The Sixth Layer of Hell was unlike the realms before it.
It was not a battlefield of blood, nor a garden of lies.
It was a prison made of words.
Naqharon, The Black Library.
A boundless labyrinth of towers and shelves that reached beyond sight, stacked with books bound in skin, inked in blood, and chained with whispers.
The air burned, not with fire, but with the ceaseless crackle of thought, a suffocating heat of knowledge too vast, too venomous, to be contained.
Every step echoed like a sentence written.
Every breath was a word forced into the lungs.
Every glance at the shelves carried a weight, for the books were not mere paper.
They were souls.
Men, women, angels, even demons who had dared to trespass here, each was bound into parchment, endlessly rewritten with their own despair. Pages turned themselves, letters bleeding, as if the stories resisted their own endings.
