The world had changed.
Micafer appeared atop a jagged mountain—perhaps the highest peak in the realm. From there, he could see everything. This wasn't a planet in the traditional sense. It wasn't spherical. Instead, it stretched out as a massive platform, perfectly square, extending equally in all four directions. The lithosphere was uneven in height, fractured like tectonic plates frozen mid-collision.
There was no sign of life—no trees, no shrubs, not even weeds. The land was a barren expanse of molten rock, threaded with glowing fissures. In some cracks, jagged igneous formations jutted upward; others oozed with slow, simmering magma.
Micafer narrowed his eyes deliberate focus studing the lithosphere,
The terrain below was split into three rectangular sectors within the square-shaped realm. The divisions were marked by subtle shifts in grayish color intensity. Narrowing his eyes, he noticed distant figures—creatures—moving, scattered across the land like forgotten chess pieces.
The sight overwhelmed him. He tried to breathe, but tension gripped his lungs, his breath pausing and resuming in irregular rhythms.
Then, instinctively, he turned his gaze skyward.
And froze.
The sun hovered far in the distance—static and dim. The moon resembled a transparent window into another dimension, its surface refracting ultraviolet rays. Light filtered through it, painting the terrain in pale shades of gray. There was no concept of night or day here. Time stood still in eternal twilight.
He thought grimly:
If this is purgatory, then hell would have ended my suffering—not prolonged it. Whatever comes next… it won't be peace.
As if summoned by that very thought, the shriek of an eagle echoed beside him—sharp and haunting,it echoed aloud as though it were the only sound in this forsaken land.
Micafer spun around.
A monstrous creature soared toward him—an eagle, impossibly large. Three times his size, with wings that blotted out the sky and a beak more terrifying than the blade of a Dragon Knight. The terror it radiated went beyond fear. Dread surged down his spine, freezing his nerves. For a moment, he couldn't speak or move.
The shadowed talons seized him.
Tightly.
It didn't feast on him—it didn't even acknowledge his struggle. The creature carried him like a discarded garment, flying over vast distances before releasing him into the darkest, densest quadrant of the realm.
He hit the ground hard, bouncing down a slope like a log, twisting and turning until he finally slowed. Dust and ash clung to him. Fortunately, he'd sustained only minor scrapes on his knees and elbows where his skin had grazed against the jagged rock.
Breathing heavily, he knelt—struggling to draw in the sparse oxygen. The air was thin, dry, and hot.
Then he heard footsteps.
Two figures emerged from behind a rock—humanoid in shape. One looked older, almost scholarly; the other younger, though both seemed aged beyond human years.
"Don't you know how to be quiet?" the older one scolded, voice dry and sharp like an old professor.
"He probably wants to get eaten," the younger added with a smirk.
Still catching his breath, Micafer stared at them, thoughts swirling.
I just got dropped by a demonic eagle… now I'm being warned about getting eaten?
"I'm… sorry," he muttered, irritation flashing in his tone.
"Sorry isn't enough," the older one replied flatly. "You're new here, aren't you?"
Micafer nodded weakly.
"Come with us."
Hesitation lingered in his steps, but curiosity—and a lack of options—pushed him to follow.
They entered a cave glowing faintly from within. The heat was oppressive, but it offered shelter. The older man turned to him.
"What brought you to the deepest part of purgatory?"
Micafer frowned.
Always the questioning types, even in the after-realm.
But he gave a curt answer.
"An eagle."
Both souls exchanged a sharp glance.
"You mean… the sin that brought you here was killing an eagle?" they smirked in unison.
Micafer shook his head in disagreement to their toughts. He offered no explanation, yet something about their words unsettled him.
"What did you mean by the deepest part of purgatory? And getting eaten?"
The older man's eyes narrowed. "He really is new," he muttered, then stood. "I'll explain while we walk."
They stepped back into the ashen air, walking through a narrow path that shimmered with heat.
"The Veil," the old soul explained, "is divided into three sub-realms. The brightest is the Atoned Camp—where souls who've survived the test of time await liberation. If mercy finds them, perhaps on a First Saturday, Mary's intercession frees them. The threats there are purgators—creatures of both angelic and demonic descent—ranked as Unclean or Legion."
As he spoke, the younger soul caught up, holding three chalices carved from obsidian. Each contained a glowing yellow liquid.
He handed one to Micafer. A knowing glance passed between the two souls—a silent message anyone born of the outskirts could understand.
Still, Micafer smiled politely and accepted the glass with both hands.
"The center of the realm," the older one continued, "is the Ashen Fields. Inhabited by purgators of higher rank—Disvirgined, Wicked, or Evil. Harsher sins. Harsher tormentors."
"And where we stand," he said grimly, "is called the Furnace of Woe. Here dwell the Infernal and Satanic ranks."
As he spoke, Micafer subtly used a shard of obsidian he'd picked up earlier to pierce a hole in the bottom of his chalice. The yellow liquid dripped to the ground, hissing as it touched the stone.
The reaction was immediate.
The air grew dense.
Tension thickened between the souls beside him. Their steps slowed. Fists tightened. Micafer felt the shift in energy. The friendly facade dissolved, revealing something darker.
The younger soul flicked his wrist. From beneath his sleeve, a dagger slipped into his palm. He drifted toward Micafer's blind spot—perfectly positioned.
The silence grew too quiet.
Then he lunged.
Micafer turned just in time. The blade grazed his face—a narrow clean cut. Blood trickled down his cheek and splashed on the ground.
And then it evaporated.
In an instant, the blood became vapor. A heavy, unnatural fog spilled into the air like incense, spreading across the landscape faster than wind.
The ground trembled.
From every direction, purgators emerged—hundreds of them. Unclean, Legion, Disvirgined, Evil, Infernal, Satanic. All surged forward in a chaotic frenzy.
The two souls tried to flee—but they were caught, ripped apart like prey before wolves.
Yet none touched Micafer.
They surrounded him—an honor guard of horrors, forming a circle like ants guarding their queen's prize, some tall, short, one-eyed, many-eyed, twisted in forms that defied nature—they all watched in silence.
Then, through the crowd, something emerged.
A being taller than all the others—twice the height of any man. It had two heads, four arms, and carried twin blades: one forged from silver, etched with the word Justice; the other darker than shadow, engraved with Vengeance.
It radiated both light and darkness, but balanced neither.
It was raw power.
A superior to all other purgators.
Its voice rumbled like an earthquake.
"I am Beelzebub."
At the call of its name, every creature bowed low, their heads pressed to the stone.
"Pray you last long enough to be held worthy of hearing that name."
Micafer stood, his expression hardening. A flicker of fear surfaced—but it was buried beneath something deeper.
Resolve.
He felt ready not alowing his powerless status to overwhelm him while his taughts raced,
Does he think I'm an elite soldier? Or is he just fattening me for the feast?
Whatever the answer, it didn't matter now.
The fight was inevitable.
But the true trial had yet to reveal itself—whether in the heart of battle or in its aftermath.