The world had changed.
Micafer stood atop a jagged summit, likely the highest peak in this forsaken realm. From there, he could see everything.
This was no planet in the conventional sense. It lacked curvature—no roundness, no horizon. Instead, it extended as a colossal square platform, impossibly vast and unnervingly symmetrical, stretching evenly in all four directions.
The terrain resembled shattered tectonic plates frozen in mid-collision, with layers of rock misaligned like broken armor. The lithosphere was uneven, fractured, and burning. Below him sprawled a lifeless wasteland—no trees, no shrubs, not even weeds. Just barren, scorched stone laced with glowing fissures. Jagged formations jutted from some of the cracks, while others oozed with slow, simmering magma.
Micafer's breath quickened. His heart pounded, not from exertion but dread. He narrowed his eyes to study the land more carefully—and what he saw froze the air in his lungs.
The realm was divided into three rectangular sectors of suffering, embedded like tiles in a massive square grid. Their borders weren't marked by walls or terrain but by subtle shifts in the shade of gray—one sector darker, one paler, one in between.
Scattered across the sectors were distant figures—creatures, some upright, some crawling, others writhing unnaturally. From this height, they looked like broken chess pieces abandoned mid-game. And yet, there was something deeply wrong about them. These weren't just lost souls. They were malformed, grotesque... monstrous.
Purgators.
The realization struck him harder than the cold wind clawing at his back. His lungs tightened. Each breath came in short, uneven bursts.
Then, without meaning to, his gaze lifted toward the heavens—and what he saw there was worse.
The sun hung in the far distance, dim and motionless. Its light barely reached this world, and what little did was filtered through a looming celestial body—the moon, fixed in place like a lid over a coffin.
But this moon was not ordinary. It wasn't pale or solid, but translucent—like a vast window into another dimension. Ultraviolet rays refracted through its ghostly veil, casting everything below in hues of ash and bone. The light painted the world in soft shades of gray, where shadows stretched without direction.
There was no day here. No night. No cycle.
Only stillness.
Only silence.
Only time, frozen in an eternal twilight.
"If this is purgatory," Micafer thought grimly, "then hell would've ended my suffering. Whatever comes next… it won't be peace."
As if summoned by that very thought, a piercing shriek shattered the silence.
He spun around.
An eagle—no, a beast—came barreling through the sky. Its wings spanned wide enough to eclipse the dim sun, and its body was monstrous, at least three times his size. Its feathers were edged in shadow, and its hooked beak glinted like a blade forged for execution. The air around it rippled with a terrifying aura—an ancient predator that ruled these skies unchallenged.
Terror overwhelmed him, cold and absolute. Every instinct screamed to run, but his limbs locked in place. The eagle descended in a blur of motion.
He barely registered the shadow of its talons before they closed around him.
Then came the sky.
It carried him without resistance, gripping him like prey not worth the effort of killing. It didn't attack. Didn't speak, nither was hunger its drive. It simply soared across the burning wasteland, then released him into the darkest quadrant of the realm without a word or roar like fate had curated it to be so.
He plummeted, struck the ground hard, and tumbled like a doll down a slope of ash and stone. Rocks bit into his skin, scraping knees and elbows, until he finally came to a halt.
Gasping, he pulled himself up, coated in dust and smeared with blood. The air here was dry and thin, like breathing through a sieve.
The landscape was quieter. Too quiet.
Molten formations jutted from the ground like spears, but no souls wandered, and no purgators lurked in sight. He stood alone—until he wasn't.
Footsteps approached.
His heart pounded again. He braced himself.
Two figures emerged from behind a jagged ridge—humanoid in shape. One was older, bald with deep crow's feet and a permanent scowl; the other younger, leaner, but both bore that weary hollowness of long-lost souls.
"Don't you know how to be quiet?" the older one snapped, his voice dry and crisp like brittle parchment.
"He probably wants to get eaten," the younger one said, smirking.
Micafer steadied his breath, glaring. "I… didn't mean to attract anything."
"Intentions won't save you here," the old man muttered. "You're new, aren't you?"
Micafer nodded warily.
"Then follow us."
They led him to a small cave tucked beneath a molten arch. It offered little comfort, but at least there was shelter. Inside, the heat pressed against his skin, suffocating but bearable.
"What brought you to the Furnace of Woe?" the old one asked.
Micafer frowned. "An eagle."
They froze. Shared a glance.
"You mean you killed one?" the young one asked.
Micafer said nothing. He didn't dignify that with a response.
Instead, he asked, "What did you mean—'getting eaten'? And 'Furnace of Woe'?"
The older soul exhaled slowly. "The Veil is divided into three layers. The brightest is the
Atoned Camp—where the repentant wait for liberation. Sometimes, mercy reaches them. On rare days, the Blessed Mother grants reprieve."
The younger soul approached, holding obsidian chalices. He offered one to Micafer, its golden liquid glowing faintly.
Micafer accepted it with a nod—but not trust.
"The center of the realm," the older man continued, "is the Ashen Fields—home to purgators of a higher caste: the Disvirgined, the Wicked, the Evil. Greater sins earn harsher tormentors."
His gaze darkened.
"And where we now stand," he added grimly, "is known as the Furnace of Woe. Here dwell the Infernal and the Satanic."
While he spoke, Micafer discreetly used a shard of obsidian he'd pocketed earlier to pierce a small hole in the bottom of his chalice. The golden liquid began to drip steadily to the ground—hissing and smoking upon contact with the stone.
The trap was confirmed.
They weren't allies. They were predators in masks; certainly, their plan had unfolded before even revealing.
Tension thickened. Footsteps slowed. The younger one drew a hidden blade from his sleeve and crept to Micafer's blind spot, positioning for a kill.
He lunged.
Micafer turned just in time—the blade grazed his cheek. Blood spilled.
Then evaporated.
His blood turned to smoke—a thick, unnatural fog that spread across the land in swirling waves. The gaseous substance spread faster than incense, its scent awakening the whole terrain.
The earth shuddered.
Then came the monsters.
Dozens—no, hundreds—emerged from every direction. Some walked, some flew, others crawled on malformed limbs. Purgators of every rank: Unclean, Legion, Disvirgined, Evil, Infernal, Satanic.
They swarmed the attackers, tearing them apart in seconds.
But not a single one touched Micafer.
Instead, they surrounded him. Silent. Motionless.
An honor guard of horrors.
And then something far worse stepped through them.
A giant—towering, two-headed, four-armed. Two of his arms held a sword each: one etched with Justice, the other branded Vengeance. Its presence exuded both holy brilliance and demonic hatred in perfect, dreadful harmony.
It didn't glow. It seethed.
"I am Beelzebub," it spoke, its voice like an earthquake cracking through eternity.
Every purgator dropped to its knees.
Beelzebub gazed at Micafer with unsettling calm.
"Pray you last long enough to be worthy of hearing that name again."
Micafer stood firm. Fear flickered in his eyes—but something else was stronger.
Resolve.
He straightened, bleeding and bruised but defiant.
Does he think I'm an elite warrior? Or is he fattening me for the feast?
Whatever the answer, it no longer mattered.
If this was the trial...
Then fear would not rob him of his second chance.