Hawk and Gwen were curled together on the couch.
But—
They hadn't been cuddling long before Gwen, feeling Hawk's restless hand, opened her eyes, swatted his paw away, got up with her latest biology journal, shot him a withering look, and padded toward the study in her slippers.
Two full months of "uniform temptations" were plenty.
And you want a free bonus round?
Not happening.
Watching Gwen head up the stairs without looking back, Hawk smiled, then drew his gaze in.
The next instant.
His mind sank into the Underworld—into the Hell of Punishment.
Second Pit: the Downpour Hell.
In the boundless world where a ceaseless, soul-corroding acid rain fell day and night, the six-winged angel Michael had long since been reduced to a bloody, mangled mess.
His flesh sizzled and smoked under the rain.
The three pairs of once-splendid wings behind him now looked like chicken wings thrown into hot oil before plucking.
And whenever Michael tried to shield his flawless face with those ruined wings, a scarlet whip cracked across his body, tearing a scream from his throat.
"Ahhh!"
"Move!"
The blood elf serving as the second pit's warden snapped the whip back and bellowed at the screaming Michael.
As beings native to the Underworld, the blood elves were innately immune to the rain here.
And beyond the second pit, other blood elves served as wardens across the remaining layers, tirelessly driving on the souls sent to suffer.
Hawk appeared without warning.
The blood elf dropped to one knee at once.
"Salute to the Deathlord!"
"Mm. You may withdraw."
"Yes."
The blood elf rose, turned, and vanished across the second pit in a flash.
Only the first female blood elf, Kayla, and the first male blood elf, Kai, called Hawk "Master." All the others addressed him as "Deathlord."
That was at Kayla and Kai's insistence.
In the West, "Master" sounded more intimate than "Deathlord."
Hawk had no desire to quibble over titles, so he left it at that.
At his arrival, the endless acid rain paused for a moment.
But Michael now looked entirely like a feathered fowl tossed into hot oil—unplucked and frying away.
Hawk glanced over and his eyes burned crimson.
Pop.
Michael died where he stood, and when he revived again, he returned at full health.
"This is easier on the eyes—less ugly."
"Heretic…"
Even in death, even mired in Hawk's hell, Michael maintained the bearing of an archangel, staring Hawk down. "The Lord will judge you."
Hawk's face was calm.
"Will he? I don't think he's qualified."
"The Lord is qualified to judge all living things."
"Is he now?"
Hawk smiled at him. "Tell me the coordinates of the Heaven Dimension. I'll go pay Yahweh a visit right now."
Michael said nothing.
Hawk snorted.
"See? You don't even dare tell me where Heaven is and still preach that Yahweh will judge me? You don't believe your own line."
"The Lord will judge you."
Michael's face didn't change, cold and unmoved, as if he had only the one sentence: "My faith in the Lord cannot be broken by your methods. Even if you refine my soul, it will not change."
Hawk nodded.
"Fine. Then I won't refine your soul."
"…"
Michael's icy mask held, but his breathing hitched—just a hair.
He probably thought he hid it well.
But this was the Underworld. If Hawk cared to, no soul's twitch could escape his perception.
So—
Hawk's smile deepened. "Relax. Not just you—any angelic soul that winds up here, I won't refine them either. Your destination is this pit, and only this pit—endless pain, for a term called eternity."
Michael's face changed.
And then, the rain resumed—sheets of ravening acid. In an instant his face, arms, and wings were burned through again, and another shriek ripped out of him.
The moment he reflexively crouched—
The blood elf reappeared.
Crack!
"Up! Move! Faster, birdman!"
Crack!
"Ahhh!"
Michael screamed anew. His acid-holed eyes were no longer pristine, but he still stared—at the spot where Hawk had stood before his vision failed.
Too bad Hawk had already gone.
He'd come only to admire the state Michael was in.
Nothing more.
Hawk had no intention of subduing him. And even if Michael wanted to submit, Hawk would not accept it.
Everyone knows:
Those who play at religion are extreme and twisted.
If it isn't holy war—
It's still a holy war.
Most of all:
Michael very clearly wanted to defile Hawk's Underworld. All the more reason to deny him.
As Hawk had said before he left:
Michael had only one future—eternal suffering in the Downpour Hell.
Night fell.
A message arrived from Mephisto. Hawk glanced at Gwen—now breathless, in white stockings and a prim glasses-and-teacher outfit—smiled, kissed her, then donned his pajamas, tore open a rift, and stepped once more into the Hell Dimension.
What he saw:
Hell was still a wreck.
Having been here several times, Hawk headed straight for the infernal tavern.
Behind the bar, Mephisto was tending, beaming as he waved Hawk to a seat and launched into a little hell-style mixology performance.
A moment later—
A glass of crimson bourbon slid in front of Hawk.
"Spiked with angel's blood, warmed over hellfire, built on Earth's classic lightning-bourbon base."
"Please enjoy."
"…"
Hawk eyed the crimson whiskey still flickering with hellfire, corner of his mouth twitching. He looked up at Mephisto.
Mephisto had already taken a sip and was watching with eager eyes.
Hawk considered, lifted the glass, and took a taste.
On the tongue!
A sacred savor burst open.
One word:
Exquisite.
Hawk's eyes lit. He tipped the rest back.
Mephisto laughed, refilling him.
"Well? Not bad, right? For all their faults, these birdmen are a treasure trove of ingredients. I kept over five hundred alive. Oh—haven't tried grilled angel wings yet, have you? I'll make you some."
"…"
Watching Mephisto bare crimson teeth in a feral smile, fury still smoldering in his eyes, Hawk chuckled. "Now I'm very sure you and Yahweh aren't allies."
Mephisto roared with laughter. "We're not the same breed to begin with. I lie, yes—but I don't toy with faith."
Hawk nodded. That tracked.
Thinking it through, Blood God Madora's claim that Mephisto and Yahweh were a pair had always been flimsy.
Look closely and the tale was full of holes.
For instance, what are the odds?
Mephisto feeds on more than one life-bearing world.
Madora might have been pathetic, but a dimension lord nonetheless—how does he conveniently wink out the moment Deacon Frost dies?
When coincidence piles too high, it's not coincidence. It's design.
And another point:
Mephisto needs souls to persist.
Yahweh, like the Celestials' "gods," is a tool made by the Celestial Host to speed a hatchling Celestial's gestation.
That alone makes peaceful coexistence between Mephisto and Yahweh impossible.
Good thing Hawk never truly bought Madora's story.
As he'd said then:
Mephisto may be no saint, but Madora was hardly a straight shooter.
Sure enough—
Even the name was fake. "Madora" was Michael, Heaven's archangel.
Hawk shook his head with a helpless smile and took the fresh glass Mephisto pushed over.
"How long till your wounds mend?"
"I'm already healed."
Mephisto puffed his chest.
Hawk's eyes flashed gold; his gaze fell through Mephisto's façade to his true body.
Magma-red blood still seeped from the devil's frame.
The snapped demonic horn on his head was bleeding too.
Hawk looked back at him without comment.
Mephisto opened and closed his mouth, tossed back his drink, and drew a long breath.
"Earth-count—one year."
"Yahweh's old bastard stuffed my house with sleeper angel souls and popped them all at once. I took a heavy hit. I need at least a year to drink Hell's power to heal."
Thinking of the devastation he'd seen on the way in, Hawk nodded and looked at him.
"So you can't go to Earth to find that developing 'hell angel'?"
"Heh."
Mephisto shook his head with a bitter smile. "That's Yahweh's viciousness. Yes—without help, I can only watch that thing mature and come fight me for my authority."
As he spoke, Mephisto's eyes burned bright, fixed on Hawk.
As if to say:
Brother, pull me up.
Meeting the look, Hawk turned it over, drained his glass, and answered.
"Don't worry. I'll help."
"…"
(End of Chapter)
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