The Devil of Cattivo

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.

They were still speaking, technically. Forever. One was currently muttering something about the economy. I tuned him out, as was tradition.

The chandeliers were made of ribcages, naturally—ripped from politicians who had claimed they had "backbone." I like to think of it as ironic interior design. The floor was a checkerboard of skulls and molten tears. Every time you stepped, something whimpered.

It was cute at first.

 Now it was just loud.

 I briefly considered soundproofing the floor with heretic spleens.

My generals stood before me—towering beasts of shadow and brass, muscle and malice, wings like scythes, each of them looking like they'd been generated by a metal band's worst fever dream. They argued in seven languages at once: Infernal, Classical Infernal, Screaming, Middle Screaming, Legalese, High Whispers, and Budgetary Cantonese.

"—the Third Legion was promised extra brimstone and ceremonial entrails—"

"—those entrails were allocated to the Pit Feast of Woe last cycle—"

"—if you'd read the Torture Forecast, you'd know entrail reserves are down 17%—"

"LIES!"

"Numbers!"

Clawed hands gestured, teeth snapped, wings slapped against one another like a violent flamenco.

And me?

I stared at them and wondered—not for the first time—what it might feel like to be not me.

 To be… mortal.

Soft.

 Stupid.

 Fragile.

But also—free.

Free to stub your toe and curse without summoning actual curses.

 Free to eat things with sugar in them instead of sin content.

 Free to die of embarrassment instead of eternal damnation.

 Free to fall in love and stumble in the dark and write bad poetry about it.

I was mortal once.

 Some eons before.

 Now I forget.

I remember rain. I think.

 Or maybe it was just ash falling upwards. Romantic either way.

"Your Majesty," General Hekazhul interrupted my daydream, "we await your command on the East Hellgate dispute."

I blinked.

 "What dispute?"

"Whether to build a second Gate of Gnashing Teeth or to reroute the damned tide through the Fields of Filth."

Dear Infernal Mother.

 I should have vaporized the entire council.

Instead, I smiled—and that alone made half of them flinch. My smile was said to have withered twelve planets during the Second Nether War.

"My fellow demons and devils," I said, spreading my wings dramatically. "I have come to a decision far greater than where to reroute sewage."

They leaned in. Hekazhul's wings twitched. Vorkul dropped his scroll.

 I rose to my feet, the room dimming as I towered above them, crimson light pouring from my eyes. My voice shook the foundations of damnation itself.

"I am bored."

The silence afterward was deafening.

"Forgive me, My Lord?" Vorkul asked meekly.

"I said," I declared, now floating a few feet in the air, "I. Am. Bored. This"—I gestured to everything—"this loop of paperwork and demonic HOA meetings—is a purgatory worse than anything I've ever assigned to mortals!"

Hekazhul stepped back. "You… you are not pleased with our management?"

I descended slowly. "Hekazhul, do you know how many reincarnations I've personally denied this week?"

"Seventy-six thousand."

"And how many have I denied every week for the past ten millennia?"

"Roughly the same."

"Exactly." I threw my arms up. "Nothing changes. There's no challenge. No excitement. No—philosophy."

"My Lord," whispered Vorkul, clutching his scroll, "you are the Sovereign. You are the change."

"No," I said softly. "No. I was the change. Now I'm just the bureaucracy."

And that's when the idea came to me.

 Like a fallen star through the rotting sky of my soul.

What if…

 What if I sacrificed everything—my immortal devil core, my infernal mana wellspring—and flung myself through the Cycle?

To be born again. Fresh. Weak. Human.

To start from scratch.

 To taste the world as one of its insignificant mortals.

It would cost me everything, of course. My powers. My legacy. My terrifyingly good cheekbones.

But it would be worth it—for a taste of uncertainty.

I raised my right hand. The entire room dimmed.

"My subjects," I said, "prepare the Circle of Causality."

Vorkul gasped. "But—but that spell requires the Sovereign's Core—!"

"Exactly," I smiled. "It's a sacrifice."

"You'll lose everything."

"Not everything," I murmured, as the floor cracked beneath my feet and the symbols began to glow with ancient fire. "I'll keep my name."

That's the one thing I wouldn't give up.

They begged. Of course they did.

 Kneeled. Wailed. Threatened to stab themselves to death out of loyalty.

But I wasn't moved.

Not anymore.

I stood in the center of the summoning ring, tore my mana core from my chest—a throbbing obsidian orb of malevolent power—and raised it to the bleeding heavens.

"My soul for chaos.

 My body for fate.

 Let me burn and bloom anew—

 as the world's fool!"

And I cast it.

The core shattered.

 The flames consumed me.

 And darkness followed.

When I opened my eyes, I expected pain.

 But what I felt was…

Warm.

Soft.

Smothering?

"WAAAAAAAAAAH!"