CHAPTER 22: CHAPTER NO.22 NINE LEVELS OF HELL (4)

[Location: Unknown Forest, First Hell]

[Third Person’s POV]

"HAHAHAHAHAHA!"

"More! MORE!"

BOOOM!

BOOOM!

The ground shook like a drum pounded by the fists of a mad god. Trees—gnarled, blackened husks that had been here since the First Hell bled into existence—snapped like brittle bones, bursting into splinters as the shockwaves tore through the land.

Above it all, her laughter rose like a hymn of madness.

"Lady Zeraphira is at it again."

One of the scouts, a low-ranking hellknight, shielded his face as embers rained from the burning canopy. His armor was already cracked, sweat boiling against his skin despite the infernal air he had grown up in.

The other scout scoffed, though his voice trembled. "What can we even say? She’s doing a service for the realm anyway. At the rate low-class fiends spawn here, First Hell would drown in its own filth if not for her..."

Both of them turned their gazes toward the clearing.

And there she was.

Zeraphira Baelgorath. Daughter of Wrath. One of the Seven Betrothed of Dominic Nocturne von Morningstar.

Her beauty was something that defied the grime of this realm—sharp cheekbones glistening with sweat and ichor, hair cascading like rivers of molten rubies, her eyes burning with that unmistakable madness that belonged to Wrath’s bloodline. In one hand, she wielded a jagged halberd larger than her own body, every swing accompanied by the shriek of tortured air. The other hand glowed with a corona of blackened flames, wild and eager, lashing out like starving serpents.

Around her, corpses piled high.

Not corpses in the mortal sense—these were shattered shells of low-born demons, malformed wretches that spawned endlessly in the dark soil of the First Hell. Some still twitched, crawling with broken spines, only to be impaled as her halberd struck like a scarlet meteor.

"Come! Come to me, insects!" Zeraphira roared, her laughter spilling out again, half ecstasy, half frenzy. "Let me feel it! The pulse! The rapture of breaking you apart!"

The forest obeyed. The very air cracked, and from the soil beneath, more low-borns crawled forth, shrieking, gnashing, devouring one another in a frenzy to reach her. Dozens. Then hundreds. Their eyes glowed faintly green, their skeletal wings flapping in disjointed spasms, their claws reaching.

The scouts stepped back instinctively.

"This... this isn’t a purge anymore. It’s a massacre," one whispered.

The other shook his head. "It always is, with her. That’s why no one dares rein her in. Even her father doesn’t. Lord Wrath tolerates this because—because she’s said to have even higher affinity with the Sin of Wrath than even Lord Wrath himself."

The words left the scout’s lips as though blasphemy, but no thunderbolt came. No firestorm punished him. Only the crack of bone, the shriek of a dying fiend, and the thunderous laughter of Lady Zeraphira tearing through the smog-heavy air.

The halberd spun, shrieking, cutting down a dozen at once. Black-red ichor sprayed like a storm, splattering against the trees, sizzling where it struck the scorched earth.

She didn’t slow. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t need to.

Wrath flowed in her veins like molten rivers—an inheritance, a curse, a crown. Every swing of her weapon was a hymn to fury, every step she took shook the First Hell’s corrupted soil like a heartbeat of pure violence.

The scouts swallowed hard, instinctively stepping back further.

One dared whisper, "...She doesn’t even fight them. She plays with them."

The other said nothing. Because it was true.

Zeraphira’s laughter rang out again, high and feverish, as she allowed one of the fiends—a grotesque mass of teeth and claw—to latch onto her arm. Its jagged mandibles clamped down, shredding flesh, snapping bone—

Only for her wound to erupt in a violent spasm of crimson fire. The fiend was blown apart, scattered into molten dust, and her flesh knit itself together instantly, pale skin pristine once more, marked only by the faint black veins of Wrath’s corruption dancing beneath.

"YES!" she shrieked. "More pain! More hate! More..."

She froze.

The halberd halted mid-swing, frozen in the air. Her body trembled—not from exhaustion (such a concept was meaningless to her), but from something deeper.

The scouts noticed, confused. "What’s...?"

Then they felt it.

The air warped. The trees bent inward, bowing as though to some unseen monarch. The waves of low-born demons froze, claws twitching, eyes dimming, their madness quashed by something greater.

Zeraphira’s laughter died on her lips.

Her molten eyes narrowed. Her lips curled—not in fury, not in ecstasy—but something more dangerous.

Reverence.

Obsession.

Desire.

"Dominic..." she whispered.

The name cut through the chaos like a blade. Her claws loosened from the halberd’s shaft, fingers trembling as though she had touched sacred flame.

The scouts froze, daring not to breathe. They had heard the name before. They had heard the whispers in the hidden courts, the rumours traded in whispers—the forsaken prince, the lost heir of Lilith, the boy entombed in silence for over a thousand years.

And now their mistress spoke the name as though it was godhood itself.

Zeraphira staggered a step, clutching her chest as if to cage the furnace roaring within. Her laughter turned into something else—a low, guttural moan that quaked with madness.

"Alive..." she hissed. "He’s alive. He breathes. He rises. I feel him."

The halberd pulsed in her grip, crimson fire licking its jagged edge as though it too recognised the name.

The forest went silent. Even the low-born demons, mindless as they were, fell back, whimpering, crawling into the dirt to hide from the storm they sensed brewing in her veins.

The scouts exchanged horrified looks.

Because what stood before them was not just the daughter of Wrath in frenzy.

It was a bride remembering her oath.

A demoness whose obsession had been buried, starved, denied for over a millennium—now suddenly awakened.

Zeraphira threw her head back, screaming into the sky. Not laughter this time, but a howl of exultation that tore the clouds apart, ripping ash and fire into a spiral overhead. The ground cracked, rivers of molten rock bursting forth as though the First Hell itself bent to her joy.

Her voice rang out across the realms:

"DOMINIC NOCTURNE VON MORNINGSTAR!"

The name thundered. Not just through the forest, but across the veins of Hell itself. Even in distant Circles, demons twitched, sensing the flare of Wrath not from Amon Baelgorath, not from Lord Wrath himself, but from his daughter.

The scouts fell to their knees, not from loyalty—but from terror.

Because in that scream, they understood.

This wasn’t frenzy.

This was devotion.

This was possession.

Zeraphira’s halberd came down, splitting the earth in two, flames devouring the land for miles. And through the smoke, her whisper followed, trembling, reverent, broken:

"I will never let him go again. Not now. Not ever. Even if I must burn all Nine Levels to ash."

She immediately abandoned the thought of playing, and turned serious as she outstretched her arm holding the jagged halberd high above, its crimson edge devouring every ounce of firelight around her. The flames bent toward her weapon as if the entire inferno bowed to her wrath.

The scouts could no longer breathe properly. The air thickened, pressing down on their lungs like molten iron. One coughed, blood dribbling from his lips as he dropped to all fours, choking under the sheer weight of her presence.

Zeraphira didn’t notice. Or if she did, she didn’t care.

Her molten eyes glowed brighter, brighter still, until they eclipsed the halberd’s own fire. Her voice thundered again, low and feverish, each word a vow etched into the very marrow of Hell:

"He... is mine. He was always mine."

The halberd pulsed in response, warping the space around it. The forest trembled as if dreading her next command.

Her aura swelled. Not the chaotic, mindless rage she had been wielding moments ago, but something infinitely more terrifying: focused Wrath. The kind sharpened not by random destruction, but by purpose.

The low-born demons that still dared linger screamed and clawed their way back into the soil, shrivelling under her voice. Even they—mindless beasts—understood that to exist in her presence now was to invite annihilation.

Zeraphira’s lips curled, sharp teeth flashing, but it wasn’t amusement anymore. It was hunger. Possessive, merciless hunger.

"Dominic..." she whispered again, but this time it was not a question. It was not disbelief. It was not longing.

It was a claim.

The crimson flames wrapped tighter around her body, threads of molten light branding themselves into her pale flesh, carving runes that throbbed with Wrath’s inheritance. Her halberd ignited with black fire, and when she slammed its base into the earth, the forest screamed as though the very realm recognised her ascension.

The scouts collapsed fully now, armour sizzling against their burning skin. One tried to crawl, his fingers clawing at the dirt, but every motion was agony.

"She—she’s going to destroy everything!" one wheezed, coughing blood.

The other forced a broken whisper. "No... not everything. Just anything... that isn’t him."

Zeraphira’s laughter returned, but it was no longer wild, manic joy. It was layered—dark, exultant, reverent. It carried the weight of a millennium of starvation, of obsession denied, of devotion sharpened by centuries of wrathful waiting.

"Let them whisper. Let them conspire. Let them all kneel before false crowns," she growled, her voice shaking the trees until they burst into cinders. "When Dominic rises, when my husband claims what was stolen... they will all know Wrath’s true heir."

The halberd rose again.

The scouts knew if she struck, the forest itself would cease to exist. The First Hell would bleed open, and everything within miles would be reduced to molten ruin.

But she didn’t strike. Not yet.

Her gaze turned skyward, molten eyes searching through the ash clouds as if she could pierce through the veils of Hell itself and see beyond. And in her silence, the only word that slipped through her lips was not for her father, not for her enemies, not for her subjects.

It was only for him.

"Wait for me... Dominic."

The earth cracked. Rivers of magma coursed outward in response to her vow, carving her name into the First Hell’s soil like a living brand.

The scouts, trembling, exchanged horrified glances.

This wasn’t just Wrath’s daughter.

This was a storm. A storm bound not by war, not by dominion, not even by pride—but by love twisted into obsession.

And Hell itself would burn to answer it.

With that, the highly concentrated jagged halberd fell.

Erasure.

Not even destruction. Not ruin. Not flame or ash or blood.

Simply—absence.

The jagged halberd touched earth, and the world screamed. Not with fire, not with sound, but with silence—an impossible silence that ripped the essence out of everything it touched. The ground beneath her didn’t burn. It didn’t crack. It didn’t even bleed magma like the rest of First Hell.

It just... ceased to exist.

The soil that had stood since the beginning of the First Hell folded inward like shattered glass swallowed by a void. The blackened trees, the screaming low-born demons, even the very embers drifting through the air—all of them were unmade, erased from reality as if the circle itself recoiled from her command.

"I will be the first... first to find him... make him mine... only mine~"

***

Stone me, I can take it!

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