The ferry glided slowly through the dark waters, the current pulling us steadily toward the far shore. The air grew colder as we approached, a biting chill that seemed to seep into my bones, and I could feel a heavy sense of dread settling over me. The surface of the river was unnervingly still, reflecting nothing but the void above, as if the water itself was too afraid to disturb the silence that hung in the air. My hands gripped the edge of the ferry as we drew closer to the shore, a long, rickety pier coming into view through the gloom.
The pier stretched out into the water like a skeletal hand, its wooden planks old and worn, creaking under the weight of the ferry as it bumped gently against the dock. The rocks that lined the shore were jagged and unforgiving, the terrain beyond them barren and inhospitable. The landscape was harsh, with sharp, uneven ground that seemed to resist any attempt at civilization. It was a place devoid of warmth.
As the ferry came to a stop, the passengers began to disembark, their movements quick and deliberate. They stepped onto the pier with an air of superiority, their noses held high as they surveyed the harsh landscape. I could see the pride in their eyes, the way they carried themselves as if they were untouchable, immune to the horrors that awaited us in this new world. They were the first to leave, eager to claim their place in whatever fate awaited them beyond the river.
Virgil and I were the last to step off the ferry, and as I placed my foot on the worn planks of the pier, I couldn't shake the feeling of the Algorithm's eyes on me. He stood at the helm of the ferry, his gaze following us as we made our way onto the shore. His expression was unreadable, his face a shifting blur, but I could feel the weight of his expectation pressing down on me. It was as if he was waiting for something, watching to see if I would falter.
"Keep moving, Durante," Virgil said quietly, his voice calm and reassuring. "There is much to see, and even more to understand."
I nodded, tearing my eyes away from the Algorithm and focusing on the path ahead. The others had already begun the climb, making their way up a narrow, winding path that led away from the river and toward a distant rise in the landscape. The ground beneath our feet was uneven, the rocks sharp and jagged, forcing us to watch each step carefully. The air was thick with an oppressive silence, broken only by the occasional sound of loose gravel shifting underfoot.
As we ascended the path, the terrain grew steeper, the climb more challenging. My breath came in short, shallow gasps as I pushed myself forward, the weight of the journey beginning to take its toll. But Virgil was always just a step ahead, his presence a steadying force that kept me focused. His calm demeanor gave me strength, and I found myself matching his pace, determined not to fall behind.
Finally, after what felt like hours of climbing, we reached the crest of the rise. I paused, catching my breath and wiping the sweat from my brow. The others had already moved ahead, disappearing over the ridge, but Virgil and I lingered for a moment, taking in the view that lay before us.
And what a view it was.
The first circle of the underworld unfolded before my eyes, a sight both beautiful and unsettling in its perfection. A vast plain stretched out before us, dotted with sprawling homes and grand mansions, each one more opulent than the last. The architecture was flawless, every line and curve designed to impress, to convey a sense of wealth and power. The homes were surrounded by manicured lawns, gardens bursting with vibrant colors, and glittering pools that reflected the pale light of the underworld's sky.
Expensive cars were parked in long, winding driveways, their sleek bodies gleaming under the artificial light. The garages, some as large as houses themselves, were filled with more vehicles—luxury models, sports cars, even vintage classics, all polished to perfection. The scent of fresh-cut grass mingled with the faint smell of expensive perfume, a stark contrast to the barren landscape we had just crossed.
People were everywhere, moving about with an air of leisure and entitlement. They lounged by the pools, sipping drinks from crystal glasses, or strolled through the gardens, their conversations filled with idle chatter about the latest acquisitions or social events. There was a constant hum of activity, but it was a controlled, measured kind of bustle, the kind that comes from people who have never known a true need in their lives.
But as I watched, something began to gnaw at the back of my mind. The perfection of the scene was almost too perfect, too pristine. The people, with their glamorous clothes and polished appearances, moved through the world as if they were on display, their every action carefully curated for those around them. They smiled, they laughed, but there was something hollow in their eyes, a dullness that belied the sparkling world they inhabited.
"This," Virgil said, his voice pulling me out of my swirling thoughts, "is the first circle of the underworld—the circle of image and perfection." His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, as he gestured for me to follow him down into the vast plain below.
As we descended, the full extent of the circle began to reveal itself. The landscape was breathtaking in its flawless beauty, with perfectly manicured lawns stretching out in every direction, dotted with pristine homes that looked like they had been pulled straight from the pages of a luxury magazine. The air was filled with the scent of blooming flowers, the sound of birds singing, and the gentle hum of life at its most idealized. It was as if the world had been frozen in a moment of perfect harmony, with every blade of grass, every leaf, every building designed to convey an image of success and happiness.
As we walked, Virgil began to point out the inhabitants of this circle—the souls who had spent their lives crafting and curating the perfect image for all to see. "Look there," he said, nodding toward a family gathered on the lawn of one of the grand estates. The parents were dressed in the latest fashion, their children perfectly groomed, their smiles bright and polished. A photographer, or perhaps just another soul with a camera, was snapping photos as they posed together, capturing a moment of apparent bliss.
"See how they hold themselves," Virgil continued, his tone both instructive and sorrowful. "They present themselves as the perfect family—happy, united, flawless. But watch closely."
I did as he said, observing the scene with a critical eye. The family stood close together, their bodies angled just right for the camera, their expressions radiating joy. But as soon as the camera clicked for the final time, the change was almost immediate. The smiles faded, replaced by expressions of indifference or thinly veiled annoyance. The children drifted apart, their laughter silenced as they turned away from one another, their faces suddenly devoid of the warmth they had shown just moments before. The parents exchanged a brief, cold glance before walking in opposite directions, their earlier display of affection now nothing more than a memory captured in pixels.
"They are trapped in a cycle of appearance," Virgil explained as we continued to walk. "Here, the image is everything. These souls spent their lives crafting the perfect façade, presenting themselves to the world in a way that would garner the most admiration, the most envy. But in doing so, they lost sight of the truth. They became so focused on how they were seen by others that they forgot to nurture the reality of who they were, and what they had."
As we walked deeper into the plain, I saw more of the same—couples posing for romantic pictures in front of breathtaking backdrops, only to turn away from each other as soon as the photo was taken. Friends who laughed and embraced for the camera, their smiles fading into expressions of boredom and disinterest as they walked away. Even individuals, standing alone, would strike a confident, triumphant pose, their faces filled with pride, but once the camera was put away, they would slump, their eyes revealing the exhaustion and emptiness hidden behind the mask.
Everywhere I looked, the same pattern repeated. The facades were perfect—too perfect, really. The lawns were immaculate, the homes pristine, the people flawless. But it was all just a veneer, a thin layer of perfection hiding the cracks beneath. The smiles were forced, the laughter hollow, the connections between these souls as fragile as glass. They had built their lives around an image, but that image was just that—a carefully constructed fiction designed to impress, to deceive, to hide the imperfections they feared the world would see.
"Everything you see here," Virgil said, his voice low, "is a facade. They show the best of themselves to the world, but never the parts they wish to keep hidden. They spent their lives projecting an image of success, of happiness, of perfection, but in doing so, they lost the ability to be real. Here, in this circle, they are doomed to continue the charade for eternity, never able to show the truth, never able to escape the prison of their own making."
I felt a chill run down my spine as I took in the full scope of what he was saying. The people here were prisoners of their own desire for perfection, trapped in a cycle where image was everything and reality was something to be hidden away, forgotten. The vast, beautiful plain before me was nothing more than a stage, the inhabitants mere actors playing roles they could never escape.
We continued walking, the weight of the scene pressing down on me with every step. I could see now that the perfection was an illusion, a thin veil over the emptiness that lay beneath. The homes, the cars, the clothes—none of it was real in any meaningful sense. It was all just a way to maintain the illusion of a life that never truly existed.
"Do they ever realize it?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Some do," Virgil replied, his tone softening with a hint of sadness. "But by the time they do, it is often too late. The image has become everything, and they no longer know how to live without it. They fear that without the facade, they will be nothing. And so, they continue the performance, trapped in the very image they created."
As Virgil and I continued our journey through the unsettling landscape of the first circle, the eerie calm of the plain was periodically shattered by the disturbing spectacle of lives on full display. All around us, people were broadcasting the most intimate details of their existence to the world, as if every aspect of their being was fodder for public consumption. Their lives were laid bare, each confession, argument, and secret amplified for anyone who would listen. They shared too much—far too much—revealing vulnerabilities that should have remained hidden, yet they did so with a desperate need for validation that seemed to know no bounds.
But as we moved deeper into this twisted realm, something far more sinister began to occur. The ground beneath our feet started to tremble, a low rumble at first, growing steadily in intensity. It was as if the earth itself was reacting to the excess, the oversharing, the constant need for attention that saturated the air around us. My steps faltered as I looked to Virgil, whose face remained impassive, though his eyes flickered with a warning I couldn't quite decipher.
Suddenly, without warning, the ground before us erupted in a violent explosion of dirt and debris. The earth seemed to crack open, splitting wide with a deafening roar as a maelstrom of dark, chaotic energy burst forth. The air was thick with the smell of sulfur and decay, the very essence of corruption seeping into my lungs. From the gaping hole that had been torn into the ground, malformed human figures began to claw their way to the surface.
They were grotesque, twisted mockeries of humanity, their bodies misshapen and distorted as if they had been cobbled together in a nightmarish parody of life. Their skin was a sickly, mottled gray, stretched too tight over jagged bones that jutted out at odd angles. Eyes bulged unnaturally from their sockets, bloodshot and wild, darting about with a hunger that was both desperate and predatory. Their mouths were twisted into sneers, teeth bared in a permanent grimace as they gnashed and snapped at the air, eager to sink their teeth into something, anything, that would pay them the slightest bit of attention.
These creatures—these misbegotten trolls—scrambled out of the pit with a terrifying urgency, their limbs flailing as they clambered over one another in a frantic effort to escape the depths from which they had emerged. They fought with savage intensity, their long, gnarled fingers reaching out to grab at anything within reach. Their guttural growls and shrieks filled the air, a cacophony of madness and desperation that made my blood run cold.
Before I could react, one of the trolls lunged toward a passerby, a woman who had been sharing her innermost thoughts to an audience that never truly cared. Her eyes widened in shock as the creature latched onto her, its bony fingers digging into her flesh with an unnatural strength. She struggled, trying to pull away, but it was too late. The troll had her in its grasp, and as it pulled her closer, others swarmed to her as well, eager to join in the frenzy.
The woman screamed, but her cries for help were drowned out by the gleeful howls of the trolls as they dragged her toward the hole from which they had emerged. Her desperate attempts to break free were futile, and with a final, heart-wrenching shriek, she was pulled down into the earth, disappearing into the darkness below. The ground closed up behind her, the earth sealing itself as if nothing had ever happened, leaving only the echo of her screams lingering in the air.
I stood frozen, my heart pounding in my chest as the reality of what I had just witnessed sank in. The horror of it all left me momentarily speechless, my mind struggling to process the grotesque spectacle that had just unfolded before my eyes. I turned to Virgil, desperate for some kind of explanation, some reassurance that this nightmare wasn't as real as it seemed.
Virgil's expression was grave as he looked at me, his eyes filled with a deep, sorrowful understanding. "These," he said, gesturing to the spot where the woman had vanished, "are the trolls of the underworld, the very essence of those who live to provoke and torment others. They are the commenters who thrive on negativity, who take pleasure in dragging others down into the depths with them. They are born of the darkness that festers within those who seek only to harm, to mock, to belittle. And when you engage with them, when you give them the attention they crave, you risk being pulled into the abyss with them, deeper into the underworld where true torment awaits."
I shuddered, the weight of his words pressing down on me like a vice. "So, they're like… online trolls? But here, they're real, physical beings?"
Virgil nodded solemnly. "Indeed. In life, they were the ones who hid behind screens, lashing out with words meant to wound. But in death, their true nature is laid bare, their twisted souls manifesting in physical form. And those who fall into their trap, who engage in their games of torment and cruelty, are dragged deeper into the underworld."
As we continued to walk, I couldn't help but glance around nervously, half-expecting the ground to erupt again at any moment. The thought of those creatures lying in wait, ready to snatch away anyone who dared to engage with them, sent chills down my spine. This place was more than just a circle of Hell; it was a reflection of the darkest aspects of human nature, of the insidious ways in which we destroy each other in the pursuit of validation and attention.
I looked back at Virgil, my voice trembling as I spoke. "Is there any way to avoid them? To keep from being dragged down?"
Virgil's gaze softened slightly, and he placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "The key, Durante, is to resist the urge to engage. To recognize the trolls for what they are—hollow, empty souls who seek to fill their void by consuming the light of others. Do not give them power by acknowledging their provocations. Stay true to yourself, and do not allow their darkness to take hold of you."
Suddenly, without any warning, the earth beside us convulsed violently. There was a sharp crack, like a bone snapping, followed by an explosive eruption of dirt and rock. I stumbled backward, shielding my face from the debris as another gaping hole tore open in the ground, spewing forth a swarm of grotesque creatures. These trolls, these twisted, malformed beings, clawed their way out of the pit with terrifying speed, their limbs flailing as they scrambled to the surface, hungry for attention.
Before I could even catch my breath, they were on me. The trolls surrounded me, their misshapen forms closing in from all sides. They were hideous, with bulging eyes that darted about maniacally, their faces twisted into sneers and snarls. Their skin was a sickly gray, covered in patches of coarse hair and oozing sores. Their fingers were long and bony, tipped with jagged claws that scratched at the air around me, as if they were eager to tear into my very soul.
I could feel their presence pressing in on me, suffocating, overwhelming. Their voices were a cacophony of whispers and hisses, all directed at me. They spat insults with venomous glee, their words dripping with malice and cruelty.
"Look at you," one of them sneered, its voice a harsh, grating rasp. "Who do you think you are, walking through here like you're something special? You're nothing. Just another nobody."
Another one hissed in my ear, its breath hot and foul. "Those clothes—you really think you look good in that? What a joke! No one cares about you or what you're wearing. You're just pathetic."
Their words were like barbed hooks, designed to dig deep and tear at my self-worth, to provoke me, to make me lash out in anger or despair. But I could hear Virgil's voice in my mind, calm and steady, reminding me of the danger that came with engaging these creatures.
"The key, Durante, is to resist the urge to engage. Do not give them power by acknowledging their provocations."
I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms as I fought the urge to respond, to defend myself against their vile accusations. Every instinct in me screamed to fight back, to tell them they were wrong, that I wasn't what they said I was. But I knew that if I did, I would be giving them exactly what they wanted. They thrived on conflict, on the attention that came with it, and I couldn't afford to fall into their trap.
So, I kept my mouth shut, my gaze fixed straight ahead, refusing to meet their eyes or acknowledge their presence. I could feel their frustration growing as I remained silent, as I denied them the reaction they craved. They circled me like vultures, their taunts growing louder, more desperate, but I stayed firm, my mind focused on the path ahead.
"Pathetic," one of them spat, its voice dripping with contempt. "You're not even worth our time."
Gradually, I felt the pressure around me begin to ease. The trolls, realizing they weren't going to get what they wanted from me, started to back off. Their voices faded into the background, and one by one, they slunk back into the shadows, their eyes still burning with a hungry, predatory light as they searched for easier prey.
I didn't move until the last of them had disappeared into the hole from which they'd come. The ground sealed itself with a soft hiss, the earth closing over as if nothing had happened. Only then did I allow myself to exhale, the tension slowly draining from my body.
But the relief was short-lived. As I stood there, my heart still pounding in my chest, I realized just how close I had come to being dragged down into the depths with them. The experience had shaken me to my core, leaving me feeling raw and exposed, as if I had been physically attacked. I could still hear their voices echoing in my mind, their cruel words gnawing at the edges of my confidence, trying to find purchase.
Virgil, who had been watching the whole scene unfold with a calm, knowing gaze, stepped closer and placed a hand on my shoulder. His touch was warm, grounding, pulling me back from the brink of the despair that threatened to overwhelm me.
"You did well, Durante," he said softly, his voice filled with quiet reassurance. "You resisted their provocation, and in doing so, you denied them the power to harm you. It takes great strength to ignore the taunts of those who seek to drag you down, but you must remember that their words are empty, meaningless. They have no power over you unless you give it to them."
I nodded, still trying to steady my breathing. "It was… it was harder than I thought it would be," I admitted, my voice trembling slightly. "They knew exactly what to say to get under my skin."
"They always do," Virgil replied, his eyes filled with understanding. "But you must learn to rise above it. In this place, and in the world you know, there will always be those who seek to hurt you with their words, who thrive on the misery of others. But their power lies in your reaction. If you refuse to engage, they lose their hold on you."