Sin and Virtue

Damien drifted again.

Not in water or air, but in something colder, a void between pulses, between places, between meaning. He existed here, yet not entirely, but this time, he could feel, think, and see.

And he saw… nothing.

The darkness wasn't just black; it was endless and oppressive. Somehow, he could see into it, which only made things worse. There were no shapes or walls, just an infinite, watching silence.

The cold touched him next. Not like wind or ice, but something spectral, an ache that started at his spine and crawled through his veins, nestling deep behind his ribs.

He floated there, unmoored, thoughts spinning.

They're going to let me climb out of Hell? He wondered, incredulous. Don't they know what I've done?

Damien wasn't stupid. He was a monster, and not in the way people glamorized in stories. He was the kind who had to hide what he did, and that was the real sign.

If you had to conceal it, it was probably evil.

And Damien had hidden a lot.

I won't let it go to waste. I'll climb out.

Already, his mind itched toward possibilities. The organization, was there anything left to control? Summer, would she see him again and flinch, or smile and shoot first?

Unclear, but anything sounded better than endless stillness.

Then, something shifted.

A low hum shimmered into being, as though the void itself exhaled. It slithered up his back, electric in its crawl, piercing his spine like fangs of frozen current.

[SYSTEM DIAGNOSIS COMPLETE] > Scanning residual soulprint... > Analyzing dominant impulse patterns... > Determining core ethical fracture...

A heavy chime followed.

Sin Registered: Deception > Pattern recognized: chronic dishonesty, identity manipulation, false presentation of intention, and calculated obfuscation of truth for personal advantage. > Shackle Engaged: DC01 – The veil of truth.

Pain bloomed inward, like iron vines threading into bone and curling around his chest. It wasn't shackles on his limbs, but inside him.

"What is going on!" He yelled into the void, pained.

No active or dormant virtues detected. > Subject enters Hell unbalanced. > System advisory: This soul is classified as null-aspect.

Then a voice, ancient and low, thundered:

You come with no light inside you. > But even the damned may kindle flame... > If they choose to burn for it.

A wind without origin gusted through the darkness, followed by a final tone, clearer now, colder.

Status: Shackled. Branded. Initiated. > > Welcome to Hell, Damien Veyne.

Then it hit him, a jolt like stone slamming into steel. Damien crashed chest-first onto solid ground, breath punched from his lungs in a strangled gasp, and the world blurred into sharp, disorienting pain.

But that was only the beginning.

Fire surged through his body, as if flames had licked into his bones, coiled beneath muscle, and set his soul smoldering.

He pressed a trembling hand to rough, grainy, orange-red dust that clung to his fingers. The smell hit next, scorched metal and old sweat, like blood left to bake on iron.

Still, the pain was familiar.

He'd been through worse hells from the organization, unbelievable torture that puts this fire to shame.

His gaze locked upward, and his stomach dropped.

Above stretched a dome of glass, curved perfectly overhead like a frozen sky. Beyond it, a red horizon, like the heavens themselves were bleeding.

He knelt in a crater of orange dust, a circular platform sealed inside the dome, maybe five hundred meters across, but that wasn't what made his blood run colder.

The ground was writhing.

Hundreds, maybe thousands, of people sprawled around him. Crawling, moaning, reaching out for water that didn't exist.

Some screamed.

Some whispered.

Others lay still, trembling like fish on sand.

But in the center of it all, someone stood.

A woman, poised at the heart of chaos, clad in pristine silver armor that caught light like moonlight through glass. Her silver hair fell to her shoulders in waves, untouched by sweat or dirt. Both hands gripped a sword's hilt, its tip buried in cracked earth, and her haunted, light-blue eyes swept over the bodies.

Damien narrowed his gaze as the memory of his judgment returned

I'm in Hell. And so are they.

This must be the trial. That pompous fool had said something about tests and redemption. It sounded laughable before, less so now.

His eyes returned to the woman.

She didn't writhe, didn't shake, didn't burn. Unlike everyone else, her presence didn't smother, but calmed.

She's different.

And Damien hated how small he felt beneath her gaze.

People around him groaned and collapsed, but he refused. The fire still gnawed at his organs, but he wouldn't be like them—weak, begging, and forgettable.

So, with a slow, ragged breath, Damien stood.

His legs protested, joints aching under invisible heat. He brushed orange dust from his jacket, once black and immaculate but now scorched and sticky, and locked eyes with the silver knight.

She blinked.

Through her years of service, Evalyn had seen millions arrive, yet none had stood so soon without screaming and begging for help.

Her surprise melted into something softer, a faint but discernible smile.

Damien didn't return it.

Her voice followed, calm and clear like a breeze through a burning room.

"Welcome to the Hell Trials. I am the Knight of Selflessness, one of the Seven Knights of Virtue. I have been tasked to welcome and prepare you for the First Circle."

She glanced toward the bodies clutching sweat-stained limbs and blistered mouths.

"Please... try to stand. The fire will dwindle in time, and when you rise, look to the underside of your right wrist."

Damien did as instructed, curling back his black sleeve to reveal pale skin marred by Hell's burning sting, until he saw it.

There, etched into his wrist, was a marking.

A black horizontal line, maybe two inches long, ran clean up his forearm like a machine-stitched tattoo. At the far right end was a symbol, a cracked theatrical mask, half-smiling, and half-frowning. One side gleamed like polished ivory; the other was dulled and fractured, thin black lines spidering across its surface.

Just to the mask's left, a single vertical line pierced the horizontal band, splitting it like a tick mark on a gauge. Beneath that slash, glowing faintly in red: 100%

At the far left was a faint, circular symbol —a hollow ring with a diagonal line through it. The universal symbol for "none."

Damien stared.

He didn't need an explanation, as his mind snapped back to the void, to the voice that diagnosed him.

Sin registered: Deception.

He narrowed his eyes at the cracked mask.

"So that's me, huh? Half a smile, half a lie... Fitting."

His gaze shifted to the far-left symbol— 'no active or dormant virtues.'

A bitter laugh erupted from his throat, a raw, manic noise that cracked across stillness and made nearby souls flinch. Evalyn's head turned, silver eyes narrowed in confusion.

She'd seen suffering, fear, fury, but laughter? That was new.

Of course, I have no virtue, he thought, teeth bared in a crooked grin. I can't even remember the last time I did something good.

Around him, others began to recover slowly, pushing themselves up and rolling back their sleeves.

Evalyn stepped forward, her voice cutting through the heat like silk through sand.

"The markings represent your Sin and your Virtue. The symbol on the far right is your dominant sin, the flaw that defined you in life. The symbol on the left is your starting virtue—the quality that may still save you."

She raised her hand, revealing a mark shimmering faintly in silver-blue.

"The vertical line is your current standing. Below it, your corruption ratio, the percentage of sin within you. The lower the number, the higher your virtue." Her gaze shifted to Damien. "And the stronger your magic is."

Damien's grin faltered.

He looked down again.

100%.

Perfect score.

Perfect monster.

He clicked his tongue and muttered under his breath.

"Shit.