Hell
Hell was not fire.
Hell was paperwork.
And if you've ever stared down a thousand-year budget deficit in demonspawn infantry rations—complete with procurement disputes over whether molten brimstone or fermented nightmare extract was the more "cost-effective" sustenance—you'll understand why even fire might've been preferable.
I lounged—dramatically, for emphasis—on my obsidian throne carved from the broken bones of fallen angels. Oh, don't get excited—they were very whiny. They still are, actually. The rib on my left elbow occasionally moans about "due process."
I slumped into one of the four gory pillows sewn from the scalp-skin of history's worst traitors. Judas had the softest weave. Benedict Arnold added just the right touch of flaky oil.
"Hekazhul," I groaned, dragging a claw across my temple as though I could scratch out the memory of the last few hours, "how long have we been at this meeting?"
The hulking red-skinned general blinked his six eyes—yes, six, because two weren't nearly enough for his incompetence—and flexed the leathered wings on his back like he thought they made him look more commanding and less like a sunburned bat.
"Sixteen hours, My Sovereign. You decreed we would cover all eleven Legions and the infrastructure deficit in the Cursed Marshes."
Ah. That was me. Classic.
I sighed, rubbing the bridge of my nose, which crunched ominously under my talon. The bone underneath was solid infernal iron—gifted to me by the Torment Artificer of the Third Ring during our "eternal brotherhood" pact. The gift was cursed, of course. With eternal awareness.
"You okay, boss?" asked the nose, its voice a tinny groan. "You're rubbing me again."
I groaned louder than the nose.
Sixteen hours.
Sixteen flaming hours discussing supply lines in the River of Screams, which, despite its name, was remarkably shallow in both water and organizational structure.
Sixteen hours listening to devils bicker over whose lesser imps were urinating in which acid pits, and whether the economy should pivot to soul futures or despair harvesting. Yes, despair harvesting. It's a volatile market—great for shorts, bad for morale.
In the background, two ministers were having a whispered but vicious argument over procurement forms for new pitchforks. I caught snippets.
"But these ones gleam," hissed the Head of Punitive Implements.
"We don't need them to gleam, we need them to stab efficiently," snapped the Deputy Director of Impalement Affairs.
I mentally added both of them to my "Unscheduled Pitfall Review" list.
This was eternity?
This was what I conquered the Nine Hells for?
I leaned my head back and let the flames of the throne lick my horned crown, mostly to remind myself I was still capable of experiencing some sensation, even if it was just light third-degree burns.
"Tell me, Vorkul," I said, gesturing lazily at the finance minister—whose skull was now half-transparent from overexposure to cursed abacuses—"what are the returns on sorrow this quarter?"
Vorkul, who resembled a tax auditor trapped halfway through a transformation into a banshee, shuffled forward.
"Slightly up due to the war in Sector Twelve," he said, flicking through a scroll woven from mortal regrets—mostly ones that read "should've married Jenna" or "why did I trust Greg with my startup idea?"
"...but overshadowed by the drop in betrayal bonds. It's the lack of creative sinners, Your Majesty."
Of course it is.
No one was cheating inventively anymore. It used to be glorious—false messiahs, kingdom-toppling betrayals, ancient curses rewritten in blood. Now it's all texting someone else's girlfriend and making fake refund claims on e-commerce platforms.
The last dramatic betrayal we had involved a guy lying about recycling. And even that got his soul fast-tracked straight to the Guilt Wastes.
A small imp burst in through the rear gate of the chamber, breathless and waving a flaming scroll.
"Sire! Update from the Eternal Torture Division!"
I raised a brow.
"Let me guess," I said flatly. "Another uprising among the professional screamers?"
The imp flinched. "They've unionized, my lord."
Of course they have.
"Demanding vocal rest days and throat lozenges," he added. "Also, one of them is threatening a tell-all memoir."
I pinched the bridge of my nose again. "This is what I get for offering dental."
The thing is… I had ruled Hell for so long that eternity had stopped having flavor.
Not even torment soufflé sparked joy anymore. Not that it ever did—it tastes like burnt dreams and lukewarm tax returns—but still. The little things used to excite me.
My generals plotted. My ministers budgeted. My servants bled on the carpets with professional timing and the resigned grace of Broadway performers in a doomed musical titled "Why, Why?"
And I, Asmodus the Infinite, Sovereign of the Crimson absyss, whose very breath could wither the hearts of gods…
…I was bored.
Bored like a demon at a vegan buffet.
Bored like a cursed relic stuck in a thrift store.
Bored like a minor deity at a corporate networking mixer.
Kill me, I said inwardly.