The sulfuric air of Hell was thick tonight, clinging to everything like a weighted blanket. The smog rolled through the twisting alleys and narrow streets of the Eighth Circle, shrouding the world in a permanent twilight that was both oppressive and oddly comforting to those who thrived here. The heat was relentless, an unyielding force that scorched the senses and burned away any notion of time. It was Hell, after all. Eternal, inescapable. It was a place where suffering was currency, where pain was a form of language, and where only the strongest could rule.

Zestial strode through it like a king surveying his kingdom.

His wings, dark as pitch and lined with threads of shimmering gold, cast shadows that stretched impossibly long against the cracked obsidian ground. Every step he took resonated with power, the very fabric of Hell seeming to bow beneath his feet. He wasn't like the lesser demons, the mindless wretches that crawled from the pits of this forsaken place. Zestial was a lord, and he wore his title like a mantle of flame. His eyes, burning embers of molten gold, scanned the streets with a predatory intensity, a hunter always aware of his prey.

Tonight, his prey was not some wayward soul or arrogant imp who had crossed him. No, tonight, it was something far more precious. A secret. A whisper carried through the charred bones of Hell's underworld. A whisper that had led him here, to the doorstep of a decrepit ruin on the outskirts of the Eighth Circle, where only the most desperate or most foolish sought refuge.

The Information Broker. The one who knew things others shouldn't.

Zestial's hand brushed against the hilt of his sword—a blade forged in the molten core of Hell itself, its edges sharp enough to slice through both flesh and soul. He didn't expect to need it tonight, but in Hell, power was best displayed by those who held it. He pushed open the iron gate with a single motion, the sound of it screeching through the stagnant air like a dying scream. Inside, the air was heavier, thick with the stench of rot and betrayal.

The Information Broker was waiting, as they always were, a twisted figure hunched in the shadows. Zestial didn't know what the creature once had been—angel, demon, or something else entirely—but now, it was little more than a husk. Still, the Broker's eyes gleamed with a predatory intelligence, the same intelligence that had kept it alive for eons longer than most would have guessed. It didn't speak at first, only inclined its head as Zestial entered.

"You've come for the knowledge," it rasped, its voice like sandpaper on stone, thick and grating. "You always come for knowledge."

Zestial didn't bother with pleasantries. He wasn't in the mood for games tonight. "Tell me what you know of Adam."

The Broker's eyes flickered with amusement. It was always amused by the suffering of others, and Adam's story was one drenched in agony. Once a proud force of Heaven's warriors, Adam had been reduced to little more than a broken relic of his former self, his body shattered in a celestial conflict that had torn him from the skies. His pride, however, had remained intact—more than intact, it had festered, grown sharper and more defiant with every passing week. It was what made Adam dangerous, even now.

"I know many things about Adam," the Broker replied, its voice slithering through the room. "But the question is, how much are you willing to pay for this particular secret?"

Zestial's gaze darkened, a flicker of infernal light dancing across his irises. "I don't have time for your games. Speak."

The Broker chuckled, a sound like dry bones rattling. "Very well. Adam… the great warrior of Heaven. Do you know where he is now, Lord Zestial? Do you know what has become of him since he fell?" It leaned forward, its bony hands scraping against the table in front of it. "He's in Hell, of course. But not as you might imagine. No, Adam's form has been shattered, his essence scattered. He is in pieces, you see. Still reforming."

Zestial's lip curled, the weight of the words sinking in. "He can't die."

"No," the Broker agreed, nodding slowly. "He can't die. None of us truly can, not here. But for some… the process of reforming is… slower." Its eyes gleamed. "Much slower. Adam is one of the few who was powerful enough to resist total annihilation, but his form has been in flux for centuries. He is reforming, yes, but it will be a long time before he is whole again. A very long time."

"Where?"

The Broker hesitated, its fingers drumming against the table. "That information comes at a price."

Zestial's wings flared behind him, the tips brushing against the low ceiling of the room. "Do not test my patience."

The Broker let out a dry laugh, though there was an edge of nervousness to it now. "You misunderstand, Lord Zestial. The price is not for me. The price… is for you."

Zestial narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.

"To know where Adam is, to find him in his broken state… you will owe me. A favor, for when the time comes. Nothing more. Nothing less."

Zestial's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. A favor in Hell was no small thing, especially from someone like him. But the prospect of finding Adam—finding the once-mighty warrior in a state of ruin, helpless, vulnerable—was worth the risk. And once Adam was in his grasp, Zestial would decide his fate.

"Agreed," Zestial said, his voice cold as the winds of Cocytus.

The Broker's grin widened, revealing rows of jagged, broken teeth. "Then it is done."

It moved slowly, as if savoring the moment, pulling a scroll from beneath the table. With a flick of its wrist, the scroll unfurled, revealing a map etched in blood and ash. Zestial studied it for a moment, memorizing the intricate paths and landmarks.

"The Valley of Forgotten Souls," the Broker whispered. "That is where Adam's form lies, slowly reforming. It will take years—perhaps centuries—but he will return. And when he does…"

Zestial didn't need to hear the rest. He was already turning, his wings folding behind him as he strode toward the exit. The heat outside felt colder by comparison to the fire that had ignited within him. Adam. The once-proud warrior, now reduced to nothing more than a broken husk.

And soon, Zestial would be there to greet him.


He could already imagine the broken form of the mighty warrior, shattered and incomplete, writhing in pain and frustration. It would be a sight to behold, a testament to the eternal law of Hell: that no matter how strong you were, no matter how righteous, Hell would reduce you to something less, something weak, something vulnerable.

Zestial's wings rustled as he moved with purpose through the narrow, winding streets. The Valley of Forgotten Souls was not a place any sane demon ventured willingly. It was a wasteland, even by Hell's standards, a barren desert of torment where the broken and the forgotten were left to rot and reform, inch by inch, over centuries. It was a place where the echoes of once-powerful beings lingered, their essence trapped in a cycle of perpetual agony as their forms slowly reconstructed themselves. No one in Hell went there unless they had a reason—a dark reason.

And Zestial had more than enough.

The idea of finding Adam in such a state was… intoxicating. Adam, the one who had stood as Heaven's enforcer, a being of such pride and power that even the archangels had respected him. Now, he was nothing. Just a broken form, waiting to be reassembled, vulnerable to anyone strong enough to claim him.

Zestial's thoughts turned darker with each step. He knew Adam's reputation, of course. Who in Hell didn't? The stories of his strength, his resolve, his unbreakable will—it had made Adam a legend among angels and demons alike. But no one spoke of his arrogance, of the sheer hubris that had led to his fall. He had believed himself untouchable, a being of such might that even the forces of Hell couldn't touch him.

But Hell had touched him. Hell had broken him.

Zestial smirked. There was something poetic about it, something beautifully cruel in the way Hell reduced even the most powerful to fragments of their former selves. And now, he would be the one to see it firsthand.

The Valley of Forgotten Souls was not far from the Eighth Circle, but it was isolated in a way that made it feel distant, like it existed outside the normal boundaries of Hell. As Zestial flew, his wings cutting through the thick, acrid air, he could feel the change in the atmosphere. The further he went, the quieter it became. The usual wails of the damned, the constant murmur of suffering, faded into a low hum, replaced by an eerie, almost deafening silence. The heat was still oppressive, but here it felt… different. It wasn't the usual fire and brimstone, but a dry, suffocating heat that sapped the strength from your bones.

The Valley loomed ahead, a dark expanse of cracked, barren land stretching out as far as the eye could see. The ground was a patchwork of jagged rock and twisted, skeletal remains, the remnants of those who had once tried to escape or claw their way back to power. Nothing grew here, not even the twisted flora that thrived in other parts of Hell. It was as if the very essence of the place rejected life itself.

Zestial landed with a soft thud, his boots crunching against the dry, brittle surface. He folded his wings behind him, his gaze sweeping across the landscape. It was vast, empty, devoid of any movement or sound, save for the occasional gust of wind that carried with it the faintest echoes of forgotten voices.

And yet, Zestial could feel it. The presence. The power.

Adam was here.

Somewhere beneath the layers of rock and ash, buried deep in the valley, Adam's form was slowly, painstakingly, reforming. It would take centuries for him to fully return—centuries that Adam would spend trapped in a state of half-existence, aware but unable to act. It was a fate worse than death.

Zestial could almost hear Adam's voice, the biting sarcasm, the venomous wit that had made him a legend even among the damned. He imagined what Adam would say if he could see himself now, reduced to a mere shadow of his former self. The thought brought a smile to Zestial's lips.

He began to walk, his steps deliberate and measured as he made his way deeper into the valley. The ground beneath his feet felt fragile, like it could crumble at any moment, but Zestial was not concerned. He knew where he was going. The Broker's map had been clear, and Zestial's instincts were sharp. He could sense the energy pulsing from the ground below, faint but unmistakable.

After what felt like hours of walking, Zestial came to a stop. He stood at the edge of a large fissure in the earth, a jagged crack that split the ground wide open. Inside, the air was thick with a dark, swirling energy that seemed to radiate from the very core of the valley. It was here. Adam was here.

Zestial knelt at the edge of the fissure, peering down into the abyss. The energy was strong, almost overwhelming, but Zestial thrived in the presence of power. His eyes glowed faintly as he reached out, feeling the connection between himself and the broken form below. It was weak, fragmented, but it was there.

"Adam," Zestial whispered, his voice barely audible over the faint hum of energy. "I've found you."

There was no response, of course. Adam's form was too broken, too shattered to speak. But Zestial could feel the faint stirrings of consciousness, the flicker of awareness that signaled Adam was beginning to reform. It was a slow process, one that would take time. But Zestial had time. He would wait.

He stood, his wings unfurling slightly as he turned his gaze to the sky. The dark clouds above churned and twisted, reflecting the turmoil below. Zestial could feel the weight of the valley pressing down on him, the oppressive energy that had claimed so many before him. But he was not like them. He was strong. Stronger than Adam had ever been.

And when Adam finally reformed…

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Preview of next chapter:
"You've got some fucking nerve, Zestial."

The voice was unmistakable—Adam, his words dripping with venom despite the weakness in his form. It was a sound that made Zestial's blood pulse faster, a reminder of who Adam had once been.

Zestial looked down at the half-formed figure, barely more than a shadow of the warrior he had once been, and felt the thrill of power surge through him. Adam might have been broken, but he wasn't gone. Not yet.

"I see you're still as pleasant as ever," Zestial replied, his tone mocking.