Do you know what's worse than eternal damnation?
Paperwork.
Yes, you heard me.
Here I am, Asmodus—Lord of the Ninth Circle, King of Eternal Flame, Unchallenged Sovereign of Hell's 8.4 million square miles of charred landscape—and what am I doing?
Sitting on a throne made of bone and back pain, listening to demons drone on about quarterly torment quotas.
Hell, contrary to popular belief, is not a nonstop party of screams and brimstone.
It's paperwork.
Mountains of it.
Stacks so high you need a minor deity's permission just to find the bottom.
And there I was, sitting on my Throne of Eternal Ash (which, for the record, is as uncomfortable as it sounds), pretending to listen to the latest soul-harvest reports. My council of ministers and generals stood before me, shuffling papers, clearing throats, and looking like they would rather be literally anywhere else.
Same, honestly.
"My Lord Asmodus," gargled Minister Skibbith, a wretched, slime-covered thing with seven eyes and no lips to cover his teeth (so I always got a full view of his dental disasters), "our torment-to-soul ratio has increased by 4.6% in the Lake of Screams this fiscal—"
For eons—EONS—I had been the ultimate authority of Hell. Breaker of Wills. Destroyer of Empires. King of Suffering. The Big Red Cheese.
And now?
Now I managed quarterly reports.
Now I approved minor policy changes on soul allocation.
Now I held meetings about "maximizing torture output" and "streamlining emotional devastation processes."
Kill me. No, wait. Already dead. Again, then.
I slouched in my throne—the mighty Throne of Ash and Suffering, handcrafted by tortured souls and dark rituals—and picked at a flake of brimstone under my fingernail. Across the chamber, a volcano belched lava into the ceiling. Screaming damned souls formed a sort of ambient background music. Very metal. Very chic.
And yet, my enthusiasm?
Somewhere on the floor with Skibbith's dignity.
How did it come to this?
I once devoured archangels for breakfast and made gods cry. Gods. Plural.
Now I have a budget meeting in Circle Three and a soul-ethics tribunal in Circle Five.
This is what I sold my soul for?
"...and so the Demonic Productivity Index rose to—"
I stood up so fast half the council flinched.
Enough.
ENOUGH.
"Gather round, you pitiful creatures," I announced grandly, flinging my arms wide like I was about to conduct the world's most depressing orchestra.
Skibbith froze mid-sentence, a glob of acidic saliva stretching dramatically from his chin. "M-My lord?"
"Skibbith," I said with all the weariness of a centuries-old father listening to his child explain NFTs. "I have ruled Hell for longer than your grandmother has been stuck in the Pit of Regret. I've burned popes, kings, warlords, and at least three reality TV hosts."
A few generals chuckled nervously. The rest looked like I'd announced a surprise apocalypse. Again.
"And yet," I said, rising slowly, cloak billowing behind me in full 'overdramatic anime villain' mode, "I feel nothing. No thrill. No terror. Not even a good scream."
I paused.
"This. Is. Boring."
Gasps echoed like gossip in a nunnery.
"But Lord Asmodus!" cried General Varrak, who looked like a bull made out of scabs. "You're the Supreme Sovereign of Suffering!"
"Exactly," I said with a sigh, dragging my fingers through my wild mane of obsidian hair. "And suffering includes me. Emotionally."
The chamber fell silent. You could hear a damned soul hiccup in the next volcano.
So, naturally, I did what any rational demon lord would do after an eternity of middle management.
I decided to blow myself up.
"Wait," said someone—I think Minister Gutch, the one with the ears on his elbows—"you're not thinking of that spell again, are you? The Sacrifice of Core—?"
"Oh, I'm not thinking of it. I'm doing it."
I stretched my arms wide, cracked my knuckles, and smirked like I had just remembered where I parked my apocalypse.
"You're all dismissed. Forever. Try not to burn the place down while I'm gone. Or do. Honestly, surprise me."
Before anyone could scream "nooo my lord!" (which several of them did)And before anyone could talk me out of it—
I jammed my hand straight into my chest—yes, physically—and ripped out my Devil Mana Core.
It looked like a lava lamp full of murder and caffeine. Pulsing. Glowing. Spicy.
It hurt.
A lot.
Like getting sucker-punched by a volcano.
Black, crackling energy spilled from the wound. My vision blurred. My body began to splinter like dry wood.
Worth it.
I caught a glimpse of Minister Croxus weeping openly.
Nice to know I'd be missed.
The throne room tilted, the screaming chandeliers spinning around me. With a final bark of laughter, I tore my core free—
And then? Boom.
The throne room exploded in a symphony of light, shadow, and one very satisfying KA-BOOM.
Everything went white.
Reincarnation Log, Entry 1: Help. I'm a baby.
Cold. Wet. Sticky.
Consciousness hit me like a cart full of bad life choices.
I gasped, flailing weakly.
Air. Real, breathable, non-sulfurous air.
Grass poked my skin.
Birds chirped overhead.
Wait.
Birds?!
Squinting against the blindingly cheerful sunlight, I took in my surroundings: an enormous garden bursting with flowers, the sky bluer than my wildest fever dreams, and a pair of disturbingly attractive humans peering down at me like I was the last cake at a royal banquet.
The woman had flowing chestnut hair and soft green eyes, currently glistening with tears.
The man—presumably her husband—had the rugged good looks of someone who probably wrestled bears recreationally.
"My sweet boy!" the woman cooed, cradling me.
"Oh my sweet baby boy! He has your eyes, darling!"
What?
I was scooped up into her arms.
"Look at him! Fuoco Cattivo, heir of the Cattivo family!" the man boomed.
Fuoco. Cattivo. That was my name now? Fire… Bad Guy? What is this, a stage name for a magician?
I tried to scowl. My face squished into a gummy, wrinkly mess.
"Aww! He's frowning! So dignified!"
No, lady, I'm judging you. Stop sniffing me.
So let me get this straight.
I burned my immortal core, shattered my millennia-old empire, and blew up Hell…
To be reborn as a duke's baby.
In a garden.
Wearing a frilly bonnet.
I swear on my remaining pride, if someone puts me in a stroller, I will commit arson with my mind.
Still… the name "Cattivo" rang a bell. One of the Four Great Dukes of the Arneria Empire, right? Rich. Powerful. Fancy socks.
Not the worst respawn point, I suppose.
I glanced up at the woman—my new mother, apparently. She had soft hands and smelled like lavender and baked goods. A stark upgrade from brimstone and regret.
The man—my father—looked like the type who could order a beheading while polishing silverware. Nobility radiated from him like B.O.
"This child will change the world," he proclaimed, puffing out his chest.
Darn right I will. Not in the way you think, though.
A nurse nearby whispered, "He's so quiet… such piercing eyes…"
Lady, if I had teeth, I'd be biting you right now.
But I didn't.
I had fat cheeks. Chubby fingers. Zero motor control. No tail.
I was the demon lord of Hell and now I was swaddled like a burrito.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
As I lay there, trapped in a plush baby blanket with ducks embroidered on it, I thought back to my old life.
My throne.
My lava rivers.
My Monday Morning Torture Team Meetings.
Okay, maybe not those.
Still... it wasn't all bad. But I was bored. Desperate. Hungry for something new.
And now? I had it.
A new name. A new life. And new chances to be as wildly chaotic as I wanted without anyone yelling "My Lord! You can't just eat the ambassador!"
I gave a tiny, toothless smile.
The nurse gasped.
"He smiled! What a charming little devil!"
You have no idea, lady.