Hell and Everyday Life [3]
I stared blankly at what Satan held out, teapot still in hand.
Wine glass, my ass.
This punk must think we're in some fancy restaurant sipping red wine. This is my house, and this is straight-up hot tea. If there were no teacups, fine, pull out a mug or something—but a narrow-mouthed wine glass?
Drinking tea from that? My nose would fog up with steam. I let out a deep sigh without thinking.
I glanced at Bael. She looked like she'd seen this coming, calmly tilting her teacup. The chill and tension in the air? Didn't faze her. She focused solely on the tea's aroma and flavor, that relaxed poise sticking in my craw.
……
I fixed my gaze back on the absurd wine glass and reluctantly tilted the teapot slow.
That instant.
Before the tea even touched the rim, the air around us froze unnaturally cold. Instead of the pleasant pour, a chilling crackle climbed my wrist like fracturing ice.
Satan, that brat, lips pressed tight, stared me down. But those narrowed eyes? Pure glee.
To anyone else, maybe innocent kid curiosity. Not to me. That was…… a taunt. Arrogant as hell.
[Try it if you dare.]
His smirking eyes said it plain. I clicked my tongue inside, pushing back the creeping chill with my Sloth Force from my fingertips, focusing to keep the stream steady.
As I filled the glass, my eyes stayed on the boy. Satan.
Satan, huh……
I had no clue who this world's Satan was or what kind of demon he might be. Back when I first met Bael, I knew zilch about Hell. But my past life's memories? Different story.
The name that pops first with "demon." In the Bible and every record, he embodied all the world's evil—root of all sin.
Red dragon, ancient serpent, deceiver, enemy, wicked one, accuser, tempter, murderer, liar, adversary……
That's the Satan I knew. A vicious, grandiose symbol from my past life's religions and myths. But just that—past life stuff.
To me, it's all fantasy setting.
No way this Hell's Satan knows those fancy titles, or matches that kid sitting here.
I exhaled short, shaking off stray thoughts.
Whether scripture's Satan defied God or tried to end the world—right now, he's just an arrogant demon eyeing my tea, trying to freeze it with a taunt.
Finally, with a glug glug glug, the wine glass brimmed full. Despite his meddling chill, no ice crystals—just steam rising pure.
Satan pulled back his frost, tilting his head intrigued.
“……Not bad.”
He brought the steaming glass slow to his lips. Against my expectation of a gulp, he sniffed deep first, nose close.
Eyes half-shut, savoring the aroma—like a connoisseur of eons. Then a sip, slow swallow.
“……Ha.”
Hot steam and a soft “ahh” slipped his lips.
“This bittersweet depth hidden in the heat. Nothing like raging flames. It scratches my cold core just right.”
Satan smirked sly, setting down the empty glass. His eyes shifted—no taunt now, just satisfied ease.
……Unexpected.
I stared at him, teapot in hand, dumbfounded.
Thought a root-of-evil, adversary, murderer type would crave blood and spice. Tea in a wine glass looks off, but his vibe? More sincere than Bael's.
“Another? Want to savor the aroma pure this time.”
Satan held out the glass natural as you please. I swallowed a baffled laugh, tilting again.
“You actually enjoy this stuff?”
“Wrath's like honed ice, always sharp. Sometimes need this alien heat to whet the edge.”
He cradled the second glass precious. Boy's hand, big glass, tea inside—odd combo. Bael watched, then chuckled soft.
“Satan, do you know? Tea isn't just for thirst. It's drinking the 'time'—preparing, steeping, sharing across the table.”
……Huh?
I froze mid-sip, staring at Bael. Didn't I say that earlier?
She caught my look, glanced away, then continued smug—like her own wisdom.
“In our rushing world, it's permission to pause. Time where doing nothing's fine. Surrender to the scent, lounge—a brief rest.”
I eyed her profile silent. Hell's manager copy-pasting my 'tea philosophy'?
……Hit her deep, I guess. Feels good—she's using it. Play dumb.
I sipped casual. Satan, listening quiet, murmured impressed.
“Ho……Even that meaning's spot-on. Note it. Natae, stock more 'tea' next time.”
“……You come here for tea?”
My deadpan got his red eyes flashing over the rim. Chill smile on the great demon boy's lips.
“Mm. Throat wet, rest's meaning grasped. Now, main topic.”
Satan thunked the glass down. Air plunged heavy—playful tea warmth gone. Innate menace of Hell's peaks filled the barrier.
“So, those 'upper bastards' you wanna kill—what's that? And Creator?”
My out-of-left-field question got a tsk and pitying stare.
“Brain froze sleeping too. Know nothing, huh.”
“Creator made us, shaped this world—our father and mother.”
Satan traced the empty glass rim slow. Thin frost trailed, then shattered.
“……I hate him. Long ago, in primordial chaos before light and dark split, he dreamed perfect world. But perfection demands exclusion. Building it, he saw his inner 'evils'—destruction, pride, wrath—as obstacles. Know what he did?”
His red eyes pierced me.
“Carved out the filth from his holy flesh, made a giant trash bin. That's Hell. We're not born of blessing. We're the wounds he tore for 'perfection,' discarded flesh, rotten pus. He dumped us here, locked the door. Kept his light world pure, hid his ugly spawn.”
Low voice, but shook the barrier with weight.
“Abandonment. Clear neglect. Yet I call him father still. He branded us with 'Hell management'—curse-duty on discarded flesh. Gave unwanted existence purpose: balance the world. Cruel mercy.”
Satan grinned bitter.
“Hate him, like him. Hated parent who ditched me, sole definer. Love-hate.”
“But Natae, know this? The rough ground you stand on, toxic gas above—this world is Creator's spilled flesh, rotting corpse.”
Deeper than chill in his voice.
“……What?”
I nearly dropped my cup at the shock.
This vast land, sky—someone's corpse?
“Creator made the world, then vanished himself instant.”
Satan's eyes chased ancient ghosts over the glass.
“How absurd a tragedy? He shaped all, fled to eternal rest before first cries. No answers why this hellish world, why carve us into Hell-pit…… Left no why.”
Voice sank; thick frost blanketed the table.
“Omnipotent father dumps kids in wilderness, can't bear existence's weight—flees to nothing. No noble sacrifice, divine plan. Just coward plugging ears to creation's screams, irresponsible escape. Starter sans finisher, parent who birthed but shirked nurture.”
He spat it.
“So we call him 'corpse.' No guiding god—just cold earth we tread, foul air we breathe: vast death's debris. Dead, he crushes us; dead, chains us with 'management.' Brutal punishment. Ever pondered kids' prayers to silent void?”
Satan sneered, shook head.
“Irresponsible dad who made and ghosted. That's Creator's truth. We're mold on his corpse.”
Loneliness flickered his eyes.
……Harsh.
I rubbed temples, sorting his info. Stripped mythic flair—odd conclusion.
Hell wasn't abstract afterlife.
Just a planet.
Past life terms: massive planet formed around Creator-organism's core-remains. Rot-gases as atmosphere, energies ruling physics.
Satan, Bael called themselves 'mold'—to me, native life evolved in harsh niche.
Planet Hell: Heaven and Hell war over Creator-resource?
Stomach settled. Myths as planet physics; karma glitches, manipulations.
They suffered ties; to outsider me, outdated planet needing 'system revamp.'
I shook confusion, looked up. Satan watched smirking.
“Scale hurts my head. Got it: Creator bailed irresponsible. Land's corpse? Eh, noted.”
I set cup indifferent.
“Then 'upper bastards'? Creator gone—why kill 'em all?”
Bael spoke soft now.
“They ape his 'corpse,' covet it.”
Her voice low, eyes storm-lightning. Satan grinned, continued.
“Upper demon crossed mid-world once. Shared his memories full. Natae, heaven's not saints. Self-proclaimed sole gods twisting Creator's world to their taste—vile usurpers.”
Bael nodded bitter, swept mist-map, somber.
“Hell wasn't always this. Strict karma: only true wicked souls came. Example: one sacrifices for thousand saved? Heaven-bound, or held till purified. Creator's scale.”
Her eyes quivered. Manager's guilt burst.
“But…… system shifted. Most souls dropped here wronged, hollow. Heaven forged fake scales—'doctrine'—aping Creator's power.”
Satan slammed glass down. Chill wave crushed air.
“They sell Creator's name, ticket heaven to favorites. Dissent? Challenge authority? Stamp noble souls 'sinner,' dump in Hell-trash.”
Bael met my eyes firm.
“They play god on his corpse. Turned Hell from punishment to camp for regime foes. Blasphemy, usurpation of his order.”
Her words spun my brain fast. Thought resource war—worse.
Not resources.
I fiddled cup, parsed rage.
Creator's system—world physics, soul flow 'karma' core code. Heaven hacked admin rights, fake rules. Dissenters to Hell-queue.
Privatized ops, brutal abuse.
Familiar from past: fair systems corrupt, society rots. Hell overflows not more evil—Heaven filters earth-server to taste.
Praise: heaven. Question: hell.
“Brutally irrational.”
Temple rub.
“Broke fair scales, Hell their dump. Admins would rage.”
Bael nodded pained. Her Hell: order to guard. Now heaven's sewer—guilt crushing.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
After Satan and Bael left.
Storm-chill, tea-tension—gone. No cleaning will; I flopped on bed amid blue grass.
Pillow hugged, replayed their words.
Creator's corpse. Mold-demons. Heaven hackers twisting server rules.
Crazier than fantasy, grimmer than docu.
Eyes closing, Satan's last echoed.
[Chance comes soon. Lend strength then.]
Sunset sky stared, fate-sealed feel. But mind cleared to one.
No matter how……
World fate, twisted scales—grander than my real nag.
“What a hassle……”
Face buried plush, blacked out eyes shut.