Chapter 22: The Gates of Hell

  The air in Floor -15 was suffocating.

  Grim and Lazaro pressed forward, but the deeper they went, the heavier the world became.

  The voice was stronger now.

  Not words. Not whispers.

  Something older. Something that clawed at the edges of reality.

  Grim clenched his head. His vision swam. The symbols in the walls burned into his mind. They shifted, unreadable, yet somehow... understood.

  A spell was unraveling.

  Something ancient. Something inevitable.

  And somewhere above them—

  The battlefield raged.

  The corridors were a massacre.

  Gunfire lit up the darkness in flashes of red and yellow. Smoke choked the air.

  Spent bullet casings clattered against pools of blood, lost beneath the roars and screams of dying men.

  Bodies piled against the walls—some still groaning, clutching at wounds, others nothing more than torn flesh and shattered bones.

  Gangsters in suits emptied their clips, ducking behind overturned tables, crates, and the corpses of their own men.

  Others charged forward, blades flashing, fists swinging, teeth bared in pure desperation.

  The Underworld wasn’t fighting for power anymore.

  They were fighting to survive.

  And at the center of it all—

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  Don.

  His coat was torn, his once-perfect suit now soaked in blood—some his, most not.

  His men fought like devils. They covered his flanks, pushed forward, firing relentlessly. One of them took a shotgun blast to the chest, another was cut down mid-swing.

  But Don?

  Don did not fall.

  A gunshot rang. He ducked. A blade sliced the air. He sidestepped.

  Another enemy. Another bullet. Another body dropped.

  But just as Don raised his gun to fire again—

  The earth split open behind him.

  The world stopped.

  The gunfire died. The screams faded.

  A deep, guttural crack tore through the battlefield.

  The ground behind Don shattered. The walls shook. The symbols burned into the floor.

  Then—

  The world went silent.

  The air rippled as reality tore apart.

  A massive, burning rift split the battlefield, its edges lined with writhing, ancient symbols that bled fire and darkness. The ground trembled, cracks radiated outward as an unbearable heat roared to life.

  From the heart of the inferno—

  The Gate of Hell opened.

  And with it, doom stepped through.

  A massive blade cleaved through the air.

  Don barely had time to turn.

  SHHK.

  His head fell and rolled across the floor.

  The underworld froze.

  For one breathless second—victory filled the air.

  Don was dead.

  They had won.

  And then—

  The first demon stepped through the Gate.

  It was twelve feet tall.

  Muscles carved from blackened steel. Clawed hands the size of a man’s chest. A mouth lined with jagged, uneven teeth, curling into something that barely resembled a grin.

  And its eyes—

  Empty. Burning. Starving.

  The first gangster barely had time to scream before the demon’s hand shot forward, fingers plunging straight through his skull.

  Another tried to run—only to be torn in half.

  More demons followed.

  The battlefield, already drowning in blood, became something worse.

  Gunfire erupted again, but it was useless. Bullets embedded in thick, unnatural flesh and the demons didn’t even slow down.

  One gangster swung a bat. His arms were gone before he even realized it.

  Another pulled a grenade—but his chest was ripped open before he could throw it.

  The demons did not fight.

  They slaughtered.

  And in the middle of it all—

  Grim and Lazaro reached Floor -19.

  Grim staggered.

  The symbols in the walls burned inside his mind. His own heartbeat pounded like war drums in his skull.

  He felt something.

  Something tearing at him.

  Something calling his name.

  And he knew—

  This was only the beginning.

  End of Chapter 22.