[The Ninth Circle of Hell]
The air in the Ninth Circle of Hell was suffocating, filled with miasma and the acrid stench of sulfur. Dante stood in the center of a vast plain of black stone and molten lava, surrounded by an unimaginable horde of demons. There were so many that the horizon seemed like a living sea of shadows and monstrosities. The screams and roars were deafening, a symphony of chaos echoing across the desolate terrain.
"How many are there?" Dante asked himself, spinning the spear in his hand, his gaze fixed on the advancing mass. "A thousand? Ten thousand? A million?" He smirked, but it wasn't a smile of confidence—it was one of pure disdain. "Doesn't matter. All of you will fall."
The first demons charged, grotesque creatures with misshapen bodies, razor-sharp claws, and glowing red eyes. Dante surged forward like a storm.
