Act XII: Journey to the depths of Inferno

In a cramped, candlelit room buried deep beneath the pristine halls of Mary Geoise, a man flogged his own back.

Whip.

The sound cracked against flesh, echoing through stone and silence.

Whip.

Again.

And again.

He knelt shirtless on the cold floor, back arched, eyes locked on the small photograph hanging before him—a woman framed in gold. Her black hair cascaded across her shoulders, still, eternal, and soft. The only softness left in Rosward's world.

Each lash left another bloody welt down the ridges of his scarred back. His breath was ragged, but steady—like a man committed to punishment, not pain.

When the ritual ended, he stood slowly, muscles trembling, sweat and blood clinging to his skin. He reached for the worn brown sleeping robe that hung limply in the corner, pulling it over his frame—a frame no longer frail.

Gone was the bloated, soft, drunken Tenryuubito of decades years past.

This new Saint Rosward was a wall of iron and resolve.

His body, now large and carved by relentless effort, had been rebuilt after he awoke from the coma—a slumber that had lasted a month, but felt like an eternity in fire.

He remembered the first breath he took upon waking.

No one expected him to recover. No one cared.

But he did.

And the first thing he did was free every slave he owned.

Then—he divorced his unwilling wives. All of them.

He gave them money, more than they could carry—though he knew gold couldn't ease their pain.

But it was all he had.

All he understood.

After that, he trained.

Day and night.

Swordsmanship. Rokushiki. Haki.

He trained until his bones cracked and his muscles tore.

Until there was nothing left of the man he used to be.

Only this: a soldier of repentance, haunted by what he saw.

Now, seated before a roaring fire, its light dancing across the wooden floor, Saint Rosward stared into the flame—not for warmth, but for memory.

In that memory, Saint Rosward stood alone.

No robe of silk, no oxygen tank, no armed guards or golden scepter.

Just a man. Naked in essence. Shivering in the dark.

And in that suffocating silence—

From the abyss, a red glow surged like a pulse.

It's sinister presence filled the entire void.

Then..... It appear....

The Beast.

Wrapped in hair like smoke and blood, deer skull for head, wreathed in fire and horns adorned with screaming, disembodied heads—it stepped forth.

Rosward, the once-proud dragon, curled into himself like a frightened worm.

But there was no hiding here.

One of The Beast's grotesque hands reached into the void and gripped him—Cold, crushing. Inevitable.

It lifted him, dangling like a ragdoll, and brought him before its monstrous face.

The burning eyes locked with his.

Then, only the skull's jaw moved. Not the dozens of mouths along its limbs.

Its voice was beautiful.

Cruelly beautiful.

"Lost soul... from where do you come?"

But then—A pause. The Beast sniffed the essence of Rosward's soul.

And it laughed.

"Ah... You wish to see your future dwelling, don't you?"

Then, the entire void trembled, cracked like glass—and shattered.

1st Inferno — Limbo of the Forgotten

He was falling. Or floating.

Below him stretched a vast, endless ocean. But not of water—Of souls. Pale. Hollow. Countless. They drifted slowly, neither weeping nor writhing—only watching. Rosward recognized some of them. A little girl who once tripped over herself while dragging his palanquin. An old man, he had hunted for sport. A teenage boy who had screamed his mother's name when the fire started.

They didn't scream now. They didn't move. They simply watched.

The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and decay, a chill seeping into his very bones that had nothing to do with the abyssal depths. The faint, phosphorescent glow of the souls offered no warmth, only a spectral illumination that made the vastness even more terrifying. Each pale face, a silent accusation, was etched with a stillness that spoke of an eternity of suffering, yet lacked the comfort of even a single tear.

"Do you remember their names?" The Beast's voice, now vibrating through the frigid currents, echoed across the ocean.

Rosward couldn't answer. His own breath hitched in his throat, a frozen knot of fear. The silence from the souls was more deafening than any shriek.

Then the Beast dove—plunging into the sea of souls like a falling star. Rosward was dragged like a prisoner, the frigid souls brushing against his skin, leaving behind a profound emptiness that threatened to consume him. The deeper they sank, the colder it became, the light from above dwindling to a distant, mocking pinprick. The pressure grew, a crushing embrace of the void.

Below, deeper still—The face of a massive, dead giant lay at the ocean's bed, mouth agape. Its eyes, vast and sunken pits, stared out into the eternal blackness, reflecting nothing. The Beast entered the mouth without pause, dragging Rosward into the echoing darkness. The air within was stagnant, heavy with the dust of ages and the faint, sweet smell of something long deceased. Each step echoed into the suffocating gloom, the sound of his own heart a frantic drumbeat in the oppressive silence. They were no longer just falling; They were descending into a tomb, where the only company was the lingering chill of forgotten horrors.

2nd Inferno — Lust of Power

They emerged inside a vast, hollow mountain cavern, carved by agony. The air, thick and scorching, shimmered like a mirage over sun-baked stone, carrying the metallic tang of sweat and blood. Heat radiated from the very walls, a suffocating embrace that felt like being trapped within a monstrous forge.

Towering cliffs surrounded them, their jagged ridges glinting cruelly in the oppressive light. And all along those unforgiving slopes, the mighty crawled. Kings, admirals, noblemen—faces Rosward once greeted with bows and toasts, their smiles as false as their power. Now, they were mere insects, their bodies slick with effort and despair. They crawled like ants, dragging immense boulders up the vertical slopes, their backs bent at unnatural angles, their spines visibly straining, threatening to snap with every agonizing inch.

Each time one neared the top, their victory short-lived and illusory, a great ape-demon, fanged and crowned, would appear. Its eyes, burning like coals in the searing heat, would fix on the struggling figure, and with a guttural roar, it would kick them off the ledge. Their bones shattered below, the sound a sickening crunch that echoed in the cavern. Their screams were brief, cut short by the impact.

And then... their bodies reformed. And they began again, an endless, scorching cycle of futile labor and brutal punishment.

The Beast walked among the fallen stones, its steps casual, uncaring, as it sometimes trod upon the writhing bodies. For it, they were just sinful souls, their torment a mere backdrop to its relentless journey.

Rosward's heart pounded, a frantic drum against his ribs, his very soul fraying at the edges from the relentless heat and the horrifying spectacle. The air grew heavier with the scent of cooked flesh and despair, a fitting aroma for this infernal forge.

At the end of the cavern, bathed in the oppressive glow of the molten rock, they reached another colossal mouth—a second face, buried deep in the stone. Its features were contorted in a silent scream, its gaping maw a black void in the otherwise shimmering rock. And again, without hesitation, The Beast leapt inside, pulling Rosward with it into the suffocating, fiery darkness.

3rd Inferno — Gluttony of Privilege

They landed in a golden temple, its floor a deep mire of liquid gold and rotting opulence. The air hung heavy and humid, thick with the cloying scent of decay and the metallic tang of wealth. The dim, gloomy light filtering in from some unseen source struggled to penetrate the oppressive atmosphere, yet it caught the liquid gold of the floor, making it shimmer with a sickly, alluring gleam.

Nobles—bloated, sweating, groaning—were half-submerged in the viscous, golden mire, their mouths stretched open, gasping for air that seemed to offer no relief. Cursed crowns, once symbols of their power, now choked their throats, digging into flesh that had grown soft and distended. Silken robes, once signs of their status, tangled their limbs like constricting serpents, pulling them deeper into the shimmering, suffocating wealth.

But worse—Tiny golden insects, shimmering like freshly minted coins, scuttled over them. In and out of mouths, through eyes, into open wounds. They were being eaten, from the inside out, by their own wealth, their insatiable greed made manifest as a living, gnawing torment.

Rosward turned away, gagging, the coppery taste of bile rising in his throat. The sight was a visceral assault, a grotesque parody of the lives these individuals had once led.

The Beast didn't pause. Its gaze, cold and unwavering, swept over the scene of opulent suffering. It reached down, scooped up a handful of the golden bugs, their tiny legs scrabbling against its palm, and crunched them with a sickening sound that echoed in the temple's oppressive silence. "Greed leaves nothing uneaten. Not even you." Its voice seemed to mock at the weight of all the temple's suffering.

It walked on, deeper into the temple, its form casting long, distorted shadows in the dim light. The golden mire squelched underfoot, a constant, sickening reminder of the corruption that permeated this place. The air grew heavier, the gloom more profound, as if the very light was being consumed by the pervasive darkness.

Another stone face. Another mouth, this one carved with an expression of eternal hunger, its maw a deeper, more absolute black than the shadows that clung to the temple walls. The Beast stepped in again, pulling Rosward into the echoing void, the faint, flickering light of a distant torch casting a final, fleeting gleam on the golden floor before they were swallowed by the encroaching darkness. They were walking toward a dark forest, the torchlight now the only source of illumination, making the gold within the temple's depths shine with an eerie, final brilliance before it was lost to sight.

4th Inferno — Greed of Legacy

"All flames crave names to remember them by."

They emerged into a dark forest, where the very trees had no leaves—only tongues of fire licking at the suffocating night. The air was thick with the scent of burning flesh and charred wood, a symphony of crackling flames punctuated by the chilling, mocking laughter that seemed to emanate directly from the gnarled, fiery faces carved into the trunks. These faces, grotesque and contorted, laughed in contempt, their fiery eyes fixed on the damned below.

Rosward looked up, horrified, his own skin prickling with the heat and the sheer terror of it all. Below the scornful gazes of the flame-faced trees, men and women writhed on the forest floor, a macabre ballet of self-mutilation. They were peeling their own skin, layer by agonizing layer, muscles exposed, sinews trembling with the effort. Each strip of flesh, still warm and vital, was then meticulously, almost reverently, hung upon the fiery branches, as if to be admired. But the moment the flayed flesh touched the fire-leaves, it ignited, burning away into ash, leaving behind nothing but an empty legacy.

Only to grow new skin... and begin again. The cycle was endless, a torment designed to mock their desperate need for remembrance.

"They seek to be remembered," The Beast whispered, its voice a low rumble that seemed to mingle with the wails and screams filling the scorching night. "But the world forgets even blood if it dries long enough."

Rosward stumbled forward, the demonic laughter echoing in his skull, threatening to shatter his sanity. He tried to speak a prayer—any prayer—but his voice had no weight here, no sound, swallowed by the infernal cacophony. The heat was immense, an oppressive blanket that seared his lungs with every breath. The ground beneath his feet was scorched earth, littered with the crispy remnants of countless failed attempts at legacy.

They reached a massive, burning tree at the heart of the forest, its flames roaring higher than the others, casting grotesque, dancing shadows. A giant face, formed of bark and flame, opened its wooden jaw wide, a yawning abyss of fire and despair. Without a moment's hesitation, The Beast entered again, pulling Rosward into the searing, screaming void.

5th Inferno — Wrath of Arrogance

"Kings become meat when they fall."

They emerged at the shores of a lake of fire—its surface bubbling like molten gold, casting an infernal, shifting light across the dark, gloomy night. The air was thick with the stench of burning flesh and the acrid tang of despair. Sinister shadows stretched and danced across the landscape, mimicking the tortured forms within the inferno.

Floating atop the molten surface, Rosward saw a man torn apart again and again. It was the First King of Goa, his form once regal, now reduced to a spectacle of grotesque torment. His body was devoured by the phantoms of his people—faceless shadows with grasping, spectral hands, tearing at his flesh. They reached into his chest to pull out his still-beating heart, gnawing at his intestines like starving dogs. Each time he was consumed, his form would re-coalesce, only for the gruesome feast to begin anew.

"He thought the world owed him loyalty," The Beast said, its voice a low growl that seemed to vibrate with the raw power of the inferno. "But no man rules the flames of hatred."

Rosward could not look away. The horrifying tableau held him captive, even as he heard the cries of kings, emperors, warlords—names once immortal, now screamed in agony by mouths without form, their voices echoing across the fiery lake. The sheer, overwhelming rage emanating from the phantom people was a tangible force, pressing down on him.

It continued, climbing a hill of charred bones that crunched sickeningly underfoot, each step a morbid reminder of the countless who had fallen before. The flickering light from the lake of fire made the skeletal fragments shimmer with an eerie glow. Atop the hill, they found a temple of glimmering gold built into the rock, its façade a mocking beacon in the darkness. But the doors did not shine—they bled, a viscous, dark fluid oozing from the ornate carvings and pooling on the scorched earth.

Inside, at the far wall, the familiar giant face awaited them, half-mouth open in silent, sinister invitation, a deeper shadow within the pervasive gloom. The Beast did not pause. It stepped into the gaping maw, pulling Rosward along, leaving behind the screams of the arrogant kings and the burning lake, swallowed once more by the unknown depths.

6th Inferno — Heretics of the Holy Name

"Even gods rot when built by mortal hands."

They entered a cathedral of blasphemy, carved from black stone and bone, its spires sharpened like spears toward a dying, bruised sky. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and something cloying, like corrupted incense, as a scorching evening sun fought to penetrate the gloom. An acid rain began to fall, sizzling on the black stone and adding to the already suffocating atmosphere.

Rosward gasped, the sound a ragged whisper caught in his throat. All around him, winged demons with feathers like crows circled above rows of men and women—his own soldiers, civilians, marines. All on their knees, their faces contorted in a horrifying ecstasy. All chanting, their voices a discordant drone that grated on his nerves: "Praise the Dragons. Praise the Holy Blood. Praise the Heirs of Heaven."

Their tongues, raw and bleeding, licked at statues of Tenryuubito—grotesque, thorned figures carved from black marble, bleeding profusely from countless wounds. Each statue dripped thick, black ichor, and each worshiper eagerly drank it, tears of joy streaming down their mutilated faces. The acid rain seemed to intensify their devotion, washing over their tortured features.

The demons descended from above, their wings beating the air with a leathery flap. They whipped the backs of the kneeling faithful with burning iron, branding them with the mark of servitude, the screams of pain mingling with the fervent chants.

And then Rosward saw it—one of the statues, at the head of a particularly devout row, was his own likeness. Carved in grotesque detail, it too dripped black ichor, its stone eyes staring out with an unholy light.

Rosward slid down from The Beast's grasp, landing heavily on the bone-strewn floor. He fell to his knees, trembling, the sight of his own image worshipped in such a vile manner shattering something deep within him. "I am not... divine." His whisper was barely audible, yet it was the first defiance he had ever uttered, a tremor of rebellion in a soul long accustomed to submission.

The Beast nodded, a subtle acknowledgment, then grabbed him again, saying nothing. Together, they passed through the final sanctum, where the largest idol awaited. But rather than entering its gaping maw, they stepped around it—to the back of the cathedral, where yet another face of stone—this one ancient, moss-covered, and broken—waited. Its mouth agape like a forgotten god, swallowed by the acid rain that now streamed down its ancient features.

They stepped inside. And now—The ground beneath them turned to thick, clinging mud. The next descent... would not be walked. It would be crawled, through the chilling, acidic mire, into whatever new horror awaited him.

7th Inferno— Violence Against Innocence

"Those who wage war on the helpless will find no peace."

They emerged into a landscape of black, writhing mud, an endless, churning bog that stretched into the gloomy, wet darkness. The air hung heavy and thick, a suffocating miasma of rot, iron, and pus that burned Rosward's nostrils. The oppressive atmosphere seemed to press down on him, mirroring the crushing weight of the horrors before his eyes.

Souls crawled upon one another, a grotesque mass of humanity, biting, tearing, and devouring with insatiable hunger. They weren't beasts—they were people: marines, pirates, peasants, kings. Their identities had dissolved, their forms stripped bare, and now they had become part of this horrifying, perpetual cycle. They fed on one another, their screams echoing across the swamp, a ceaseless chorus of agony. And when they were devoured, their flesh returned, their screams renewed, their torment a curse without end.

Rosward tried to close his eyes, desperate to escape the horrifying spectacle, but his eyes refused to obey, held wide open by some unseen force. He was forced to watch, to remember, to bear witness to every gruesome moment.

"This is where the blood of children sinks," whispered The Beast, its voice resonating with an ancient, chilling truth. "Every scream unheard. Every hand raised against those who could not fight back."

The Beast walked atop the squirming sludge, its steps sure and unburdened. With each stride, Rosward heard fresh screams gurgle beneath its feet, the souls of the tormented churning and squelching with every movement. The mud seemed to cling to Its own skin, cold and slimy, a grim premonition of the fate that might await him.

Ahead, a massive face jutted from the swamp, its features contorted in a silent, eternal scream. Its mouth was open wide, vomiting forth more of the black, writhing filth that made up this infernal landscape. It became the next gate, a horrifying passage to an even deeper torment. The Beast entered it without hesitation. Rosward, still held tightly in its grasp, followed—against his will—into the abyss.

8th Inferno — Fraud of the World

"Lies are venom, and the world is sick with it."

They emerged in a twisted valley—a canyon carved from bones that rose sharply into the perpetually gloomy sky. The air was thick with the acrid scent of venom and decay, a heavy, suffocating blanket that pressed down on Rosward. Below them, a poisonous swamp, dark and stagnant, bubbled with a viscous, green sheen at the valley's base, mirroring the corruption above.

Here, snakes slithered endlessly, their scales slick with a foul, iridescent sheen. But each had a human face. Rosward recognized them instantly: journalists, agents, religious leaders, politicians, royals. All those who had twisted the truth for their own gain. Each snake possessed a forked tongue, constantly dripping venom that hissed and burned the very earth wherever it fell, leaving smoking, festering pits in the bone-littered ground.

"These are the voices that shaped empires," said The Beast, its voice a low, dry rasp. "Their lies outlived them."

Some snakes bit themselves, their human faces contorting in silent screams as their own venom corroded their flesh. Others tangled around each other in tight coils, fusing into grotesque knots of flesh and teeth, eternally bound by the deceptions they had spun. Their pain was eternal, a writhing, living monument to their deceit.

The Beast knelt, its enormous form casting a monstrous shadow over the writhing mass. It grabbed two of the serpent-faced creatures, their human features screaming in silent terror, and devoured them with a sickening crunch. "My favorite," it chuckled, a sound like grinding stone. "They taste like shame."

At the far end of the valley, a cave writhed with an even denser mass of serpents, their collective hiss a chilling symphony. Above it, another enormous stone face emerged from the bone-carved rock, its mouth open wide, lips cracked and leaking whispers of forgotten truths that seemed to echo from the very fabric of the valley.

They passed through the final gate, leaving the valley of twisted tongues behind.

And then—the world turned red.

Final Inferno — The Wrath of God

"Hell is not where God is absent. It is where His eyes never close."

They entered the deepest circle of Hell. No more faces in stone. No more choices. No way back. Only fire. Only judgment. They stood before a vast plain of magma and boiling metal, the air shimmering and distorting with an unbearable heat. Rivers of molten iron carved through the oppressive darkness, their incandescent glow illuminating a landscape of endless torment. The very air burned, scorching Rosward's lungs with every desperate breath.

The Beast dropped Rosward onto the ground, letting him walk on his own. Even the Beast, a creature of this infernal realm, seemed to move slower here, its immense form appearing almost heavy amidst the intense heat and the profound weight of divine wrath.

"This," said the Beast, its voice a low rumble that vibrated through the molten ground, "Is where God's hatred burns the brightest."

Demons roamed the inferno—lesser kin of the Beast, but no less terrifying. They had no wings, only twisted horns and two powerful arms, their flesh branded with the undeniable marks of divine wrath. One demon whipped a screaming soul with a chain of molten iron, forcing it to drink liquid steel from a spiked goblet, the metal hissing as it seared down the throat. Others, with cruel grins etched on their faces, stirred massive cauldrons of screaming souls, their flesh bubbling and peeling away in agonizing layers.

Rosward collapsed to his knees, the unimaginable horror of the scene overwhelming him. He tasted bile and ash, his mind reeling from the cacophony of pain and the sight of endless suffering.

And then—the Beast pointed. Its massive claw, tipped with razor-sharp talons, directed his gaze to the heart of this cursed place. There, in the inferno of molten steel and lava, Rosward saw her: His first wife. Skewered from anus to throat by a jagged metal spike, her body bathed in molten steel. She screamed, her face a mask of unspeakable agony, but no sound came, swallowed by the roaring flames. Her eyes, wide and hollow, searched—not for salvation, not for release, but for him.

"This is where you belong," the Beast said, its voice chillingly calm amidst the chaos.

Rosward's spirit broke. Shattered beneath the weight of what he had seen, what he'd soon become. In that final inferno, surrounded by molten judgment, he begged the Beast. He dropped to his knees, his voice torn by desperate sobs, his hands clasped together in supplication, a desperate plea for mercy in a place where mercy ceased to exist.

"Please... I'll do anything. Tell me what I must do... to be free of this fate!"

But the Beast only stared, unmoved, its massive form unyielding as the flames danced across its antlers, casting shadows that resembled wings of ruin. Its voice rang clear beautifully. Calmly said...

"There is nothing you can do."

"Your fate was etched into the bones of the earth the day your feet first touched it."

"Your choices were always yours. And now... the reward is yours too."

And then — the Beast grabbed Rosward and closed its hand.

Its six clawed fingers crushed Rosward's soul, and in that pressure of absolute damnation...

He woke.

Gasping. Screaming. Soaked in sweat.

Rosward awoke in his chamber, his body violently shaking.

He clawed at the silken bedsheets, vomited beside the mattress, and stared in terror at the flickering chandelier above him — as if it might transform into the Beast at any moment.

But the nightmare did not return.

Not because it was over.

Because it had left its mark.

Even now, the Beast's voice echoed in the back of his skull: "I wait for you. When your time comes."

Rosward wept. Not from relief — but from terror.

And nothing he had, no wealth, no power, no status, could save him.

But then... as he curled into himself, trying to keep warm, trying to keep together — he remembered them.

The two women.

The ones who stood on either side of the silhouette.

The only beings in that hellscape not made of hatred or madness.

One — with hair like golden wheat, eyes like rainclouds, tears falling endlessly.

The other — with long, flowing locks like black pearl silk, her eyes closed, as if shielding herself from the world's sorrow.

And something in him whispered:

"They might save me."

Rosward leapt from his bed, fevered and desperate. He screamed for his servants, his soldiers, his archivists.

"Find them!" he shouted, eyes bloodshot. "Those women! I need names! Records! Anything! Find them!"

His empire of information began to churn.

Years passed. He trained. He paid. He searched every scrap of prophecy, art, scripture, and forbidden record.

He no longer enslaved.

He no longer celebrated cruelty.

Not out of mercy — but terror. He was trying to claw his way free from the flames.

Then, one day, a servant returned.

With trembling hands, he offered a wanted poster — faded, crumpled. The bounty was small. The picture... that of a child. A girl no older than eight.

The Devil Child. Nico Robin.

The resemblance was imperfect. But the feeling... the aura... 

"It's her," Rosward whispered, falling to his knees, he wept. "The woman with closed eyes...my salvation."

And just like that — his obsession took form.

Not with hunting.

Not with conquest.

But with redemption.

Or at least... a desperate imitation of it.