The first sensation was not sight or sound, but pain. It was a universal agony, a searing fire that gnawed at his very essence, a cacophony of suffering that vibrated through every atom of his being. He wasn't waking from sleep; he was surfacing from an abyss, clawing his way back to consciousness through layers of torment. When his eyes finally opened, they were greeted by a landscape of bleak, eternal twilight, painted in hues of oppressive crimson and ash. The air, thick and metallic, reeked of sulfur and ancient despair, filling his lungs with a burning ache. This wasn't a nightmare; it was Hell. A vast, sprawling purgatory of cracked, obsidian earth, where skeletal, gnarled trees clawed at a perpetually overcast sky that seemed to bleed light.
He lay amidst a field of twisted, petrified husks that vaguely resembled human forms, all frozen in expressions of eternal anguish. A low, guttural moan escaped his throat, raw and unfamiliar. His body felt heavy, alien, yet undeniably his own. It was lean, powerfully built, but covered in strange, glowing red markings that pulsed with an internal energy, mirroring a similar, translucent red aura that shimmered faintly around him. He pushed himself up, his muscles protesting, the agony radiating from his core. What was he? How did he get here? The questions screamed in his mind, but his memory was a vast, terrifying blank. There were no faces, no names, no echoes of a life before this infernal awakening. Only the relentless pain and the bewildering presence of this raw power.
He saw other figures in the distance, shuffling forms, their heads bowed, their movements listless. They were the damned, he realized with a chilling certainty, mere shadows of their former selves, condemned to an eternity of despair. But they ignored him, their eyes vacant, their minds lost. He was an anomaly. His rage, a sudden, unfamiliar surge, flared, and with it, the red aura around him intensified, casting a ruby glow on the desolate ground. A tremor ran through the earth, and then, with a grotesque burst, a creature erupted from the ground before him. It was a lesser demon, all snapping teeth and chitinous hide, its eyes burning with a hunger that was both familiar and terrifying.
Instinct, primal and absolute, seized him. He didn't think; he simply reacted. He lunged, not with a clumsy human swing, but with a fluid, unnatural grace. His arm moved, and from his outstretched palm, a concentrated bolt of that crimson energy, his red aura coalescing into a tangible projectile, erupted. It struck the demon with concussive force, tearing through its rudimentary defenses. The creature shrieked, a sound of unholy agony, before dissolving into a cloud of dark ash that quickly dispersed into the sulfurous air. A strange, cold satisfaction settled in KJ's chest, devoid of mercy or remorse. He wasn't just another condemned soul; he was a weapon, forged in this very fire.
He spent what felt like an eternity traversing the desolate, ever-shifting landscapes of the First Circle. The ground beneath his feet was either brittle, echoing with hollow sounds, or a viscous, molten substance that seared his skin through phantom pain. He encountered more demons – smaller, faster imps that darted in the shadows; lumbering, brutish fiends that relied on raw strength. Each encounter was a brutal lesson. He learned that his red aura could be a protective shield, deflecting blows and corrosive energies. He learned it could be concentrated for piercing strikes or spread out for a wider, destructive burst. Most significantly, he discovered that with each defeated demon, as their forms disintegrated into infernal essence, a fraction of that energy was drawn into him, absorbed into his own core. It wasn't a pleasant sensation, tasting vaguely of scorched earth and despair, but it undeniably strengthened him. His awareness sharpened, his control over his abilities grew, and the very air around him seemed to thicken with his power.
The constant, agonizing whispers of the damned, once a source of terror, began to fade into background noise, replaced by a singular, burning resolve. He was powerful, unusually so. There was a reason he was different, a reason he felt this innate connection to Hell's chaotic energies. He was a prodigy, born or remade in this inferno, with a destiny beyond mere damnation. The thought settled in him, cold and hard as the obsidian around him. He would not linger in this prison. He would use every ounce of his burgeoning power, every dark gift bestowed upon him by this accursed place, to find a way out. His escape would not be a plea for salvation, but a forceful, cataclysmic tearing of the very fabric of this realm. He would leave Hell in ruins, if that's what it took.