You like to see the void and name it. What do you think you're proving here, mortal?"

I laughed, a dry sound that almost got lost in the chaos around us. "Prove? No. I'm not here to prove anything. I'm here because the void doesn't need reasons. It doesn't seek meaning, nor direction. It simply exists."

"Then why don't you throw yourself into those flames?" Gluttony asked, pointing lazily at one of the souls being torn apart against a rock before rebirthing in agony. "If you're the void, if nothing matters, why don't you dissolve like them? Maybe you're pretending more than you realize."

"I'm not pretending," I replied, looking directly at him. "The void doesn't need to dissolve because it already is dissolution. I'm not like those souls. They scream, break, and rebirth because they believe that anger is all that's left to justify their existence. But I? I don't need to justify anything."

Gluttony chewed for a long moment before responding, as if my words were an indigestible meal. "You speak of the void as if it were freedom. But tell me: if the void is all you say it is, why are you still here, talking to me? Why do you still cling to words, to ideas? Isn't the purest void absolute silence?"

I smiled, feeling the heat intensify around me. "Absolute silence is the perfect void, yes. But you're wrong to think that denies me. Because the void also speaks. It murmurs in the space between words, in the gap between screams, in the sound of chewing that never ends. I am that sound, Gluttony. And you, even with all your hunger, will never consume it."

He tilted his head, finally intrigued, but still apathetic. "And what would you do, then, with this circle? What do you see here that I should devour but cannot?"

I looked at the souls again, at the screams and hatred that never ended. "I see humanity as it is, without masks. Here, there are no lies, no justifications. Only the truth: that we are small, fragile creatures who feed on their own pain because they don't know what to do with silence."

"And you, mortal?" Gluttony asked, with a barely perceptible gleam in his eyes. "What do you do with the silence?"

"I let it exist," I replied, firmly. "Because silence is all that's left when even hatred tires."

Gluttony didn't answer. He just kept chewing, slowly, and the chaos around us continued as though our conversation had never happened.

And that was the moment I understood. Hell didn't keep them trapped. They kept themselves here. Not by chains, not by walls, but by their inability to exist without their own pain. Wrath was all they had left. If they abandoned it, there would be nothing—only emptiness. And to these souls, that was worse than torture.

I studied the cycle of violence. It was a raging storm, but not without form. Every strike led to another. Every scream fed the next. A self-sustaining system, an ancient equilibrium where each individual contributed to keeping the flow uninterrupted. But every system has a weakness.

"Interesting…" I murmured.

I knelt and ran my fingers through the ground. The soil here was different. It pulsed, heavy with the accumulated fury of countless souls, as if it absorbed the very wrath that ruled this place. It was hot, as if the ashes beneath still smoldered. This was the key.

Scooping up a handful of this tainted earth, I rubbed it between my fingers. If this place was made of Wrath itself, then it could be turned against them. Violence here was not just an action—it was a medium, a language. And like any language, it could be manipulated.

With a calculated flick of my wrist, I flung the burning dust at one of the fighters. He roared in pain, the touch of Hell itself searing him more than any physical strike. But more than that—he hesitated.

And in this circle, hesitation was the greatest sin.

The others saw the pause and took it as weakness. The balance shattered. They were no longer just attackers; now, they saw threats in everything. The ground they stood on. The air they breathed. Their own allies.

I continued. I plucked a thorn from a twisted tree and tossed it into a nearby group. The first one to step on it faltered, and the second saw him stumble. That was enough. Wrath needed a target, and I simply made them choose new ones.

What had been a continuous flow of rage became fragmented. Uncoordinated attacks, reckless strikes. It was like poisoning a swarm of wasps—not killing them directly, but making them turn on each other until nothing remained but chaos.

Gula watched me, chewing slowly.

"You wish to destroy this circle?" she asked, as if she already knew the answer.

"There's no need," I said, indifferent. "No reason to put out a fire that's already burning itself to the ground."

And I walked forward, leaving the Circle of Wrath to consume itself—never realizing that I had never needed to lift a finger against it.

I moved across the uneven ground, my eyes fixed on the heart of this tumult. It wasn't the landscape that impressed me, but the ferocity of those who inhabited the circle. They attacked each other with an insatiable hatred, their forms distorted by the rage that defined them. Men and women, now grotesque caricatures of themselves, wrestled in battles that had no purpose or end. Blood flowed from open wounds, but they kept going, driven by something greater than pain.

I stopped before a valley where fury seemed to have reached its peak. There it was. The ruler of this circle. Not a human or demon, but a living manifestation of wrath, a pulsating monolith of destruction. Its form was unstable, a mixture of flesh and fire that seemed to change with every moment. Its eyes were black holes, sucking in the light and emanating an overwhelming presence.

It didn't say anything at first, but its presence was a scream in itself. The ground cracked beneath its feet, the air vibrating with the force of its rage. It was the circle incarnate.

Who dares to step here? - Its voice was not dark, but hot and sharp, like molten iron being forged. - A mortal? Are you foolish, or simply tired of living?

I didn't answer immediately. Instead, I observed it. There was no fear in me, no anger. Just a void. It was a brute force, but I had seen forces like that crumble under their own weight.

What if it's both? - I replied, my voice almost casual. - Maybe I'm foolish. Or maybe I understand something you can't.

It laughed, a hollow, metallic sound. An earthquake followed the laughter, as if hell itself was laughing along.

Understand? - it roared. - There's nothing to understand. Wrath is the purest force. It consumes everything and everyone. Even you.

That's exactly what makes it pathetic. - I took a step forward, my tone so calm it seemed out of place. - Something that consumes without creating. That feeds without purpose. Wrath is just a flame, and flames always burn out.

It lunged, fast as a storm. Its fist, engulfed in fire, came down on me with enough force to crush an army. But I was no longer there. My body had moved before it acted. Not by reflex, but by anticipation. Rage is predictable. It screams its movements before acting.

You run? - It spun toward me, its voice echoing with disdain. - Is this how you face strength?

I'm not running. I just won't waste unnecessary effort. - I took another step, closer now. - Your strength is impressive, but have you realized you can't touch me?

The truth hit it deeper than any blow. It hesitated for a moment, and in that moment, I saw it. The weariness. Wrath is powerful, but it exhausts those who carry it. It could roar and thrash, but every movement cost it more than it cost me.

"Look inside yourself and face the raw truth: your wrath isn't strength, it's weakness disguised as a scream. Every time you explode, every cutting word you throw like a knife, it doesn't just hurt others, it reveals how empty and out of control you really are. You become small, miserable, unable to deal with your own existence. And the worst part? You know it. You know that in the end, wrath is just the coward's refuge for those who can't face their own pain. As long as you keep hiding behind it, you'll be nothing but a shadow of the person you could be, destroying everything around you and, most of all, yourself. Wake up before it's too late, before all the love and respect that could be yours turn to ashes by your own hand."

Do you think words can defeat me? - it roared, its form oscillating between human and beast. - Wrath doesn't need logic, only strength!

And where is your strength now? - I replied, coldly. - Look at yourself. You're already fragmenting. You're so consumed by anger that you don't even realize you're dying inside.

It lunged again, this time with more desperation than rage. Its blows were chaotic, brutal, but lacked precision. I moved around it like a shadow, always out of reach, dancing between its strikes while it spent everything it had.

In the end, it stopped. Its body, once immense, now seemed smaller, more unstable. The fire that surrounded it diminished. Its eyes still burned, but not with hatred. With fear.

What have you done to me? - It could barely speak, its words broken by heavy gasps.

Nothing. - I stared into its eyes. - You did this to yourself. Wrath is a flame, and every flame goes out when there's nothing left to burn.

It fell to its knees, its body disintegrating into embers. For a moment, I thought it would say something. A final scream, perhaps. But no. Wrath has no words in the end. Only silence.

When it disappeared, the circle seemed to change. The violence around us diminished, as if the absence of the monster had stolen its energy. I remained there for a moment, watching the void where it had been.

The beast, once an uncontrollable fury, had now dissolved before my patience. The fury of Wrath was like a fire that, without fuel, slowly extinguished, leaving only ashes and the scent of destruction in the air. But it wasn't the end of pain. In the aftermath of the battle, other echoes, deeper and darker, began to emerge.

Beside me, Gluttony was there, watching the scene with a silence only she knew how to carry. She was no longer a distant shadow, a mere impersonal hunger. Gluttony was here now, in a more tangible form, a figure that reflected her own tragedy with an intensity that could be felt. Her eyes were empty, as though she knew nothing could satisfy her anymore. She wasn't seeking food, but something much deeper – the filling of a void she would never find.

"Wrath, in the end, burns out," Gluttony said, her voice cold, almost mechanical, broken by experience. "But hunger... hunger never goes away. It only grows. It transforms. And always asks for more."

I looked at her. It was hard to see beyond the figure of a woman consumed by something as impersonal as hunger. But there, before me, she was sharing a bitter truth. Gluttony's hunger wasn't just the desire to eat, to satisfy a physical need. It was the hunger to fill a void that could never be filled. A void created by years of searching and hopelessness.

"I'm not just food, you know," she continued, each word heavy with the pain of her own condemnation. "I'm the reflection of a void no one can see. I'm the insatiable desire to be something more, to fill something that has no name, a need that never ends."

I understood. The Hell she inhabited wasn't just fire and hunger. It was a place where the pain of never being enough, of never being filled, manifested in a relentless search to satiate something she didn't even know. Gluttony wasn't a monster; she was the representation of a personal tragedy. She had been shaped by a life where excess had become the only thing that defined her. But that excess had never brought the satisfaction she sought.

"I tried," she said, her voice breaking. "I tried everything, more and more. I ate, I drank, I danced... but all of that just made me emptier. I never knew what I was looking for. I only knew I needed more. And now... now I am just this shadow. This hunger that will never be satisfied."

She lowered her head, and the silence that followed was heavier than any words I could say. Gluttony wasn't seeking redemption. She didn't want to be saved. She wanted to be understood, but even I couldn't give that to her. She was the reflection of something that couldn't be fixed—a life marked by insatiable searching, by the pain of never finding enough.

And then, as if Gluttony's pain merged with that of Hell itself, a being suddenly appeared: Wrath. The internal storm of fury hadn't dissipated completely. It was still there, with its fiery eyes, but now the wrath had been silenced, transformed into something quieter... more introspective.

"I am wrath," said Wrath, her voice now carrying a dark calm. "But you don't understand. I wasn't born this way. I was created by loss. By pain that no one wanted to see. I am the world's answer to a child who never knew what true love was. And when that love was gone, what was left was wrath. It's not just the desire to destroy. It's the desire to never feel the pain of loss again. To never be left behind."

Wrath hadn't been created by fury. She was like Gluttony, a soul transformed by suffering. She had been shaped by the pain of losing what she loved most, of being discarded by a world that rejected her. And just like Gluttony, she became a shadow, but a shadow of fury, that never faded, even as the anger was finally cooling.

"You think wrath is the end of everything," said Wrath, with a bitter smile. "But wrath doesn't go out, it doesn't disappear. It lives inside you, feeds off your wounds, until you don't even know who you are without it. And when you think it's all over, you realize that wrath was never gone. It just... waits."

Both Gluttony and Wrath were trapped in cycles they could not break. Hell, in fact, was not a place for redemption. It was a place of endless tragedies, of souls that had gotten lost in their own needs and pains. Every circle I crossed showed me a different face of the same coin—a distorted reflection of a life that had become more shadow than being.

They were condemned. And in the end, so was I.

I didn't know how I could free them, or if it would even be possible. But one thing was certain: Hell wasn't just a place of fire and torment. It was the place where tragedies became eternal. Where pain, desire, and wrath transformed into monsters, and those monsters were beyond any redemption.

And I, seeking answers, was becoming more and more lost in this abyss.