Part 1 here

Now that I’ve given you a background on what the City of Hell is like, I should tell you more about some of the other most dangerous and horrific parts of the City that I encountered while I was trapped in Hell. Hopefully my warnings and descriptions will help you know what to do—and more importantly, what to avoid. What follows are some of my attempts at journaling the next steps of my life in Hell, and the horrors I experienced—and, in some cases, managed to narrowly avoid.

After I lost my life to the ravages of the Sewers, and rebirthed in a growth pod, I once again foraged my way through the City, encountering additional horrors that put to shame some of the places I had previously visited.

The Unholy Cathedral

I’ve gone out of my way to avoid this place. After hearing tales of it from mind-wrecked victims, I took heed and steered far clear of this bastion of evil.

In the twisted heart of the City, where darkness reigns and agony is the currency of existence, there stands an edifice that defies the very essence of the infernal realm—something I know only as the Unholy Cathedral of Hell, although I think its adherents call it something else. This imposing structure, built from stone and bone, rises against the backdrop of the tormented city like a defiant monument to the divine in a world devoid of divinity.

But its followers are not worshipers of anything close to the divine.

The Cathedral, with its spires built out of sinew and spines, is a paradoxical sight. Its grandeur contrasts starkly with the desolation that surrounds it, and its gothic architecture seems out of place in a realm where chaos and brutality hold sway. But the Cathedral is not a beacon of salvation; it is a focal point for a peculiar and sinister cult.

The cult that congregates within, who I have heard call themselves the “Ministers of Dis,” is not a cult that seeks redemption or enlightenment. No, their beliefs are as twisted as the world they inhabit. They claim to be followers of a deity, or demon, that revels in suffering, a god of cruelty and malevolence. This dark entity, nameless and inscrutable, is said to hold dominion over the torments of Hell itself.

The Ministers are an eclectic mix of the damned, drawn from various tribes and backgrounds. They wear robes of black and crimson, their faces often obscured by masks carved from bone, leather, or occasionally cast in metal. Their rituals are a grotesque dance of devotion, involving self-inflicted wounds, chanting of infernal incantations, and offerings of blood and pain.

It is said that at the center of the Cathedral stands an altar, a jagged monolith of obsidian that seems to drink in the despair of all who approach it. Here, it’s told that the cultists perform their most extreme acts of devotion, channeling their anguish and anguish into dark rituals that are said to please their malevolent god.

But the Cathedral of Hell is not a place of solace or unity. Within its walls, power struggles and betrayals are as common as whispers of damnation. The cultists vie for the favor of their god, seeking to curry its twisted blessings through acts of sadism and brutality. To outsiders, they might appear as a unified force, but within their ranks, the thirst for power burns with a ferocity that rivals the very fires of Hell.

As one might expect in a realm where survival is paramount, consorting with the cult often comes at a steep price. The cultists have been known to demand not just loyalty, but sacrifices in the form of flesh and blood. Those who refuse to pay such a price often find themselves subjected to the most sadistic torments the cult can devise, as those who defy them suffer extended periods of torture that are designed to keep the victims alive for as long as physically possible while exacting the most pain from their husks.

I learned these accounts through a series of damned denizens I encountered over my years in Hell—the few capable of speaking, that is. Some were so broken that a mere mention of the “Cathedral” sent them into spasms of sent them fleeing into the darkness of the City.

The Cathedral of Hell and its enigmatic cult stand as a testament to the dark corners of the human psyche, where even in the bleakest of circumstances, devotion and fervor can flourish. Their practices may be monstrous, their beliefs unfathomable, but they are a reminder that even in the deepest abyss, twisted souls can find a purpose—even if that purpose is born from the very depths of damnation itself.

Personally, I doubt their beliefs derive from any god or even demon. From what I’ve seen of the people of Hell, one need look no further than the evil thoughts of mankind to develop this sadism.

Gehenna

Gehenna, the accursed realm beyond the City of Hell, is a desolate wasteland of ash and distant mountains. While it seems devoid of the typical torments of Hell, it could be described as its own unique circle of Hell. As the damned venture further into the depths of this nightmarish domain, they encounter a landscape that defies all semblance of reason and sanity—or so I am told.

I met another denizen of Hell once. I don’t remember his name—we don’t usually bother asking. I’ll recount his story as best I can recall:

“The journey to Gehenna is an arduous one, where the stench of decay and suffering grows ever more suffocating. The ground beneath your feet turns from jagged rocks to dusty ash after a few miles of walking. Those who dare to traverse this treacherous path do so with a mixture of dread and desperation, driven by the faint glimmer of hope that drives their walk—could there be a chance to escape Hell, or at least the horrors of the city?

But food is nonexistent here. There is no rain. The journey through Gehenna is a test of endurance, and only the strongest and most cunning can hope to survive—if one can even call it that. Your body wastes away as you walk endlessly if you go on long enough. And yet you seemingly make no progress. And when one turns around, you find yourself no further than a few steps outside the City, your body turning to dust as you die from rapid decay.”

I have never ventured into Gehenna myself, and after hearing this account, I have no desire to do so.

The Library

Perhaps the one place of relative “solace” (relative, mind you—it is not safe, or what is left of it) was the Library of Hell. I stumbled across its ruins once while traversing across the City in search of a new place to take shelter. The lone man I encountered there was, surprisingly, not hostile—although understandably wary. I was in no mood for a fight and prepared myself for defense, but he invited me to sit by his small fire and to share a morsel of food.

I asked him why and he said he only wished to tell me a story, in exchange for my promise to spread the story myself. I agreed. I will do my best to honor that promise now.

In the heart of the accursed City, amidst the chaos and brutality, there arose an audacious ambition: to create a haven of knowledge in the very depths of Hell. The idea of a library, a repository of wisdom and understanding, seemed like a flicker of hope in a realm devoid of reason and compassion. But in a place where survival was the only currency, where brute force reigned supreme, the dream of a library faced insurmountable challenges.

A group of residents, driven by their memories of the world they once knew, set out to build this bastion of knowledge. They called themselves the Librarians. They scoured the city for any semblance of writing, be it tattered pages of forgotten attempts at journals made from human leather, to even crude etchings on the walls. They hoarded every scrap they found, cherishing these fragments of a lost world as though they were treasures beyond measure.

The location chosen for the library was an abandoned building, its walls charred and scarred by countless battles that had raged through the city. It was not an ideal place for such a noble endeavor, but in Hell, one took what they could get. The Librarians worked tirelessly, salvaging stones and materials from the ruins to mend the shattered structure.

Their labor was not without danger. Rival tribes, ever eager to seize any advantage, saw the library as a potential source of power and dominance. The defenders of the library fought fiercely, driven not just by a desire to protect the knowledge within but by the belief that there must be something more to life than the unending cycle of violence and torment.

As the library began to take shape, it attracted more damned souls from various tribes, each drawn by the allure of the written word and the promise of a respite from the relentless brutality. They pooled their knowledge, sharing scraps of poetry, fragments of historical records, and even pieces of forbidden lore.

In this unlikely sanctuary of intellect and curiosity, the Librarians became scholars of their own making. They debated ideas, questioned beliefs, and delved into the secrets of forgotten texts. For a brief moment, the hunger for knowledge trumped the hunger for survival.

Yet, as is the nature of Hell, nothing lasts. As the man told me, he was one of the Librarians. The library’s walls, once a symbol of defiance against the savage world outside, began to crumble under the weight of constant assault. Floods swept through the city, drenching the precious manuscripts and reducing them to illegible inkblots.

The inhabitants of the library, disillusioned and disheartened, saw their dream disintegrate before their eyes. They fought to protect what little they had left, but in the end, they were outnumbered and outmatched.

The library was lost, its legacy scattered to the winds. The damned souls who once dared to hope for a glimmer of civilization were left with nothing but the ashes of their ambition. In Hell, even knowledge could not escape the grasp of the unrelenting darkness. It appeared abandoned, save the lone Librarian who remained, when I visited its ruins.

And yet, he told me, perhaps in some far-off corner of the accursed realm, a single page survives—a fragment of the library’s collection that bears witness to the fleeting triumph of the human spirit amidst the horrors of Hell. Perhaps it serves as a testament to the indomitable nature of curiosity and the eternal search for meaning in a world devoid of reason. And so, in the depths of Hell, a spark of knowledge endures, waiting to be kindled again in the hearts of the damned who dare to dream of a brighter tomorrow.

I’m not optimistic. I saw more terrors beyond these. The damned can’t redeem themselves, no matter how hard they try. In the end, the only thing you can count on in Hell is the suffering that its denizens will inflict upon you.