It had been a month since the truth dropped on Lucius like a meteor from the heavens. A month since he met the soul of the Hell Prisoner. A month since he learned he was the son of the true King of Hell—betrayed, dethroned, murdered by his own brother.
And now? Now he stood at the edge of a new world.
But the path here wasn't easy.
In that month, Lucius had changed.
He had skipped school so many times the principal had stopped sending emails. The orphanage had given up trying to "check in." He didn't care. How could he, when every day he woke up to the weight of a divine curse? His body was stronger now—taller, lean muscle clinging to his frame like armor. His jawline had sharpened, his voice deepened slightly, and his white hair was trimmed, cleaner but wilder. His wardrobe was no longer thrift-shop rags but a black, fitted jacket with red runes etched into the sleeves, matching gloves, combat boots, and pants resistant to heat and flame—system rewards.
He looked nothing like a normal teen.
He felt nothing like one either.
Most days, he'd wake up, swing the Hammer of Hercules as part of the system's punishment, eat barely anything, and train. He passed the 1000-fling mark long ago, but the system didn't stop. He reached 2000 and was still told:
[Progress Acknowledged. Not Enough. Continue.]
It wasn't punishment anymore. It was identity-shattering. Lucius was tired. The fire that once scared him now felt like home. But something else burned inside him—an ache.
He just wanted to be normal again.
But then… the notification came.
[DING.][You have reached minimal readiness.][Hell Entry: Now Available.][Location Marked.]
Lucius blinked, staring at the red waypoint glowing on the holographic map.
"HELL?" he muttered. "What now?"
The waypoint pulsed from his screen like a living thing. He traced it to a deserted tunnel on the outskirts of Brooklyn, long sealed and flooded. No one went there.
But Lucius would.
Hell - Entrance
The tunnel's stale air greeted him with a metallic tang, like rust and old blood. As he stepped deeper, the walls seemed to pulse—alive, breathing, watching. The silence here was heavier than the darkness. When he reached the marked point, a seal burned into the stone lit up.
A massive gate of bone and ash opened before him.
[ENTERING HELL.]
He stepped in.
The world warped. The air hissed.
And then… he was somewhere else.
The sky above him was a storm of black fire and purple lightning. The ground beneath his boots cracked and rumbled, scorching. Towering mountains spewed flame in the distance, and rivers of molten lava glowed like veins of a living planet.
Hell wasn't just a place.
It was a scar on the soul of the universe.
Lucius took a breath—and immediately regretted it. The air was thick with sulfur, ash, and something bitter, like regret. But there was movement nearby.
A figure—cloaked, skeletal—sat on a throne of skulls beside a burnt tree. It was reading a charred book and sipping something from a teacup made of bone.
Lucius blinked. "...The hell?"
The skeleton looked up. One eye socket glowed faint blue. The other… empty.
"Well, well, well. Took you long enough, young flame."
Lucius reached for his sword instinctively. "Who the hell are you?"
"Claude," the skeleton said with a dramatic bow, somehow still sipping tea. "Former scholar. Failed necromancer. Very dead. Now part-time guide of gate of hell."
"You're… guiding me?"
"I'm what's left of guidance, yes," Claude said. "You're here for the trials. For the throne, eventually. But first, let's talk time. What year is it?"
Lucius narrowed his eyes. "2025."
Claude dropped his cup. "By the bones of Cerberus… It's been a long nap. Do people still worship those hack frauds? Hades, Pluto, that lot?"
Lucius raised a brow. "Uh. Yeah?"
Claude groaned. "Idiots. Your father was the true king. Not those pretenders with marble statues and angry fanbases."
Lucius's blood went cold. "My… father."
Claude turned, now serious. "You don't know his name. You only know the pain. The misery. But he was mighty. And when his brother murdered him to steal the throne, you, little ember, were hidden. Protected. Until now."
Lucius's throat tightened. He didn't want to hear this. He wanted it to be a mistake. But some part of him… some buried flame… believed it.
Claude's eye glowed brighter. "And now the trials wait. First of many."
He gestured toward a scorched pathway that led into blackened stone ruins.
"Trial One: Prove you're worthy to walk the paths your father once ruled."
Trial of the Burned Path
The air shifted. The ruins cracked open, and howls rang out.
Lucius stepped forward, sword drawn.
The hellhounds returned—bigger now, with horns and magma dripping from their fangs. There were six of them. They circled, snarling.
Lucius lunged. He swung his Hellfire Blade, cleaving one in half with a fireburst, and dodged another's pounce. His movements were faster now—months of training under the system's relentless grind giving him precision, speed, power.
The hellhounds fell one by one. Until only smoldering ash remained.
Then came the second part.
A massive lava pool loomed ahead, stretching wide, endless. In the center: an obsidian boat, floating. A skeletal figure in a long black cloak stood at the helm.
Lucius hesitated. The figure didn't speak.
He stepped onto the boat. The lava hissed below.
Then, the figure turned.
Its face was a skull, yes—but its eyes were glowing red coals. It drew a massive reaper's scythe and without a word, swung it at Lucius.
He barely blocked the strike, the blade shrieking against his sword. The reaper moved with deathly grace, swinging again and again. Lucius parried, deflected, struck back.
But this wasn't a hellhound.
This was death itself.
He was thrown across the boat, crashing into the mast.
[WARNING: Health Low - 27/100.]
Lucius gritted his teeth, blood in his mouth.
No.
Not like this.
He dug deep. Summoned fire from within. The sword blazed like a sun. He hurled it forward. Flames engulfed the reaper.
The skeleton screeched, stumbling.
Lucius roared. "You think I came this far to die here?!"
He sprinted across the deck and, with a war cry, drove the blade straight through the reaper's skull.
The figure collapsed—dust and ash.
The boat moved again, drifting through lava as Lucius collapsed, panting, muscles screaming.
[Trial Complete.]
But it wasn't over.
Claude reappeared, sitting casually on the mast.
"Well done. You're not dead. Which is always nice."
Lucius spat out ash. "You're not helping."
Claude chuckled. "You'll wish you were dead before this is over. But keep going. You're doing fine, son of fire. Now hop on the boat "
Lucius stared into the horizon of flame and storm. He didn't know what trial waited next.
But he knew one thing for sure—
This wasn't just his story anymore.
This was war.
The portal swallowed Lucius whole.
Flames roared in his ears, and a searing heat clamped around his body like a thousand molten hands pulling him downward. The world blurred. Colors twisted. And then—suddenly—it stopped.
The first thing he felt was stillness.
Lucius stumbled forward and landed on one knee, boots skidding against blackened stone.
The air was thick and smoky, tinged with iron and ash. He lifted his gaze.
He was standing on the shores of Hell.
Not a metaphor. Not a simulation. The real thing.
The sky above was a burning scar, smeared with crimson clouds that pulsed like wounded veins. The ground beneath him was cracked obsidian, jagged and hissing with red-hot fissures. Bones littered the landscape—human, beast, and unrecognizable forms.
Before him lay a vast lava lake stretching as far as the eye could see. Bubbling. Boiling. Churning with souls that screamed beneath the surface.
And docked along the edge… a boat.
Long, ancient, carved from dark wood that looked eternally scorched yet intact. The vessel rocked gently on the lava as if it were water, unaffected by the molten heat.
At the helm stood a tall figure cloaked in shadows, holding a long pole carved from bone.
Lucius approached slowly, Hellfire Blade sheathed on his back, every step echoing through the emptiness.
The figure turned.
A skeleton.
Not the crumbling kind found in graves—but something different. Tall. Elegant. His bones glowed faintly blue beneath tattered black robes. Twin flames burned in his eye sockets, like two dying stars.
"Late," the skeleton said with a dry rasp.
Lucius blinked. "…Excuse me?"
"I expected you weeks ago," the skeleton replied, tapping the pole once against the lava. "Time runs differently here. Or haven't you noticed?"
Lucius narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?"
The skeleton tilted his skull slightly, amused.
"Claude," he said. "Ferry guide. Collector of regrets. Keeper of lost things."
"…You talk way more than I expected from a skeleton."
Claude chuckled, the sound hollow and ancient. "You'd be surprised how lonely it gets down here."
Lucius stepped onto the dock, the heat of the lava licking at his heels. "Where does the boat go?"
"Trial to trial," Claude said. "Test to test. And perhaps… answers."
Lucius paused. "Do you know anything about the King of Hell?"
Claude's flames flickered in his sockets. "I knew him."
That stopped Lucius cold.
Claude continued. "He wasn't like the myths. Not like your surface gods—Hades, Pluto, all those bloated stories. He was older. Stranger. Fiercer. And he ruled with more pain than fire."
Lucius swallowed. "And now he's dead."
Claude nodded slowly. "Murdered. Betrayed. The throne torn from bloodied hands."
A quiet pause hung between them, broken only by the sound of bubbling lava.
"…So why me?" Lucius finally asked. "Why am I dragged into this?"
Claude's voice softened. "Because you're his son."
The words hit harder every time he heard them. Even now, a month later, they felt like chains around his soul.
Claude gestured. "Come. The lake grows restless."
Lucius climbed onto the boat.
As soon as his foot touched the floorboards, the vessel began to move—gliding smoothly across the lava without sails or oars. Just Claude's steady hand on the pole and the weight of destiny pulling them forward.
Lucius sat near the edge, eyes fixed on the lava as embers danced around them like dying stars.
He spoke quietly. "So what's the trial this time?"
Claude's bony fingers tightened on the staff. "The first true trial of Hell… is not against monsters, boy."
Lucius looked up.
"It's against your own fear."
Suddenly, the air changed.
From the lava, dark shapes began to rise—dozens of them. Slavering jaws. Red eyes. Barking, snarling, clawing at the edges of the boat.
HELL KING'S Hellhounds.
Lucius stood, fire already crackling in his palm.
Claude merely leaned back. "Let's see what the son of the fallen king can do."