Having traversed countless realms, can you possibly be as clever as me?

Standing before him was a magnificent, dark cathedral, its black marble walls rising abruptly from the ground, each stone faintly adorned with dark gold patterns, like solidified lava or blood slowly undulating in veins.

Gothic spires pierce the blood-red sky, with seven secondary towers surrounding the central tower that soars into the clouds. A huge seven-pointed star, emitting a pale golden light, floats atop the tower. It is a replica of the black seven-pointed star wheel behind Tsurugi, only magnified hundreds of times.

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The main entrance to the hall is a massive arched gate, fifteen meters high, its doors carved from a single, seemingly solid piece of obsidian. A sacred yet terrifying scene is embossed on the gate:

Countless faces looked up, some in pain, some in ecstasy, some in despair, some in piety—their mouths were wide open, as if screaming or praying eternally, and from the seven orifices of these faces grew vines and thorns, intertwining with each other, eventually converging into the arch of the door, transforming into a crown of glory.

At the very center of the crown was a human figure. It was a naked person with outstretched arms, as if nailed to an invisible cross. His face was indistinct, vaguely resembling both Tsurugi himself and the image that each observer feared most.

As Tsurugi walked through the door, he casually touched the relief on the door frame, his fingertips tracing across a screaming face.

"Does it hurt?" he asked in a low voice, as if asking the stone itself. No one answered. But the mouth of that face seemed to open even wider.

The square in front of the church was originally a street, or more precisely, one of the most chaotic and violent neighborhoods in Pentagram City. It was filled with homeless sinners, thugs, vendors, pimps, and pitiful people who couldn't even remember who they were.

The reason why Tsuruge chose this place as the starting point for his missionary work a month ago was because the sinners here were desperate enough.

And those who are desperate are the easiest to deceive—it is precisely because they are in hell that they yearn for heaven even more.

The moment Tsurugi stepped out of the church, the hundreds of sinners and demons in the square reacted in different ways.

Those in the front row, about fifty or sixty people, immediately showed an almost fanatical piety when they saw his compassionate and saintly appearance. The soul stone on his chest glowed faintly under his clothes, making them look as if they were carrying a lamp in their chests.

The hundred or so people in the middle had much more complex expressions. Some wore mocking expressions, a cold smile on their lips, arms crossed, as if watching a farce.

Some people, filled with fear, unconsciously took a half step back, only to be pushed and shoved by those behind them, unable to escape.

Some people speculated that those shrewd-eyed, well-dressed demons were probably either informants of the Lord of Hell or opportunistic merchants who came to probe the situation.

Those in the last row, or rather, the vast majority of those remaining, all wore the same expression: feigned disdain, but a real longing—a longing for redemption, a longing for an explanation.

Who says that demons in hell have no faith? Precisely because they are sinners, their faith is actually easier to ignite than anyone else's.

They lived for a considerable time within the cycle of arrogance. They witnessed the Great Extinction, their friends dying one after another at the hands of angels, while they themselves could only numb the eternal, bone-deep emptiness and pain with solitude, alcohol, sex, and mutual torment.

"I am a sinner, I know it." This is the truest voice in the heart of every sinner and demon who has fallen into hell. Of course they know that their sins are unforgivable, otherwise they would not be here.

But who can tell me when I will be able to atone for my sins?

Dongjiang stood on the steps in front of the church. He did not raise his voice, but his words seemed to be engraved directly into the skulls of every demon present. They were clear, steady, and carried a kind of intoxicating gentleness.

"Lost sheep. I stand in this city soaked in blood, on this land slaughtered by angels, in the gap between this endless revelry and despair, and I ask you—"

He slowly opened his arms, and the seven-pointed star wheel behind him began to rotate, emitting a deep hum.

Do you truly feel at peace?

A chorus of curses, jeers, and shouts erupted across the square, but Tsurugi remained unfazed and continued his preaching.

"I ask you—how many of you still remember what you looked like when you were alive?" Tsuruga's gaze swept over the crowd, gentle as water, yet like a scalpel, peeling away the outer shell of each person he was looking at.

They gradually stopped laughing.

“I remember.” He paused, his voice growing even lower. “I remember every mistake I’ve made, every lie I’ve told, every person I’ve hurt. I remember—because I’m atoning for it every day. And what about you?”

He raised his right hand, and a faint light appeared in his palm. The light suddenly exploded, turning into countless golden particles that drifted into the air above the square.

“You were thrown into this place and told it was hell. But look around you—there are bars, brothels, shopping malls, hospitals, almost everything you can see on earth.”

“You were not burned, not bitten by insects, not thrown into a lake of fire from which you could never escape. You were left here to fend for yourselves. Then, once a year, people from heaven come and cut off your heads like harvesting wheat. And your suffering is not even the pain of them killing you, but the complete lack of knowledge of where it all ends.”

Tsurugi slowly lowered his arms, gazing at each person with compassionate eyes, and softly said...

"You don't understand, do you? You don't understand what mistakes you've made, you don't understand why you're in hell, you don't understand why angels can come to kill you, you don't understand why your sins are never over, you don't understand why good people live peacefully in heaven, while you can only stay here, numbing yourselves with drugs, covering your emptiness with sex, looking into each other's eyes and finding nothing there, only—"

He suddenly stopped and reached out to the crowd to a trembling, sinful demon standing in the front row. It was a sinner who looked like he had been in hell for no more than a few years. He had an ordinary appearance, wore a T-shirt with a cartoon pattern, and was biting his lip tightly with red eyes.

"You." Tsugumi's voice became extremely soft. "What's your name?"

“…Allen,” the young sinner said, trembling.

"Allen, tell me, how did you die?" Tsugumi asked gently.

“I…” Allen’s voice seemed to be squeezed out of his throat, “I lied to someone. I lied to… someone who liked me. I swindled all his money.”

"And then?" Tsugumi coaxed.

“Then he…committed suicide.” Allen closed his eyes, weeping. “I’ve been on the run for three years. Every single day. I don’t deserve to live. As I died, I thought—okay, it’s finally over. And here I am, here, here!”

His voice suddenly rose, became shrill, and was choked with sobs.

"How the hell am I supposed to stay here?! Why doesn't anyone tell me? Why doesn't anyone tell me when this will end?! If I had run further away, if I hadn't taken the money and left but had gone to beg for his forgiveness, if—if I—"

His voice was completely drowned out by sobs, and Dongjiang walked down the steps, his bare feet stepping on the uneven ground, over the dried bloodstains, and slowly walked towards the sinners. Even the most cynical among them had stopped their clamor.

"Now, I will answer all your questions."

He stopped not far from the restless, agitated group of sinners, their desires tinged with mockery. Behind him, the enormous seven-pointed star on the church dome began to slowly rotate, casting pale golden light that fell upon him and onto the ground beneath his feet, like paving a golden path.

"You are here not because of what you have done, but because you have not found the right path to atonement!"

His voice wasn't loud, but it possessed an incredible magic, like the tolling of a bell, striking the heart of every demon with each strike.

He slowly raised his right hand, his five fingers spread wide, and golden light exploded in his palm, turning into countless beams of light that shot towards every demon in the square.

At that moment, everyone saw it: Allen saw the dead man, the one he had swindled money from.

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The person's face showed the trust they placed in him when he transferred money, and the despair he felt as he huddled in his rented room after discovering he had been scammed.

He saw the photos of the corpse, he saw his own hand, he saw everything.

His hands hung at his sides, and the golden light in his palms was gradually replaced by a deeper, burning amber light.

“I can give you—the opportunity for redemption. True, thorough, and final redemption. No longer endless suffering, no longer the annual slaughter by angels, no longer numbing yourselves with solitude and sex.”

"It is a path of redemption—at the end, where one can glimpse heaven."

He withdrew his outstretched arms and took out a pale blue, translucent crystal from under his clothes.

“Accept this Soul Stone, become my apostle, and then—begin your atonement.” His voice softened, like a lullaby, a mother’s soothing words, a lover’s whisper.

"You will no longer suffer, no longer wander aimlessly. You will feel happiness, you will leave hell."

Alan trembled, and the instant his fingertips touched the Soul Stone, blue light exploded from his chest, slowly condensing into a Soul Stone embedded beneath his skin. His body went limp, but the next second, he rose again.

He stood up straight, tears streaming down his face, but under the watchful eyes of everyone, a peaceful smile, unlike anything he had ever seen before and indescribable, one that would stir the hearts of every sinner and demon.

He raised his head, his eyes now changed, a golden halo appearing deep within the pupils, and looked at Tsurugi before kneeling down.

"My Lord."

Tsugumi smiled, took Allen's hand, looked at the yearning sinners, and shouted loudly.

"An apostle has joined our ranks, who will be next?!"

Soon, hands shot up one after another!

They joined the ranks, some with skepticism, others simply picking up the Soul Stones with the intention of getting something for nothing.

Then, without exception, they all knelt on the ground and shouted that Dongjiang was their master!

Today, another 370 sinners and demons accepted the branding of the Soul Stone and joined Dongjiang's team. As for those who did not join, Dongjiang knew clearly that they would leave here and continue to spread this deadly poison called faith and peace of mind.

Because in this hell, there is one thing that Tsurugi offers that no one else can afford to give—hope.

Even false hope is still hope; a hungry person will even gnaw on a stone. What's more, it's poison disguised as honey.

"Come, let's go visit that princess of hell and ask her for the true path to salvation."

Trinity Kill Kill Kill: 513. Visitors to the Hell Inn

In the chaotic city of Pentagram, there is an inconspicuous building that stands out from its surroundings.

It was a hotel, standing amidst burning rubble and strewn corpses. It was an old Victorian hotel with pointed towers, stained-glass windows, and a hand-painted sign on the porch with a single, crookedly drawn sentence.

Welcome to the Hell Hotel, where every soul deserves a second chance!

What a great slogan! It's inspiring. If only this weren't hell.

The owner of the Hell Hotel, the royal family of Hell, who was born to stand at the very top, Shirley Morningstar, was like a lit firework, rushing from the inn's main entrance to the bar, from the bar to the stairwell, and then back to the main entrance. Her speed was so fast that her red high heels made a series of almost continuous clattering sounds on the floor.

She clutched a crumpled cleaning list in her hand, her pale face etched with anxiety.

"Vicky! Vicky! The windowsill to the left of the main entrance is still black!"

Shirley screamed, waving her hands in the air as if she were conducting an invisible symphony orchestra. Today, she had specially changed into a new burgundy suit jacket, with the small gold badge of the inn that she had designed herself pinned to the collar. She paired it with a pair of neatly tailored black trousers and a pair of polished stiletto heels.

She had twirled in front of the mirror at least twenty times in this outfit, asking Vicky if it was too formal, then if it wasn't formal enough. In the end, Vicky had to push her out of the dressing room to end this endless dress-up show.

Vicky, her hair swept back so that only half her face was visible, was standing on a rickety chair, stretching her arm to reach the window that was almost never opened. She turned her head and looked at Shirley with a "Are you serious?" look.

“Shirley, there was an explosion on the street outside that window last week. Even if I clean the glass until it’s clear, all I can see is a charred ruin.”

“That’s not the point!” Shirley completely ignored her. “The point is—attitude! We need to show our attitude! Mr. Martyr is a guest, and I want him to see that Hell Inn is organized, disciplined, and—”

"There's a bug!" Nefertie screamed as she burst out from the end of the corridor, her one eye darting wildly in its socket, holding a struggling centipede in her hand, as excited as if she were carrying an Olympic torch.

"I found it under the kitchen sink! It's huge! Can I hang it by the door as decoration?!"

"No!!!" Shirley and Vicky exclaimed in unison.

Nefertti's expression instantly fell, like a puppy whose toy had been snatched away. She stuffed the bug into her apron pocket—heaven knows how she could fit such a big bug in her pocket—muttered "Nobody appreciates my art," and dashed back to the kitchen.

Shirley took a deep breath, pressed her hand to her temple, closed her eyes, and silently repeated "I can do it" three times.

Then she opened her eyes and continued rambling.

“You know what?” she said, spitting out words at an almost soliloquy pace as she inspected the items on the coffee table: an inn brochure, a small bunch of dried flowers supposedly surviving in hell, transported from the Ring of Fury, and a half-empty glass of beer that someone had placed there.

"The Martyr has only been around for a month and a half! A month and a half! He has already convinced more than a thousand people to follow him, more than a thousand one hundred! Our inn has been open for so long, and the number of sinners who have voluntarily registered to stay is not even a fraction of that number!"

She bent down and hid the broken beer glass under the coffee table—though she knew someone would find it again later.

"And you know what? What's most admirable isn't the quantity, but his method."

Shirley straightened up, turned towards the bar, gestured with both hands, her face full of admiration and anticipation.

"He doesn't force anyone. He doesn't use violence or threats like those hell lords—he doesn't even take money! He doesn't take money! Think about it, in the Ring of Pride, someone who doesn't take money, territory, or any benefits, but simply offers opportunities for redemption, isn't that a miracle?!"

Hesk flapped his wings, leaned against the bar, and wiped the glasses one by one with that perpetually dirty gray rag. His ears were perked up, and his face said, "I don't want to hear it, but I am." Hearing this, he snorted, making a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and not a laugh.

"Not taking money? Princess, have you considered what he wants?"