The oppressive void of the Ninth Realm seemed heavier, thicker, as Hell sat frozen on his crimson throne, his mind racing with disbelief. The words of Morrathis lingered in the air like echoes of a revelation too vast to comprehend.
A mortal—a seemingly insignificant being—had defied all conventions. Not only had his soul remained intact despite being suppressed by Divinity, but it had absorbed that Divinity, and not just any Divinity—it bore the mark of a Creator.
It was unprecedented, utterly incomprehensible.
Even with his centuries of experience, Hell found himself at a loss. Normally, he would have dismissed such a notion as absurd, but the words had come from Morrathis herself—a being whose knowledge of souls eclipsed even his own.
The impossible became plausible in her presence, and he had no choice but to believe.
"That mortal's soul is one of a kind," Hell said finally, his voice carrying both awe and intrigue.
