They had sealed the lower levels.
That was the decree. Done quickly, little fanfare or revelry. Not one more soul would leave for the surface, and not one more soul would descend beyond the first layer.
Not without oversight.
Gates of wrath and magic and cordons of love and fear appeared at any possible entrance and exit, and they cast out the feral ghosts, the demons and the broken into the bowels of the world; thrown to abyss. Weak ones, small ones, stupid ones incapable of harm or shape. It didn't matter. The shadows culled themselves, and once again divided themselves between the light and the dark, as the gore of 'evil' was slain, maimed, and pacified.
It had only taken nightfall to complete. In a single night, every last remaining sane shadow and friend gathered with each other, and cast their madness into the dark below. In a single night, gates that once allowed free passage were shut down, tunnels sealed, magical wards birthed, and all that remained, was the want for wrath quarantined to the bottom of the world.
And it had hurt.
To tighten the winch down. To shut every gate and to cut themselves off, not a single word uttered except for the smallest whimper of regret and pain. This pain was for the good of all of them.
It had hurt to feel the flesh of the world be crushed. Pinched tight. Contaminants would not infiltrate the healthy planes, the light of peace would shine through in the upper layers. Peace. But nobody else would see it. This too, was necessary. They dug around in the meat, searching for the poison bullet that was shot into the heart of the world. The consciousness of the moral.
And lastly, that bullet fell out of them. Extracted crudely with blunted knives and bloody fingers- going door to door like black winds and weeding out the insane- the mad, and the killers. No flesh would be spared, rotted and useless- it was cut away and thrown out to the formless wastes. Blood fought itself, fratricide for the greater good.
In a single night of sorrows, the world had finally found its foundation.
violence.
They had sealed themselves away. Torn off the wings from the ones they once trusted, those who had once soared through this world with grace had now been robbed of their wings- not by a stranger but rather, by one's own kin. As they were pushed deeper into the heart of the earth, they could no longer see the light that had once been a beacon.
This was not merely an act of survival. Nor was it revenge, nor was it justice. It was much more simple than that. It was the ultimate, undeniable truth that had taken root in their hearts.
Violence was necessary.
Violence was the answer. And the world would know no peace nor tranquility until that answer had been found. Theirs was a world of sorrows, and yet they bore those sorrows willingly. For the sake of those they had once entrusted their wings to.
And to the ones who had been searching for that answer, they had found themselves sealed away, and only the most violent of shadows emerged from within their walls. The strongest, the most ruthless, would be the ones to face the light above.
They were born of violence. They would take that violence to the surface.
Violence begets violence.
They would be more violent than the violent. Those who remained outside would feel the wrath of the strong. They wouldn't find shelter, nor peace, nor mercy.
They would only find suffering on that day. Because that is what had been forged below, where their hearts had turned to stone.