Chapter 1

Tristan’s eyes fluttered, blinking the haze off himself.

A stinging sensation clawed at his arms and back as his body was dragged over dirt, stones, and rough pavement. He tried to move his fingers—still there, but barely responding.

With a deep breath, his chest heaved as he dragged in something that didn’t feel like air. Too heavy, almost suffocating.

The back of his head bumped against something hard, jolting his brain like a jump-started engine. Forcing his eyes open by sheer will, he gazed up into a bloody sky, too bright to look at. The moon shone silver, but not enough to illuminate anything painted in shades of black and red. Yet, despite his best efforts, his vision remained blurred.

Suddenly, his body stopped moving. He felt his legs drop to the ground with a thud.

There were voices now, muffled and indistinct. One was rowdy, agonizingly enthusiastic. The other two sounded like young boys—high-pitched, almost complaining.

At the edge of his vision, a shadow loomed. He felt firm taps on his cheek, growing stronger and bolder until they were slaps.

“Hey, you. Wake up,” a voice called, pushy and impatient.

Tristan’s eyes widened. He pushed himself up too quickly, and his head throbbed.

“Easy, boy. Hard to breathe, isn’t it? Give it time. You’ll get used to it,” said another voice—old and raspy.

Tristan tried to answer, but no words came out. He fell flat on his back and closed his eyes, giving himself a moment to ease his breathing.

When he finally felt steadier, he sat up slowly, leaning back on his arms.

He looked up.

Two rough-looking teenage boys stood over him. One wore a torn black hoodie over armored streetwear, chunky boots, and mirrored shades. The other had a patched bomber jacket, fingerless gloves, and a blue scarf pulled over his mouth.

On his other side, an old man watched him with amusement. He wore a tattered trench coat with chrome accents, a crisp collared shirt, and fluff hanging over his shoulders. An old-fashioned eyepatch and silver rings for each finger completed his look.

One of the boys nudged Tristan with his boot. “Hey, newbie. Move. We don't take apprentices here.”

The other boy in shades nodded quietly.

“All right, boys, don’t be too harsh. Our guest here seems to have had a… hell of a ride. Cut him some slack,” the jovial elder said, laughing at his own pun.

The two boys clicked their tongues, half-impressed at the joke. The old man brushed off his apprentices, annoyed at their lack of appreciation.

"Go away now, you humorless mutts!"

He turned to Tristan, cleared his throat, and offered a hand.

“Come, follow me. I’ve got coffee,” he said, turning and walking away. Tristan followed, glancing around, trying to take in the unusual ambiance.

They walked past camps of people, warming themselves with bonfires, having meals, or doing their daily work. Tristan watched them as some of the inhabitants eyed him suspiciously.

They entered a huge tent, quaint yet meekly grandiose. Once inside, the old man gestured for Tristan to take a seat, then walked straight toward his coffee pots, poured into two identical cups, and handed one to Tristan.

Tristan stared at his steaming drink, his body still heavy from the nightmarish dimensional travel and the bullet wound to his head.

“You must be wondering what this place is. It does look pretty unusual—not what I myself expected,” the elder said.

He sipped from his mug, one arm folded behind him as he looked out the window.

“When I died, I thought this place would be so bad. Pain, suffering, all that—just like the damned cult told us.”

Then he turned to Tristan, arms open as if gloating.

“But look at me. And us. We’re healthy, and we’re whole. More importantly, we’re free. Just don't mind my eyepatch. I liked the vibe.”

Tristan looked at him, visibly confused but trying to process the old man's musings.

“Oh, by the way… I am Saul, and this is Hotel Lazarus.”

Tristan nodded. “Tristan Grandark.”

Saul paused and twirled his moustache. “Grandark. Boy, does that ring a bell.”

Tristan finally lifted his cup to his lips, savoring the sweet, bitter aroma. “What is this place?” he asked, turning his attention to the strange view outside.

“Oh, this is probably what we called Hell. Not how we expected it to look, though.” Saul chuckled. “At the very least, this place has demons, and we got that one right.”

Tristan’s brows furrowed.

“Hell? Isn’t this supposed to be Limbo?” he questioned himself.

He kept his composure as he looked Saul over. “How did you end up here? You don’t look like a demon.”

“Oh, uh… You know, I died up there," Saul answered, pointing upward. "Shot by a man in a mask, trench coat, a wide fedora. Told me I’d be cleansed in Limbo, and then judged at the end of days. Heaven or Hell—either of the two. But goddamn, I didn’t know I’d go straight to the devil’s pits.”

Something didn't add up, thought Tristan. Saul’s statement about Limbo and the final judgment was what Tristan had heard, too. So why did he go straight to Hell?

“Did you do anything heinous in your past life?”

“Probably. Probably not. What I remember is that I was blind, sick, and dying in a gutter. And then, here I am.”

Tristan gazed toward the horizon. In search of answers, he found more questions.

Later that day, Tristan went out of a well-kept guest tent that Saul provided him.

With a sigh, he rolled his shoulders loose and pulled a cigarette out of his pocket. He lit it, took a drag, and choked on the smoke into a fit of coughing. This has never happened before—must be the air composition or something.

Tristan acclimated soon enough and took a walk around the commune. He observed everyone going about their day.

Kids ran around, chasing each other under the moonlight. Some played with sticks at the bonfires.

Men did the heavy work. Chopping wood, hunting some weird-looking but edible game, and patrolling around the commune.

Women tended the chores. Savory aromas filled the air. The smell of fresh laundry.

He smoked the stick faster than he usually did. He felt something vague—a kind of amazement at the different kind of life these people were living, or the quiet stress of finding out that this hell wasn't the one in his books.

For some reason, people here—in this hell—look happier than the ones in the world he knew.

And even he felt a kind of freedom that's hard to explain. Imperfect, but warm.

Just like the life he lived. With Lira.

He stared at the moon, its silver glow reminding him of her hair—fair, majestic. Pure as her heart.

Tristan smirked at himself as he recalled his times with her. He could live a thousand silly lives just to make her laugh and smile.

If only he could see that smile once again. If he could hear her voice.

He took another drag, suddenly feeling the burn on his lips. With a groan, he tossed the butt of his smoke into a bonfire, the kids playing around it jolting in surprise.

He walked a little further, smoke curling into the air.

Suddenly, he noticed a few people staring in a direction.

He could hear smug laughter and sneers at a distance. He moved forward to join a mob of onlookers, helplessly watching as a woman, held by the wrist, was dragged by a few fellows who didn't look normal.

Punks in jackets, baggy pants, jagged teeth, and pointed ears.

Horns.

The bystanders, sweating from their foreheads down, held up stones and sticks, raring to fight back. But the consequence must be too grave for them to do anything.

"Do you have anything to say, you imbeciles?" one of the horned fellows snickered.

The onlookers flinched.

"Nothing? Then, we'll take this one away for some fun..." another thug smirked, grinning at the woman's ear.

Trembling to her knees, the lady fell in hopeless horror. She wanted to scream, but they were too strong.

The thug dragging her moved forward, her legs scraping on the pavement. She kept kicking and pulling back, enraging the thug. As he raised his fist to hit her, a blur suddenly loomed overhead, speeding towards him.

The thug looked up.

SMASH.

His face crashed onto the ground, his body spiked stiff and twitching.

The other thugs' faces morphed into horror.

Tristan puffed smoke, pulling his shirt's sleeves back, cocking his arms like a gun.

"If you want to have this lady, earn it fair and square."

The lady stared at Tristan, wide-eyed, as he lifted her by her waist effortlessly.

"So, who's next?"