The Great Depression, Chicago—A time when the city’s underworld swirled with darkness, and even the most notorious criminals could feel the weight of an impending storm they could neither see nor control.

  The speakeasy was suffocating, the air thick with smoke and tension. Al Capone sat at the back of the room, surrounded by his loyal men, his gaze cold and calculating as he surveyed the patrons. The clinking of glasses, the hushed murmurs—they all seemed to fade into the background as Capone’s mind sharpened, as it always did in moments like this. He ruled this city, or so he thought. But tonight, something felt off. Even kings, no matter how feared, have their breaking points.

  When Jigoku Ma Tori entered, it was as if the room itself held its breath. A silence—thick, unnatural—settled over the patrons. Capone, always the shrewd businessman, had faced countless threats in his career. But this man, this presence... unnerved him in a way nothing ever had before.

  Jigoku’s eyes were pools of darkness, absorbing the very light in the room. His black suit was flawless, his every movement precise, calculated—a man who carried an aura of control that defied the natural order of things. There was something almost unnatural about him, as though he existed outside the rules of the world Capone had mastered.

  Without waiting for an invitation, Jigoku slid into the seat across from Capone, his every motion deliberate, his calmness unsettling.

  "Mr. Capone," he said, his voice smooth, laced with an edge that made the air feel heavier. "I've heard much about you. About your empire."

  Capone leaned back, fingers brushing the cold steel of his revolver beneath the table. His jaw tightened, but he hid the unease that crawled up his spine. "I don't know you, and I don't take kindly to strangers sittin' at my table. What's your business?"

  Jigoku’s lips curled into a thin, almost predatory smile. "Power is a fleeting thing, Mr. Capone. Empires rise and fall. But chaos... chaos is eternal." His words slithered through the room, chilling the bones of those who overheard.

  Capone’s fingers tightened around his glass, a hint of irritation flickering in his eyes. "So you’re some kinda philosopher now? What do you want, a medal for tellin' me how the world works?"

  Jigoku leaned in, eyes narrowing with a dangerous glint. "No, Mr. Capone. I offer you something far more valuable than power. I offer you survival. The world is about to burn, and when the flames come, you’ll either control them... or be consumed by them."

  Capone let out a sharp laugh, the skepticism clear in his voice. "Survival? I know how to run my business, how to keep my enemies in line. You think you're gonna teach me something new?"

  Jigoku’s eyes darkened, his voice lowering, becoming something darker, almost primal. "Control is an illusion. You think you can control your empire, your enemies. But true power is not about control. It’s about embracing the chaos. Chaos is a force you can’t tame, but you can harness it. I can show you how."

  For a moment, Capone’s confidence faltered. The world he had built on fear and violence seemed fragile in the face of Jigoku’s chilling words. His fingers tightened around his glass which was filled with human blood, the crystal almost cracking under the pressure. He had spent his life climbing, surviving, but this man... this man spoke with a certainty that unsettled him.

  "And if I don’t play along with your little scheme?" Capone’s voice was low, a warning in the words, though doubt lingered behind his defiance.

  Jigoku’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Then you will be swept away. Like the others. But I believe you’re smarter than that, Mr. Capone."

  The tension in the air thickened, oppressive. Capone’s steely gaze remained locked on Jigoku’s, but beneath the surface, a storm of doubt began to churn. The weight of Jigoku’s words was impossible to ignore. The years of violence and betrayal that had kept Capone alive now seemed like they had no real meaning in the face of something far darker than anything he had ever known.

  Capone took a slow breath, the cold sweat beading on his brow. "Alright," he muttered, voice laced with reluctance, "Let’s say I’m listening. What’s your plan?"

  Jigoku’s smile deepened, and for the first time, Capone saw something ancient in his eyes—a glimmer of something far older than human ambition. "Patience. All in due time. But know this—chaos is coming, Mr. Capone. And when it does, you will either bend to it... or be crushed beneath it."

  The room felt even colder as Capone, the feared king of Chicago, sat across from a man whose power he could not fathom—and for the first time in years, he wondered if he had finally met his match.

  Jigoku's Backstory: The Ma Tori Clan and the Seven Princes of Hell

  Jigoku’s rise wasn’t simply the birth of a new power in Hell—it was the birth of a new era of terror, one that threatened to rend apart the very fabric of the realm itself. For centuries, the Seven Princes had ruled with supreme authority, each the embodiment of one of the seven deadly sins, their control absolute. But with the emergence of Jigoku Ma Tori, their reign had become precarious. They now stood before a force so great that it had the power to shatter the balance they had worked tirelessly to maintain.

  The Ma Tori clan, once thought to be a myth, were creatures of legend, woven into the darkest fabric of Hell’s ancient past. Their origins were steeped in the primal forces of creation and destruction—beings of bird-dragon heritage whose powers stretched beyond mere physicality. Their wings could blot out entire regions of Hell, casting a shadow so immense that it felt as though the very heavens themselves would crack beneath their weight. Their roars could rattle the gates of the underworld, creating shockwaves that sent even the most hardened demons into a frenzy. But more than their terrifying power was their essence—an embodiment of chaotic forces, a manifestation of destruction, woven into the very essence of Hell’s darkest corners.

  The Ma Tori were not just a family; they were an entire lineage of beings who thrived on the destruction of the known world. Their bloodline carried the very traits of Hell’s most primal forces—wrath, greed, lust, pride, envy, gluttony, and sloth—each one a part of the Ma Tori’s chaotic makeup. Yet, they were unlike the Seven Princes of Hell. The Ma Tori did not embody these sins in the traditional sense. Instead, they were agents of chaos, born from the turbulence and tumult of Hell’s creation, their existence entwined with the very forces that held the realm together.

  For Lucifer, the discovery of the Ma Tori clan’s remnants was both a blessing and a curse. For centuries, Hell had been locked in a delicate equilibrium, each Prince of Hell controlling their domain through the careful manipulation of their respective sin. But Lucifer, ever the seeker of ultimate power, saw the opportunity to harness the raw, untapped energy of the Ma Tori clan. He believed that if he could bring the Ma Tori back to life, he could unlock a new era of dominance—one where he would reign supreme not just over Hell, but over all realms.

  The forbidden ritual he performed, using his own soul as the final sacrifice, birthed Jigoku Ma Tori—the one who would transcend the limitations of his predecessors and bring forth a wave of destruction that would tear through Hell like a hurricane. Lucifer had hoped to control this power, to harness it for his own gain, but he had miscalculated. In creating Jigoku, he had inadvertently created a force beyond even his own grasp—an unstoppable engine of destruction.

  Jigoku’s body was not simply the product of flesh and bone; it was the embodiment of chaos itself. His bones were forged from the ashes of fallen angels and the molten rivers of Hell’s deepest pits. His blood was a fusion of the most powerful, destructive souls ever to exist—fragments of Satan’s wrath, Asmodius’s lust, and Lucifer’s pride. The combination of these dark powers created something unimaginable: a being of limitless strength, ambition, and unpredictability.

  Jigoku’s wings were vast and terrifying, leathery and dark as the void, capable of ripping apart entire legions with a single sweep. His eyes glowed with a burning intensity that reflected the fiery depths of Hell, yet there was an unsettling emptiness within them—an abyss that sought not just to destroy, but to consume everything in its path. He was the epitome of the ancient force of entropy, a being whose very presence threatened to undo the fragile order that had existed in Hell for millennia.

  Where the Seven Princes represented the pinnacle of their respective sins, Jigoku represented something far more primal—a force that could not be contained, a presence that could not be ignored. His very existence was a contradiction, a living paradox. He was a weapon of unimaginable power, but he was also a harbinger of chaos with no sense of loyalty, no true allegiance. He was not bound by the constructs of pride, wrath, or any of the other sins that had defined the Princes. He existed to disrupt, to tear apart the foundations of Hell, to overthrow everything the Princes had built.

  As Jigoku grew in power, his ambitions grew bolder. He did not seek to rule Hell; he sought to unmake it. His lust for destruction was not just a desire for power—it was a desire for freedom. Freedom from the rules, from the confines of the realm that had been shaped by the sins of the Princes. Jigoku was not just a threat to their domains; he was a threat to the very existence of Hell itself.

  The Seven Princes, accustomed to ruling with unchallenged dominance, were unprepared for a force like Jigoku. Their domains were vast, their power absolute, but they were bound by the rules of their respective sins. Each of them, for all their might, operated within the confines of the principles they embodied. Lucifer was bound by pride, Satan by wrath, Asmodius by lust, Mammon by greed, Beelzebub by gluttony, Belphegor by sloth, and Leviathan by envy. They ruled, but they did so under the shadow of their own sins, constrained by the very forces they embodied.

  Jigoku, however, was different. He had no such constraints. He did not seek to reign as they did; he sought only to tear down what was built. His mind worked in ways that defied logic, and his power was limitless. The Seven Princes could not understand him, and they could not control him. They tried to rally their legions, to devise schemes and traps, but each attempt to stop Jigoku failed miserably. His chaos was too potent, too unpredictable.

  Even united, the Princes found themselves trembling in the face of this being who could neither be reasoned with nor defeated through brute strength. They had fought wars against angels, demons, and even each other—but Jigoku was something entirely new. He was an entity of pure destruction, a force of nature that would not stop until Hell itself was no more.

  The Ma Tori clan, once thought extinct, had returned—not as a faction to be controlled or tamed, but as an unstoppable plague. And with Jigoku at its helm, Hell was faced with an existential threat that could not be avoided. The Princes, in their arrogance, had failed to realize that their reign was always a fragile thing, held together by the very sins they embodied. But Jigoku was not bound by such limitations.

  He was not a prince. He was a force of nature. And he would not stop until everything was turned to ash.

  In the deepest, most foreboding chamber of Hell, the Seven Princes convened, each one a colossal force of sin and power, their very names etched in blood and fear across the ages. They were the rulers of this dark realm—immortal, unyielding, and each an embodiment of their respective sin, their dominion stretching far and wide, shaping the very fabric of Hell itself. To defy them was to invite certain annihilation, yet now, for the first time, they found themselves vulnerable, shaken, and terrified of a force far beyond their control.

  The chamber itself was no ordinary place. It was said to predate even the Seven Princes, a vast, endless expanse carved from the molten heart of Hell. Jagged obsidian pillars twisted into the heavens, etched with runes of power that pulsed faintly like the dying heartbeat of a beast. Rivers of molten brimstone crisscrossed the floor, their heat licking the soles of their feet, yet doing nothing to warm the cold, unnatural dread that hung in the air.

  The flames of Hell's inferno burned low, their usual roar now a muted whisper. It was as though Hell itself recoiled in the face of what was coming. Shadows danced and stretched unnaturally, curling like grasping fingers as if eager to snuff out the life of even these titans of sin. Every crack and crevice seemed alive, whispering warnings in tongues long forgotten.

  The throne-like seats of the Princes, massive and ornate, once symbols of their unshakable dominion, seemed smaller somehow—insufficient to hold the weight of their power or their fear. The room had witnessed countless declarations of war, unending schemes of betrayal, and ceaseless battles for supremacy. But tonight, it bore witness to something far more profound: the vulnerability of gods.

  Lucifer was the first to speak, his voice devoid of its usual commanding pride. Instead, it was brittle, cracking under the weight of an emotion he had not felt since his fall from grace: helplessness.

  “Brothers... sisters,” he began, his eyes sweeping across the room. His golden gaze, usually sharp enough to cut through steel, was clouded. “You all know why we are here. You have felt it. You have seen the signs.”

  Satan growled low, his clenched fists resting on the stone table. The Prince of Wrath was a being of action, a tempest given form, yet now even he seemed subdued. “Felt it? Seen it? I’ve tasted it. The air is different. It reeks of something... wrong. This isn’t just rebellion or defiance. This is annihilation waiting to happen.”

  Asmodius leaned forward, his serpentine eyes glimmering with unease. “Jigoku Ma Tori... He doesn’t play by the rules. He doesn’t negotiate. He doesn’t hunger for power like we do. No... He is power. Pure, undiluted chaos. And we... we are ants in his shadow.”

  Mammon’s fingers twitched nervously, his usual calculating smirk replaced by a furrowed brow. “We built Hell on greed, on consumption, on desire. But he? He consumes for the sake of destruction itself. And he’s doing it methodically, with precision. Every legion he destroys, every territory he claims—it’s as though he’s... preparing.”

  “Preparing?” Beelzebub scoffed, though there was no confidence in his tone. The gluttonous prince’s massive frame shifted uncomfortably. “No. He’s toying with us. He knows we’re watching, and he wants us to feel this. This... helplessness.”

  Belphegor, who rarely spoke, let out a deep, drawn-out sigh. “Helplessness isn’t new to me. It’s what I embody, after all. But this? This is something else. It’s a void that pulls everything in. A storm that doesn’t just break—it erases. If we wait, it will be too late. But I wonder... is it already too late?”

  The room fell silent at his words, the weight of them sinking into the hearts of even the most defiant among them. For once, the eternal schemes of Hell, the petty rivalries and ceaseless plotting, had been eclipsed by a single, undeniable truth: they were outmatched.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Each Prince had encountered Jigoku in their own way. He was a name whispered in the darkest corners of Hell, a shadow that had grown over centuries. He was the leader of the Ma Tori clan, a bloodline so steeped in chaos that even the demons of Hell trembled at their mention. Unlike the Princes, who ruled through their sins and used them as weapons, Jigoku was something altogether different—a force of pure destruction, unbound by the rules of Hell or any realm.

  He didn’t crave dominion; he craved ruin. His ambition wasn’t to reign, but to undo—to rend the very fabric of existence. He wasn’t interested in the throne of Hell. He wanted to topple it, to bring everything down in a storm of fire and blood. The Ma Tori clan had always been dangerous, but under his leadership, they had become unstoppable.

  Lucifer spoke again, his voice quieter this time. “He is not like us. He does not seek what we seek. He is not driven by pride, by anger, by lust or greed. He is a void. And he will consume us all if we do not act.”

  For the first time in millennia, the Seven Princes found themselves aligned—not in their usual scheming alliances, but in sheer terror. Each one of them had ruled their dominion with impunity, carving out their fiefdoms in Hell and beyond. Together, they had maintained an unsteady balance, a perpetual stalemate of power. But Jigoku Ma Tori had shattered that balance with ease, carving through their legions as though they were nothing more than ash on the wind.

  Lucifer’s voice rose, commanding, though its edges wavered. “We have faced threats before. We have battled the armies of Heaven, quelled rebellions, destroyed rivals. But this... This is different. Jigoku is not a rival. He is an inevitability. And unless we stand together, unless we put aside our sins and our pride, we will fall.”

  Satan slammed a fist into the table, cracking the stone. “Then let us fight! What are we waiting for? Let’s call our armies, unleash our fury, and—”

  “And be consumed,” Belphegor interjected, his voice sharp and cutting. “Fury alone won’t save you. It’ll get you killed. You don’t fight a storm with anger. You endure it—or you find a way to end it before it begins.”

  Asmodius hissed softly. “But how do you end what cannot be reasoned with? What cannot be stopped? He is chaos incarnate. He is... our end.”

  Lucifer’s golden eyes blazed, a faint remnant of the pride that had once made him the most beautiful of God’s creations. “Then we must do the unthinkable. We must stand together. Not as rivals. Not as schemers. But as allies. This is not about our sins, our dominions, or even our survival. This is about the survival of Hell itself.”

  The room fell silent again, the weight of his words settling over them like a funeral shroud. The Seven Princes of Hell, embodiments of sin, rulers of darkness, were being asked to do something they had never done before: unite. Not for power or gain, but for survival.

  And for the first time in their long, endless existence, they hesitated—not out of defiance, but out of fear.

  The Gathering Storm: The Princes of Hell Unite

  For the first time in eternity, the Seven Princes of Hell sat in uneasy council, their usual rivalries drowned in the overwhelming dread of a common enemy: Jigoku Ma Tori. The grand, hellish chamber that had once echoed with boasts, schemes, and veiled threats was now filled with an eerie silence, punctuated only by the crackling of infernal flames. The air itself seemed heavier, as though suffused with the oppressive shadow of Jigoku's growing power.

  Lucifer, the Morning Star, ruler of Hell, stood at the head of the council table. His once-proud visage bore the weight of an uncharacteristic vulnerability, his glowing eyes dimmed by the gravity of the situation. Around him, the other Princes sat, each wearing an expression that mirrored his fear.

  Lucifer: Pride Undone

  Lucifer clenched his fists, his pride crumbling under the sheer force of Jigoku’s looming threat. His voice, usually commanding and imperious, was tinged with a tremor of vulnerability. "This is not just a challenge to my rule—it is an existential threat to the very fabric of Hell. If Jigoku succeeds, we will not simply lose power; we will cease to exist. He seeks not dominion but annihilation, and his madness has no end."

  He turned his gaze to the other Princes, his voice growing quieter but no less forceful. "We are pride incarnate. Yet, even pride must bow to necessity. If we do not unite, Hell itself will fall, and we will fall with it."

  The others looked upon him with a mixture of awe and disbelief. For Lucifer to speak of falling, of defeat, was unheard of. The Morning Star was the embodiment of defiance, the king of Hell. Yet, there was no denying the truth in his words. Jigoku’s power had grown far beyond anything they had ever encountered.

  Satan: Wrath Tempered by Dread

  Satan, whose rage was legendary, sat uncharacteristically still. The fires of his wrath burned dimly, tempered by a fear he refused to admit. He spoke through gritted teeth, his voice low and venomous. "Jigoku is no ordinary foe. Wrath has no effect on him—he thrives on destruction. Every war I have waged, every battle I have won, pales in comparison to the chaos he brings. He is not an adversary; he is a cataclysm."

  His fists tightened, and his fiery eyes met Lucifer's. "We must act swiftly, or Hell will burn—not at our hands, but his. And this time, there will be no one left to rebuild it."

  Satan’s words carried the weight of truth. His violent tendencies, his unmatched fury, had never met such resistance. Jigoku was not merely a being of power; he was the embodiment of ultimate destruction, a force that thrived in the annihilation of everything it touched. The thought of a final, irreversible destruction weighed heavily on Satan’s pride, a source of anguish he had never before known.

  Asmodius: Lust Rendered Helpless

  Asmodius, the embodiment of desire, leaned forward, his expression uncharacteristically serious. His smooth, honeyed voice was replaced with a tone of cold calculation. "Lust is power over the hearts of others, yet Jigoku is immune. He is beyond temptation, beyond seduction. What does one offer a being who desires only terror? He cannot be bought, bargained with, or swayed. He is chaos incarnate, and he does not play by our rules."

  He sighed, his usual air of confidence replaced by a rare note of defeat. "Our weapons are useless against him. We must find another way, or we will all be consumed."

  For the first time, Asmodius' powers of manipulation seemed ineffective. Lust thrived on controlling others' desires, bending them to his will. Yet, Jigoku was immune to such influence, indifferent to seduction, negotiation, or compromise. His very existence rendered Asmodius’ usual tools irrelevant, stripping him of his most cherished weapon. The idea of being powerless against an enemy was something Asmodius could hardly comprehend, and it made him uncomfortable in ways he could not express.

  Mammon: Greed Reduced to Ashes

  Mammon sat hunched, his fingers twitching nervously. The Prince of Greed, who valued wealth and power above all else, found himself confronting a foe who made such treasures meaningless. "My riches mean nothing to him," he muttered, almost to himself. "What does Jigoku want? Not gold, not influence, but absolute destruction. He would burn all my treasures to the ground just to hear the screams of the damned."

  His voice rose, edged with desperation. "If we cannot buy him off or outlast him, then what hope do we have? He does not want power; he wants chaos. And chaos cannot be reasoned with."

  Mammon’s usual love of wealth and influence felt hollow in the face of Jigoku’s appetite for destruction. Greed had always been Mammon's guiding force, but in the presence of an adversary who cared for nothing but total annihilation, Mammon’s treasures were mere dust in the wind. He had never imagined an enemy who would see his vast wealth and power as nothing more than kindling to fuel a fire of ultimate destruction.

  Beelzebub: Gluttony Starved

  Beelzebub, whose insatiable hunger had devoured countless souls, now looked hollow, his once-gluttonous demeanor subdued. His deep, guttural voice carried an uncharacteristic weight of despair. "I have consumed entire realms, yet even my hunger cannot match his. Jigoku does not feed for sustenance—he feeds for annihilation. He will devour everything, leaving behind only emptiness."

  He glanced around the table, his fear barely masked. "If we allow him to continue, there will be nothing left for us. Not to rule, not to consume. Nothing."

  Beelzebub, the lord of consumption, found himself faced with a hunger that could not be sated. Jigoku was not merely a force that consumed—he was the very void that devoured existence itself. Gluttony was a sin driven by desire, but even Beelzebub’s insatiable hunger could not match Jigoku’s utter disregard for existence. What, then, was the point of consuming if nothing was left to consume?

  Belphegor: Sloth Awoken

  Belphegor, the laziest of the Princes, leaned back in his chair, his usual apathy replaced by a somber awareness. "I have always believed that time was on my side," he said, his voice slow but unusually resolute. "That waiting out a storm would always bring the advantage. But Jigoku is no storm—he is the end of the world."

  He exhaled heavily, his lethargy giving way to reluctant determination. "We cannot afford to wait. This is no longer a matter of convenience or patience. If we delay, we will all be swept away."

  For Belphegor, the embodiment of sloth, the notion of action was always secondary to inertia. Time had been his ally, and in waiting, he had seen others falter. But Jigoku was not an adversary one could outlast or outwait. The time for passivity had passed, and the slow-moving Belphegor could not afford to ignore the urgency of the moment. The realization that even his laid-back approach had no place in the face of Jigoku’s cataclysmic power shook him to his core.

  Leviathan: Envy Consumed

  Leviathan, the jealous serpent of Hell, sat coiled in his chair, his green eyes glowing with a mix of fear and resentment. "I have envied the power of others for eternity, but Jigoku... His power is beyond envy. It is the kind of power that unravels everything it touches. Even my darkest fantasies cannot fathom the depths of his chaos."

  His voice dropped to a whisper. "He will not stop until he has consumed us all. And when we are gone, who will remain to remember us? Nothing but ashes."

  Leviathan’s envy had always fueled his desire to surpass others, to claim what he felt was owed to him. Yet, in the face of Jigoku’s power, even envy was impotent. Jigoku’s very essence rendered all ambition, all jealousy, meaningless. What could Leviathan covet in a world where there was no distinction, no power left to claim? What would remain of Hell once Jigoku was done with it? Just a void, an empty echo of what had once been.

  A Pact of Survival

  Lucifer rose from his seat, his gaze sweeping across the council. For the first time in their long, infernal existence, the Princes were united—not by ambition, but by fear. "We have all indulged in our sins, fought our wars, and reveled in our power. But now, we face something greater than any of us. Jigoku Ma Tori is not just a threat to our dominion—he is a threat to existence itself."

  He extended his hand, an unprecedented gesture of unity. "If we are to survive, we must stand together. Pride, Wrath, Lust, Greed, Gluttony, Sloth, and Envy—our sins must become our strength. Only through unity can we hope to face him."

  They stayed at their corners of hell

  The seven Princes of Hell had made their pact of survival, but as the ink of their promise dried, an ominous stillness filled the infernal air. Their unity, formed out of necessity rather than alliance, now felt fragile in the wake of Jigoku Ma Tori's relentless rise to power. With the echoes of their earlier council still ringing in their ears, each Prince retreated to their own corner of Hell, seeking refuge from the full scope of the chaos they knew was to come.

  Lucifer: The Fallen Star’s Descent

  Lucifer, the Morning Star, once the beacon of pride and fire, withdrew to his throne of blackened obsidian. His realm, the heart of Hell, had been built on a foundation of unmatched power and the promise of eternal dominion. But as the shadows lengthened and the earth trembled beneath Jigoku’s growing influence, even Lucifer's grand citadel felt small and inadequate. His pride, usually a shield stronger than any fortress, now felt like a brittle shell, cracking under the weight of fear.

  As he sat upon his throne, his once brilliant wings now folded in quiet surrender, Lucifer couldn’t shake the image of Jigoku’s power. It was as though the very essence of Hell itself was being drained away by the dark force that now sought to obliterate it. "How has it come to this?" he whispered, his voice carrying the disbelief of a fallen angel watching the collapse of his own kingdom. He knew one thing now—Jigoku’s darkness would not stop at his gates. Hell itself, and all its twisted legacies, was in peril.

  Satan: The Wrathful Beast on Edge

  Far away, within his infernal forge of fury and brimstone, Satan seethed in a dark corner of Hell, his rage now a distant, controlled flame. He no longer raged with the uncontrollable fury of his past battles, but instead paced, trapped in his own growing fear. The fires of his forge seemed muted, their heat suffocated by the dread of Jigoku’s impending arrival.

  Satan's wrath had been the very heart of Hell's engine for eons. With each battle he fought, with each conflict he stoked, his anger had forged Hell’s chaotic existence. But now, there was no battle to fight, no enemy to confront with the usual vigor. Jigoku didn’t burn with fury; he consumed with cold annihilation. A being like Satan, whose power was born of rage and destruction, was now reduced to standing in the face of an unstoppable storm.

  His claws dug into the scorched ground as he whispered a prayer to his own wrath. "What is this? A storm I cannot fight? A beast I cannot slay?" His heart burned with a helplessness he had never known, and it consumed him just as Jigoku consumed everything.

  Asmodius: Desire’s Power Stripped Away

  Asmodius, the Prince of Lust, had always thrived on manipulation, bending mortals and immortals alike to his will. But now, in the desolate corner of his domain—his paradise of pleasure and decadence—there was nothing left to bend, nothing left to seduce. The golden palaces of desire stood empty, their seductive beauty now hollow, like the love of a lover who had long since left.

  The embodiment of desire felt naked, stripped of his greatest weapon. The seductive power he had used for eons was meaningless in the face of Jigoku’s overwhelming desire for chaos and annihilation. His usual smirk was absent, replaced by a grim, frustrated scowl. "What am I to do? What can I offer a being who knows no desire, who seeks no pleasure? How can you tempt a storm?"

  Asmodius paced through his empty halls, where once mortals had wept in pleasure at his feet. But now, there was nothing but silence, and the oppressive weight of a force far more powerful than his most seductive charms.

  Mammon: Greed Consumed by a Void

  Mammon, the Prince of Greed, had always believed that power was the ultimate currency. Gold, wealth, influence—these were his tools, his playground. But now, in the corner of Hell where the treasures of ages lay hoarded, Mammon’s riches felt empty, useless. The gold, the precious gems, the vast empires of wealth—none of it mattered. Jigoku sought nothing that could be bought. He didn’t care for wealth, nor influence, nor power. He sought destruction itself.

  Mammon wandered through his domain, his eyes scanning over the treasures that once brought him joy. But now they gleamed like hollow promises, their beauty fading with each passing moment. "What use is gold if nothing remains to rule? What use is wealth if there is no world left to enjoy it?" Mammon clenched his fists in frustration. Jigoku’s madness was a plague that reduced everything Mammon had built to mere dust.

  Beelzebub: The Hunger That Could Not Be Satisfied

  In the deepest, darkest pit of Hell, Beelzebub, the Prince of Gluttony, felt a gnawing emptiness in his soul. The endless feasts of souls and tortured souls had once satisfied his insatiable hunger, but now, even his eternal consumption couldn’t quell the hunger that grew inside him. There were no more victims to devour, no more souls to consume—at least, not in the way he once did.

  Beelzebub sat hunched over a cauldron, his bloated form a grotesque reflection of his eternal craving. His lips quivered as he stared into the void, his hunger only intensifying. "I am… empty," he muttered to himself. "What is hunger when there is nothing left to consume? What will be left for us if Jigoku devours all that is?"

  The idea of being unable to sate his hunger, unable to find more souls to devour, was a torment like no other. Jigoku’s very essence was a threat to Beelzebub’s primal nature. The idea of annihilation, of a world wiped clean of all life, terrified him to his core.

  Belphegor: The Lethargy of Death

  Belphegor, the Prince of Sloth, sat in his dark corner of Hell, his usual apathy replaced by a strange unease. For so long, Belphegor had waited, watching as others struggled and fought. His world had been one of patience, of watching time pass as he sat idly by. But now, with the threat of Jigoku’s devastation looming, Belphegor’s laid-back, eternal sloth began to feel like a curse.

  "I have always waited for the storm to pass. But now… there is no passing this storm," Belphegor muttered to himself, his usual languor replaced by an unexpected restlessness. The world around him seemed to be closing in, and for the first time, time was not his ally. He was forced to face the reality of action, of doing something—anything—to survive.

  Leviathan: Jealousy Drowned in Despair

  Leviathan, the Prince of Envy, coiled in the corner of his dark, serpentine domain, his green eyes now clouded with a bitter hopelessness. His envy had always driven him to covet what others possessed, but Jigoku made that impulse seem insignificant. The power that Leviathan had longed for, the power to devour, to take, to twist, was nothing compared to the sheer, mindless destruction Jigoku wielded.

  "Everything I’ve ever wanted… it means nothing," Leviathan hissed, his voice tinged with bitterness. "How can I envy anything when there is nothing left to envy? How can I wish for power when there is no power left?"

  As each Prince of Hell retreated to their own corners, they were left with the crushing realization that the world they had built—their very existence—was in jeopardy. Jigoku was not merely a foe to be vanquished. He was the end of everything they had ever known.

  In the corners of Hell, the Princes huddled in their own isolation, haunted by the knowledge that their kingdom was crumbling—and no amount of pride, wrath, lust, greed, gluttony, sloth, or envy could save them from the storm that was coming.

  One by one, the Princes rose, their fear giving way to a grim determination. They clasped hands, forming a circle of unity that had never existed before.

  In that moment, the Seven Princes of Hell made a pact—not for power, not for glory, but for survival. The battle against Jigoku Ma Tori would be the greatest challenge they had ever faced. Whether they would emerge victorious or be consumed by chaos remained to be seen. But one thing was certain: Hell itself would never be the same. The storm that was coming was unlike any the Princes had ever faced, and it would redefine the very fabric of their existence.

  This was not just a fight for dominion—it was a battle for the very essence of Hell itself. As they prepared to face the impending apocalypse, the Princes knew that their destinies were irrevocably intertwined. Either they would defeat Jigoku, or they would all be reduced to nothing, swept away in the tide of his wrath.