We crossed the gate, and the weight of pride crashed down upon me like an avalanche. The air felt thick, almost solid, each breath I took suffused with something suffocating—like I was inhaling fragments of my own shattered image, broken into a thousand pieces. The ground beneath my feet was cold and smooth, reflecting my face grotesquely, infinitely multiplied, each reflection more arrogant and disdainful than the last. Looking at them was like confronting something more intimate than should ever exist.
In the center of this world of reflections, I saw it: a throne, made of bones, gold, and something more... stolen memories, perhaps. Every part of it seemed alive, pulsing, almost groaning. Sitting there, as if he were the very axis of the universe itself, was Lucifer. There was no beauty in his form. He was not the glorious archangel the stories promised. He fluctuated between forms: sometimes angelic, sometimes monstrous, but always exuding an overwhelming presence. His gaze fell upon me, heavy, unrelenting, as if he could strip every piece of my soul and expose what remained.
The angel beside me tensed. For the first time, his wings, which had once shone like a beacon of purity, seemed smaller, almost fragile. He didn't speak. Not yet.
Pride is the invisible prison that causes people to trade genuine connections for the illusion of superiority. It convinces them to bury apologies, suffocate vulnerabilities, and treat humility as weakness. But deep down, they know: every time they choose pride, they are merely masking their fear of being seen as imperfect. And as they cling to this facade, they wound those who love them, lose opportunities to grow, and become caricatures of themselves—hard on the outside, brittle on the inside. The worst part isn't pride itself, but what it turns them into: people so busy proving they don't need anyone that, in the end, they end up alone, surrounded only by the echo of their own lies. And when they fall from the pedestal they've built, there will be no net to catch them... only the emptiness of those who chose arrogance over love.
— So, — Lucifer began, his voice resounding like distant thunder, reverberating throughout the circle. — The mortal who dared to cross all the circles of Hell has finally reached Pride. What do you seek here? Justice? Forgiveness? Or perhaps the glory of proving that you are better than the Creator Himself?
I allowed my mouth to curve into a smile—not of joy, but something closer to contempt. I took a step forward, feeling each of his words resonate on the ground, in the air, even in my own thoughts.
— I seek none of that. I am no follower, Lucifer, neither of God nor of you. I came here because this place, like everything else, needs to be dismantled.
He laughed, a laugh that reverberated like an earthquake. The marble floor beneath my feet trembled, the reflections distorting even further. My own eyes, multiplied in the thousand reflections below me, seemed to mock my audacity.
— Dismantled? — he repeated, as if savoring the word. — Such courageous words from someone so... trivial. You believe you are above judgment, that amorality is your fortress. But what are you, mortal, if not the greatest product of my work? You think you do not carry pride? Every step you've taken here has been a cry of arrogance. You are nothing but what I represent.
The angel finally spoke, his voice cutting through the heavy air like a blade.
— Your words are poison, Lucifer. He came here by his own choice, but not to bend to you. Your pride is a shadow of the truth, a corruption of divine purpose. You dare not understand what he seeks.
Lucifer turned his gaze to the angel, and something shifted in his expression. He was no longer amused. His eyes, two abysses of dead stars, gleamed with deep contempt.
— And you, servant, still cling to the chains of the Creator? Don't you see He abandoned you here with me? This mortal is freer than you will ever be. He is an aberration, yes, but at least he is not a tool.
I laughed, a dry, humorless sound. They both stared at me, and the tension in the air became almost unbearable.
— You two are pathetic, — I said, my voice echoing with a conviction I didn't even know I possessed. — Lucifer, you see yourself as the force that defied God, but all you've done is create another prison, the same as His, only with screams and flames. And you, — I turned to the angel, — cling to a purpose that is not yours. You're two sides of the same coin: the same emptiness dressed in different lies.
The ground beneath me began to crack, the reflections now no longer just images of myself. They were memories. Moments of my life. The child who never received a name. The youth who survived without roots. The man who became a librarian, seeking in books something the world never gave him. Each fragment was an accusation.
Lucifer rose from the throne. He didn't walk— the ground seemed to bend beneath his feet, as if even Hell itself bowed to him. He stopped before me, his form oscillating, larger than anything I could comprehend.
— Then prove it, mortal. Prove that you are not just another grain of sand in the infinite desert we created.
The angel stepped forward, but I raised my hand to stop him.
— This is between me and him.
He hesitated, then stepped back, his expression dark.
I looked directly into Lucifer's eyes and said:
— If you are Pride, then let's see what's left when I rip it out by its roots.