Twilight in Hell was forever shrouded in a dull, crimson haze.
A scorching wind, thick with the scent of sulfur and ash, swept through the meticulously tended back garden of Zestial’s mansion.
This was one of the few places in Hell that could truly be called “peaceful.” There were no roars of slaughter, no echoes of wailing souls—only neatly trimmed bushes of dark purple brambles and a few Hell Roses with ink-black petals quietly unfurling in the gloom.
A stone tea table sat in the center of the garden, set with two sets of ancient bone china.
Inside the pot, Nether-leaf tea—a brew unique to Hell—steeped into a deep brown liquid.
Wisps of steam rose from the cups, yet they could not dispel the eternal chill of the surroundings.
Two figures sat at the table: the two oldest Overlords in Hell, Zestial and Spade.
Zestial sat upright in a carved stone chair, dressed in a perfectly tailored deep black morning coat with a silver skull pin fastened to his lapel.
He exuded an aura that was both steady and detached, as if he had weathered eons of time and had long since seen through all the strife and clamor of Hell.
He held his teacup with his fingertips, his movements elegant.
Every detail radiated a gentlemanly grace that was etched into his very bones; even in the chaos of Hell, he maintained his own sense of dignity.
Across from him, Spade was not in his usual form—the one that hid in the shadows and lacked any presence.
Instead, he had revealed his true form, Prototype 1006.
His limbs were unnaturally long and eerie, his mechanical palms were mottled with rust, and his fingertips glinted with a cold metallic sheen.
His face bore no demonic snarl; instead, he wore a clown mask fixed in a permanent, unsettling grin.
It was a smile that seemed cheerful but hid a bottomless well of indifference and mockery.
He sat casually, almost sloppily, with one leg crossed over the other.
He possessed none of an Overlord’s majesty, looking instead like an idle bystander.
These two were the oldest beings in Hell.
They had witnessed Hell’s birth, the rise and fall of countless Overlords, and the innumerable clashes between Heaven and Hell.
Their lifespans far exceeded those of most demons; even time itself had left indelible marks upon them.
At this moment, there was no power struggle, no conspiratorial plotting.
They were merely two old friends drinking tea and chatting about dust-covered memories in this rare moment of tranquility.
Zestial took a light sip of the Nether-leaf tea.
The warm liquid slid down his throat, dispelling some of the chill around him.
He looked up at Spade, his tone flat and devoid of ripples, as if discussing a trivial matter.
“Spade, I have heard rumors lately.
You have joined the hotel of our Princess of Hell, Charlie, to serve as their chef.
Is this true?” Upon hearing this, Spade’s mechanical hand, which had been resting casually on the edge of the table, twitched.
He grabbed the teapot directly, aimed the spout beneath his mask, and tilted his head back to drain the entire pot in one go.
The tea flowed down his mechanical neck without staining his clothes.
He set the empty pot down and wiped the corner of his mouth with his metal palm, his tone carrying a hint of nonchalance and an almost imperceptible lightness.
“Yeah, what of it?
You’re well-informed, old friend.
I’ve only been there a few days and you already know.” Zestial looked at his companion’s lack of decorum, which failed to hide his genuine pleasure.
He shook his head slightly and let out a helpless sigh, a look of understanding flashing in his eyes.
He knew Spade too well.
This old friend, who had lived for billions of years, had spent the past eons in a state of stagnant gloom.
Every day, Spade had repeated the most mind-numbing tasks, managing his toy factory and facing restless demons with nothing but cold indifference.
His eyes had held no emotion, as if he were a pool of dead water that nothing could stir.
But now, from the tone of Spade’s voice and the tiny spark in his eyes, Zestial could clearly sense that he truly enjoyed this “meaningless” job as a chef.
“I can hear it in your voice—you truly do like this work,” Zestial said, setting down his cup and tapping his fingers lightly on the table.
His tone carried a hint of sentimentality.
“After all, you used to be so listless.
Aside from tending to your toy factory, you would huddle in the shadows of your territory, doing repetitive, boring things.
There wasn’t a spark of light in your eyes.
But now, you are different.
Even your voice is lighter.
It is clear that you find life at that hotel quite comfortable.” Beneath the eternally smiling clown mask, a low chuckle escaped Spade’s throat—a mix of embarrassment at being seen through and the intimacy of old friends.
“Alright, alright, old friend, stop teasing me.
It’s just something to do.
It beats huddling in the factory every day, watching those doll soldiers on patrol and dealing with rebellious little imps.” Though his words were dismissive, the aura around him was far softer than usual.
It was no longer the freezing coldness that kept people at a distance; it had a touch of grounded humanity, a side of him Zestial had never seen.
Zestial watched him, a faint smile touching his lips.
He didn’t push further.
He knew that while Spade seemed cold, he hid a secret softness within—a softness buried by billions of years of loneliness.
Finding something that made him happy was no bad thing.
The two continued to drink tea in silence for a while, chatting about minor trifles in Hell and reminiscing about events from millions of years ago.
Eventually, the crimson haze on the horizon deepened, night slowly began to shroud Hell, and the temperature grew even colder.
Zestial stood up slowly and straightened his morning coat, his tone as peaceful as ever.
“It is getting late; I should take my leave.
If you ever find the hotel stifling, or if you simply crave a cup of tea, you are welcome here at any time.” As he spoke, he picked up the tea set with graceful, efficient movements.
Though he was seeing his guest out, there was no rudeness in the gesture, only the consideration of an old friend.
Spade stood as well, his Prototype 1006 silhouette looking even more eerie in the darkness.
He gave Zestial a slight nod.
“Fine.
I’ll come by for another chat some other day.
I should head back to the hotel too, or that kid Charlie will start worrying.” With that, Spade turned.
His figure quickly merged into the shadows of the garden and vanished in an instant.
Zestial was left alone in the empty garden.
He stared in the direction Spade had gone, sighed softly, and then turned to walk back into his mansion.
Time flowed on, and several days passed in the blink of an eye.
In Hell, there was no clear boundary between day and night, only the alternating brightness and dimness of the light.
Spade continued his role as the chef at Charlie’s hotel, spending his days experimenting with Hell’s unique ingredients and creating all sorts of delicacies.
His life was quiet but fulfilling.
On this day, Spade was hiding in a dark corner of the hotel kitchen, watching a pot of Hell-broth bubble.
His mechanical hand stirred it gently as the familiar noise of the hotel drifted into his ears.
An unconscious smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
Suddenly, the phone in his pocket vibrated, breaking the silence.
Spade stopped what he was doing and pulled out the phone.
The screen displayed a message from Carmilla.
The content was brief but heavy with significance: [Emergency Notice: All Sinner Overlords are to report to the Carmilla Group Headquarters meeting room immediately for the first-ever general assembly of all Sinner Overlords.
Attendance is mandatory.] Seeing this message, the gaze beneath Spade’s clown mask instantly grew deep.
He knew exactly what this meeting meant.
This was the first time in history that almost every Sinner Overlord—beings who controlled millions, even tens of millions of souls—would gather as one.
In the past, these Overlords had carved out their own territories, eyeing each other with suspicion and constantly fighting.
There had never been a moment of total assembly.
The calling of this meeting could only mean that Heaven was making a major move.
A storm concerning the survival of all Hell was coming.
Spade put his phone back in his pocket and looked toward the hotel lobby, a flash of realization in his eyes.
At the moment, the hotel was the same as ever.
No sinners were willing to come here seeking redemption, so the place was devoid of customers, but it was far from quiet.
In fact, it was quite rowdy, though the noise came entirely from a group of uninvited guests.
Sir Pentious and his “Egg Bois” had taken over most of the hotel’s common space.
The Egg Bois were small and round, looking quite cute and cuddly in theory.
However, these little guys had no real talent other than being incredibly chatty.
They chirped and rambled incessantly from morning to night.
One moment they were curiously touching the hotel furniture; the next, they were pestering the staff about the wall decorations.
“Can we touch this?” “What’s that?” “Why are we staying here?” The endless questions were enough to give anyone a headache.
Vaggie stood to the side with her arms crossed, her face as black as Hell-coal.
Her brow was furrowed with impatience as she complained loudly about the Egg Bois.
“Can you all just be quiet for one second?!
Were you all born from sparrows?
You haven’t stopped talking since you walked in!
It’s deafening!
Pentious, can’t you control your lackeys?
If they keep this up, I’m throwing them all out of the hotel!”