Descent into Hell

Breath returned, reeking of hell. The scorching air stabbed deep into my lungs before surging back out in a ragged gasp. “—Gah!” Something like a clot of blood scraped my throat and burst free. The red haze in my vision, the plummeting sensation, the agony of my body folding and shattering—it all lingered. Clearly, I'd fallen. Clearly, it had ended with the sound of bones crunching.

But the texture under my fingertips was different. Not concrete. It was sticky. When I lifted my hand, dark red liquid and pulverized flesh stretched in long strings.

I was sprawled atop a corpse.

I drew in another breath. This wasn't exhaust fumes, sewer stench, or the familiar rot of the city. Cooling blood, already rancid blood, charred meat, metal, sulfur. The stench of the living and dead boiled together. Hell's smell.

I instinctively scanned my surroundings.

There was no sky. Nothing you could call "up," just an endless darkness pressing down like a ceiling. It tore open forcibly, pillars of light slamming into the ground. One line, two lines. More were multiplying. Shapes poured down within those beams. Snow-white wings. Silver armor. Spears without a single nick. No expressions. No saintly prayer, no mercy, no warning—just blank faces.

Angels. They didn't even look like angels, but no other name came to mind.

On the ground swept by the descending light, "living things" were already scattered. Horns snapped off. Flesh burned to expose innards. Faces halved. And among them, me.

As I tried to rise, I saw my arm. The skin was ashen, dried and cracked. Burns everywhere, ruptured tendons. Nails blackened, thin scales embedded on the back of my hand. Too ruined to claim human, too unfinished for demon.

"What... is this..."

A low, unfamiliar voice rasped out, gravelly and torn. It carried a familiar timbre, but heavier, more ragged. I was inside a demon's body.

"Wait—!"

"Kyaaak! Someone, help—"

Screams erupted from all directions. Countless angels who had dropped from the light pillars folded their wings and landed. Then they scattered.

No "halt," no "judgment," no "weigh your sins." As if the verdict was already passed, there was only execution. They sliced the ankles of fleeing demons, impaling spine and heart together. They severed the wrists and heads of those clasping hands in prayer, then crushed the severed hands underfoot. They stomped the napes of staggering torsos, smashing jaw against skull.

"Please—"

"Wait, the child—"

"Kill them all—"

Few words made it to the end. Howling ones, begging ones, half-mad chargers. All sliced apart identically.

This wasn't battle. It was cleaning. Crushing bugs underfoot, erasing needless filth. The moment you entered an angel's gaze, being alive made you the mistake.

The smell of death—no, of endless killing—seeped into my throat. My body froze. I was in hell right now.

Right beside me, a small voice sounded.

"Mom...?"

I turned my head. A demon far smaller than me clung to a pile of corpses. Fresh red skin, still-straight little horns. Puffy ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠eyes from gasping breaths. Just an ordinary little boy.

"Mom, wake up... We gotta go... Hurry...!"

Trembling hands shook the already stiffening body. Only a faint hiss of escaping air came from the corpse's throat.

Then, an angel's shadow stretched long over it. I reflexively sucked in a breath. My arm twitched to move on its own. Before I could open my mouth, the spear descended.

—Kwachik!

The child's chest split precisely in half, folding backward. Red flesh and black blood dripped from the spear tip. The angel didn't pause. Didn't glance at the body, didn't step on it. Treated it like "already cleaned," and walked toward the next living demon.

If I'd opened my mouth just then, the split one on the ground would be me. My throat burned.

In that instant, my mind rang like it was tearing apart. Over the spreading blood in my vision, old flames overlapped. Piles of corpses like hills, flesh bursting regardless of age, shattered castles and towers. Memories that weren't mine flooded in.

Raksha. The original owner of this body.

When Raksha first opened his eyes, hell was still something like a "livable hell." Rivers of blood snaked through cracks, castles and towers rose, but low-rank demons lived inside almost human-like. Markets existed. Shops selling mystery roasted flesh and tattered books, kids kicking broken skulls like balls. Dive bars where they guzzled blood-mixed booze and cursed the higher-ups.

"War up top again, they say."

"They start the mess, we clean ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it up. Always."

Amid such nonsense, Raksha quietly did his job. When war broke, he'd gather and sort scattered souls on the battlefield, carry paperwork for high-rank demons, occasionally sweep human realms for curses or weapons to report upward. Spotting a huddled kid demon on a corner, he'd grumble, "Hey, quit crying," stand them up, shove them scraps from his share. A low-rank demon like any unremarkable neighborhood youth who'd endured hell for centuries. That was Raksha.

Raksha had an ability too. A power to briefly "Reinforcement" his own flesh. Forcibly mend broken bones, stitch torn meat, make it move one more time. But wounds didn't vanish. Pain stayed—deeper, worse.

"That ain't a real power."

"Only for right before death. Better off just dying."

First time he used it, he vomited and wailed for days.

"Don't use that again. It's not a gift—it's a curse."

Raksha agreed. So he never stood front lines. In war, he'd clean corpses from the rear. Fled danger. Thus, an unremarkable low-rank demon survived hundreds ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of years.

...Until the sky ripped.

Golden fissures split hell's heavens, light pillars crashed down. A seraph's spear pierced a castle in an instant. Blood, stone, screams exploded together.

Raksha was in the worst spot at the worst time. Right ahead, a low-rank demon woman huddled over a child.

"Run. You'll die."

As he reached out, light descended. A white line slicing the woman's waist and child's head. No time to think—Raksha activated Reinforcement.

Once. Mended his shattering spine.

Twice. Sealed his pierced lungs by force.

Thrice. Thrust his body as a shield.

Light piercing back to chest, the smell of his heart burning. That was Raksha's last memory.

The memory cut off. Before my eyes, the child demon split and killed right beside me. The angel had already turned away. Only a blood pool remained.

What had burrowed into my head was Raksha's life and death, this body's original owner. Far more "ordinary" than I'd thought. Not a monster reveling in tearing others, but one who'd shielded someone to the end, saying "Run." More human than me, a human.

And now, inside that body: me. A human who'd died once, driven by raw will to live.

I bit my lip. Here too, who died didn't matter. How much they screamed, begged, how small they were. Outcome was the same. Only death remained.

My final moments overlapped in my mind. Plummeting view. Ground rushing up. Breath snapping with the shattering sound.

Now before me, bodies crushed identically under radiant light. If I stayed crumpled here among the corpses, playing dead, no one would notice. I'd end as just another wreck. Same as before. Pointlessly.

Another light pillar stamped down. Right beside me this time.

"......Fuck."

——Kwaaaang!

Explosion-like impact crashed over me. Ground heaved and settled, flesh and stone battering my body. Ribs folded inward, shoulder blades wrenched apart—all sensations hit at once. Breath cut out, then rushed in like a scream.

In my shaking vision, a white leg appeared. Gleaming armor that blood couldn't soil. The face above it looked down. Not a savior's. Not a judge's. Just dry eyes erasing "filth."

The spear rose. Already nicked and bloodied. This angel too was a half-spent killer who'd swept the area.

No strength to flee. Yet my hand groped the ground. Amid flesh and bone shards, something solid caught. A dagger. Black hilt, unmarred blade. Dropped unused by its owner.

I gripped it.

I want to live.

My end, Raksha's end, the wills of the dead here—all surged together.

My broken body twisted from within. Not healing. Breaking the wrecked even more to force it together. Shattered bones ground against each other to mesh, misaligned joints nailed into place. Torn muscles dragged over each other like a cover as exposed nerves screamed raw.

"Gaaargh...!"

A beastly scream tore from my throat. I understood why Raksha avoided this power. It wasn't an ability—it was chaining yourself to the torture rack to survive.

But I couldn't stop. Stopping meant true death.

Endure just enough. One more time.

The angel's spear tip filled my vision. Instinctively, I jerked my head right. The tip grazed, ripping my left cheek. Flesh split, teeth bared. Hot and cold air stabbed the wound.

A moment slower, and my head would've been pierced.

My heart pounded madly. The dagger in my left hand nearly slipped; I gripped harder. Bones made an ugly sound.

The angel withdrew the spear, straightening. In that instant, a thin gap between neck and shoulder armor.

Before thought, my body moved. Legs shot out, waist twisted, arm followed. The dagger plunged into the gap.

"—Kek."

A short breath leaked. Not deep. Less than half the neck.

With a more ruined body, I squeezed greater strength. Slammed the hilt with my other hand, driving the blade deeper, then yanked it free. Before me, as it reeled back gasping, dark red blood spurted from the angel's neck. Amid the blood, burning white light flickered and warped.

Don't think. Move.

I lunged again. Below the neck, between armor plates. No hesitation—I stabbed deep.

The angel convulsed. Agony refluxed like my body was ripping apart, but I twisted the blade savagely inside. With the blood, tiny light shards sprayed.

Power draining—I felt it in my fingertips. I didn't release the dagger. Slashed across the throat to the end.

Head and body parted. Snow-white wings splattered into rotting meat and blood.

Over the blood and corpse stench, a faint holy scent mingled briefly, then vanished.

Only then did I release Reinforcement. The moment I did, all pain returned twofold, threefold. Lungs blazed like embers, bones stabbed organs from inside. Every breath leaked blood and air through the torn cheek, bitter taste scraping my throat.

The sensation of being alive was crueler ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠than dying. Here, surviving seemed the harsher punishment.

Just die now? The thought flashed, then cut off. The dead one before me was the angel. Standing wrecked: me. Raksha's body. Me, who'd thrashed to live.

The sin of taking a life. I forced my crumbling legs straight.

I'd survived.