Descensio XVIII

Sky limped toward her.

His breath came in thin, shallow gasps. His left arm hung dead from his shattered shoulder; his right hand was a swollen, purple mass of broken metacarpals. Every stride sent a jagged spike of agony through his fractured ribs, but he forced his feet to move across the ash.

“Lady Go...”

He reached out with his uninjured arm, his fingers trembling as they reached for her shoulder.

Her eyes opened.

For one fleeting microsecond, the cold steel of her gaze softened. She looked directly into his face, seeing the blood, the broken bones, the unyielding heart of the schoolmaster who had stood his ground.

Then she raised her hand. She pressed her palm against his chest and pushed him away.

Sky stumbled backward, his heels dragging in the dark dust.

“Go far away...”

Her voice was barely more than a whisper of wind through an empty room.

Sky stared at her, his mind struggling to process the vector of her command. “Lady Gozen?”

A single, thin line of moisture slipped down the grime of her cheek. Sky saw it. His analytical mind, seeking logical cause and effect in a world gone mad, assumed it was sweat born of extreme physical exertion.

Then a huge fracture appeared across her skin.

A crystalline white spread rapidly from her fingertips, creeping across her palm and up her forearm. The white was the unyielding, mineral stillness of basalt. Yet Tomoe’s expression remained entirely calm, carrying the undisputable dignity of a noble court lady completing her final duty.

Sky took one step forward, panic rising in his chest like cold water. “Wait...”

The transformation reached her neck, her jaw, her lips. Her eyes remained fixed upon him, holding his gaze with protective clarity, until the very last instant. Then the iris clouded, the light extinguished, and her eyes became stone.

Sky stopped.

He stood before her for a long, suffocating minute. He waited for her fingers to twitch. He waited for her chest to rise with another breath.

She did not move.

He waited for her to speak another word, to offer a command, to give a direction.

Nothing.

He looked down at his own smashed hand, waiting for the physical pain to explain the hollow emptiness tearing through his ribs.

Nothing.

He waited for tears to burn his eyes. None came. The agony was absolute, but the tears refused to fall. His mind was an engine running without oil, grinding its gears in harrowing shock.

Sky lowered his head. Then, slowly, painfully, he bent his waist and bowed.

A warrior's bow. A teacher's bow. A final, unspoken farewell to the woman who had fought like a tempest so that a child could draw breath.

He remained frozen in that bow for several seconds before forcing his broken frame upright. He turned toward the cave.

The cave was empty.

Sky stopped at the threshold, his eyes scanning the dark basalt interior. No Lena. No shades. The shallow hollow where the newborn had cried was utterly silent.

He searched the stone floor. The scraps of Dante’s mantle were gone. The bloodied wool had vanished. Even the shattered remains of Musashi’s blade had been swallowed beneath the ash, leaving no trace that a battle for a soul had ever taken place.

Sky turned his gaze toward the far side of the cavern, toward the stone bench.

The man. The strange figure with hair that seemed to trap the light of an invisible sun, who had sat in undisturbed stillness while the world tore itself apart.

Nothing. The rock was smooth and barren.

Sky stared at the empty space. His mind attempted to construct a model, calculating vectors of light, spatial displacement, atmospheric pressure, seeking an explanation for where the child and the light had gone. No equation presented itself. The universe offered only silence.

He turned back once more, looking at the statue of Tomoe standing sentinel over the Valley of Slaughter. Then he turned his eyes toward the eastern horizon.

Toward the jagged, distant peaks where Lucifer’s domain lay.

Tomoe had told him once that there, all the doors remained open. Even the gates of the iron castle. If there was a single place in the depths of Hell where a weary, broken soul might find shelter, it was there.

Sky turned east and began to walk.

The journey was a slow, agonizing crawl. Every intake of air was a razor in his lungs, but he maintained his cadence. One step, then another, measuring his survival in individual meters.

The Valley of Slaughter stretched around him in ruined, smoking stillness.

No demon attacked. Sky noticed the anomaly immediately. He could not explain why the predators of Gehenna had suddenly lost their appetite for flesh.

A lone Yaenit watched him from a crag high above the pass. It did not snarl; it did not draw its rusted blade. Another emerged from the jagged rocks beside his path. As Sky limped past, the beast slowly lowered its head to the dirt, retreating into the shadows.

Sky kept walking.

Behind him, something light stepped onto the ash.

A footprint appeared in the dust. Then another.

Sky, wrapped in the isolation of his pain, did not hear the soft rustle of movement behind him. He continued his steady, limping trek toward the distant castle.

Behind him, the footsteps followed, matching his broken pace step for step.

No demon dared approach the road. No creature in the abyss dared cross the invisible, sacred boundary between them.

After a while, Sky reached the border of Lucifer’s domain.

The iron castle rose against the crimson horizon. Enormous. But unlike every stronghold Sky had witnessed in the depths of Gehenna, its massive iron gates stood wide open.

No chains bound the entrance. No armored guardians barred the threshold. No warning was carved into the archways.

He remembered Tomoe’s words: All the doors are open.

He stepped inside.

The interior was unexpectedly beautiful. The floors were carved from black basalt polished to a mirror shine; high, sweeping gothic arches reached into ethereal light. Figures glided through the wide corridors who, at first glance, possessed the radiant splendor of heaven. Perfect features, sweeping feathered wings, halos of soft, luminous fire.

But their smiles were wrong. Their eyes held the empty cruelty of predatory glass.

They noticed his reflection on a mirror. Bloodied, broken, dragging a dead arm, his ribs crushed, his face smeared with ash.

A sharp, silver laugh echoed off the stone. One angel whispered mockingly about the stray trash wandering into the Prince’s house. Another mimicked his lurching, agonizing limp.

Sky kept walking. He had heard these voices in school corridors; he had heard them in the streets. The cadence of human contempt was identical everywhere.

Then one of the radiant figures looked past Sky's shoulder.

The laughter died instantly.

Another angel looked over Sky’s head into the corridor behind him, then another. The color drained from their luminous faces. Without a word, the beautiful inhabitants of the castle backed away, bowing their heads, retreating hastily into the deep shadows of the pillars.

Sky noticed the sudden silence. He assumed, as he had his entire life, that he was simply too insignificant to warrant their continued attention.

He eventually reached the grand throne room. It was vast, cavernous, and utterly empty, save for a single angelic sentinel leaning casually beside the far doorway.

Sky stopped, his lungs burning as he fought for air. “I am... looking for... Lucifer.”

The guardian offered him a smirk of amused condescension. “Looking for an audience with the Prince of Darkness, are we?” He sighed, flicking a speck of dust from his golden tunic. “Ugh. You can find him in the dining room.”

Sky paused. “Where is that?”

The sentinel gestured vaguely down a winding northern hall.

Sky bowed his head slightly and began to walk. He had no spatial map of the castle, but as he limped deeper into the northern wing, the faint, rich aroma of roasted meat and vintage wine reached his senses. He followed the scent.

The smell grew stronger until he reached two colossal, carved doors left ajar. Warm, golden candlelight spilled through the gap.

Sky entered tentatively.

It was a magnificent dining hall. A banquet fit for ancient kings stretched along the walls, laden with silver platters and crystal goblets. Three figures occupied the space.

Satan sat at one side of the triangular table, methodically chewing a cut of meat. Luzbel stood near the center, raising a goblet to his lips. Lucifer stood near a side table, casually picking fruit from a silver bowl.

All three turned toward the doorway.

Silence descended upon the hall.

Satan studied the broken human with clinical interest. Luzbel narrowed his eyes, examining the strange, unassuming architecture of Sky's broken frame.

Lucifer barely offered him a glance, his voice indifferent: “If you want food, the kitchen is down the hall.”

Sky looked at him.

His analytical mind, seeking a point of connection in a universe of rejection, locked onto the myth of the fallen prince. The exile. The outcast. The one who was cast down because he did not fit the design. The person his mother had spoken of in philosophical tones.

Perhaps... Perhaps he will understand.

Sky limped past the long banquet table, moving directly toward Lucifer.

Lucifer watched him approach, his eyes hardening with mild annoyance.

Sky said nothing. He reached the Archangel, opened his uninjured arm, and leaned forward, placing his head against Lucifer's chest, wrapping his bruised body around him in a desperate hug.

For one eternal, frozen second, the ruler of Hell stood completely still.

Then he violently pushed Sky away.

Sky flew backward through the air. His broken body crashed violently through a row of marble pedestals beside the banquet table, shattering stone ornaments before slamming hard against the far wall. The impact blew the remaining air from his lungs in a red mist.

Satan began to applaud, a slow, mocking rhythm.

Luzbel stared at the crumpled form against the wall, his brow furrowed. “He’s... still alive?”

Lucifer slowly set his plate down upon the table. His expression was no longer indifferent; a dark fury burned behind his eyes. “How dare you, human?”

Sky lay against the basalt, his body shaking. He tried to move his legs. Failed. Tried again.

Slowly, agonizingly, he managed to drag one knee beneath his chest.

As he braced himself, he noticed the dark crimson smear on the polished floor. His own blood spilled across the pristine black stone. Before attempting to stand, Sky reached out with his swollen, broken fingers.

With painful, methodical precision, he wiped his blood from the floor using his wrist. Dragging his arm back and forth, he wiped until the black stone was left completely clean.

Then, using the wall for leverage, he forced his broken body upright.

He looked directly at Lucifer. There was no anger in Sky’s eyes. No hatred. No desire for vengeance.

There was only a profound, crushing confusion. And a devastating disappointment.

“I thought...” His voice cracked, dry and small. He swallowed hard. “I thought you could be my uncle.”

Lucifer said nothing. His jaw tightened.

Sky lowered his head and bowed deeply in a polite apology for intruding.

“I’m... sorry.”

He turned away and began the slow, agonizing limp back toward the open doors.

Sky vanished into the dark corridor outside. The rhythmic, uneven click of his broken stride slowly faded down the hall.

Satan’s applause died. His hands remained suspended in the air.

Luzbel slowly swallowed the wine in his mouth, his eyes fixed on the empty doorway, a cold realization dawning in his chest.

Lucifer did not move. For the first time since the Fall, his face held no pride, no arrogance, no cold malice.

He stared toward the corridor, toward the dying echo of the footsteps receding into the dark.

His lips parted. He took one step forward, as if reaching for something that had already slipped through his fingers.

A single syllable escaped his throat, fragile and small:

“Da…”

Sky walked out of Lucifer’s castle.

Behind him, the massive iron gates began their slow, heavy descent. The sound of ancient chains grinding against stone echoed across the courtyard as the doors sealed themselves with terrifying weight, iron screaming against iron until the castle was locked away.

Sky watched the heavy metal shut. Then he looked back down at the dark ash.

He still did not notice the second pair of light footprints appearing in the dust directly behind his own.

He began walking again.

His head remained lowered. It had been that way for most of his life. At school, keeping his gaze fixed upon the concrete floor had been safer. A subdued defense against eyes that judged him, voices that mocked him, and a world that found his mind too strange to understand. Only in the peaceful corners of the library could he safely raise his eyes. Only in the solitude of his room could he look toward the ceiling and pretend that his glowing cardboard stars were a real, welcoming firmament.

Now, even the muscles of his neck ached from the heavy, habitual weight of carrying his gaze toward the dirt.

He kept walking.

The domain of the Prince vanished behind him in the red haze. The castle dissolved into the gloom. The jagged mountains flattened into gray dust.

Eventually, the Gates of Hell rose before him at the absolute edge of existence.

A gargantuan, ancient archway carved from abyssal stone stood against the void. Impossible chains wrapped around its titanic doors. Each individual iron link is larger than a human body, stretching upward into a darkness where no ceiling existed.

Malik stood before the threshold.

The angelic guardian looked down at Sky, glanced at his ancient ledger, and then looked back at the bloodied, broken human dragging a dead arm. He made a deep exhale and tilted his head toward whatever light passed for Heaven above, closing his eyes with the weary resignation of a spirit who had been assigned the same miserable duty for millions of years.

“The Gates of Hell will only open for you because you are still alive,” Malik said, his voice like a grinding stone. He looked directly into Sky’s blood-smeared face. “State your destination and begone.”

Malik muttered beneath his breath, rubbing his temples: “I have better things to do...”

Sky remained silent.

His intake of breath came unevenly, catching in his throat. To anyone listening from a distance, the sound almost resembled someone quietly, helplessly sobbing.

He stared at the ground beneath his feet, his voice barely more than a dry, broken whisper. “Can you take me somewhere...”

He paused, swallowing hard as his throat tightened.

“...somewhere I wouldn't bother anyone... anymore?”

Malik’s expression changed. Only slightly.

The cold indifference in his eyes flickered. He looked at Sky more carefully, examining the crushed ribs, the shattered knuckles, and the total absence of malice in his face. Then Malik’s gaze drifted past Sky's shoulder, looking down at the dark ash behind the human.

In that suspended microsecond, the angel understood something that Sky did not.

Malik’s breath caught. “I know one place,” he murmured, his tone shifting from irritation to a low, heavy gravity. He sighed again, exhaling slowly through his nose. “But you won't like it.”

Sky said nothing. He simply waited for the universe to decide his vector.

“Fine,” Malik whispered. He turned toward the ancient archway. “The ultimate graveyard awaits you, human.”

He raised one hand.

The impossible chains began to move. Metal screamed across the boundary of creation as the titanic doors swung inward. Beyond them, there was no road. No landscape of stone. Not even darkness.

There was something far larger.

A colossal, circular void hovered behind the arch, resembling the light-bending event horizon of a universe-devouring black hole. The center was absolute, consuming all matter, while the edges bent the scarce light of Gehenna around its curvature.

Sky stared at it.

Slowly, he raised his eyes. He looked into the vast expanse of the void. He limped forward, crossing the threshold toward the impossible darkness.

Malik watched him go, his hand resting on the hilt of his key.

Sky reached the edge. He paused for a fraction of a second and looked back over his shoulder, toward the solitary guardian who had opened the way for him.

“Thank you...” Sky whispered.

Then he stepped into the darkness. The void swallowed his form in pure silence.

Malik remained standing before the open threshold. He raised his hand and rubbed his forehead, shaking his head slowly.

“I really do have better things to do...”

He gestured, and the massive chains began to pull the heavy doors closed once more. As the iron moved, Malik looked down at the threshold.

Two distinct sets of footprints crossed the border into the void.

He stared at the second pair. Imprinted deep into the ash beside the broken stride of the mortal.

For a long, suffocating moment, the angel said nothing.

The Gates of Hell closed.