HELLUVA BOSS Season 3 DC EDITION

EPISODE 9:“Judgment Day”

Opening: The Grand Courtroom

The Infernal Palace of Wrath was alive with fire and fury. Black marble pillars lined the vaulted chamber, each wrapped in glowing red chains that hissed and smoked as though alive. Gargoyle statues watched from the rafters, their mouths dripping with molten drool. High above, the ceiling cracked with thunder and streaks of violet lightning — the atmosphere itself seemed to bend under Satan’s wrathful authority.

This was no ordinary court. This was the Trial of the Century in Hell.

Three figures knelt at the center, bound by glowing chains that shimmered like celestial fire. Their faces were varied masks of arrogance, rage, and desperation.

Stella, feathers bedraggled but chin lifted high in false dignity, glared at the gathered nobility with eyes like poisoned knives. Her lips curled in perpetual disdain.

Beside her, Andrealphus smirked with the unbothered air of a snake in silk, his smug composure a veil over the sweat beginning to bead at his temple.

And last, bound with heavier chains, was Striker — the infamous assassin, his golden eyes still burning with rebellion despite his fall from grace. He snarled like a caged beast.

The courtroom was filled with demons of every rank. Nobles from the Ars Goetia, attendants from the high houses, and even the Seven Deadly Sins themselves, seated upon their thrones that towered like mountains.

Bee-lzebub, sprawled lazily across her golden chair, sipped from a glowing drink the size of a bathtub, antennae twitching with delight.

Mammon, gaudy and glittering with jewels, jingled coins between his clawed fingers, already taking bets under his breath.

Leviathan, her two heads whispering bickering commentary between them.

Belphegor, eyelids drooping, half-asleep already, melting candlelight dripping from her horns.

Asmodeus, radiant as ever, feathers shimmering neon, sat with Fizzarolli perched beside him, stroking the imp’s hair absently while his three faces smirked in sync.

Lucifer Morningstar himself had taken the trouble to appear, dressed sharp as a circus ringleader, twirling a golden apple in his hand.

And at the head of it all, towering, smoldering, burning in every sense of the word — Satan, the Sin of Wrath, presided. His lava-streaked muscles flexed with every word, his eyes twin furnaces of judgment.

Beside Satan, the Goetia nobles stood. Even Stolas, disgraced though he had been for months, was summoned. His eyes glimmered, half with sorrow, half with a flicker of hope that perhaps justice would finally come. Octavia lingered at his side, arms crossed, her expression cold but uneasy.

The air reeked of finality.

---

The Trial

“LET. THE TRIAL. COMMENCE!” Satan’s voice cracked like thunder, shaking the chamber so hard the chains binding the accused rattled in unison.

The evidence was laid out swiftly and mercilessly. Glowing sigils replayed the attempts on Stolas’s life, Stella’s treachery, Andrealphus’s whispered plots in candlelit corridors. Striker’s failed assassination at the Harvest Moon Festival was brought back to vivid life before the gathered court.

Bee-lzebub sipped loudly from her drink. “Ooooh, spicy!” she chirped, her wings buzzing with amusement.

Mammon cackled. “Put me down for fifty hellmarks that Stella tries to hiss her way out of it!”

Leviathan’s left head sighed. “This is tragic.” The right head sneered. “Tragic we didn’t sell tickets.”

Asmodeus, ever the performer, fanned himself with a hand of glowing feathers. “Darling, betrayal’s a classic look, but it’s been done. Frankly, this is just tacky.”

Fizzarolli piped up, ever eager to back his lover. “Yeah, tacky like a busted puppet string!”

Stella hissed at them all. “This is a farce! I am of the Goetia! You will rue—”

“SILENCE!” Satan roared, and even she flinched.

One by one, testimonies were given. Nobles spoke of whispers, of alliances shattered. Even Loona, slouched in the gallery with I.M.P, muttered a low: “Damn… this bird b***h really went all out.”

Moxxie whispered nervously, tugging Millie’s sleeve. “This is… monumental. This is the first time in centuries nobles are actually being judged!”

Millie’s eyes shone, torn between awe and fear. “Kinda makes ya proud ta watch history happen, sugar.”

Blitzo leaned back, chewing on a stick of gum he’d smuggled in. “Y’know, I expected this to be boring. But wow, Hell’s royal family is more messed up than daytime TV. Ten outta ten, would watch again.”

When all was said and done, Satan rose. His shadow blanketed the condemned like an executioner’s blade.

“Stella. Andrealphus.” His voice rumbled like the cracking of the world itself. “For your betrayal against your blood and your sins against this realm, I strip you of your status. For nine centuries, you will walk among the lowest of demons, nameless, powerless, crawling with the worms you once spat upon.”

Gasps filled the chamber. Stella’s face twisted into a mask of fury. Andrealphus’s smirk faltered for the first time, cracking under the weight of shame.

“And you, Striker,” Satan’s fiery eyes locked onto the snarling assassin. “For your cowardice, for your attempted regicide — banishment to the Abyss.”

Striker’s roar echoed as chains dragged him away into the shadows. His curses followed him until the sound was swallowed by Hell itself.

The verdict was sealed.

Stolas’s Reinstatement (Expanded with Vassago)

Silence lingered, heavy and reverent. Then, in a rare moment of solemnity, Satan turned to Stolas.

“You… were wronged.” The words carried weight — Wrath rarely admitted fairness, let alone acknowledged another’s suffering. “Your station, your house… shall be restored.”

A shimmering crown of shadow and stars formed above Stolas’s head. The nobles gasped. The court bowed.

And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Stolas lifted his head proudly, tears trembling at the edges of his eyes.

Octavia, stiff and guarded, finally broke. Her voice cracked as she turned toward him.

“Dad… I’m sorry.”

The words tumbled out, raw and sharp. “I was stupid. I let her—” she shot a venomous glance toward Stella “—poison me. I thought you were the villain. I… I didn’t want to see the truth.”

Her hands trembled. Stolas reached out, slow, tentative — and Octavia let herself fall into his embrace. The hug was clumsy, desperate, but real.

The court erupted in whispers, some scoffing, some moved.

And then — the sharp clack of high-heeled boots cut through the murmurs.

A tall figure stepped forward from the nobles’ ranks, feathers shimmering scarlet and gold beneath the crackling light. His visor-shades gleamed like a starburst crown, obscuring eyes that burned crimson beneath.

Vassago.

The macaw-like demon’s long jacket trailed extravagantly behind him as he strode into the center. He paused before Stolas, spreading his wings in a flourish that made several courtiers flinch, as though the sudden burst of color and authority itself were overwhelming.

“Príncipe Stolas,” Vassago said, his voice carrying the clarity of a songbird and the edge of command. “Por fin, justicia.”

He bent into a dramatic bow, one hand clutching the golden brooch at his chest. The chamber murmured louder — rarely did aristocrats deign to show such public acknowledgment.

Stolas blinked in surprise, his feathers ruffling. “Vassago…?”

The scarlet demon straightened, snapping his feathers back into place with meticulous precision. “You have endured humiliation, manipulación, cruelty from those who should have honored their bond of blood. And still — you stood, you fought, you survived. Today is not only your reinstatement, hermano… it is your vindication.”

He turned sharply, his beak clicking as his gaze slashed across Stella and the humiliated Andrealphus. “And for you —” his voice cut sharper, Spanish slipping more heavily into his words, “para ustedes, traidores… may your names rot in the gutters where they belong.”

Stella spat, feathers bristling. “You dare—”

“¡Cállate!” Vassago snapped, the word like a whip-crack. His wings flared, silencing her further. “The court has heard enough venom from your tongue.”

Andrealphus shifted, eyes narrowing, but for once said nothing.

Then Vassago turned back to Stolas, his tone softening. “I remember when you first sang your defense, mi amigo. Even then, I said — let him speak, let him shine. And look, mira, the truth carried you here. Even your daughter sees it now.”

Octavia glanced up, startled by his direct address. He bowed his head toward her, softer. “And you, pequeña estrella… treasure him. He is flawed, sí, but he loves you more than his own crown.”

Octavia, flustered, muttered, “…Thanks.”

Stolas could not stop the tears from breaking through fully now. He pressed his forehead briefly against Octavia’s, then looked to Vassago with trembling dignity. “Thank you… truly, my friend.”

Vassago clicked his beak, smiling faintly beneath his shades. “No thanks necessary. Only… do not falter again. You are a prince of Hell, Stolas. Stand like one.”

With that, he swept into a bow so theatrical it made Mammon scoff and Bee-lzebub clap delightedly. Then, with a swirl of his long jacket tails, Vassago retreated back to his place among the nobles.

And only then did Satan’s booming voice call:

“COURT IS ADJOURNED! LUNCHTIME!”

The chamber erupted into chaos as before — demons roaring, food and drink materializing, the court descending into carnival. But the image lingered: Stolas crowned anew, Octavia by his side, and Vassago standing proudly as one of the few who had publicly defended him.

And high above, unseen, ARCH DARK CRUSADE watched — silent, hidden, the flicker of sorrow still ghosting within his Hood.

The entire courtroom erupted like a festival. Demons roared approval, tables unfolded from nowhere, grotesque platters of food piled high. Lava-hot ribs, souls roasted on skewers, rivers of bubbling liquor.

Bee-lzebub dove headfirst into a tower of candied entrails. “Yasss, PARTY TIME!”

Mammon immediately set up a betting booth for who could eat the most in one sitting.

Leviathan’s two heads argued over whether to eat fish or fowl.

Asmodeus teased Fizz with heart-shaped strawberries dipped in firewine.

Belphegor promptly fell asleep face-first into a plate of noodles.

I.M.P huddled at their own small table.

Blitzo poked at something squirming on his plate. “Uh… does anyone else’s food still scream when you stab it?”

Moxxie was already panicking. “This could be poisoned! Or cursed! Or enchanted! Or—”

Millie shoved a forkful into her mouth. “Mmm, tastes fine!”

Loona just scrolled her phone, ignoring them all.

Stolas sat apart, Octavia beside him. For once, they shared quiet without venom.

It should have been peaceful.

---

The Interruption

A whisper cut through the feast. Not sound, but a sensation — the cold prickling at the nape of every neck. The stillness before the storm.

Then—

SHNK.

A blade of pure shadow whirled through the air and embedded itself in the black marble wall just beside Satan’s throne. Sparks flew. Blood welled where the weapon had grazed his cheek.

The chamber froze.

Every eye turned. Slowly, deliberately, Satan reached up and touched his cheek. His fingers came away red. His furnace eyes narrowed.

“...Who dares.” His voice was low, lethal.

Lightning cracked outside.

And there he was.

ARCH DARK CRUSADE stood framed in the massive cathedral window, high above the chamber floor. His cape billowed in a wind no one else could feel. The storm lit him from behind, his dark-blue armor gleaming, hood crowned with sharp cat ears.

He said nothing.

He did not move.

Only the storm moved behind him, flashing in violent bursts, his silhouette a gothic nightmare against the lightning.

Every noble, every Sin, every imp and hellborn… stared in silence.

And then, in the blink of an eye — he was gone. The window swayed open. The storm swallowed him.

---

Next scene

Chaos erupted.

Mammon laughed nervously. “Ha! You see that?! A goddamn cosplay reject thinks he can scare me?!” He jingled coins to cover the tremor in his voice.

Bee-lzebub spat her drink. “Okay, okay, wait — did anyone ELSE feel like their whole stomach dropped when he just stood there? Like, I party with killers but THAT—nah, nuh-uh, not cute.”

Leviathan’s two heads hissed at each other. “He’s a symbol!” “He’s a threat!” “He’s both, i***t!”

Asmodeus stroked his chin, serious now. “Dramatic. Effective. And very, very concerning.” Fizzarolli clung to his arm, shivering.

Belphegor groaned awake, wiping noodles from her face. “...Did we lose, or win?”

Lucifer stood, his forked tongue running over sharp teeth. His usual playfulness was gone. “That,” he murmured, “was not a random show of force. That was a warning.”

Lilith appeared beside him, her expression unreadable. “Or a promise.”

Charlie, clutching her father’s arm, whispered, “Dad… who is he?”

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed. “The question, my little duckling… is not who he is. But why he dares.”

I.M.P sat dumbfounded.

Blitzo blinked rapidly. “...So we’re just not gonna talk about the giant Batcat who showed up, sliced Satan, and peaced out like a Hot Topic Dracula?!”

Moxxie trembled. “That’s not… normal. That’s not anything.”

Loona, for once, put her phone down, muttering, “Kinda badass, though.”

Millie clutched her husband. “But scary as Hell, sugar.”

Stolas said nothing, but his hand tightened protectively around Octavia’s. His gaze lingered on the window long after the others moved.

The court had seen executions, betrayals, uprisings. But never had they seen this.

Never had Hell itself felt like prey.

And somewhere in the storm, unseen, unheard, the ARCH DARK CRUSADE melted into the night — silent, watchful, eternal.

[AFTERMATH – THE COURTROOM, MINUTES LATER]

The storm outside faded into a low rumble, but the silence in the courtroom was louder than thunder.

The wall still bore the mark of the Archarang, embedded like a scar that glowed faintly with residual energy. And on Satan’s cheek, a single bead of molten blood traced down to his jaw, smoking against his lava-hot skin.

The Sin of Wrath did not flinch — but his nostrils flared, his chest heaving with the effort of holding back a storm that wanted to break loose.

“...Gone.” His voice was a growl, low and dangerous. “Vanished into shadow.”

“¡Carajo, that was dramatic!” Bee-lzebub muttered, wings buzzing nervously as she took a long swig from a glowing honey-vial. “Even for Hell.”

“Forget drama,” Mammon snapped, pointing his cane at the shattered window. “He drew blood from Wrath! Ain’t nobody ever had the guts to—”

“Shut it, Mammon,” Leviathan hissed, her twin heads snapping in unison. One side curious, the other sneering. “We all saw it. Whoever he is… he’s no ordinary upstart.”

The nobles murmured, their voices like a swarm. A vigilante. A ghost. A shadow in the storm.

Satan finally moved — his massive hand, clawed and trembling with restrained rage, reaching up to wipe the blood. But before he could, a soft, almost lazy voice drifted through the chamber.

“Don’t move.”

The court turned.

Belphegor was there, her candle-flame flickering faintly atop her wool-like hair. She floated closer, eyes half-lidded, a soft lavender glow trailing her fingers. For once, she didn’t look bored. She looked… intent.

“You’ll scar worse if it burns shut wrong,” she murmured. Her many glowing eyes blinked in slow unison as she reached up. Despite her slothful aura, her touch was feather-light, steady as water.

Satan tilted his head down, a mountain bending for a lamb. She pressed her palm against his cheek, her wax-like essence cooling the wound. The sizzling ceased.

“There.” Her voice carried just enough to silence the whispers. “No mark… except his message.”

The chamber stirred uneasily. Even Beelzebub stopped mid-drink.

Before the tension could rise again, the great doors creaked. Two figures entered.

Charlie Morningstar.

Her golden eyes were wide with worry as she ran down the aisle, red heels clacking. “Dad! What Happened? I heard—”

Behind her came Lilith, tall and radiant in her flowing magenta gown, horns gleaming faintly like polished amethyst. Her presence stilled the murmurs more effectively than Satan’s roar ever could.

She swept into the chamber with the grace of a queen who belonged nowhere and everywhere all at once. Her gaze immediately found the wound on Satan’s cheek — then drifted to the shattered window.

Charlie reached Satan first, her hands fluttering uselessly at his massive arm. “Dad, I saw the lightning from outside—who was that?!”

Lucifer exhaled, slow, barely containing its fear. “…A trespasser.” His tone was heavy. “A shadow that thinks itself justice.”

Lilith’s voice cut in — calm, measured, but carrying iron beneath silk. “Not merely justice, Wrath. A statement.”

All eyes turned to her.

She stepped into the center, her gown trailing like liquid light, her horns curving regally above her head. “He drew blood — and then vanished. That was not an assassin’s strike. That was theatre. A message to us all.”

Charlie frowned, glancing between them. “But… why? Why would someone risk everything to stand against the Sins?”

Lilith’s violet eyes narrowed, her hand resting lightly on her pearl choker. “Because, my dear, there are those who believe we have forgotten balance. That our thrones make us untouchable.”

Vassago, adjusting his star-shaped visor, let out a sharp laugh. “Pues, he’s not wrong. Look at us — terrified by a single cut. How humiliating for Hell’s finest.”

Mammon bristled. “You shut that beak, featherbrain, before you’re next.”

“As if,” Vassago shot back, shrugging flamboyantly.

But it was Belphegor who spoke again, voice soft as falling ash. “…He didn’t strike to kill. He struck to remind.”

Satan’s fists clenched, but he did not deny it.

Charlie, biting her lip, whispered, “Maybe he… maybe he’s trying to do what we’re doing with the hotel. Trying to make Hell better, even if it’s the hard way.”

Lucifer, who had been strangely silent until now, finally stirred from his seat. His forked tongue flicked briefly, his crimson eyes catching light as he smirked faintly.

“Oh, my darling daughter,” he drawled, half amused, half weary. “Some shadows don’t want better. They want fear. They want to remind us we can bleed.”

Lilith’s gaze flickered to him — unreadable, distant — then back to the shattered window. “Or perhaps,” she murmured, “they want to remind us that crowns do not make gods.”

The chamber descended into uneasy silence. Even the nobles hushed, glancing warily toward the window where lightning still flashed.

Above it all, the faint mark of the Archarang gleamed, a scar on Hell’s highest court.

And somewhere beyond, in the storm, ARCH DARK CRUSADE watched — silent, unseen — as Hell’s greatest powers questioned the meaning of his strike.