February 01, 2025 arrived like a ghost showing up uninvited to a party no one cared about.
The server looked the same, yet the air felt heavier—as if the digital walls themselves had started judging him.
Jam Seller remembered Chapter 1, back when he believed being loud meant being safe. He had laughed too freely, joked recklessly, and climbed ranks like he owned the place.
Funny how innocence gets crushed by popularity.
Jam: "Well, hello again, my lovely hellhole… missed me?"
No one replied. Predictable.
Prb hovered above him, silent as a lecture hall in a snowstorm. Prb believed hierarchy was law, not cruelty.
Prb: "If someone falls, it's because they were never meant to stay up."
Jam: "Charming. I should hang that on my wall."
Zenkai had a different philosophy—humorless, surgical, a human spreadsheet.
Zenkai: "You disrupted equilibrium. Correction was necessary."
Jam: "Oh, good. I was worried I was too happy. Thanks for balancing my misery."
Zenkai ignored him. Of course. Emotion was irrelevant to him. Structure mattered more.
Arron's philosophy was survival, seasoned with a dash of arrogance.
Arron: "I didn't hate you. I just didn't want to lose."
Jam: "Ah, yes. The classic 'I'll pretend to help you while sharpening my knife' routine. Vintage Arron."
He hadn't lied. Morality had always been a conditional thing. Funny how simple truths hit hardest when everyone else is corrupt.
The court replayed itself in Jam's mind: Xuan calm, neutral, unmoved by chaos.
Xuan: "Did you say it?"
Jam: "Yes. I didn't mean it."
Xuan: "Intent doesn't neutralize damage."
Xuan's philosophy was utilitarian: containment over truth. That's why Hell existed—not to punish, but to expose, isolate, and humiliate.
Jam felt the walls of Hell wrap around him like velvet chains. Moderators didn't protect him—they curated his suffering. Names twisted into filth, insults multiplied, the laughter of others dripping like acid into his ears.
Jam: "Well, this is cozy. I should move in. Rent's terrible, though."
Then Flame appeared, steady and infuriatingly calm.
Flame: "I can't do this. He's not that kind of person."
Shouts arose. Evidence, proofs, logs—the entire mob of digital cruelty, concentrated and raw.
Flame: "You're jealous. And you hate that he rose without becoming like you."
Xuan: "He may lose his position."
Flame: "I don't care."
And suddenly, the cruelty wasn't absolute. Flame's presence was a smirk in the face of the storm. Humanity in a broken system. Choice over policy.
Jam was banned. Punctuation. Period. End of sentence.
---
Hell and the Narcissist Emerges
Jam returned. Quietly. No welcome. No redemption. Just… him.
Xuan: "Who unbanned him?"
Jam: "You can't win against someone who already lost everything. I stood alone against 224 people. And I'm still here."
Recognition, not pride.
Divine, as always, watched from a distance, philosophical, restrained.
Jam: "Why didn't you stop them?"
Divine: "Because stopping them would've destroyed you socially."
Jam: "So you watched?"
Divine: "I observed. Interference often breaks more than it saves."
Jam clenched his teeth, not angry, but amused in a dark, bitter way.
Misku appeared, dots replacing words, quiet presence against chaos.
Jam: "Did you come to hurt me too?"
Misku: "Stop!! I don't want you to suffer anymore."
Presence, not explanation. Humility in a sea of mockery.
Flame checked in last.
Flame: "You alright?"
Jam: "I think so."
Flame: "You didn't deserve that. But I'm proud you survived."
Jam: "Why did you stand with me?"
Flame: "Because someone should've."
No calculation. Just choice.
---
And then Jam entered Hell fully.
The abuse, the mockery, the corruption—they did not break him. At first, tears fell quietly, not out of weakness but because the world had forced him to witness its own ugliness.
Then he laughed.
Not quietly. Not nervously. Loud, raw, booming—a sound that tore through the digital halls.
Jam: "I am used to pain! It doesn't hurt anymore! I am not swallowed by darkness… I am the darkness itself! There is nothing wrong with me! What's wrong… is this corrupted world!"
The laughter was maniacal, intoxicating. Peaks of his mind unfolded into psychological horror: he was not a victim. He was symbol—chaos, resilience, moral inversion.
Pain became pleasure. Abuse became fuel. Every insult reflected his superiority: the world was rotten, not him.
Jam: "Try to hold me down. I dare you. You cannot. I am untouchable in my suffering. I am untouchable in my rise!"
Hell became altar, crucible, canvas. The cruelty of others—offering him torment—was now his stage.
Symbolism layered itself naturally:
The distorted names = mirrors of society's rot.
Mockery = water to temper steel.
Jam = fire, absorbing and reflecting.
And yet, he smiled, masochistically, enjoying the torment, teasing the corrupted world that tried to break him.
Flame remained above him, anchor of humanity. Divine watched from distance, cold but calculating. Misku lingered, quiet.
Jam laughed again. The darkest peaks of philosophy, nihilism, and self-realization intertwined. He was untouchable—not because he was strong, but because he had endured everything the world could throw.
The world might hate him. The world might mock him.
But he was the darkness it feared.