"Did I die today? Yesterday? Or perhaps tomorrow?" a confused voice echoed in his mind.
Deep in Hell, where the living had no place, the endless Desert of Samathi stretched out. It used to be empty, but now it was filled with twisted bodies and the heavy smell of blood.
Not long ago, an army had stood here—a group of ruthless devils who terrified anyone in their way.
Now everything was frozen.
Only time moved on. Blood slowly thickened. The wind picked up again. The hot sand kept forming new dunes, covering the traces of the desperate battle.
In the dead silence, a lone male figure knelt amid a sea of corpses.
He looked like a broken statue, surrounded by grief and loneliness. His eyes were lifeless, his arms hung at his sides, and his face was smeared with blood and ash. He stared at the horizon, where his fallen comrades lay as far as he could see. Pain kept him from moving.
A single clear tear slid down his dust-covered cheek.
That broken figure was the new ruler of Hell, called "Sir." He was a legend. His name alone made devils kneel in respect and sent monsters running in fear. He was praised and feared.
But now, only a broken shell of that legend remained.
Driven by his ambitions, he challenged the lord of Hell, Lucifer. He wanted the throne. At his command, legions raised their banners. Every soldier was eager for blood. Their violent energy seemed strong enough to tear the heavens apart.
And he achieved his goal. He won. He brought Hell to heel.
But Sir could never have imagined that he would be the sole survivor…
What a ridiculous joke. He started a war that wiped Hell clean. On the Ninth Layer, not a soul was left. The strongest devils all fell in the Desert of Samathi. He had won, but there was no one left to rule. Hell was empty.
Was he prepared for the sacrifices? Yes.
It would have been foolish to think he could defeat Lucifer without those sacrifices. That much was clear.
The fallen archangel had ruled Hell since the dawn of its existence. He was the embodiment of authority, an unattainable peak. The Seven Deadly Sins served as his generals. Bamal, Mammon, Asmodeus, Beelzebul—all dissidents who dared lay claim to his throne had been crushed two eras ago. He ruled with an iron hand. No one even attempted to consider challenging him.
No one except Sir.
His troops knew this simple truth as well, and yet they still followed him.
Madmen. Fanatics. Idiots.
They knew survival was nearly impossible, but still rushed into battle.
Life for life is an equal trade. Life for two is an obvious benefit. For them, it was an honor to die for Sir's glory and ideals. And they gave them. They gave their bodies, their blood and sweat, their hearts and souls. They gave him everything.
And all of them fell.
Only Sir kept fighting. He stood alone against countless legions. He tore across the battlefield like a tornado, fearless and merciless. He stayed relentless, like death itself.
Thousands of commanders fell by his hand. Dozens of generals lost their heads. He personally overthrew Lucifer. He tore victory from his grasping claws! And as proof, he held the black, jagged crown, its sharp spikes biting painfully into his skin.
Yes, he had achieved his goal. However at what cost?
His loyal army. His comrades-in-arms. All were dead.
For three days, Sir had been kneeling, unable to stand. He thought he was ready for this outcome and believed he would accept it without hesitation. But now, surrounded by the ruins of victory, he could not stop doubting.
Why had he started all this? Why had he gathered countless armies? Why had he sent them to certain death?
He had quite literally sacrificed everything to achieve his goal—and was utterly broken.
Yes, this was Hell. Yes, killing was commonplace here, and mercy did not exist. Existence itself here was synonymous with the words "pain," "despair," and "fear."
But even the most merciless devils had limits. Limits that Sir had crossed.
He had to remember—why.
Broken, he let his thoughts drift far from the grim scene, away from endless grief and self-reflection. He turned to his earliest memories, trying to understand where it all began.
He was remembering how he had first appeared in Hell, still utterly green by the standards of that merciless place. He had been a mere mortal. Weak. Helpless. Like everyone else, he had begun on the First Layer. He could not have imagined that one day he would be able to bring all of Hell to its knees.
Every step across Hell's surface had felt like walking on crushed glass. With every breath, flames had rushed into his lungs, inflicting unimaginable pain on his already scorched body. Thirst and hunger had become his enduring companions.
And worst of all—loneliness. For a thousand miles around, there had not been a single soul.
That time had been agonising. Back then, death had seemed like a beautiful dream. He could only dream of escaping the endless agony.
He had simply kept walking, not knowing how long, why, or where. He had searched, not even sure what he was looking for.
He had walked, sifting through fragments of happy moments from his past life. A life that had ended so abruptly.
He had walked, repeating three words over and over: "Grey," "Bella," and "Mom." Only those names had kept him from losing his mind. They became his mantra, an anchor in a sea of madness.
Endless days of pain and solitude had dulled all his senses. Led by instinct alone, he had been turning into a soulless puppet. Without purpose, without hope, accompanied only by three names.
Then this meeting. A strange, wild beast, ferocious and starving, lunged at him, ready to tear him to pieces. Its dark tentacles swiped through the air, and its mouth, like a mandible, leaked with foul saliva.
In that very moment, a firework of emotions burst in young Sir's soul. Fear—sharp and piercing, making his blood race. But with it came something else…
Joy. Paradoxical, maddened joy at the realization that he had no longer been alone. That in this merciless world, there had still been something alive—even if hostile and grotesque.
That palette of clashing emotions had been so powerful that even now, after millennia of battles and struggle, the memory of it had sent a mild tremor through Sir.
The memories kept rolling on…
Years had blurred together with decades, decades toward centuries, and he had still wandered across the First Layer. Alone and without purpose. His path had become an endless succession of battles with monsters whose forms could only be called nightmares, born from the twisted imaginations of deranged souls.
He had fought and hidden. Done everything to survive.
Hunger had never left him for a single moment. Insatiable and burning, it had driven him to tear flesh and drink the blood of his enemies, just to feel alive, even for an instant.
It had been an endless journey, with no place for mercy. Every punch, every movement, had been aimed at devouring, destroying, erasing all living things from the face of the earth.
Step by step, drop by drop, the inexperienced youth faded away. The ordinary mortal slowly became a merciless killer, earning the title "Sir."
His body had been covered in scars. His eyes, once innocent and full of life, had now burned with red fire, showing his true nature as a predator.
In this world of darkness, death, and pain, there had been no place for the weak. Only the strongest survived, and he became the proof of that. He would do anything to satisfy his endless hunger. He fully turned into a beast, driven due to a thirst for blood and flesh. He became part of Hell and its endless struggle.
This predator had desperately repeated:
"Grey, BELLA, MOM"
"Bella, Mommy, Grey"
"Grey—Mom"
"Grey—Bella"
"Grey, Grey, Grey, Grey, Grey, Grey"
Then, after years of wandering, he met another sentient being, similarly lost as he was.
A humanoid, nearly three meters tall. Horns crowned its head, and its limbs had been covered in scales. It had moved slowly, yet each stride had shaken the ground beneath it. It had monotonously, stubbornly repeated "Pallok," much like he had incessantly muttered "Grey, BELLA, MOM."
The strange echo of pain had caused something in the tormented mind of the young "Sir."
In him, below layers of rage, pain, and hunger, something long forgotten had stirred.
The predator had stopped. His eyes, burning red, had narrowed—not in anger, but in focus. For the first period in centuries, he had simply looked instead of attacking.
His instincts told him to tear, drink blood, devour, destroy. But a quiet voice inside whispered: wait…
The two mad creatures locked eyes, like twin raging flames. Two fading memories of a past life. A life when they had been human, not devils.
Finally, unable to hold back his thirst for blood, young Sir had leapt at the humanoid. His teeth had aimed for its throat, but there had been a strange, almost childlike playfulness in the attack—a trace of curiosity he had not noticed in ages.
He had not wanted to kill immediately. He had wanted to understand…
The creature had growled, intercepting his body with massive hands. Dust and bone fragments had exploded around them.
"Grey?"—the young Sir had uttered a garbled rasp, meaningless to anyone who heard it.
The creature had responded, eyes flashing: "Pallok."
A strike. Another.
Their movements had been sharp, hungry, and bestial—but without hatred.
The young Sir's needle-like teeth had closed on the humanoid's shoulder.
"Mom?"—he had rasped, loosening his grip for a moment.
"PALLOK!"—the humanoid had shouted in reply.
Sir had recoiled and began to tremble, as if trying to remember why he was here at all.
"Bella…"
"PALLOK, PALLOK, PALLOK!!!"—the creature had screamed frantically.
The fight started again, but this time it was different. The urge to kill faded. They had not fight to devour each other, but because they had not know any other way to connect. Like two beings who had forgotten society, rediscovering it.
In their battle, something new was born—a trace of recognition, an echo of a lost connection.
After a prolonged struggle, when strength had left them both, they had remained lying side by side, breathing heavily, endlessly repeating now four words.
Over and over again. Two devils. Four names. Two sparks of memory.
This was the start of the journey for the two "highly evolved" predators.
They had ceased to be mere beasts. They had made the first step back—to themselves, to their humanity. And that step had led them to power.
Year after year, century after century, they had battled side by side—shoulder to shoulder, claw to claw, name to name.
Their fame had spread throughout Hell. They had been feared. They had been revered.
But every path ends eventually.
Now, in the midst of the dead winds of the Samathi Desert, Sir stood, holding the crown of dominion over this cursed world.
Alone…
He slowly rose from his knees. A void silence beat in his head. His legs were heavy, like they were filled with lead. Every step hurt, not in his body, but in his heart.
Before him lay Pallok.
His loyal friend and comrade-in-arms. His first general and instrument of destruction. The very one who had once spoken his name, pulling him back from the edge of madness. The one who had stood next to him. The one who had remained with him until the end.
Pallok's corpse resembled a sculpture of an ancient demon: dark skin like charred iron, a back pierced by massive bony spikes, growths along his arms and chest resembling frozen droplets of lava.
Sir lowered himself beside him, gently touching the rough, scaly skin. His forehead pressed against the giant's cold brow.
"Farewell, my first general. Farewell, my friend… Farewell, Pallok…" His voice quivered. Each word came with difficulty.
"Rest in peace. I hope that where you have gone, there is no more pain."
Sir felt his resolve weaken. Part of him wanted to stay here forever, mourning the fallen and sinking into grief. But another part, selfish and merciless, the part that had supported him through ages of suffering, whispered insistently:
'Do not stumble.'
'Do not look back.'
'Keep moving.'
'You chose your path. And you must not regret it. Death is not an option for us. The opportunity presents itself. You had to seize it. Grasp it with both hands and keep moving.'
'We have no time for regret or mourning. You always knew that the road to our goal is paved with mountains of corpses and sacrifice.'
'We are almost there. Only the final step remains!'
Sir turned away.
His look hardened once more. Grief and doubt were cast aside. He had to move forward. For himself, for the fallen. He simply could not retreat when the goal was so close.
He picked up his dagger and katana, their blades marred with cracks and nicks from endless battles. Then he set the bloodied crown upon his head.
For a moment, his eyes lingered on Lucifer's mangled body. Then—without a word, without emotion—he shifted his weight and slowly crushed the demon's face beneath his heel. The sand greedily drank the blood, as it had countless times before.
The scorching wind blew up dust, but Sir walked steadily. He crossed several dunes, never taking his eyes off his goal.
Here, in the midst of the dead sands, a tree had grown—not taller than a bonsai.
The thick trunk was parched, but alive. Branches, like tongues of flame, reached upward, radiating with a warm amber light from within. Sparse green leaves appeared almost illusory, like mirages above the scorching sand. They shook in the dead wind, as if clinging desperately to a world that rejected their existence.
The tree clearly did not belong in the grim view of Samathi. Its presence broke the logic of Hell, like a bone piercing flesh.
The Tree of Reincarnation. A tree that had sprouted from the phoenix's flame. A tree that had managed to grow the Fruit of Life inside the Realm of Death.
In a single word—contradiction.
A single fruit, the size of a plum, moved softly on a thick branch. It looked like a piece of crystal, radiating with a warm inner light. A faint, living fragrance spread around it.
That scent drove devils mad. It made their hearts race and their mouths water. It roused something in Hell that had for a long time been thought dead: hope. All of Hell had plunged into chaos because of this fruit. It had destroyed millions. It had caused the fall of Lucifer.
And it was so close.
Sir raised his hand. His digits trembled. The broken katana quivered slightly as he rubbed it along the branch. One smooth motion—and the coveted fruit lay within his palm.
"I did it… I did it!" His voice cracked with excitement and greed, hoarse and almost unintelligible.
"Bella, Mom, do you see this? Years of struggle and suffering. Centuries of loneliness. Millennia of battles. I gave everything to reach this fruit. And here I am…"
"Everything else I leave to fate. I hope I will see you again…"
His voice changed once more, sounding clear, filled with authority and power:
"By the power granted to me by the Biblical Hell. I, Grey, known as Sir, current rightful owner of Dimension 169,563,271,458/V12, hereby declare immediate abdication and begin reincarnation!"
The black crown flared with a bright light. The entire dimension trembled.
Without hesitation, Sir devoured the fruit with greed.
With a single decisive motion, he drove the broken katana into his own heart and the dagger between his eyes. And… in the blink of an eye, he disappeared from the blood-soaked desert, leaving only the echo of his final words, reverberating throughout the endless Samathi.