DIABLO_01

*THIS STORY WILL BE SLOW PACED, I REPEAT THIS STORY WILL BE SLOW PACED* 


Betrayed. Broken. Cast into Hell.

Derrick Steins was just a normal high school student with dreams of becoming an entrepreneur—until his life was ripped away. Bullied, humiliated, and ultimately thrown in front of a truck, he awakens in the last place he ever expected... Hell itself.

Surrounded by grotesque creatures, towering demon lords, and a brutal hierarchy where the weak are devoured, Derrick must fight for survival in a world that thrives on suffering. But as he struggles against the horrors around him, something dark and powerful begins to awaken within.

If he wants to survive, he must abandon everything he once was. Because in Hell, there are only two choices—submit and perish... or rise and rule.

And Derrick refuses to die.

This is the beginning of his descent, and rebirth. This is Demon God’s Requiem.

Demon God’s Requiem

The quiet of my room is a welcome respite, yet it offers little solace.

I sit on the edge of my bed, my fingers gripping the fabric of my thick sweater, hesitant.

Then, slowly, I pull it over my head.

A sharp sting spreads across my shoulder, radiating down to my ribs. I inhale through my teeth, eyes briefly closing as I brace against the dull ache.

The pain isn't as sharp as before.

It has settled into something constant, a reminder of the afternoon's events—of weakness, of humiliation, of powerlessness.

I glance toward the mirror, hesitating before looking.

Ugly, angry marks blooming across my skin like stains that refuse to be erased.

I let out a slow breath and turn away.

The pain isn't what keeps me awake.

I lie back, staring at the darkened ceiling, the shadows stretching across the walls like silent onlookers to my private torment.

The events of the day play back in my mind, again and again, an unrelenting loop I can't shut off.

The mocking faces of Jason Carter and his pack of hyenas.

But Serena's face lingers in the darkness.

For a moment, I almost grasp that fleeting moment of connection, of warmth, of being seen.

But the thought of her world—bright, untouchable, filled with success and admiration—only sharpens the pain.

I turn onto my side, pressing my forehead against the pillow, hoping the familiar fabric will somehow drown out the storm raging inside me.

The silence is too loud, amplifying every ache, every thought, every ounce of self-doubt.

The comforting routine of bedtime—normally a moment of calm—feels hollow.

No amount of blankets can chase away the cold unease.

I toss and turn, frustration simmering beneath my skin.

The thought of tomorrow—of facing them again, of enduring more whispers, more stares, more judgment—

The darkness of my room, once a sanctuary, now feels like a prison.

And no matter how much I try to ignore it—

Chapter 8: Restless Shadows