Far below the light of the infirmary, beyond the Colosseum's echoing halls and divine praise, there lay a chamber untouched by sun or stars.
Carved from celestial stone and bound by ancient runes, the deep vaults held only one thing: Shigenori.
He lay strapped to a wide table that pulsed faintly with divine energy—golden veins flickering beneath its obsidian surface. Thick restraints of holy cloth and celestial iron wrapped around his wrists, ankles, chest, and forehead. Not to keep him in place…
…but to keep something else from escaping.
Shigenori's body trembled violently. His skin was shifting—patches of pale flesh overtaken by creeping rivers of purple and green poison. The hellish toxin slithered beneath the surface like snakes under ice, forming jagged trails across his arms, his neck, his chest.
His eyes snapped open.
He screamed.
It was guttural. It wasn't just pain—it was transformation. Agony laced with something otherworldly. Something wrong.
His veins glowed. For a moment, his pupils weren't human. One eye flashed a deep, burning indigo, the other a twisted emerald. Then they rolled back, his back arching off the table before the restraints slammed him back down.
From the shadows in the corner of the chamber… something moved.
The shadowy figure emerged again, silent as ever. It watched from beneath the hood, arms crossed behind its back, a quiet hum vibrating around its presence like it was in sync with the corrupted energy inside Shigenori.
The figure didn't speak.
It just… observed.
Shigenori thrashed again, gasping for breath. His lips cracked open, purple mist curling out like steam from a dying volcano.
Then the figure finally stepped forward—just one step.
The reaction was instant.
The poison surged.
Shigenori's body went stiff, as if sensing something it feared more than the pain. His head jerked toward the figure, even though his eyes were still rolled back. A guttural voice—not fully his—spilled from his throat:
"yOu ShOuLdNt Be HeRe…"
The voice was warped—part human, part… something else. Shigenori coughed violently, blood mixed with green sludge spitting onto the stone.
The shadowy figure tilted its head slightly. Still quiet. Still studying.
Then, in a cold, clinical tone, it finally whispered:
"The infection is no longer spreading… it's thinking."
Shigenori's head suddenly snapped to the left, then violently to the right, his hair sticking to his damp forehead. His chest rose in rapid bursts. Then—
His eyes shifted.
No more green. No more purple.
Just wide, terrified brown eyes. His voice cracked, returning to something real. Something human.
"Please… I'm just a kid," he gasped, weakly tugging at the restraints. "Please… help me…"
It was raw panic. Vulnerable. Like someone who just woke up from a nightmare—only to realize it wasn't a dream at all.
But mercy didn't answer him.
The transformation struck again like a hammer. His face contorted, and he let out a feral snarl. Veins erupted with glowing blight as his body twisted. His wrists flexed hard against the restraints, muscles bulging unnaturally.
Then—the table lit up.
Golden runes ignited beneath him, and suddenly every strap and every corner of the slab flared with divine energy. Where he touched it, his skin burned, releasing smoke and a sharp hiss.
Shigenori screamed—louder than before.
The restraints forced him still again, locking him into place as the corrupted form recoiled.
A moment passed.
His body slumped back. His chest heaved. His eyes, once more, turned normal—but this time, glazed and barely conscious. He looked up, mouth parted, trembling.
The shadowy figure stepped forward, now close enough for its voice to echo gently against the stone chamber walls.
"Do you know where you are, boy?" it asked.
Shigenori blinked slowly.
"You're beneath the Hall of the Gods. In the Sanctum of Conversion. That table you're on? It's called the Throne of Tempering. Only those with a chance to survive Neatherblight are placed upon it."
He paused.
"You are… the first."
Shigenori's cracked lips barely moved. "W-What is… Neatherblight?"
The figure walked around the table with deliberate steps.
"People call it Hell Poison," he said, his voice calm. "A nickname born from fear. But its true name is Neatherblight. A toxin from the deepest layer of the infernal planes—collected from the corpses of ancient fallen demons, liquefied in the lakes of damnation."
He stopped walking, now standing directly beside the boy's head.
"It doesn't just kill. It corrupts."
The shadowy figure raised a gloved hand, letting a flicker of dark green mist swirl from his fingertips.
"It replaces. It adapts. It tests your soul against itself. Neatherblight doesn't spread like a virus—it negotiates… with the parts of you that are already broken."
Shigenori winced, his breathing still rapid. "Why… am I still alive?"
The figure looked down at him, unmoving.
"Because you're the only human whose body hasn't rejected it or been consumed outright. Your cells… your soul… are fighting back."
He paused. Then added, with a note of intrigue:
"You shouldn't exist."
The chamber stayed silent for a beat. The boy's breathing echoed louder than before, the divine restraints humming faintly beneath him.
Then, the shadowy figure stepped closer.
"I'm going to give you two choices," he said coldly. "And there's only one correct answer."
Shigenori's half-lidded eyes twitched open again.
"Either…" the figure began, his tone low and deliberate, "you give up. Leave everything and everyone behind. And I send you straight to Hell."
The weight of the word Hell lingered.
"Somewhere… someone like you would probably belong. A being so dangerous, so unstable, you'd fit right in." His voice dripped with mocking pity.
Then, he shifted.
"Or… you serve in the All Mighty's plan."
Shigenori's fingers curled weakly on the table.
"You get back at the one who did this to you. You take the pain, the fire, the corruption… and you burn it into vengeance. You help us end Lucifer."
Shigenori's eyes narrowed. His voice, hoarse, managed to rise above a whisper.
"If I'm really that much of a risk… what's the catch if I choose the second one?"
The figure smiled.
"There's no catch."
He leaned in slightly, voice quiet and precise.
"You help us defeat Lucifer… and I guarantee the All Mighty will purge the Hell Poison from your body. Every last trace."
Shigenori's face tightened.
"Then why can't he do it now?"
The shadowy figure let out a short, sarcastic breath—half chuckle, half scoff.
"Because…" he said, turning away slightly, "you're far too valuable as you are now."
Silence settled between them again. Shigenori stared up at the ceiling, his mind racing behind glassy eyes. Then his voice cracked again.
"My sister…"
The shadowy figure didn't answer.
"Is she okay?"
There was a pause. A long one.
Too long.
Then, with grim finality, the figure said:
"She wasn't so fortunate."
That was all it took.
Shigenori's heart seemed to explode within his chest. He gasped—once, twice—and then the tears broke. Violent sobs took over as his body trembled.
"No… no, no, no—" he shook his head against the table, each word breaking apart in his throat. "That's not true! That's not— I was supposed to save her! I was supposed to save her!"
His voice roared now, shattering across the stone walls. His head jerked upward and then slammed down, again and again, trying to fight the glowing table, eyes flashing a deep crimson, streaked with burning green and purple.
The restraints held him—but barely.
He screamed, from the marrow of his soul, a sound no one should ever hear from someone so young.
The shadowy figure turned away, his steps slow and casual as he made his way toward the exit of the chamber.
At the edge of the shadowy doorway, he paused… and whispered to the dark:
"I think I've got my answer."
And with that, he vanished into the corridor, leaving only the echoes of pain behind.