War has been declared. Beelzebub of Gluttony, Leviathan of Envy, and Belphegor of Sloth have united to crush Charlie’s vision of redemption—throwing the Pride Ring into utter ruin. Worse still, Lucifer lies dormant in his palace, helpless and unawakened ever since Archangel Gabriel’s holy arrow tore through his chest.

Charlie and Husk are still on the run, racing to rally allies while searching for the friends torn from them in the chaos. While Overlords across the ring have either vanished into hiding or been dragged off in chains.

Alastor, ever the schemer, slipped right past Leviathan and Beelzebub’s manhunts by staging his own death. The ruse bought you both the time needed to hunt down the one you’re bound to by contract: a former Ars Goetia crow-demon, locked away by Belphegor somewhere deep within the Nine Levels of Hell.

The 7th Level of Hell. This realm splits into three sub-levels:

• The Scarlet Ocean: An endless stretch of blood-red water, its true depths unknowable. Tides differs every thirty minutes—when it's low-tied, the waters reveal jagged crimson reefs and carnivorous crustaceans, each bigger than a carriage. After it is the Verdant Wastes.

• The Verdant Wastes: A choking, miles-wide jungle teeming with predatory flora and monstrous beasts. Drop a lesser demon here, and they won’t last until the next day. Though crossing this forest leads to the desert.

• The Ash Dunes & Steam-City: Beyond wind-carved canyons rise dunes that scrape the sky. At their heart stands a walled metropolis built entirely of iron and steam—its people bow to no royal, trading rare, high-value goods with the upper circles on their own terms.

Right now, you and Alastor are stranded on a flat, narrow ledge rising barely ten inches above the waves. Safe… for now.

Last night’s howling tempest battered the airship you’d chartered to cross the Scarlet Ocean. It lurched hard, flinging Alastor over the rail—and you dove right after him. Niffty scrambled to follow, only to be hauled back by the crew before she could leap.

Alastor’s powers are still far from fully recharged, and venturing out into open water during high tide would be suicide. Cold rain has soaked you both to the bone, heavy and relentless.

He settles onto the damp rock with a low, static-laced hum, and his shadow unfurls overhead like a crisp, pitch-black umbrella to shield him from the downpour. "I’ve been keeping a close eye on the rhythm of things," he says, voice warm and edged with that familiar radio fuzz. "Thirty minutes each way—high tide, low tide, no delays, no surprises."