We are not in the mortal realm. Not languishing in the world of Limbo either; we are adrift in a space devoid of anything. Oxygen is as nonexistent here as the erasure of anything resembling light. The fabric of creation has designated this somewhere, as an off-limits zone hostile and bereft of sensible physics. Knowing this, a speck smaller than the limit as to which a mind can visualize, drifted here. He was frozen. He was not dead; nor was he alive. Just… existing.
Spawning from the deep nothingness were two hands; nails unnecessarily long, like mountains sharpened to a point, then glued on as such. The arms looked to be unimpressive when understanding the vastness it sailed in, but—every inch from our eye, meant a galaxy has been crossed, when there’s stars, it’ll reach through them, detonate the cores within, and keep moving without the slightest impediment. Its form wasn’t physical, you could tell. From whence it came, laughter danced behind.
Sickly. Screeching. Childlike. Snickering. It was a billion soul-chorus, and endlessly repetitive. This did not concern Grisla, for how could he be? The dead-nor-alive child wasn’t Grisla here. Just matter, floating where it shouldn’t. Desired by a something an individual couldn’t define or name—for if they could, if a man could wrap their mind around the entity, it’ll be as if it’s the key to summoning the Eldritch. To be caught by the hands, as Grisla just was.
It captured him in a galactic clap. They—it, or… what, yanked him through billions of miles, to shred through the infinite blank towards the next. No number of human minds could ever perform the calculation at the speeds to which he was carried. Despite the thing slamming him with enough force to annihilate all under creation, inside, the boy was untouched; the ride as pleasurable as can be.
A gate from where the arms stretched appeared. Being so large, you couldn’t see wherever it led to behind them. The arms dragged their prize through, and the doors shut with magnificent speed. Vanishing, or blending into the black. At the last glimpse of it, only one thing… was heard
[WELCOME… HOME.]
And of course, there were no observers to hear it.
----------------------------------------
“Seri!” Grisla screamed on waking.
He had no idea of what had happened. What he’d had done. It was like his eyes were once distracted by a lampshade, and upon removing he was faced with an inconceivable world. One in which clearly, he felt to his soul—that life was incompatible with it. Grisla’s nose for once, told him before his eyes. A smell he’d just so been near before this.
The smell of death.
Grisla took two steps before vomiting. It wasn’t so simplistic as that—a spectrum of everything: as if various intensities of blood and rot were intermixed and served in a pot. Trying to cover his nose didn’t help. Like he hadn’t even tried to do it at all. When he looked around, he found nothing that reminded him of the Well of Wonders.
Seri… where’re you?
He patted his neck to find nothing there. Not the medallion, or his shirt. Really, his whole body was bare whilst he bathed in the miasma of the profane. As he looked around again, trying to endure the stench he realized something—
The world he’s been taken to… is a requiem for all things sinister and corrupt. He felt it as an undeniable truth. Faces were on everything here. In the atmosphere—on the stage—on the Gates which dwarfed the height of the tallest building he could recall.
Is this hell, then? Did I die?
Grisla waited in expectation. For a man or woman dressed appropriately, to detail him about his life and the eternity awaiting him. Sadistic smile so prominent it would confuse someone for sarcasm. He waited… and waited….
Did the inferno forget about him? It’s part of the joke of being a sinner, right? Someone will tap him on the shoulder, then toss him into the cell where he belongs, he figured. Because of that idea, he waited some more.
“I don’t get it,” he muttered. “I really don’t.”
The crimson backdrop hadn’t waned or brightened at all. So, considering that he’s nowhere near the world he knows, he presumes that if Limbo personified stillness and entropy. Then this place would be…
Stolen story; please report.
All things the human heart must banish or be overtaken by. It felt like.
The seven gates that surrounded him were all equal in size. Yet the images depicted on each differed. Grisla eyed one, where men were lambs to the slaughter of one individual, whose face was in a perpetual rage. That fire within could slay the Buddha and Gods alike, he could tell. Above it, in a language unfamiliar to most but not out of touch with him was: “Wrath.”
He blinked, then a stabbing pain reached his eyes.
That’s… lingering Juva! From some writing? I recognize it, it’s like father’s, but a millennium more practiced. Sword Aura. For it to be so intense that even observing it cuts the eyes is….
A level unforeseen on Hannamith, at least to him. It gave Grisla relief and dread simultaneously. Someone other than himself was here, once. An expert beyond his understanding, assuredly with power unrivaled. It was the first clue of great power belonging to a human and not the divine beasts. But… someone who can do that to his very eyes, could erase him without even knowing how. His head turned to the other gates.
Again, the same man but this time he was surrounded by a legion of worshippers. His head looked as if it couldn’t conceive that it could go lower, and his eyes wouldn’t lay themselves upon the earth; forever staring up to the sky and, above, to heaven. Grisla endured the stabbing once again, to read: “Pride.”
Next, he was falling to carnal desires. The Earthly temptations: women, wine, jewelry, and negligent decadence pulled him to a life of pleasure. A paradise fit for a King and the sons of. This time it was a party where all the supposed servants also basked in his glories, too. Cringing, he read: “Lust.”
And this continued, eyes reading.
Greed. Sloth. Envy. Gluttony.
Grisla’s innate pride as a cultivator made him sick with disgust. Is this a longwinded joke? Everything that they are—that they teach, builds upon the foundation of separating oneself from the failures of man. How can a soul rise above the mortal coil and ascend to immortality if he cannot resist against the impulse of sin? A flag for the too weak-willed to make the journey, they’ll encounter numerous hurdles in their cultivation, delaying their progress or halting it outright. Forever tethering them to the bonds of mortality. Grisla himself doesn’t believe for a second that he could ever become an immortal—that would mean he’s more powerful than all Hannamith combined.
Yet still, the sins of man offer other problems that don’t just impede a man’s Path. That is the first teaching of any warrior seeking to walk on it. Those who dare to try are cultivators subscribing to the unholy to force what they themselves cannot do. They are barely able to be called human. Grisla was a little sullen, if it was true, if this expert was one of those men—he had lost a degree of respect for his skill. There’s no telling the methods these demonic cultivators would do to accomplish their goals.
His father told him a story of the one time he had been tasked to eliminate such an individual. The woman had sacrificed the unborn, sapping their karma and destined potential to artificially boost her own. Mothers and children died in the dozens until he and the clan’s team arrived. Using obscure and bizarre techniques, she’d killed off half his team, almost killed him, too. With great sacrifice did they manage to finally slay the woman, and, due to uncertainty about these deviants, her body was incinerated, the soul along with it.
That is the fate for most cultivators on a so-called “demonic” Path. And here he was, in a place that felt like the den for them. But this place had to be abandoned, he figured.
Seven Gates. Seven Gates of Hell as the title; this must be what happens when I can bypass the encryption. But it was just a book! How?
Grisla blinked, and suddenly looked at his hand. The blood. Of course. I needed to bind myself to it to unlock the encryption. Many people won’t risk offering a binding with an unknown thing such as this. And here’s the result for that.
Now that he knew the next issue arose… how does he get out? The stage he walked on had an edge, and in no sort of way would he throw himself off to find out what happens. The sky was as crimson as the backdrop behind the gates; warped faces stretching and separating. Nothing to hope for above, not like he could fly, anyway.
What can lead him away, or somewhere, is the gates. And it delivered unto him a sharp rebuke for such a stupid idea. There was no telling what could happen if he touched them if anything were to happen at all. In fact, it could entirely be possible there is no way out of here for him, and maybe only someone of that expert’s level can manage to be here. But…
He gritted his teeth. I must know if Seri’s alright. It doesn’t matter what happens to me, I’ll likely be in trouble either way. May as well just roll the dice, and hope for the best.
Grisla toured the gates again. Each one implying a certain meaning, to which he’s in the dark of. Seven Gates, Seven Sins. He assuredly didn’t pick the first gate he eyed first, Wrath, there’s no telling what that might be. Lust? Absolutely not. After a moment he was an indecisive boy in a store for sweets. Stepping in the direction of one, pulling back, and going the opposite way; stopping, then turning perpendicular to that. He couldn’t willingly choose. So, he closed his eyes.
He spun around a couple times, then limped over to a direction. If his luck was bad, he could miss the door entirely and fall off the edge. Suddenly his head struck a stark cold metal, and his eyes shot open to read the word: “Envy.”
I’ll be here forever if I have any misgivings again. Whatever.
Not sure of what to do, he placed a hand on its surface. The door was so light, he thought. It wasn’t many hours after his grueling battle with Ji Nan, so the amount of strength left to him made him feel like a geriatric. Still, the overwhelmingly large door felt weightless; with an unconfident push he made it crack, hadn’t even summoned up his Juva either.
Then, he screamed.