There are three key elements to lifting things.
Your movements must be swift, your posture elegant, and your gaze confident.
This was a truth Mu En had mastered back in the human world—one of the few legacies left by his once-illustrious family.
The only other family heirloom was debt, but fortunately, Hell didn’t recognize human accounts, so this was all that remained.
Mu En crouched in front of a stall built from ribcages, fiddling with a small figurine and pretending to be a buyer.
The stall owner was a red-skinned imp, barely 1.2 meters tall, with black-and-white striped curved horns.
“How much for this?” Mu En asked.
The imp’s eyes darted as he scanned him from head to toe.
Leather shoes without a scratch, sharp trouser creases, and every shirt button fastened.
You couldn’t find a second living creature on this street dressed so neatly.
Looking up further, the man had slightly messy black hair and no horns or other demonic traits; he was an enigma.
Quote too high, and the imp feared a beating; quote too low, and he feared losing money.
“Fif—fifty!
No, no, forty…
thirty’s fine too!”
In the end, he chose to avoid the beating.
Mu En nodded and set the figurine down.
As his right hand passed over the table, he swiped a plastic card with a black background and gold trim.
It was a fake credit card, likely worthless.
But having only recently arrived in Hell, he had to pocket everything until he figured out the local currency system.
“I’ll look around some more.”
“Huh?
You buying or not?
If not, stop touching things and get lost!” The imp barked, finding his spine a second too late.
“Of course.
I wish you a prosperous business.”
Mu En gave a polite nod and turned to leave.
The card was already tucked against the inside of his cuff.
The smell on the street was pungent, requiring layers of interpretation.
A base note of charred burning was topped with a layer of sickeningly sweet stench, punctuated by occasional bursts of sulfur.
The overall effect was like someone had set fire to a landfill to mask the smell of another landfill.
It took Mu En about twenty minutes to learn to breathe only through his mouth, and another five minutes to regret that decision once he started tasting the air.
The roadside billboards flickered unsteadily, scrolling with outrageous slogans.
Mu En read one, then read it again to make sure he hadn’t misunderstood.
Yes, he hadn’t—every word was absurd.
Advertisements in the human world at least tried to be subtle.
Their counterparts in Hell clearly felt that subtlety was a quality meant for extinction.
Beneath the ads, the blood on the street hadn’t fully dried yet.
This area had just undergone a massive Cleansing, courtesy of the Exorcists.
Mu En had pieced together the gist from a Sinner whose tongue was literally tied in knots from fear: they came from the sky, had wings, killed everything in sight, and left.
Once a year.
Like pest control.
Or more accurately, like property management using this method to control Hell’s population.
You couldn’t say it didn’t make sense, but the execution was certainly debatable.
He passed a corpse sitting against a wall.
It sat upright, head lolling, with a fist-sized hole blasted through its chest, yet a trace of serenity remained on its face.
Mu En crouched down and fished a few crumpled bills of Hell currency from the man’s jacket.
“Much obliged.”
the man offered no objection.
After pocketing the money, Mu En straightened the corpse’s head and tidied its collar.
A shoe was missing; he looked around for a moment but couldn’t find it, so he gave up.
Take the money first, tidy up second.
The order couldn’t be reversed, otherwise it would be charity.
Just as he stood up, he heard the wind whistling above him.
Mu En took a step to the side.
A corpse slammed into the spot where he had been standing, black blood splattering outward.
It had goat horns and hooves, with half its face missing.
A faded red string and a stone—likely an amulet—were tied to one horn.
Based on the result, it hadn’t worked.
Looking up, he saw several vulture-like demons on a rooftop, fighting over another corpse stuck in a drainage pipe.
The loser was kicked off, crashing through an awning before struggling to get up and fly back for more.
He glanced at the female Sinner at his feet.
The remaining half of her face was young; she must have been quite young when she died.
Mu En crouched down again and brushed the hair away from her face, covering the missing half.
A few drops of blood had splattered onto his shoes.
He wiped them with a nearby rag, but it didn’t do much.
He could only sigh and keep walking.
“Hold it right there, suit guy.”
A Sinner stepped out from an alleyway, half a head taller than Mu En.
He had dark green skin and held an iron pipe studded with nails.
“Empty your pockets.
Now.”
Mu En stopped.
The green-skinned Sinner’s eyes darted up and down, scanning Mu En twice.
He felt a seed of doubt.
Was this a damn living human?
Hell was full of monsters, but there shouldn’t be a human here.
Something was off, though he couldn’t put his finger on what.
The iron pipe remained raised, but he didn’t move forward.
Mu En glanced at the pipe, then locked eyes with the thug.
The man was gritting his teeth, trying to look tough, but his eyes were shifting restlessly.
Only those who are afraid feel the need to stare so performatively.
Mu En unhurriedly pulled a pocket watch from his coat, checked the time, and put it back.
He needed a composed action to fill these few seconds of confrontation, giving the other man’s brain time to process the information: “This person doesn’t seem afraid of me.”
“Are you a local?” he asked.
The Sinner frowned.
“Cut the crap!”
“This area—who was in charge before the Cleansing?”
The iron pipe froze mid-air.
The thug was stunned; fat sheep didn’t usually turn the tables with questions like that.
“None of your business.”
Mu En nodded.
“So someone *was* in charge.
Now they’re gone.
Or they ran.
So you’re working the streets on your own.”
He glanced at the hair stuck to the iron pipe.
“How’s business?”
The Sinner’s face twitched.
“You—”
“Not great, I imagine,” Mu En answered for him.
“The Cleansing just passed.
The wealthy are hunkered down in their fortresses.
All that’s left on the streets are hungry, desperate losers like you.
You’re standing here with a pipe; how many people have you stopped today?”
The Sinner was speechless.
The iron pipe was no longer pointed at Mu En.
Mu En pulled out the Hell currency he had just lifted, folded it, and held it between his fingers.
“Let me guess something else.
This isn’t your line of work.
At least, not your specialty.
Professionals would have a partner to block both ends of the alley; they wouldn’t stand alone at the entrance unable to even intimidate someone.”
He looked the brute straight in the eye.
This part wasn’t entirely deduction, but when guessing, one must never show it on their face.
“Whether I’m right doesn’t matter.
You know yourself how much of a stretch it is for you to be standing here.”
He held out the money.
“I am not the trouble you should be looking for today.”
The Sinner stared at the bills, then at Mu En’s face.
He could find nothing in that polite expression but calm.
Mu En nudged his hand forward slightly.
“You need money, not a death wish.
Move aside.
It’ll be easier for both of us.”
The standoff lasted a long moment.
The iron pipe lowered.
The brute snatched the money, muttered a few curses, and turned to run deep into the alley.
After watching the man leave, Mu En adjusted his cuffs and continued forward.
As he turned a street corner, a building abruptly appeared in his view.
It was entirely out of place with its surroundings.
Around it were burning trash heaps, walls covered in graffiti, and bodies strewn about.
Yet, it maintained an almost stubborn decency from a bygone era: dark red Victorian brick walls, pointed towers, and stained-glass windows.
Above the porch, a hand-painted sign hung crookedly, reading: “Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel!
Every soul deserves a second chance!”
Mu En stood below the steps, looking up.
He recognized this place.
He also recognized that slogan.
As a performer who made a living selling lies, the thing he could least stand was despair devoid of aesthetic.
Since the stage had been set but the script was a mess, someone had to step in and make some edits.
He straightened his tie and had just stepped onto the stairs when—
The door was kicked open from the inside with a resounding *bang*.
If Mu En hadn’t reacted quickly, the door would have slammed into his face.
A demon with protruding tusks fell backward out of the door, spewing filth from his mouth as he threw several crumpled pamphlets into a broken bin behind the door.
“Fuck you!
I came here for a bed, not to hear your bullshit about ascending to heaven!”
Mu En stepped aside, watching the demon miss a step and roll down the stairs while cursing.
“Such a lack of manners,” Mu En remarked, curling his lip.
Before he could look away, a second person rushed out of the door.
“Wait!
At least take the brochure—”
Before she could finish her sentence, she crashed into Mu En’s arms.
He only caught a glimpse of a flash of blonde.
Mu En took the hit, stepping back to steady himself, but the other person’s balance was clearly lacking.
Her heels slipped on the edge of the steps, and she began to tip backward.
Mu En quickly grabbed her arm, preventing her from falling.
Only then did he see clearly: she was a young woman with pale skin.
Long blonde hair was scattered messily across her cheeks.
She wore a red suit jacket, black trousers, and a black bowtie that had skewed to one side.
Her right hand still clutched several flyers.
Her left hand—
The girl blinked and realized she was clutching Mu En’s tie.
“Oh my gosh!
I’m so sorry!”
She hurriedly let go and stumbled back.
She was so panicked that her left foot tripped over her right, nearly sending her falling backward again.
Mu En gave her a steadying hand, watching her frantically try to do three things at once: tuck her hair behind her ear, straighten her bowtie, and pick up the flyers that had fallen to the ground.
The more she rushed, the more chaotic it became.
Her hair got caught in her bowtie while she was smoothing it; two more flyers slid away while she was pulling at the tie; and her bangs fell over her face again when she leaned down to pick them up.
She stayed crouched on the ground for a moment.
She was likely seriously considering just vanishing on the spot.
After a long pause, she finally pushed herself up by her knees.
She tucked her hair messily behind her ears and simply gave up on the bowtie.
Then, she gave Mu En a very forced smile.
“I am so incredibly sorry.
I didn’t see you there.
I just…
well, things are a bit messy.
Actually, they’re always a bit messy, but they were just a bit messier a second ago.
Anyway, really, I’m sorry.
If I hurt you, there’s a first-aid kit inside the hotel.”
Even as she apologized, she couldn’t help but glance in the direction the Sinner had vanished, unable to hide her disappointment.
Recovering, she finally took a proper look at Mu En.
No horns.
No tail.
Dressed respectably.
More importantly, this man was standing firmly on her steps, looking like he had come here of his own accord.
Her expression changed.
“Are you here to learn about the hotel?
Or maybe you’re just passing through!
Passing through is totally fine!
This street isn’t really great for walks, though—the security is bad, and there are, uh…”
She glanced at the severed limbs on the street that hadn’t been cleared away yet.
“Decorations.”
A pause.
“I mean corpses.
Those are corpses.
Not decorations.
Though some shops do use them as decorations, but anyway…”
She was rambling.
She knew she was driving this conversation into a ditch, but she couldn’t find the brakes.
If she stopped, there would be an awkward silence, and if there was a silence, this person would leave.
It had been happening like this for three months.
“No matter your purpose, you are very welcome!
the hotel’s doors are open to everyone—it’s our core philosophy, we turn no one away…
#￥%#*#%￥”
Mu En didn’t say a word.
He simply stood there, letting her spill her thoughts like beans from a jar, using his eyes to study her micro-expressions.
The first lesson Mu En had learned in his career was to shut up and let the other person talk.
Let them talk freely.
When people talk incessantly, they leak everything: what riches they’re after, what ghosts they fear, the most convenient cracks to use for negotiation.
But what this girl was showing now was embarrassment and exhaustion.
And the kind of stubbornness that allowed someone to put on a smile again even after being rejected countless times.
In his industry, there was a professional term for people like this: “irrational.”
These people were trouble.
But occasionally, they moved the world.
Only occasionally, of course.
She was nearly out of breath by the end and finally stopped.
Mu En bent down and picked up the flyer she had dropped.
It was stained with mud and had half a footprint on the corner.
He brushed off the dust, smoothed the creases, folded the footprint to the back, and handed it back to her.
Charlie stared blankly at the returned flyer.
The smile stayed on her face, but it wavered.
A little out of sadness, but mostly out of surprise.
She had handed out hundreds of these flyers in the past.
She had drawn them one by one, hunched over a table late at night.
But they always ended up crumpled and thrown away.
No one had ever picked one up before.
She took the flyer and glanced at the hand-drawn smiley logo on the paper.
It was a bit crooked; she could never get it perfectly round.
“…Thank you.”
She looked up.
“I’m Charlie.
Charlie Morningstar.”
She hesitantly extended her hand, seemingly prepared to be rejected once again.
After all, not many people in Hell were willing to shake hands with a freak who constantly talked about “redemption,” even if she was the Princess.
“Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel.”