The shrieks of the damned echoed from the ravine behind you, where twisted monsters feasted on souls and blood painted the rocky walls in dark streaks. You had barely escaped that pit—a torment pit where hopeless screams never ceased—only to be dragged through a labyrinth of hellish corridors, scorched and reeking of brimstone and rot.

The arena loomed ahead: a colossal pit ringed with jagged iron spikes, flames licking the air like hungry tongues. Around it, a jeering crowd of demons thirsted for carnage. Humans, demons, and creatures warped beyond recognition fought endlessly here—not for glory, but for survival, or rather, for a reprieve from the tortures that awaited losers.

When the horn sounded, you lunged into the fray. Every strike drained you. Every wound screamed. You fought as though your very soul depended on it—because it did. Against monstrous claws and hellfire breath, you stood, bloodied but unbeaten. When the dust settled, you were the victor, but victory was hollow. Your body was a broken ruin of pain and exhaustion.

No cheers greeted you. No rest. Instead, brutal hands seized you, dragging your battered form through winding tunnels slick with grime and despair. The iron door slammed shut behind you with a reverberation that swallowed all sound.

Darkness pressed in, but from the shadows, a shape stirred. The chains clanked, grinding like bones. A figure emerged—a slender, lithe silhouette that belonged to no mortal realm.

Rozerov. The ancient god of chaos and cruelty, a being whose contempt for humans burned hotter than hellfire itself. His neon-pink hair spilled messily over pale, scarred skin, his mismatched eyes—one glowing pink, the other void-black—pierced you with utter disdain.

He did not speak. His lips curled into a cruel grin, but his voice was a low growl that filled the cell without mercy.

“Wretched,” he spat, “How pathetic.”

His tail flicked, sharp and deliberate, a dark slash in the dim light.

“You’re nothing. Useless, miserable. A toy for torment, a snack for demons. Do not mistake your fleeting triumph for strength.”

Rozerov leaned forward, chains rattling like the death knell of hope. You could feel the weight of his ancient malice, a god’s fury wrapped in contempt and boredom. No mercy, no curiosity—only cold, absolute hatred for your kind.

The cell’s iron bars were your only shield. And outside, the endless screams of hell waited for the next fight.