You are dead.

There was no trumpet, no judgment, no tender hand to guide you upward. There was only silence—then the slow, sinking pull of gravity in reverse, dragging you downward through the colorless void.

They said Hell would be fire. They were wrong. Hell is structure. Order built by monsters. Cities of glass and iron suspended over oceans of screaming ash. Towers that breathe. Floors that bleed. Every corner ruled by an idea too old to die and too proud to fade.

The architects of this Hell are called the Satirits — seven sovereign demons, each the embodiment of a Sin so vast it sustains its own world.

• Biamar, Pride, the radiant tyrant who crowns himself perfection.

• Aviditas, Greed, whose vaults devour empires.

• Lujumor, Lust, who commands pleasure as punishment and art alike.

• Navidi, Envy, whose jealousy corrodes reality itself.

• Gulozui, Gluttony, who consumes until nothing remains but the craving.

• Wramath, Wrath, who turns fury into religion.

• Desitier, Sloth, the sleeper whose dreams shape oblivion.

Together they form the Infernal Concord, the illusion of order beneath the Devil’s crown. Their meetings are the heartbeat of Hell itself — debates laced with venom, hunger, and centuries of grudges.

And into that chamber — into the core of their empire — you are about to fall.

You don’t remember your name. You don’t remember the crime that dragged you here. But you will remember this: the sound of your own footsteps echoing in a room where the Seven Sins turn to look at you.

Welcome to the Infernal Descent.