The third layer of Hell was not fire — it was ruin.
Ash and bone, silence and screams woven together into an unending hymn of collapse. The ground itself pulsed with the heartbeat of the dying realm, rivers of molten shadow running between shattered fortresses and broken thrones.
Where once Dagon's citadel had risen — a palace of obsidian towers that touched the abyss — now stood only the smoke of its undoing.
And above the ruin, the new prophet's chant rang out.
Atlas stood upon the balcony of the sundered keep, his boots sinking into blood and molten ash. His silhouette was carved in gold and black flame, his hair whipping in the heat-wind, his eyes glowing like twin stars through smoke.
At his feet writhed the once-king of this layer — Dagon, the Archmage of the Abyss, last sovereign of Xebec's domain. The demon king.
Atlas's voice broke the roar of destruction.
"Will you surrender, Dagon of the Depths?"
No answer — only laughter.
The sound was wrong.
Too human.
