Malum's eyes shot open as an agonizing, searing pain lanced through his body. It was not truly Ene before him—he knew that even as the shifting scene flickered between her face, etched with pure hatred, and the grim countenance of Moloch.
The hellish lance drove deeper, and black blood oozed from the corner of Malum's mouth. He staggered, choking back a vicious snarl.
What was this? Why was he seeing Ene's face? The pain, the humiliation—was it Moloch manipulating him, or some unbidden memory dredged up by his own battered mind?
He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth in fury. The unthinkable—the vessel he once used, the puppet who was meant only for his amusement—now hurts him, even if only as a vision. His pride seethed; the very possibility made his hellborn blood boil.
"You dare to use her face to strike me, Moloch!"
He spat, his words ragged with pain and outrage.
From the voidless gloom, mist curled, congealing into the shape of Malum's blade—once formless shadow, now a forged abyssal weapon.
With a roar, Malum parried the hell-lance aside, the clash reverberating with a cacophony born of the underworld itself. Chains rattled—Moloch's weapon dripping with the regrets of Hell's condemned, a miasma of endless suffering swirling around them.
Moloch did not flinch. He had never smiled—not for Malum, not for anyone. His presence was as unrelenting and cold as the pit itself, absolute and unforgiving. He merely stood, unmoved by Malum's weakened show of resistance, his dominance unchallenged.
"Her?... Hellene Throne,"
Moloch intoned, voice deep as the abyss. He recounted another soul lost—a soul Malum had destroyed for nothing more than his own cruel amusement. Malum's acts of destruction, performed through his vessels, had stained innumerable lives to feed his grand designs.
"Another soon-to-be resident of Hell. I expect her arrival—with your other vessels."
Moloch's words met only a scoff. Malum straightened himself, tossing back bloodied hair even as he nearly doubled over from the pain. He clamped a shaking hand over the wound at his abdomen, blood leaking steadily, gathering in dark pools at his feet.
His every motion is measured to disguise weakness. Yet a deep chill crept into his bones, each heartbeat growing heavier. His vision blurred for a moment. Still, defiance burned in his gaze, and he wiped the corner of his mouth, smearing dark blood across his cheek like war paint, refusing to yield.
His powers—so mighty elsewhere—were muted in Moloch's domain; the hellfire sapped him, leaving him little more than a shade, armed with little but his will and fading strength.
"Shut it. Is this one of your trials? Why her? That memory was hers."
His question trailed off, his eyes narrowing, sweat snaking down his face. The heat was suffocating, the air thick with torment. Even Malum, Deity of Calamity, could barely withstand the suffocating embrace of Hell—a fitting reminder that even his time would come.
Still, he had unfinished business. He needed to get back to the surface—to the human world—alongside the vessel tied to his grand designs, brought down and held captive by Iblis. No one, not even the gatekeeper of Hell, would tamper with the ending he had scripted.
"No. It's yours."
Moloch's affirmation caught Malum off guard. He faltered, the pain from the wound mingling now with confusion, even a flicker of confusion. He searched his memories—where had these visions come from, if not from the soul of the girl he'd destroyed?
"That can't be. That's not how I remember them. I never saw them through her eyes. She should already be here, in Hell. You must have access to her memories."
Malum braced himself, voice hard, demanding answers.
"Her memories? Her soul must first be registered upon arrival. How could I have her memories if she's not here yet?"
Moloch's tone was thunder itself, suspicion rising in the Gatekeeper's cold eyes.
Malum fell silent, the implications sinking in. Who had taken Ene's soul? He was certain Iblis, the arch-tempter, had spirited her to Hell upon her death.
An unfamiliar feeling rose, authentic and visceral, threatened to break through his anger. Where was Ene's soul? Had someone meddled in, or had she been granted some twisted reprieve? The unknown festered that even Malum rarely allowed himself to feel. Suddenly, every shadow seemed hostile, every echo threatening, as if Hell itself were watching, waiting for him to falter further.
"She's not here? Hasn't Iblis brought her in already?"
Moloch's reply rumbled with authority.
"That sinner? Not likely. He's yet to return—still wandering the human world."
Malum trusted that Moloch could not lie; it wasn't in his nature or his divine function. But the mounting doubts wrapped cold fingers around Malum's heart. Harmed and off-balance, he realized not only was he powerless, but he was adrift: wounded, deprived of his quarry, uncertain where the actual threat now lay.
Iblis, the one called the Tempter, rarely visited his own hellish lair in the human world.
As Iblis had always preferred watching mortals tear themselves apart, sowing chaos on the surface while indulging in the spectacle of their downfall. His forays into the human world signaled only turmoil—untidy, vulgar destruction that lacked Malum's own taste for calculated calamity.
Malum held only contempt for Iblis. To him, the killings were mechanical, hardly worthy of acknowledgment, while the rest—base, mindless corruption struck him as beneath contempt. While Iblis delighted in the fall of individuals, Malum craved grand apocalypses, entire worlds shattered in cataclysmic ruin.
Pain forgotten, blood still coursing from deep wounds, Malum's fist clenched tight with resurgence of pride and anger. The agony of his injuries and the hellish heat faded into nothingness, drowned in furious resolve. For a brief instant, even Hell itself shrank before the blaze of his wrath.
"That bastard… He had better not lay a hand on my vessel."
His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper, guttural and venomous, as he glared at the endless dark. Whether he faced Iblis, Moloch, or his own ghosts, Malum's pride—and his fury—were undimmed.