In the lowest depths of Hell, where the flames scorched with a dark crimson hue, the inferno burned endlessly, consuming all who dared exist within its grasp. For over a millennia, these unholy fires raged, but deep within them lay a figure—something neither man nor beast, but an amalgamation of torment and endurance.
His body, though vaguely human, was mangled and scarred beyond recognition. Long, white hair clung to his scorched skin, filthy and unkempt, a testament to endless suffering. His face was a haunting sight: his mouth sewn shut with thick, jagged threads, denying him even the release of a scream, and his eye sockets were empty voids, weeping shadows instead of tears.
This was Azrael, a soul neither broken nor consumed by hatred, but something far more terrifying—a man who refused to hate, even in the face of eternal anguish. He bore his suffering with an unnatural calm, his silence a defiance that no torment could breach. His soul did not burn with vengeance or rage but with an unshakable resolve, a quiet strength that the flames could not extinguish.
In the suffocating silence of Hell's deepest pit, the ever-present flames surrounding Azrael abruptly vanished with a sharp snap of Lucifer's fingers. The darkness grew heavier, the air thicker, as Azrael's scorched and broken figure remained motionless.
"Azrael," Lucifer's voice dripped with malice, echoing across the void. "It's time to drink."
Lucifer's appearance was as regal as it was terrifying, a being of overwhelming presence that radiated both power and malice. His form was tall and imposing, standing well above any mortal or demon. His skin, pale and flawless, seemed to shimmer faintly as though carved from marble, yet it exuded a faint glow like embers hidden beneath a layer of ash.
Two black horns, sharp and curling slightly backward, jutted from his forehead, glowing faintly red at their tips as if they were forged in Hell's flames. His long, jet-black hair cascaded down his back, moving subtly as though caught in an unseen wind. His eyes were perhaps the most striking feature—pools of molten gold, swirling and shifting like liquid fire, betraying an eternal knowledge and cruelty that no being could comprehend.
The grotesque stitches sealing Azrael's mouth unraveled themselves, the thick black threads slithering away like living things. Before Azrael could even respond, Lucifer seized his jaw with clawed fingers, forcing it open. From a jagged, blackened chalice, the Prince of Darkness poured Hell's boiling water into Azrael's throat. This liquid, said to burn through the flesh and intestines of even the most hardened of demons, flowed into him like molten iron.
There was no reaction. No screams, no flinch, no signs of pain. Azrael swallowed it easily, his charred body unmoving. The first time he had been subjected to this torment, he had screamed until his throat was raw and vomited blood. But now, he simply endured, his silence more defiant than any words.
Lucifer grinned, a twisted expression of satisfaction and frustration. "Do you know why you are subjected to these torments, Azrael?" His voice was cold and unyielding. "Because the Goddess of Sight glimpsed a fragment of the future. She saw humanity's most depraved creature—an abomination unlike any other. A being with no feelings, no regret, and no mortality. She saw you."
Lucifer leaned closer, his fiery gaze boring into Azrael's hollow eye sockets. "You are humanity's greatest failure. The embodiment of sin, devoid of salvation. You will never escape this, Azrael. You will remain here, punished for what you are destined to become."
But as Lucifer's words hung in the air, Azrael remained calm, his silence unbroken. For he felt neither anger nor fear, only the steady, unshakable resolve that burned within him—a quiet strength that even Hell's mightiest torment could not extinguish.
Azrael's voice, hoarse and cracked from centuries of silence, scraped through the heavy air like the groan of ancient iron. "Lucifer," he rasped, his stitched mouth barely moving as the last threads uncoiled. "Why punish me?"
Lucifer paused, his smirk faltering as the words cut through the oppressive void.
"You took my humanity," Azrael continued, his tone devoid of anger or bitterness, only an unsettling calm. "All I have left is a body shaped like a man and a face of utter disregard. Yet my heart…" His hollow sockets seemed to bore into Lucifer, a haunting emptiness that swallowed even Hell's light. "My heart is empty."
The silence that followed was almost deafening, save for the faint hiss of lingering embers.
"I don't feel hatred," Azrael said, his voice carrying a weight that even the Prince of Darkness found unnerving. "Nor the urge to take revenge. You've stripped me of everything, even the very essence that makes torment meaningful. What, then, is this punishment meant to accomplish?"
Lucifer leaned closer, his grin twisting into something darker, something less certain. For a fleeting moment, the great tormentor of Hell hesitated, as if confronted by a puzzle even he could not solve.
"That is why you are so dangerous," Lucifer murmured, more to himself than to Azrael. "A man without hatred, without vengeance, without feeling… You're an abyss, Azrael. And I'm beginning to wonder if even Hell can contain you."
Lucifer snapped his fingers, and the jagged black threads returned, violently sewing Azrael's mouth shut once more. The torment resumed, relentless and merciless. The flames burned hotter, their intensity rising with every cycle, consuming him in ways that would obliterate even the most resilient of souls. Each new torment was more horrifying than the last, designed to break his mind, his body, and his soul.
But Azrael didn't care. He neither screamed nor fought back. He simply endured, his empty sockets staring into the void as though nothing in Hell could touch him anymore. Over the centuries, the fires became darker, sharper, more insidious, but Azrael remained unchanged—or so it seemed.
After a millennium of torment, something began to shift. Deep within Azrael's scarred and broken body, a new kind of power began to take shape—a Depravity Heart. This twisted, unique creation pulsed within him, a black mass of festering curses and unspeakable disease. Its surface writhed like a living plague, emanating an aura so vile that even demons recoiled at its presence.
The Depravity Heart was unlike anything Hell had ever seen. It didn't simply endure the torment—it absorbed it, thrived on it. Every curse, every agony, every drop of suffering was drawn into the heart, making it stronger and darker. This heart was Azrael's ultimate form of defiance, a grotesque testament to his transformation.
Who was Azrael?
Azrael was born from depravity, his soul a void that even the fires of Hell could not fill. Though he once appeared human, his torment revealed his true nature—something far more sinister, more incomprehensible. The Goddess of Sight had warned of him, long before his torment began.
"Beware of Azrael," she had prophesied. "He is humanity's most depraved creation. A being born without emotion, without remorse. He will show no regret, no mercy. And when the time comes, he may prove to be more sinister than even Satan himself."