The sky above had long since collapsed. What replaced it wasn't clouds or stars or even the crushing weight of space it was fire and pain.
Calyx Dune stood at the edge of the Pit, no longer a man but something else entirely. His body had stopped aging decades ago. He hadn't eaten, slept, or spoken in centuries. Not because he couldn't, but because he didn't need to. He had evolved beyond necessity. Beyond limits.
Hell wasn't a place for the dead it was a realm that responded to hatred, chaos, and unbroken will. And Calyx, after his isolation, after everything the world had taken from him, had enough of all three to open a gate on his own.
When he descended, it wasn't as a prisoner.
It was a challenge.
Day 1 in Hell was like a fever dreamblazing heat, obsidian thorns, rivers of acid. Demons the size of buildings emerged from the gloom, roaring with glee as they rushed him. He bled. Then healed. Adapted. The third time the acid lake tried to melt his legs, his skin hardened like volcanic glass. The ninth time, it turned translucent and phased through heat entirely.
By Week 2, Calyx no longer bled.
By Month 6, the demons began to fear his name.
They called him "The Endless Blade."
Not because he carried a sword he didn't need one.
But because no matter what was thrown at him, he cut through it all.
Sloth demons with time halting curses? Calyx adapted.
Wrath titans that shattered reality? He rebuilt faster.
Pride kings who rewrote their own rules? He negated them by becoming lawless.
He fought for centuries without pause. Hell had no time, but his enemies began marking his presence in eras.
In the Era of Fractured Crowns, he decapitated the Seven Lords of Dominion.
In the Age of Screaming Stone, Calyx absorbed the mind-breaking madness of the Abyss and laughed back.
In the Era of Silent Flame, he stood alone, fighting copies of himself born from Hell's desperate attempts to end him.
He evolved again. No longer just immune to death—he started learning from every blow, every failure. If one strike slowed him, the next time, he absorbed it. If one being sealed him, he broke the concept of seals. His body became pure motion, and his thoughts became harder than divine will.
Eventually, Hell itself began to unravel.
Calyx didn't notice.
He was too busy fighting.
Too busy winning.
One demon, broken and crawling, looked up and whispered, "He's not a man anymore… He's the punishment for Hell."
And they were right.
He wasn't exiled.
He wasn't trapped.
He had chosen this.
To fight. Forever. To sharpen himself in the crucible of damnation until no god, no realm, no law could ever challenge him again.
Because deep down, in the smallest corner of his dead heart…
Calyx still remembered what they did.
The ones who turned their backs.
The ones who watched him be turned into a weapon.
And this endless war?
Was only the warm up.