A towering gate of Hell looms beneath a sky choked in ash and endless twilight

A towering gate of Hell looms beneath a sky choked in ash and endless twilight, its massive iron arch veiled by a curtain of pitch-black fabric — embroidered with grotesque, shifting patterns that seem to breathe and weep. The fabric flutters unnaturally, not from wind, but from the tormented whispers that leak through the gate like steam from a rotting wound in the world. Two infernal angels stand sentinel. Each is twice the height of a man, draped in tattered, blood-dark robes that shimmer with infernal runes. One grips a jagged, multi-tailed whip forged from the screams of the damned, its lash twitching like it has a will of its own. The other holds a colossal spiked mace, its head engulfed in slow-burning, hellish fire that never fades — a symbol of divine wrath twisted into damnation. Before them stretches a line of sinners, both men and women, gaunt and trembling, clothed in little more than shreds — their bodies marked by sin, their eyes hollow with terror. They dare not speak. Their cries have long since been spent. One by one, they are called forward, their names echoing from nowhere, their fates sealed not by choice, but by consequence. Around them, the land is dead. The soil bleeds black ichor. The wind howls like a choir of forgotten souls. Far above, the heavens are silent — watching, perhaps, or maybe having turned their gaze away long ago. And beyond the veil, within that cursed gate, lies an eternity of darkness so absolute it devours even memory. This is no myth. This is karma. This is the end.

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