The five kept their eyes on Arthur, the air between them taut with something sharper than curiosity.
"What can a mortal do," the jade-armored man murmured, "to be placed here?"
Arthur didn't look at him. "You'll hear it all. I won't hide anything." And so he began.
"I was born in a small home in a very mundane county. My father laid bricks by day and mended roofs by night. He was a construction worker. He raised me alone. My mother died before I could learn to walk. He gave me anything I asked for."
As he spoke, the six walked along the edge of the Path, parallel to the chained procession. The obsidian guardians watched more closely now, their titanic heads tilting slightly toward the group.
"I remember clearly now, as we are in Purgatory. It was my seventh birthday, and my father took me hunting. I killed my first animal, and it was a deer. A horned herbivore on Earth. I remember the warmth of the blood on my hands when we were skinning it. I liked it."
The starlit figure gave a faint smirk.
Arthur continued, his voice steady, almost bored. "I got addicted to it. There were other hunts, such as dogs, cats, and occasionally, birds. I wanted to know how long they could live without food. Or water. But I was stopped by my father. Why wouldn't he? Those were pets in my neighborhood."
The dragon-robed man's grin was slow; he approved the Sentiment.
"One day at school, there was a girl. I didn't know her name, I never learned her name. She was a little annoying. I spilled a bucket of water on the stairs when no one was watching. She slipped. Her neck snapped. They called it an accident. I didn't even feel bad."
The long-coated man let out a dry laugh.
The stories went on — hunting trips, street fights, thefts. Years blurred into decades. And yet, for the first one hundred and fifty years of Arthur's telling, his life was that of a cruel, selfish man, not an unfathomable monster. He spoke of crimes, but nothing that could match the eternal agony of Purgatory.
The five listened, waiting for the revelation that would make sense of it — the act that placed him among them, the rare damned. But there was nothing.
What unsettled them was not the deeds, but the details.
Physics. Chemistry. Biology. Arthur spoke of incurable diseases that rotted the body from within, of machines that split atoms. What were these atoms Arthur spoke of? They couldn't understand. His logic was stripped of Qi, stripped of cultivation, stripped of the energy that all existence here took for granted. His world had no spirit beasts, no divine treasures, no sects. What kind of mortal society would thrive without immortals' intervention? They were unable to fathom such a world.
They wondered what kind of realm he was from.
But they didn't mind the absence of an answer.
This was better.
They grinned, ear to ear, knowing they had found something to occupy the endless black. A story that would take centuries to tell and another century just to imagine the logic and another century to comprehend it — and when the memories faded, they could listen again and it would be fresh. It would last a thousand years if they wished.
In the timespan of eternal damnation, it was chump change, but it was still better than nothing. A tale from a different universe.
In the final years of Arthur's tale, his voice shifted.
"I became the president of something called the Earth Federation," he said.
And the five leaned closer, their grins widening.
Arthur's voice carried forward.
"I didn't begin as President. I was the Secretary of Defense. It is a position to oversee military power. In time, I learned where the strings were and who pulled them. I cut some strings. I tied others into knots.
The five exchanged glances; some words slid past them like oil over water — military, political — but the rhythm of the story was captivating.
"I rose to power not one step at a time. I leaped. It was the night of the presidential banquet. My predecessor was in perfect health. I excused myself for one minute. In that one minute, a disaster tore through the energy reactor that powered the Presidential House. Every man, woman, and guest died. I walked away without a scratch."
The long-coated man tilted his head. "You survived, and no one suspected? How long could you hold this… throne of the President?"
Arthur gave a low chuckle at the word. "We don't call it a throne. But I stayed President until my last breath. I avoided suspicion with help from my wife."
The dragon-robed immortal frowned. "Wife?"
"Yes, at one hundred and thirty years old, she began to show her age. No therapy could cure her fading beauty. Her usefulness did suffer, too. So I sacrificed her."
That line made the immortals pause. They had no saliva, yet they swallowed.
"Don't overreact, you all are the same. She was thirty years older than me. Our marriage was a strategic one. It meant nothing."
"It was during a banquet," Arthur continued. "The fire consumed her. And I, the grieving spouse, survived the investigation."
"Did you have children?" the scholar asked.
"Yes… and no. I never considered them mine. They were hers. I had married her, not chosen her. What use were children to me? They burned in the fire, too."
The five stared. Even here, in the pit where cruelty was currency, the casualness of his tone sat cold in their bones.
Arthur went on without noticing their discomfort. "When I became President, I thought it would be satisfying. After all the schemes, all the removals. But I wanted more."
The jade-armored man gave a short laugh. "More? You already ruled your mortals. Isn't that the goal? To rule the world with an iron fist?"
The others murmured in agreement.
The dragon-robed immortal's voice was almost nostalgic. "I was close to uniting the Immortal World. It was my greatest dream. I failed… but I nearly touched it."
The starlit figure added, "I know, I heard your tales. You were close."
Arthur's gaze didn't waver. "That was never enough for me. I didn't want to rule. I wanted chaos."
Their footsteps brought them closer to the Gates of Purgatory. The shimmer ahead grew, and the guardians' movements became more deliberate, each giant adjusting its stance, closing the gaps along the Path.