Death does not come in a single moment.
It is not a sudden curtain of darkness, nor the peaceful silence I once imagined it would be.
Death is slower than that.
It is crueler.
It gives you time to understand exactly what is happening, time to feel every fracture, every torn muscle, every breath that refuses to come.
My small body struck the cliffs at the edge of the Netherworld again and again.
The first impact broke my left arm.
The second shattered several ribs.
By the third, I could no longer feel my legs.
Jagged rocks tore through my clothes and sliced into my skin as I rolled down the steep slope.
Every collision sent a violent shock through my body.
The sound of my bones snapping echoed inside my skull, sharp and brittle, like dry branches being crushed beneath a heavy boot.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to beg for someone to save me.
But the fall had already stolen my voice.
By the time my body finally came to a stop, my throat was filled with blood.
I could barely breathe.
My chest rose and fell in shallow, broken movements, each breath scraping against my shattered ribs.
I lay face-down on the cold earth.
The ground smelled of wet soil, rotting leaves, and something foul that I could not identify.
Mud soaked through my torn clothes.
It clung to my cheek and mixed with the blood leaking from my nose and mouth.
For a long time, I could do nothing but stare at the dirt.
I didn’t die immediately.
That was the cruelest part.
If death had taken me at once, perhaps I would have been grateful.
If my consciousness had simply faded into darkness, I might have accepted it as mercy.
Instead, I remained awake.
I felt everything.
Something inside my body began to move.
Two different powers had always existed within me.
I had never understood them.
I only knew that one felt warm and bright, while the other was cold, sharp, and frightening.
The first power was holy energy.
It surged through my body like liquid sunlight, rushing toward every broken bone and torn organ.
It wrapped itself around my injuries, trying desperately to repair them.
Fractured bones began to shift into place.
Torn muscles slowly pulled together.
Ruptured blood vessels closed one by one, preventing me from bleeding out completely.
For a brief moment, I thought it might save me.
Then the second power awakened.
Demonic energy.
It recognized the pain, the impact, and the surrounding danger as an absolute threat.
It did not understand healing.
It only understood survival.
Black energy burst from my body in violent waves, forming jagged spikes beneath my skin.
It tried to protect me from everything around me.
The rocks.
The earth.
The pressure crushing my organs.
The invisible forces that had torn me apart.
But the demonic power did not know the difference between a wound and the healing taking place inside it.
Every time the holy energy repaired a section of my body, the demonic energy destroyed it again.
One force fought to save me.
The other fought to defend me.
Neither understood that they were killing me together.
My body became the battlefield.
Warmth spread through my bones, only to be ripped apart by freezing darkness.
Flesh stitched itself together before being torn open once more.
Veins mended, burst, and mended again.
My nerves screamed without pause.
I wanted to escape from my own body.
I wanted to crawl out of my skin and leave this pain behind.
But I could not move.
My fingers twitched weakly against the mud.
That tiny movement sent another wave of agony through my spine.
Blood rose into my throat, and I choked on it.
My vision blurred, then sharpened, then blurred again.
The sky above me looked impossibly far away.
I could see only a thin strip of gray between the black cliffs.
Strange clouds drifted across it, glowing faintly with red and violet light.
I had never seen a sky like that before.
Perhaps this was the sky of the afterlife.
Perhaps I was already dead.
The thought should have comforted me.
It didn’t.
I was afraid.
I had spent my entire life being hated, ignored, and treated like something less than human.
Yet even after everything, I still did not want to die.
I was only seven years old.
I had not seen enough of the world.
I had never visited a city.
I had never tasted food that was not leftover scraps.
I had never owned a toy, worn clean clothes, or heard someone say that they were proud of me.
I had never even had a name.
My mother had never given me one.
She called me a stain.
A mistake.
Something that should never have been born.
The other children were no kinder.
They called me a freak, a useless creature, a cursed child, and a parasite.
Whenever they saw me, they threw stones or laughed at the way I kept my head lowered.
I had learned not to look anyone in the eyes.
I had learned to be quiet.
I had learned that expecting kindness only made disappointment hurt more.
Then a shadow appeared before me.
At first, I thought it was another hallucination.
A dark shape floated in the air, slowly taking form above the muddy ground.
It was tall and broad, though it had no visible body.
Smoke and darkness gathered together, twisting into the outline of an ancient figure.
Two enormous horns curved from its head.
Its eyes burned like embers buried beneath black ash.
The creature’s presence pressed against my mind.
Even though it did not touch me, I felt its power.
It was ancient, heavy, and immeasurably vast.
Compared to it, I felt like a dying insect beneath the gaze of a god.
“How strange…” the figure said.
Its voice sounded like iron dragged across stone.
Cold.
Harsh.
Yet there was curiosity beneath it.
“A hybrid carrying two opposing bloodlines should have been torn apart by now.” The shadow leaned closer.
“And yet you still remain alive.” I could not answer.
My lips moved, but no sound came out.
I was not even sure whether the creature was real.
Perhaps my dying mind had created it.
Perhaps this was the monster waiting to drag me into the darkness.
The figure studied me for several seconds.
Then it spoke again.
“I am Mammon.” The name entered my mind with strange clarity.
“Mammon,” the creature continued.
“One of the Seven Demon Emperors of Hell.” Mammon.
I repeated the name silently.
It was the first time I had ever heard someone introduce themselves.
No one had ever done that for me.
No one had ever asked who I was because no one cared.
The realization hurt more than the broken bones.
I had lived for seven years, but I had never possessed a name.
I had been born, fed, beaten, and blamed.
I had been dragged from one day to the next like an unwanted burden.
Even my mother had never looked at me and thought I deserved something as simple as a name.
Mammon watched the expression on my face change.
“You have no name?” he asked.
I tried to shake my head, but the movement was impossible.
His eyes narrowed.
“How pitiful.” The word should have sounded insulting.
Instead, it felt strangely gentle.
No one had ever called me pitiful before.
They had called me disgusting.
They had called me worthless.
But pitiful was different.
It meant someone had noticed my suffering.
Mammon extended one long, shadowy hand toward me.
“A talent like yours should not be wasted here.” The moment his fingers moved, the air changed.
An overwhelming pressure descended upon the ravine.
The world seemed to freeze.
The holy energy inside me stopped surging.
The demonic energy stopped lashing out.
For the first time since I had fallen, the two forces became still.
They did not disappear, but something far stronger had forced them into silence.
The relief was immediate.
I could still feel the pain, but it no longer tore through me like a storm.
My mind, which had been dragged between flame and ice, finally became quiet.
Then my body rose from the ground.
I floated helplessly in the air, suspended within a cocoon of dark energy.
My broken limbs hung at unnatural angles.
Blood dripped from my clothes and disappeared into the shadows below.
Mammon pulled me toward him.
The cliffs, the mud, and the strange red sky blurred together.
Darkness wrapped around my vision.
The last thing I saw before losing consciousness was the Demon Emperor’s burning gaze.
It was not kind.
But it was the first gaze that had ever remained on me long enough to matter.
When I woke again, I was lying on a stone floor.
Cold pressed against my back.
The surface was rough, but compared to the cliffs outside, it felt almost comfortable.
A faint blue light glowed from several crystals embedded in the cave walls.
My body still hurt, but the pain had changed.
It was no longer an endless explosion.
Now it was dull and deep, spreading through my bones like a fever.
I tried to move.
“Don’t.” The voice came from the corner of the cave.
My entire body stiffened.
Mammon hovered several feet above the ground.
His shadowy form flickered slightly, as though the darkness holding him together was being disturbed by an unseen wind.
“You are not healed,” he said.
“You are merely being held together.” I lowered my eyes.
I was used to obeying quickly.
“Good,” Mammon said.
“At least you understand simple instructions.” He raised one hand.
A dark thread of energy stretched from his palm toward my chest.
It pulsed in time with my heartbeat, keeping the holy and demonic powers from colliding again.
“Do you know where you are?” I shook my head.
“The Netherworld.” He paused before continuing.
“This realm is also known as the Mortal Realm.
It lies between the Celestial Realm and Hell.
The three worlds are connected, but they do not obey the same laws of time.” I listened carefully.
Mammon did not speak like someone telling a story.
He spoke like someone giving survival instructions.
Every word was precise, and every pause suggested that misunderstanding him could be fatal.
“The Celestial Realm is the highest of the three,” he said.
“It is a world of light, pride, and decay hidden beneath beauty.
Golden towers rise above the clouds.
Angels live there, and most of them believe they are eternal.” I remembered my mother.
She had possessed holy blood.
She had looked at me with disgust before pushing me into the abyss.
“Time flows slowly in the Celestial Realm,” Mammon continued.
“One day there is equal to three months here in the Netherworld.” My fingers curled against the stone.
“Your mother probably believes she has only finished a cup of tea,” Mammon said with a cold laugh, “while you have spent weeks falling, suffering, and nearly dying below.” I closed my eyes.
For some reason, hearing that made the betrayal feel more real.
My mother had not simply abandoned me.
She had gone on with her life.
She had returned to her comfortable world while I lay broken in the darkness beneath it.
Mammon continued.
“The Netherworld is the realm of mortals.
Humans, elves, beastfolk, dwarves, spirits, dragons, and countless other races live here.
Some wield mana.
Some train their bodies until they become stronger than steel.
Others make contracts with magical beasts or study ancient arts.” His voice held no admiration.
“But this world is fragile.
Mortals age.
They grow sick.
They die.
Even the strongest among them can be destroyed by a single mistake.” I looked around the cave.
“If this place is so dangerous,” I whispered, “why did you bring me here?” My voice was rough and weak.
It hurt to speak.
Mammon’s eyes narrowed, as though he had not expected me to ask.
“Because you are interesting.” That answer did not satisfy me.
He seemed to notice.
“And because your body possesses something rare,” he added.
“Two opposing energies are fighting inside you, yet neither has completely consumed the other.
Holy power and demonic power should repel each other.
In most cases, a creature born with both would die before reaching consciousness.” “Why didn’t I?” “That is what I intend to discover.” There was no warmth in his words.
He did not pretend to have saved me out of compassion.
He had rescued me because I was an unusual specimen.
Oddly, I preferred that honesty.
Mammon turned his gaze toward the cave entrance.
“Below the Mortal Realm lies Hell.” The air seemed to grow colder.
“Time moves much faster there,” he said.
“One day in the Netherworld equals three months in Hell.
A creature born in Hell can grow from an infant into an adult within days.
Those who fail to evolve their energy will age and die within a few short years.” “That sounds horrible.” “It is.” For the first time, something like respect entered Mammon’s voice.
“That cruelty forces life to adapt.
Demons evolve rapidly or perish.
The strongest develop immortal bodies.
Others abandon flesh entirely and become spirits, curses, or living weapons.” I imagined a world where every day was equal to three months.
A world where children became adults before their parents could recognize them.
A world where survival demanded constant change.
“Hell creates monsters,” Mammon said.
“But it also creates survivors.
Remember that distinction.” I wanted to ask more, but a sudden sound cut through the cave.
**Crack!** A branch broke outside.
Mammon’s head turned toward the entrance.
The darkness around him tightened.
A moment later, a foul stench rolled into the cave.
It smelled of rotten meat, wet fur, and old blood.
My stomach twisted.
I tried to push myself backward, but pain exploded through my chest.
Something enormous moved beyond the bushes.
Leaves rustled.
The ground trembled.
Then a massive beast burst through the undergrowth.
It looked like a wild boar, but it was far larger than any animal I had ever seen.
Its body was covered in coarse black fur and crooked crimson spikes.
Two long tusks curved upward from its mouth, stained with old blood.
Its eyes burned red as it lowered its head and charged.
A Demon Boar.
It saw me immediately.
Because of my injuries, I must have looked like an easy meal.
The beast gave a deafening roar and rushed toward the cave.
Behind it came two more creatures.
Orcs.
They were tall, broad, and heavily muscled, with blue-gray skin stretched over thick shoulders.
Their faces were brutish, their teeth yellow and uneven.
Each carried a crude stone hammer almost as tall as I was.
The Demon Boar stopped at the cave entrance, snarling.
The two orcs stepped around it.
Their eyes locked onto my small, battered body.
Hunger flashed across their faces.
One of them grinned.
“Small,” it growled.
The other lifted its hammer and tapped the stone floor.
“Soft.” My heart began beating faster.
The demonic energy inside me stirred in response to the threat.
Holy power flickered beneath it, struggling to rise.
The moment they moved, my body would become a battlefield again.
I was too injured to fight.
Too weak to run.
And Mammon had already said he would not heal me.
The Demon Boar crouched low, preparing to charge.
One of the orcs stepped forward.
I pressed my palms against the stone, trying to lift myself even though my arms trembled violently.
My body screamed at me to stay down.
The orc raised its hammer.
For the first time since waking in the cave, I understood something clearly.
If Mammon did nothing, I would die.
But if Mammon saved me again, it would not be because he cared.
It would be because he had decided I was worth keeping alive.
The hammer came down and the death was drawing near.