The eternal moon, as always, cast its eerie glow over this cursed and colossal prison. The pale blue moonlight brought no solace. Instead, it painted the prison in sinister hues, making every shadowed corner seem like it harbored some unspeakable horror.
The outer perimeter of the prison fared no better. The seething black fog of death swirled endlessly, like an infinite abyss encircling this massive penitentiary, waiting to consume it entirely. Compared to the fog, this damned prison seemed almost like a paradise—a twisted sanctuary amid the endless darkness. But make no mistake: this prison was no heaven, no refuge of salvation. It was an unending crucible of suffering.
Dante sat silently at the window of his cell, gazing into the deathly fog beyond. No one could guess what was running through his mind, but his reverie was soon shattered by his neighbor’s unmistakable antics.
“Ah! My dearest Aphrodite, take it slow! I don’t want to finish too soon…”
The guttural moaning was accompanied by the unmistakable rhythmic sound of flesh on flesh. The neighbor, clearly engrossed in his imaginary liaison with the goddess of love, was having a little too much fun.
Dante rolled his eyes. The irritated expression on his face said it all: not again. He thought the so-called "god of war" might’ve run out of steam by now, but no. Tonight, Ares was hornier than ever.
“Hey, Ares,” Dante called out, knocking on the wall separating their cells. “Didn’t you already jizz like, five minutes ago? What are you doing, beating your meat into oblivion?”
The interruption was not appreciated. Ares snarled back, his voice laced with irritation. “Shut your damn mouth, Dante! You’re disturbing my intimate time with Aphrodite. If you don’t stop, I’ll jizz on your face next!”
“Another dude on the brink of losing it,” Dante muttered, shaking his head as he lay back down on his cot—the same worn, creaky thing he’d slept on for nearly 300 years. His obsession with why he’d been thrown into this hellhole had long faded. Even if he uncovered the reason, what good would it do? No prisoner ever truly free form this place. Not through the normal channels anyway.
This cursed prison made death look like a blessing. Want to know what "life sentence" truly means? Being locked up here is the perfect example. The inmates weren’t just prisoners—they were immortals. They didn’t age, seem to live forever—they were trapped in an unending state of life. It wasn’t a gift. It was torture.
Of course, dying wasn’t impossible. All it took was stepping into the black fog. The guards wouldn’t even try to stop you; they didn’t care. The prison didn’t bother with walls or barriers to keep prisoners in because they knew what awaited anyone foolish enough to leave. In his 300 years of confinement, Dante had seen plenty of prisoners try to escape.That swirling death wasn’t freedom—it was a guaranteed one-way trip to annihilation. Only the insane or the ignorant ventured into the fog.
What happened to them out there? No one knew, but one thing was certain: they were dead.
Just then, another scream echoed from the death fog. Dante didn’t even bother getting up to look. He’d heard it so many times that he was desensitized. Another prisoner in a nearby cell commented dryly, “Another one lost it. Wonder when it’ll be my turn.”
The words struck a chord with Dante. He didn’t know when—or if—he’d lose his mind and sprint into the fog himself.
Meanwhile, Ares’s vigorous “activities” were reaching a fever pitch. The noise made it impossible for Dante to sleep. Frustrated, he sat up, walked over to his small desk, and flicked on the dim lamp. From the drawer, he pulled out a battered notebook and a pen.
For years, Dante had been meaning to write a journal. Or maybe more of a guide—a record of his time in this godforsaken prison. He wanted to pass on what he’d learned to whoever might inherit his cell after he was gone, just as he’d found notes from the previous occupant when he’d first arrived.
He wanted to write while his mind was still intact, to leave something behind. A trace of his existence, proof that he had once been here.
He stared at the blank page, his pen hovering hesitantly. After a while, he finally began to write.
"Hello, dear prisoner. Like you, I am an inmate here."
Dante paused, then cringed. “What kind of crap is that?” he muttered, crossing out the line. “I should sound like a veteran, not some amateur greeting card.”
After some self-criticism, he tried again.
"Hey, newcomer,"
“Nope. Not mysterious enough.”
"You lucky bastard, finding this journal is your good fortune."
“Too rude.” He sighed, tapping his pen against the desk.
Finally, he settled on:
"To whoever finds this journal, treasure it well. I will share my experiences with you."
Satisfied with the tone, he continued.
"My name is Dante Cthulu. I am human, from a world called Earth. I’ve been trapped here for nearly 300 years. And yes, I’m innocent. My greatest crime? Accidentally peeping on my neighbor while she was changing. It wasn’t my fault—she left the curtains open, and I just happened to be brushing my teeth at the time. Honestly, I think she did it on purpose. Her name was Amy. She was an office worker. Nice figure. C-cup."
Dante stopped writing. “What the hell am I doing?” he groaned, realizing how far he’d wandered off track. Ripping out the page, he started over.
"I am innocent, and I’m not the only one. But shouting about your innocence here is pointless. The first thing you need to do when you arrive is accept your fate. Don’t waste your energy fighting it—nobody cares. This isn’t a normal prison, here, you won’t find common sense, what you have is endless suffering, and those soulless puppet guards and their bizarre rules."
"Here’s my first piece of advice: don’t cause trouble. Keep your head down, or you might end up dead. Many prisoners here aren’t human. For example, my neighbor? His name is Ares. If you’re human, you might recognize him—he’s the war god from mythology. And trust me, he’s not just a myth."
"How do I know he’s the real deal? Well, let’s see: he can fly, tear apart other inmates with his bare hands, smash boulders like they’re paper, He stood over three meters tall and possessed immense strength. You tell me if that sounds like your average Joe."
"Oh, and it’s not just gods. I’ve seen aliens too. If you’re from Earth like me, you might find that fascinating. In my world, aliens are seen as advanced civilizations with incredible technology. There’s even a ‘little grey guy’ in my block. He’s one of the typical alien species. We’ve had a lot of interesting conversations. Apparently, he’s been to Earth—or at least, an Earth. The one he visited had long since been taken over by half-human, half-lizard hybrids after regular humans went extinct. Fun, right?"
Dante paused to rub his temples. “I’m rambling again,” he muttered. Tearing out another page, he started fresh.
"This prison houses beings from countless worlds, so don’t be surprised by what you see when you first arrive. My second piece of advice? Follow the rules. Don’t piss off the puppet guards. No matter what they tell you to do, obey them. Even if they tell you to suck—"
Dante caught himself mid-sentence and crossed it out. “Yeah, probably shouldn’t include that.”
After a moment, he resumed.
"Disobedience or violence against the puppet guards will get you killed. Remember my neighbor Ares? His father is Zeus. Zeus was the god king of Olympus. I’ve met two versions of him in this prison. The first tried to escape on his first day, ran straight into the black fog, and disappeared forever. His name vanished from the ‘Declaration Wall,’ which means he’s dead."
"The second Zeus… well, his story is worse. He decided to fight one of the puppet guards. He threw everything he had at it—lightning bolts, divine strength, you name it. And it didn’t even scratch the guard. Then the guard fought back."
"I saw it with my own eyes. The guard started by peeling off Zeus’s skin, strip by strip. Then it cut away his flesh, bit by bit, while Zeus screamed. It didn’t stop there. The guard left his eyes intact so he could watch the entire process. When all that was left was a pile of bones, in the end the guard devoured his soul. That’s how the mighty Zeus met his end. His skeleton still hangs in the cafeteria ceiling as a warning to us all."
Dante stopped writing. Memories of Zeus’s screams came flooding back, sending a chill down his spine. He closed the journal and sighed. Just as he was about to lie down, a loud groan signaled that Ares had finally finished his "session."
“Finally,” Dante muttered. Shutting off his lamp, he climbed into bed. Somewhere outside, the screams of another failed escape attempt pierced the night. Slowly, he drifted into a restless sleep.
The Next Morning.
The puppet guard arrived at Dante’s cell with mechanical precision. As usual, the cells lacked doors, making it easy for the guard to float silently to Dante’s bedside. Its lifeless wooden face loomed over him as it raised its baton.
Dante bolted upright, shouting, “Hold up that stick, i am getting up! ” He stared into the guard’s unblinking black eyes, his heart racing.
The guard’s face, carved from wood, bore no expression. Its thin, jointed limbs looked like they could snap, but Dante knew better. The black leather uniform it wore added an air of menace, complete with a strange, tall black hat.
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“You’re lucky,” the guard droned in a monotone, lifeless voice. “Report to the Task Hall immediately. One second late, and you’ll be punished.”
“Got it,” Dante replied hastily. Throwing on his tattered shoes, he joined the line of prisoners shuffling out of their cells. Ares was just ahead of him.
“So, Dante,” Ares muttered. “You’re on personal supplies duty today, right?”
“Yeah, why?” Dante replied, already suspecting where this was going.
“You think you could hook me up with another flashlight?” Ares asked with an exaggerated nonchalance.
Dante sighed. “Didn’t I give you one last year?”
“That thing’s crap. Fell apart long time ago i told you right? But this time, i think i want something different.”
“What now? If it’s a weapon, forget it. You know the rules.”
“Not a weapon,” Ares said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Last time when you were drunk, you told me about this thing in your world… a television?”
“A TV? What the hell do you need a TV for? Planning to binge-watch some shows?” Dante asked, as if he doesn't remember told Ares about it , and genuinely surprised. He hadn’t pegged Ares as the Netflix-and-chill type.
“Uh… yeah. Something like that,” Ares replied awkwardly. “If you get me one, I’ll owe you big time. Deal?”
Dante shrugged. “Fine. Just keep the volume down, okay? Don’t wake me up with your… entertainment.”
“Deal!” Ares grinned like a kid promised a new toy, practically skipping as he walked.
Dante knew exactly what Ares wanted a TV for, but he wasn’t about to say it out loud. Immortality, it seemed, did nothing to dull a man’s needs—even if that man was a literal god of war.
As the prisoners shuffled into the pale moonlight, that eternal celestial glow illuminated the cursed land below. The black death fog swirled more actively than usual, its movements unsettling, though it couldn’t breach the invisible barrier holding it back.
Before entering the next area, the inmates stopped at the Declaration Wall, a towering black monolith carved from some otherworldly stone. Every prisoner in this section of the prison had their name and origin etched onto it. At the bottom right corner of the wall, two glowing lines displayed the current prisoner count and yesterday’s deaths.
Dante tried to elbow his way to the front of the crowd to see the numbers but quickly gave up in the crush of bodies. Towering above the rest, Ares glanced at the wall and called back, “No need to push, Dante. Yesterday, 37,682 prisoners died.”
“Thirty-seven thousand?” Dante exclaimed, his voice tinged with disbelief. That was far above the usual death toll. “What the hell happened?”
“Some of them were suicides,” Ares said grimly. “Some died during their Judgment, and about a half of them died in their daily tasks.”
“Daily tasks killed over ten thousand?” Dante’s unease grew. Something wasn’t right.
“Yeah… something’s off,” Ares admitted, his usually flippant tone carrying a hint of apprehension.
With the grim tally fresh in their minds, the prisoners marched into the Task Hall, a plain square building devoid of decoration or comfort. Inside, a massive black stone slab dominated the room, its surface inscribed with today’s assignments. The moment Dante laid eyes on it, his task appeared in his mind, as if etched directly into his consciousness.
“Personal Supplies Distribution. It’s been a while since I last did this job. Can’t say I’ve missed it.”
Dante sighed. Then made his way to his workstation, a rough black marble desk worn smooth from centuries of use. On the desk sat a transparent cube, one side open to allow access. It was connected to the “Infinite Supply System”, which could generate nearly any item with a simple thought.
Within minutes, a line of prisoners had formed in front of Dante’s desk, each eager to claim their allocation. Despite the urgency in their movements, they maintained strict order, wary of the ever-present puppet guards silently observing from the shadows.
“I’m ready,” Dante said, addressing one of the guards.
The guard nodded once, and the first prisoner stepped forward. A towering hulk of a man with muscles rippling under his tattered clothes. He sported a comically outdated bowl haircut that made him look like a caveman.
“You know the drill,” Dante said, stifling a yawn. “Name?”
“Conan the Fearless!” the man bellowed. “I am the greatest warrior of the Wildlands! In my world, I am a legend, a—”
“Alright, alright,” Dante interrupted, waving a hand. “I asked for your name, not your autobiography. What do you want?”
Conan hesitated, his bravado faltering. “Uh… I heard about this thing from your world. You called it… a flashlight?”
Dante raised an eyebrow. “A flashlight? Sure. Why you need it?”
Conan scratched the back of his head awkwardly, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “Uh, you know, to use it.”
Dante sighed and reached into the cube. A moment later, he pulled out a standard flashlight and handed it over. “Here. One flashlight.”
Conan looked at the object, his brow furrowing. “No, no, this isn’t what I meant. I think you gave me the wrong thing.”
“What do you mean? That’s a flashlight,” Dante replied, irritation creeping into his voice.
But then realization dawned. Dante’s expression soured as he rubbed his temples. “Oh, for the love of— You mean that kind of flashlight, don’t you?”
Conan nodded eagerly, his grin widening.
Muttering curses under his breath, Dante placed his hand back into the cube. Moments later, he retrieved a different kind of "flashlight"—a men’s novelty item. He handed it over with a resigned sigh.
Conan’s face lit up. “Yes! This is the one! Thank you, kind sir!” But then he frowned, inspecting it closely. “Hmm… this looks a bit small.”
Dante stared at him, deadpan. “That’s the large size.”
“Not large enough,” Conan declared, puffing out his chest. “I am Conan the Fearless! The mightiest warrior of the Wildlands! My—”
“Alright, alright!” Dante interrupted again, waving his hands. He reached back into the cube, conjuring an oversized version of the item. “Here. Try this.”
Conan’s face broke into a wide grin. “Perfect! Thank you, kind sir! I owe you one! Next time I’m on distribution duty, I’ll hook you up!”
As Conan happily walked away with his prize, Dante groaned. “Great. I’m the prison’s official purveyor of ‘flashlights’ now. Just fantastic.”
The next prisoner was unlike the others. Its body was a polished amalgamation of shining metal plates, with glimpses of intricate mechanisms humming beneath. Its humanoid shape was unnervingly lifelike, but its stiff, mechanical movements betrayed its nature. The polished chrome reflected the dim light of the room, and the whirring of servos added an ominous undertone.
Dante rubbed his eyes, already exhausted by the day’s absurdity. “Alright, Metalhead, state your name.”
The machine's hollow, monotone voice echoed. “Designation: Unit ZX-17. Origin: Prime Technological Universe.” It paused, as though considering whether to continue, then added, “Status: Former Ambassador of Mechanical Unity.”
“Great,” Dante said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “So, ZX-17, what do you want?”
ZX-17’s glowing blue optics flickered momentarily. “Query: Does your world possess a device capable of generating tactile pleasure in a targeted area?”
Dante blinked. “Tactile pleasure… wait.” He raised a hand, already dreading the answer. “Are you asking for a goddamn sex toy?”
ZX-17 tilted its head. “Clarification: My request aligns with personal maintenance protocols. The sensory stimulation required is essential for neural core calibration and self-diagnostic efficiency.”
Dante stared at the machine, his expression a mix of disbelief and resignation. “Right. Neural core calibration. Fine. Let me guess—you want something extra durable.”
“Affirmative,” the machine replied. “Standard organic constructs are insufficient. Request: Industrial-grade material, vibration intensity exceeding standard thresholds, and optional attachments for modular expansion.”
Dante sighed and muttered, “Of course. Why not?” Reaching into the supply cube, he focused his thoughts on conjuring something to match the request. A moment later, he pulled out a sleek, metallic device that looked sturdy enough to double as a jackhammer. The attachments glimmered with unsettling enthusiasm.
ZX-17 inspected the item, its optics glowing brighter. “Satisfactory. Appreciation: Your efficiency will be logged in my system.”
“Glad to be of service,” Dante said dryly, watching as the machine cradled the device with almost reverent care and strode off.
The line continued to shuffle forward. Prisoners of every shape and size made their demands—some mundane, others bizarre beyond comprehension. One inmate, a gelatinous blob with googly eyes floating in its translucent body, requested an energy drink infused with quantum particles. Another, a seven-headed reptilian creature, wanted a mirror large enough to reflect all its heads simultaneously.
Eventually, Dante saw a familiar figure step up to the desk. Ares grinned mischievously, his massive frame towering over the rest of the line.
“Here he is,” Dante said flatly. “Let me guess—you want another flashlight?”
“No,” Ares replied, his grin widening. “I’m here for the TV we talked about.”
Dante rubbed his temples. “You’re serious about that? What the hell do you need a TV for?”
“Don’t play dumb, Dante. I’ve heard you talk about the wonders of Earth’s entertainment. I want to see it for myself,” Ares said, crossing his arms. “Besides, a god needs some damn distractions.”
Dante sighed, already regretting his agreement. “Fine. Hold on.”
He reached into the cube and conjured a television. It was a modest flat-screen, the kind you’d find in a middle-class living room. He set it on the desk with a thud. “Here. Knock yourself out.”
Ares frowned, poking the screen with one massive finger. “This is it? Where’s the sound? The moving pictures?”
“It’s not magic, Ares,” Dante said, rolling his eyes. “You’ll need a power source and something to watch. Let me guess—you want me to get you a Power Source and a library of movies, too?”
“That would be great!” Ares said, his grin returning.
Dante groaned, leaning back in his chair. “Why do I even bother?”
Ares leaned in, lowering his voice. “Listen, Dante. I’ll make it worth your while. You know that ghost guy who keeps stealing everyone’s food? I’ll break his fingers for you.”
Dante raised an eyebrow. “Tempting. But you’re forgetting the part where I don’t give a damn.”
“Alright, alright” Ares grumbled. “Just get me the damn TV working. Please?”
“Fine, I’ll do it for the Magic word.” Dante muttered, conjuring a small generator and a handful of DVDs. As he handed them over, Ares’s grin stretched ear to ear.
“You’re the best, Dante,” Ares said, hoisting the items onto his shoulder. “I’ll owe you big for this.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dante replied, waving him off. As Ares walked away, he added under his breath, “Enjoy your marathon of ‘Horny Goddesses Gone Wild.’”
The queue continued to shuffle forward as Dante served one prisoner after another. Above them, a puppet guard stood silently on a raised platform, its unblinking black eyes scanning the room.
Occasionally, it would twitch, its wooden joints creaking faintly. Dante couldn’t tell if it was alive or just an overengineered security camera.
Every so often, the guard would glance in Dante’s direction, its expressionless face somehow managing to convey disapproval. Dante made sure to keep his tone neutral whenever an inmate made a particularly ridiculous request.
“Can’t have the guard thinking I’m enjoying this,” he muttered to himself.
By the time the line thinned, Dante felt like he’d aged another century. As the final few prisoners shuffled away, he let out a long sigh of relief. But before he could relax, a faint commotion drew his attention to the far end of the room.
One of the prisoners—a scrawny, wild-eyed man—had approached the task board where the assignments were listed. He was muttering to himself, his hands trembling as he pointed at the glowing runes.
“What’s his deal?” Dante muttered.
The man suddenly let out a piercing scream, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. “It’s a lie! We’re all doomed!” he shrieked, clawing at his own face.
Before anyone could react, the puppet guard twitched into motion. It descended from its perch with eerie precision, its joints moving too smoothly for something made of wood. In a flash, it reached the prisoner, its skeletal hand clamping over his mouth.
The man’s muffled screams were cut off as the guard dragged him toward the exit. Dante could only watch in stunned silence as they disappeared into the shadows.
The room fell deathly quiet.
“Well,” Dante said after a long pause, his voice trembling only slightly. “That was… something.”
The remaining prisoners exchanged uneasy glances, but no one dared to speak. Dante turned back to his desk, trying to shake off the lingering tension. He had a feeling today’s oddities were just the beginning.
After a grueling day of handing out increasingly ridiculous requests—from oversized "flashlights" to alien-grade snacks—Dante was ready to collapse onto his miserable excuse for a bed. He trudged through the bleak halls of the prison, his boots scuffing against the cold stone floor, the sound echoing faintly in the oppressive silence.
And sure enough, just as he approached the corridor leading back to his cell, a puppet guard stepped into his path. Its wooden joints creaked ominously as it moved, blocking his way with unsettling precision.
(Author's Note: Wishing everyone a Happy New Year! If you enjoy my work, please consider adding it to your favorites and leaving a comment. Your support means the world to me—thank you!)