Elias expected nothingness.
Instead, he awoke choking on ash.
The air burned his lungs—thick, sulfuric, like breathing fire. The sky above him was a canvas of blood and smoke, torn by streaks of black lightning. The ground pulsed with heat, cracked and glowing like the skin of some slumbering beast.
All around him, monsters stirred. Twisted silhouettes—bone and sinew wrapped in flame and shadow. Eyes too many, teeth too long. Some crawled. Others slithered. All of them watched.
Demons.
Hell.
A tremor shook his chest—not from the world, but from within. Terror. Raw and ancient. He was no hero here. No chosen one. Just a boy who had fallen too far.
His limbs screamed as he forced himself to his feet. Blood slicked his palms, cut by jagged obsidian. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, each one scraping his throat.
Then came the voice.
Low. Mocking. Close.
"Another soul… ripe for the feast."
From the shadows stepped a devil—tall and thin, its body stretched like wax left too long in the sun. Its mouth split wider than it should have, a grin that nearly touched its ears, full of needle-like teeth. No eyes, just hollow sockets leaking black smoke.
Elias ran.
He didn't think—couldn't. Instinct drove him forward. Feet tore on stone. Heat blistered his skin. The laughter of demons followed, echoing through the charred air.
They didn't need to chase. This was their world.
But he kept running.
Because to stop was to die.
And maybe, worse.