The Knowledge
The soft glow of the wall lamp lit up the corridor. Everything around was quiet — no voices, no sounds of footsteps from other soldiers or hotel residents. Peace, broken only by the measured breathing of two soldiers and their memories of a dark past.
"Damn... I didn’t think I’d meet someone from your squad," Harper finally broke the silence.
"Well, technically, you didn’t. I’m dead," Vaggie tried to joke. Despite the obvious failure of the joke, Harper smiled faintly at the irony of the situation.
Silence fell again. The wall lamps barely kept the darkness at bay, and the corridors remained eerily still. It seemed like everything would repeat itself, but this time, Vaggie was the first to speak.
"Thanks," she broke the silence after a while. "For trying to get me out back then."
"Well... it was the right thing to do. 'We don’t leave our own behind,'" Harper replied.
"Not many follow that noble 'commandment' these days," Vaggie said thoughtfully. "You hear it a lot, but almost everyone abandons it in a critical moment."
"That's true. People throw that phrase around carelessly. Hmm, honestly, I only understood the real meaning of it after joining Sparta. The captain... he takes unit cohesion extremely seriously. He made us a family. A big, messed-up family, but still a family."
"Yeah, I noticed. I’m even starting to wonder if he ever sleeps, considering he’s always buried in maps," Vaggie tried to joke.
"Good question..." Harper answered with a barely noticeable smile. "By the way, I never asked your name. The number... Meh, it’s inconvenient."
"Vaggie. And you?"
"Harper," she answered with a slight smirk. "Damn, is that really your name?"
"For fuck's sake, why does it weird everyone out? Why can’t I just live with it, like I did with my old name..." Vaggie snapped, annoyed.
"Live? Didn’t you just say you were dead?" Harper replied, unable to contain her laughter. Vaggie rolled her eyes but stayed quiet, conceding defeat.
"They gave me this name almost immediately after I died. It stuck," Vaggie explained.
"Well, fair enough. Although... I can’t promise I won’t joke about it."
"Ha-ha, hilarious, Harper," Vaggie said in a deadpan tone.
"Oh, I know," Harper grinned.
Once again, the corridor sank into silence, broken only by the faint buzzing of the wall lamps.
The day had been rough. Despite the lack of combat missions, which at least meant a few hours of rest, the captain ordered everyone to stay on the first floor, not retreating to their rooms. Yes, every two soldiers of Sparta had been allocated a room. Initially, the hotel owners insisted on separate rooms, probably for comfort, but the captain outright refused that risk and paired the soldiers up so they could cover each other if needed.
Everyone remained on the first floor, poring over Hell’s maps. The captain kept questioning Ares, David, and Lewis about the chase. Something about the fact that every squad was being hunted by the local inhabitants wouldn’t let him rest. Ares' group was literally pursued, Adam’s squad fell into an ambush, and later, the search team encountered a prepared enemy who clearly knew they were in the area.
"Sorry, Cap, but I really couldn’t make out the logo in detail," Ares reported. "I only remember it had blue and red colors."
"Alright. If we get the logo, will you recognize it?" the Captain asked.
"Absolutely!" the soldier answered, more enthusiastically this time. Ares liked being useful, and he hated feeling helpless — especially when it came to the squad. His attitude toward his comrades was probably shaped by his cultural background. In that sense, he and Levon were alike... Cut that out, not now, the captain told himself, heading back to his desk.
The current task was both simple and nearly impossible — gather all possible intel on Hell’s structure, major factions, and the power dynamics keeping everything in place. Maybe that information would add threads leading to the last lost soldier. And for that... damn. They’d have to rely on the locals. Again, the captain would have to trust the help of those who could betray them at the worst possible moment.
Fucking demons... It was impossible to predict what to expect from them. That "Charlie" seemed way too polite, especially for so-called Hell. Constantly sticking her nose where it didn’t belong, masking it with noble motives and almost childlike naivety. That doesn’t happen — at least, the captain didn’t believe it.
Yes, when she tried talking to him, he pretended not to care about demon names or any of that. But in reality, he carefully absorbed every scrap of information to piece together a rough psychological profile of each one.
That’s how he figured out that the two-meter-tall spider, calling himself "Angel Dust," was a local porn star. Obvious enough — he never shut up about it and constantly annoyed the soldiers with his crude jokes. They were always the same, directly tied to his profession. Yet, there were hints of something else in his behavior that the captain found odd. He couldn’t quite define it, but there was a feeling that the spider was hiding something. Something about himself or something closely connected to him.
And then there was Vaggie — another strange name. Straightforward, persistent, stubborn. If not for being a demon, she could probably fit into army life. It was clear she cared deeply about Charlie’s safety and well-being, willing to do anything for her. Just agreeing to join the search operation spoke volumes. Although her presence added a layer of psychological discomfort for the squad (not that they weren’t used to it), she helped mitigate certain risks.
Charlie, though, raised the most questions. The picture was too... rosy. Too unbelievably bright. And that led the captain to two possible conclusions: either she genuinely matched the profile, and it was just her psyche’s unique traits, or it was all a well-constructed (amateurish, but still) act designed to lull their vigilance. The captain was always ready for the second scenario — betrayal was nothing new. Yet now, he had to rely on the demons for information.
Fine. Like this would be the craziest thing he’d ever done.
"I need any information on Hell’s structure, key players, government, and other significant factions," the captain said abruptly.
"Oh... Yes, of course!" Charlie answered, startled. She clearly didn’t expect the captain to appear right behind her. How quietly he moved was unnerving, especially given his size. "I can give you some books and manuals, but for more detailed info, you can use the computer in the library upstairs."
The captain didn’t respond, just gave a silent nod. Long conversations, especially with potential enemies, weren’t his thing. Diplomacy was a thing of the past for him.
"If you want, I can summarize the basics so you don’t waste... time," Charlie started, but the captain was already gone.
Disappeared like a ghost.
Levon sat in darkness, his back pressed against the cold, damp wall of his cell. Even though he was in Hell, the room was freezing. Maybe there was an air conditioning system... but then the air would be dry. Which meant he had to be underground — maybe in a bunker or a deep basement. They had taken him off the frame and the hooks, but his arms and legs were still chained to the wall, leaving him unable to move. Even so, he managed to drift off for a while. As the captain used to say, "Take every chance to sleep, no matter how small." And he was right. Sleep helped keep your mind from unraveling in circumstances no human should ever endure.
This bleak "peace" was shattered by the grating screech of metal as the heavy door to his cell slowly opened. Levon squinted, and a harsh light stabbed into his face.
"Brought you some company," a rough voice growled. A heavy thud hit the floor, followed by the clink of chains.
When the door slammed shut with an echoing crash, Levon couldn't see a thing. It took a couple of minutes for his eyes to adjust to the dark, and that’s when he noticed one detail about his new cellmate — the unmistakable orange jumpsuit of a convict.
"Hey there, bitch," the prisoner rasped.
"Do I know you?" Levon asked, his voice scratchy from disuse.
"Oh, so you forgot me already? Didn't think they wiped memories in their labs," the prisoner sneered.
And then it hit Levon. The orange jumpsuit. That voice.
Oh, fuck. It’s HIM.
"Fuuuck..."
"Yeah, "fuuuck" indeed," the prisoner chuckled, slumping against the wall. "What’s the matter? Your conscience gnawing at you for sending me to die like a dog?"
"You deserved it. You would’ve died either way — whether at the hands of the locals or from a lethal injection. You’re a war criminal, the kind people pray never walks free."
"And I don’t regret a damn thing. Though you could at least thank me — I’m the reason they paused your torture."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Levon asked, suspicion lacing his voice.
"Let’s just say I may or may not have suggested they lay off the physical torture and focus on your mind instead. Why do you think they’re keeping you in total darkness instead of beating the shit out of you every day?"
Silence stretched between them. Levon couldn’t see the prisoner’s face, but he could feel his gaze — sharp and unrelenting.
"So? Cat got your tongue?" the prisoner taunted, chains clinking as he lazily stretched as much as his restraints would allow. "Or did your military training not include conversation skills?"
"In the military, we’re taught not to talk to the enemy," Levon muttered.
"Oh, enemy, huh? Interesting choice of words, considering I’m rotting in here with you."
"That doesn’t make us friends."
"Maybe not," the prisoner snorted. "But at least I have someone to talk to. You? You’re just sitting here, decaying in the dark."
Levon stayed silent.
"You do realize why they’re keeping you isolated, right?" the prisoner pressed, voice shifting to something more serious. "They know your brain will crack eventually. People need reference points — light, sound, any change in environment. Without that, you break."
"I’ll manage," Levon snapped.
"Not for long," the prisoner said, almost kindly. "Everyone holds out... until the hallucinations start. You hearing voices yet?"
Levon clenched his jaw, teeth grinding.
"Ah, so you do," the prisoner chuckled.
"Go to hell."
"We’re already there," the prisoner grinned. After a long pause, he added, "You know, we could help each other."
Levon said nothing.
"Let’s say, while they dragged me through this shithole, I may or may not have caught glimpses of the floor plans. And maybe, just maybe, I know how to get out."
Levon eyed him skeptically, though he doubted the prisoner could see it in the dark.
The prisoner continued, unbothered: "This isn’t a military complex. Not a prison, either. It’s just a repurposed civilian building. Security is minimal — a few cameras, some locked doors. We’re on a maintenance level, only a few meters underground. They set up a couple of rooms as torture chambers. Sick bastards."
Levon watched him, listening carefully. If there was even a sliver of a chance to escape, he couldn’t afford to ignore it.
"Let’s say I believe you. Why did they parade you around the building?"
"I’m a prisoner, same as you. But when they brought you in, I told them you might know something valuable — about people who made it to Hell and possible ways back to Earth." The prisoner smirked. "And I might’ve implied physical torture was a waste of time. I’m planning my way out. But there’s a catch — I don’t know where the portal is. You do."
"There is no portal," Levon snapped. "It was destroyed. Something went wrong. A malfunction. We’re stuck here."
The moment the words left his mouth, Levon knew he’d fucked up.
The prisoner grinned in the dark.
"Hah... A mix of drugs and sensory deprivation makes people spill their guts in no time.
Vox, you catch all that?"
"Loud and clear," came a distorted voice from somewhere in the cell — a sinister snicker crackling like static.
"Unbelievable! Torture couldn’t break him, but a simple trick... HAHAHA!"
The Captain sat in one of the rooms on the second floor of the hotel, which resembled a library. A modest row of bookshelves held books of various kinds—from immortal literary classics to action novels and unique infernal editions, such as "The Secrets of Asmodeus: How to Conquer the Mind and Heart of Your Partner" or "Satan: The Path of Wrath." Huh, there was even a cookbook titled "The Joys of Gluttony, or 100 Recipes by Beelzebub."
However, bypassing the books that were not exactly useful at the moment, the Captain's gaze landed on a particular volume—an enormous tome with a pompous golden title: "The Story of Hell."
Reading it left him with mixed feelings. Now the Captain was 100% certain—he and his squad were in the actual Hell, the refuge of damned souls.
On one hand, it was clear that Hell was ruled by two figures—Lucifer and Lilith. But on the other, parts of the history didn’t align with what humans knew on Earth. According to the Bible, the first humans were Adam and Eve. Yet here, the story spoke of Lilith. The Captain raised a skeptical brow. It reminded him of the Jewish interpretation of scripture, and the thought even made him smirk—damn, turns out the Jews were right.
The first sin was described exactly as in the Bible—100% match. But the further he read, the stranger things became. Some details made sense; others felt like outright fairy tales. Not myths, not legends—actual children’s stories, as if written for a child who needed a simple explanation of why the world was the way it was. The writing style confirmed this theory, as did the numerous colorful illustrations scattered throughout the text.
But then a question arose—if this was likely designed for a child to shape a certain worldview, then what was the real truth?
"Interesting…" the Captain muttered, flipping through the pages.
The fall of Lucifer—the Devil himself—was described far too briefly. There was a lingering sense that some crucial fragment was missing, something that could shed light on what truly happened centuries ago, on the very creation of Hell. Did this dark realm exist before the first sin, or did the first sin concentrate all evil here? That remained unclear. Perhaps one day, the Captain would find the answer.
Another question arose from a different section—Extermination.
According to the book, Heaven sent troops to purge this pit every year to prevent the possibility of an uprising. Brutal, but logical. Yet the Captain couldn’t shake a thought that nestled in his mind—when was the next Extermination, and how would it affect them, considering they were now trapped in Hell?
The Captain pondered—if angels conducted exterminations to keep Hell from becoming a threat, then just how large a percentage of deceased humans ended up here? On the other hand, maybe this "extermination" could be their chance at rescue. If Heaven learned that living humans had ended up in Hell by mistake, would they help?
Alright, enough history lessons—time to focus on the present.
The Captain turned in his chair, reached out, and powered on the device in front of him—a computer, by all appearances. On the system unit, right on the power button, was a strange symbol—likely the manufacturer’s logo. (Of course, even in Hell, there would be its own version of Xiaomi.)
The operating system wasn’t much different from a standard Windows setup, except for the icons and names. The desktop had several browsers—something called FireHound (clearly a hellish version of Firefox), Ghougle Burn, and, surprisingly, a completely normal Bing.
Opening FireHound, he noticed some bookmarked tabs—Netflame, Hellzone Prime, and DoomTube. But one tab stood out with an interesting name—SinHub. Naturally, the Captain had no intention of clicking on it. (Obviously, that damn spider was the one using it the most.)
Typing "Hierarchy of Hell" into the search bar, he was met with a full table. At the very bottom were two classifications—"Imps" and "Hellhounds."
"Hah, we really nailed the name for our MRAPs," the Captain chuckled aloud.
The next few categories, which included various Hell-born demons, didn’t particularly interest him—except for two: Sinners and Overlords.
It turned out that damned souls occupied a fairly decent position in Hell’s society, unlike many born-in-Hell demons. But the most intriguing part? Some Sinners had the chance to become Overlords—if they were clever, ruthless, and, of course, possessed enough physical and magical power.
What kind of magical power exactly? That was unclear. He’d have to look into it.
The Captain opened a detailed entry on Overlords.
Apparently, there were quite a few of them, each ruling over a different domain in Hell.
For example, someone named Rosie was the leader of a city of cannibals.
"Yeah… we’re not setting foot in there," the Captain muttered under his breath.
Obviously, a city of cannibals was not the best place for humans—especially living ones. Unless they had a flamethrower…
Many Overlords didn’t interest him—those overseeing local bars, clubs, fashion, and… damn it all, a porn studio.
However, two names caught his attention.
First—Vox, the TV demon, who controlled Hell’s entertainment industry through technology. Next to his image was a logo—the exact same one that was on the computer. According to the available info, this demon was allied with two others—Valentino and Velvet, who controlled the porn industry and fashion, respectively. Useful information.
The second Overlord of interest was none other than Carmilla Carmine—the head of Carmine Arms Corporation, Hell’s largest weapons manufacturer, which exclusively produced weapons made of angelic steel—capable of permanently killing demons.
"Hmm… gotta get my hands on some of that," the Captain thought.
If they were going to be stuck here for a while, they needed to be fully armed and stocked with ammunition.
Next in the hierarchy was an organization called Ars Goetia.
"Huh, so it actually exists…" the Captain muttered.
He was familiar with the name, but had always assumed it was just folklore.
But now, he wasn’t so sure.
Back in World War II, there had been rumors of a secret NKVD division dedicated to combating supernatural phenomena. One of its operatives was a certain Captain Matias Virtanen, a Finnish-born former tank commander. But the most intriguing part?
Through some ritual, he had been assigned an unusual partner—a well-known demon, marquis of hell, none other than Marchosias, a fallen angel in the form of a winged wolf.
"How many more legends will turn out to be true in this place…?"
Just above them in the hierarchy were the Seven Deadly Sins, each ruling over a sector of Hell—Pride, Wrath, Gluttony, Greed, Lust, Envy, and Sloth.
"Aha, the main concentration of Sinners is in Pride," the Captain mumbled.
"Which means… we’re here. Damn, so this is just the tip of the iceberg. How many more cities are in this Circle…?"
And finally, the Captain reached the top of the food chain.
The Royal Family—the ones who, in theory, were supposed to keep demons in check. But judging by what the Captain had seen and learned, they hadn’t been doing much lately.
Lucifer and Lilith… Morningstar.
Gunfire. Fire and explosions. Screams. The smell of blood. A shell detonating. Flames. The stench of burning flesh. Pain.
End of flashback.
The Captain blinked, snapping back to reality. His breath was uneven, fingers instinctively clenching into a fist. The pounding of his heartbeat echoed in his ears.
"Captain, you alright?" Ares asked.
Damn, the Captain hadn’t even noticed him enter.
"Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired," he replied.
A strike, then another, and another. There wasn’t a single untouched spot left on Levon’s face—his lip was split, his nose broken. Another hit sent a bloody clot flying onto the nearest wall.
"You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this moment." – The thug laughed with a sinister, manic glee. "Bastard, you thought I’d die in here."
With those words, another barrage of punches crashed into Levon’s torso. Scarlet blood dribbled from his mouth.
"Goddamn, I think he fits in just fine here…" – Vox chuckled, watching the scene unfold. "Such brutality…"
"Absolutely justified… At least for me." – The thug smirked back, landing another blow.
Levon twitched, his body jerking in its chains, but he didn’t make a sound. Only a ragged exhale, only fresh drops of blood slowly dripping onto the floor.
The thug leaned in closer, staring straight into his battered face, as if waiting for him to break.
"Still silent? You think you’re some kind of hero? That won’t help you."
Levon slowly lifted his gaze, every movement a struggle. Pain clouded his eyes, but there was no fear, no plea. Only tired contempt.
"Go to hell," he rasped, spitting blood right onto the thug’s boot.
Vox let out a quiet chuckle, clearly entertained.
"Ha! He’s got some spine, I’ll give him that. Hope he doesn’t break too quickly."
The thug’s eyes narrowed with rage, his face twisting in fury as he raised his fist again—only for Vox to clap his hands a little louder, drawing attention.
"Hey, hey. Easy there, huh? We still need him alive."
The thug’s fist froze in mid-air. He stood there for a moment, clearly torn between the urge to keep beating Levon and the understanding that if he accidentally killed him, Vox would never let it slide.
"Tch." He spat on the floor, running a hand over his face as if trying to shake off the fury boiling inside him. "Fine. I’ll play with him later."
Vox grinned in satisfaction, intertwining his fingers.
"Good boy. Now, let’s talk about your soul, soldier."
"There’s nothing to talk about, you hellspawn." – Levon growled through gritted teeth. "My soul belongs to God alone."
"HA!" – Valentino’s loud laugh echoed from the other corner of the room. "Goddamn, did we catch ourselves a holy boy? Hmmm, I already have a few… ideas."
He reached into the pocket of his coat, pulling out his phone and scrolling through his contacts. A dial tone, then someone picked up.
"Angel, baby, come downstairs. We need to discuss… a film."
Another shoot. Just a few hours ago, Angel had finally wrapped up the last one, and now, here they were again. But this time, Val wanted him in the basement.
Angel already knew what that meant—another one of Val’s sick fantasies, another "show" where he’d be the main star. Oh, sure, in this hellhole, he was popular, well-known, even worshiped… but at what cost?
One thing he knew for certain—nothing good ever happened in the basement. If Val called him there, it meant he had come up with something too twisted to film on a "regular" (as regular as it could get) set.
With a heavy sigh, Angel lazily pushed himself up from the couch. He reached for his signature pink glasses on the armrest, sliding them onto his face. His gaze drifted toward the mirror. It was too dark in the room to see his reflection clearly, but he already knew what he’d find—his usual, perfectly put-together look, that wide grin he kept plastered on no matter how he really felt.
He adjusted his fur as he made his way out of the dressing room. As he descended the stairs, he wondered what kind of twisted spectacle Val had in store this time. Another filthy flick? A "special broadcast" for those willing to pay for the vilest of entertainment?
Whatever it was, there was no point in arguing. Resistance was useless. Just do the job, and the day will end faster.
As he reached the basement level, something immediately felt… off. There were no other "actors" loitering in the hallway, no usual sounds of moaning or worse.
For a moment, he almost relaxed—maybe Val just wanted to discuss a new film.
Then he stepped into the room, and his body went rigid.
"Holy shit…" – the spider whispered.
The relatively small room held more than just Val and Vox—there was another figure, bound in chains.
Despite the bruises, the swelling, and the completely wrecked face, it was obvious—this was a real, still-breathing human being.
Angel’s eyes flicked over the figure, and what he saw made his stomach churn. The clothing was torn, slashed, barely holding together… but still recognizable. A military uniform.
A painfully familiar black & white emblem featuring a Spartan helmet and two swords was printed on the tattered fabric.
His throat went dry, and something twisted uncomfortably in his chest.
He’d seen plenty—demons maimed and killed each other every day.
But this… This was a living human.
His heart pounded faster. Memories of his past life surged up like a filthy tide, washing away his carefully crafted mask of indifference. He knew Val and many others like him were monsters, but this… This was on another level.
The sight of the helpless, battered soldier awakened something in Angel, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Something warm, yet terrifying.
Not disgust, not the usual loathing he felt for this wretched place.
Something far deeper. Something almost noble.
Compassion.
"Angel cakes, right on time." – Val practically purred. "Look at the little toy Vox and I found."
"Mmm, and why’d you hang up a piece of meat in here?" – Angel sneered. "You’ve already beaten him half to death."
"Ooooh, Angel, I’m afraid you don’t understand." – Val cut in. "This soldier boy… is still alive."
Angel blinked, masking the flicker of horror in his eyes. His hands clenched into fists, but he quickly forced them to relax, slipping back into his usual lazy smirk.
"Ooooh, Val, daddy, you know I love your surprises," – he drawled, crossing his arms and stepping forward. "But seriously? In this condition? You know the audience wants a pretty picture. Right now, this poor bastard looks more like a rotting steak than a star."
Valentino’s smirk twitched slightly.
"And what do you suggest?" – he asked, unimpressed.
"Well-ll…" – Angel tapped a claw against his lips, pretending to think. "If we’re filming, we should do it right. No one wants to watch a bloody mess with broken bones. He needs to be at least somewhat put together first. That way, when he breaks, it'll be slow, drawn out… with style."
Vox chuckled, lacing his fingers together.
"Hah. He’s got a point, Val. We do have quality standards, don’t we?"
"Well…" – Val licked his lips lazily. "Maybe you’re right…"
"Then it’s settled!" – Angel jumped on the opportunity, turning to him. "Give me a couple of days. I’ll take care of him, patch him up, get him ready. And then…" – he flashed his signature grin, "then he’ll be in perfect shape for our little premiere."
Valentino narrowed his eyes, clearly considering it. He hated waiting, but Angel knew exactly how to play his ego.
"Hmmhmmhmm, deal." – Val purred. "Come on, Vox. We’ve got other… business to attend to."