I Have Never Murdered a Soul

Damien recalled Evalyn's patient explanation of the circles as though her words had been carved into the marrow of his bones. According to her, they now stood at the checkpoint before the first of seven circles—each one a crucible more vicious than the last.

Each circle, she'd said, tested a specific virtue pitted against its corresponding sin. She was forbidden from disclosing which virtues or sins would appear in advance, but her tone left no doubt: these trials were not designed to coddle the lost.

Every trial demanded that the Hellbound carve their way through the corrupted wretches of Hell itself—twisted beings both monstrous and human—while drawing power from virtue. The goal, at least in theory, was simple: reach the gateway at the center of each circle. Succeed, and ascend to the next. Fail, and remain trapped in Hell forever, your soul shackled for all eternity.

Only those who passed through all seven emerged whole again—reborn into the waking world, stripped of corruption, and forgiven of sin.

Damien's thoughts turned sour as he recalled Evalyn's words. The very idea of redemption through combat felt absurd at first—some fever dream cooked up by a deranged god.

Why would the path to salvation require slaughter?

But the more he pondered it, the more he recognized the brilliance behind the cruelty.

'The system's genius lies in its scale,' he mused bitterly. 'Each circle grows harder. A low corruption ratio isn't a perk—it's a requirement. Virtue isn't a suggestion out here; it's survival. You can't fight your way through without it.'

He sat alone on the searing orange dust of the pre-circle dome, the endless sky above bleeding a deep, violent red. Rage churned in his gut, bitter and hot.

'I'm more than satisfied with my sin ability, but without a virtue to balance it, I'm dead. The first circle is doable—but after that? I won't last. Problem is, I can't fake virtue. Not convincingly. And if I lean too hard on my deception, the very thing I'm best at might be the reason I never earn redemption.'

He sighed and tilted his head back, staring into the raw crimson swirl of the sky, its clouds like smoke trails from a thousand extinguished lives. The memory of Summer—her betrayal, her stupid, wide-eyed righteousness—rose unbidden.

'I hope they carve her apart piece by piece. Brat deserves it. She dragged me into this pit.'

A sudden whoosh tore through the air, interrupting his thoughts. A disturbance rippled across the glass dome—far ahead, Evalyn moved among the Hellbound, a streak of silver gliding through chaos.

At that moment, she was assisting a man with a fire affinity.

He stood with a swagger, average in height but loud in confidence, his short blond hair slicked back, and a cocky grin stretched across his face. He raised one arm, releasing a jet of flame that arced toward Evalyn. In a single fluid motion, she raised her sword, and the fire dispersed upon contact, snuffed out like breath on glass.

A sting of envy sank its claws into Damien's chest.

'Damn it. I want to be able to shoot fire from my hands.'

His eyes scanned the dome.

Across the platform, others experimented freely with their abilities. The air pulsed with strange magic—blue lightning, black tendrils, shimmering illusions—but Damien had nothing. He remained on the fringe, watching, forgotten. His body was still, his expression calm, but his mind howled.

So he returned to what he knew.

"I've never murdered a soul," he muttered, barely louder than the wind.

Agony answered him like a blade plunged into every nerve. A pain so vast it eclipsed the fires of Hell itself raced up his legs, arms, chest, skull—like a thousand needles threading his bones and carving through his spirit. His body seized, and yet no scream escaped. He simply closed his eyes, forced the breath from his lungs, and endured.

He had trained for this.

If he wanted to lie convincingly, he could not afford to flinch. The power of his sin—Deception, boosted by seventy percent, only worked if the target believed him. A lie with hesitation was just noise. A lie told through pain was a confession.

So he repeated the phrase again, and again, and again.

"I have never murdered a soul."

Each time, the shackle wrapped tighter around his essence, tearing deeper.

Each time, he grew a little more numb to it.

After what felt like hours, long past the point where the sky had shifted into deeper shades of maroon and black, a voice reached him—soft, curious, and edged with amusement.

"You've never murdered a soul, huh?"

Damien opened one eye.

Evalyn stood just in front of him, smiling faintly, her silver armor catching the low red light. Her eyes sparkled—not with cruelty, but with interest.

'I didn't hear her approach. Didn't feel a thing. How long has she been watching me?'

Now he had a choice: tell the truth and keep his soul unburned, or lie and suffer the consequences. The decision was immediate.

"That's right," he said with a boyish smile, holding up his hands as though showing clean palms to a scolding mother. "These hands are squeaky clean."

Pain erupted through his spine like lightning. His lips twitched, but the smile held.

He had his reasons. Evalyn was powerful, far beyond him. Earning her trust might prove useful. Besides, with his corruption already maxed, lying wouldn't hurt his virtue score any further.

'And since Deception isn't linked to any virtue, it's not like I'm missing out on anything.'

Evalyn giggled, covering her mouth with one gloved hand.

"Somehow, I doubt that. Mind if I sit? I've been running around helping all of you all day."

'So, my lie passed the surface test, but didn't fool her outright. It only works if they believe it, huh? Seventy percent of nothing is still nothing. But what would've happened if the deception bounced back onto me? Would I start believing it? Or does it only rebound when it makes narrative sense?'

"I don't mind," he answered flatly. Again, the pain clawed at his soul, and again, he pushed through it.

'Fuck this shackle.'

Evalyn sat beside him, lowering her gleaming blade gently into the dirt. Damien allowed himself a closer look. She was breathtaking up close—more myth than woman, a vision conjured from a knight's bedtime story.

'I wonder what it would take to ruin her,' he mused, the thought sharp and quiet, buried beneath a veil of calm.

But he wasn't reckless, not with her.

"So," she said, brushing dust from her silver skirt, "why didn't you ask me for help with your virtue?"

He blinked, not expecting the question. Fatigued from pain and lies, he forced a reply that wouldn't trigger his curse.

"It's unwise to reveal your hand in a room full of enemies."

an honest, broad, and safe answer.

Evalyn tapped her lips with one finger, thoughtful.

"That's fair," she admitted, "but I think you're seeing this all wrong."

He tilted his head slightly, interested despite himself.

"How so?"

She gestured toward the others—the struggling, the training, the damned.

"What do you see when you look at them?"

He scanned the platform. The Hellbound sparred and stumbled, calling on abilities they barely controlled. Sweat mixed with blood, pain with desperation. All around him were people teetering between salvation and damnation.

'I see tools. Liabilities. Collateral. I see selfish survivors pretending they can be saints when it matters.'

He smirked.

"I see obstacles. People who'll drag me down if I let them. People who'd rather shove someone else into the fire than burn themselves."

Evalyn didn't flinch.

"Exactly," she said suddenly, voice rising with passion. "That's the mindset I'm talking about! Hellbounds always think they have to go it alone—but you won't make it through these trials without help."

He scratched his chin.

"Trust? Down here? That sounds like suicide. We all know what each other's capable of."

Her gaze dropped, shadows crossing her face.

"I know. But trust is the only way anyone survives the higher circles. No one gets through this alone."

'We'll see,' Damien thought. 'There's a first time for everything.'

Before he could speak, Evalyn stood, retrieving her sword from the dust. She looked down at him one last time.

"Anyway, I just wanted to say… It's okay to trust people here. Half of them have high enough virtue to be at the threshold already. Not everyone's rotten."

Damien's smile didn't reach his eyes.

'She thinks I'm one of them. How amusing.'

"Thank you," he said, voice smooth as oil, tilting his head so that his black hair veiled his gaze.

She nodded and turned to go. As she stepped away, he called after her:

"By the way… are we just supposed to sleep on the dirt? No tents, no shelter, no food?"

She laughed softly, looking over her shoulder.

"This is Hell. It's not meant to be comfortable. And Hellbounds don't need food or water—not in the pre-circle."

"Right," he muttered, irritation flickering in his voice.

As she disappeared into the distance, Damien lay back on the burning dirt and let his breath even out.

'I already miss the waking world,' he thought.

And then, eyes open beneath the blood-drenched sky, he waited.