Into Hell, we sent only Durga.

In the heart of the cosmos, where the boundaries of reality blurred and the dimensions intertwined, a figure of unparalleled beauty and power strode through the ethereal landscape. Draped in an exquisite red saree that shimmered like blood beneath the starlit sky, Durga, the goddess of power, strength, and justice, moved with the grace of a dancer and the fierceness of a warrior. Golden breastplates, a gift from the heavenly realms, adorned the peaks of her full breasts, and her long, flowing hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall of obsidian. The air was thick with the stench of brimstone and sulfur, a constant reminder of the infernal forces that plagued this dimension. She walked with purpose, her eyes scanning the ever-shifting maze of ruins that surrounded her, the echo of her footsteps the only sound in the desolate wasteland. The ground beneath her feet was a patchwork of cracked, parched earth and deep, dark pits, each one a testament to the relentless clash of celestial and infernal forces that had torn this world asunder. As she ventured deeper into the dimension, the cries for help grew louder, more desperate. Durga's grip tightened around the trident in her hand, her resolve unwavering. The sound of a soft, pitiful whimper echoed through the desolate landscape, a stark contrast to the harsh, unforgiving environment. It was a sound that tugged at the heartstrings, a cry for help that seemed to pierce the very air. Intrigued and concerned, Durga followed the sound, her footsteps crunching softly on the broken glass and debris that littered the ground. As she rounded a crumbling wall, she found herself in a small, secluded clearing, a tiny oasis of sorts amidst the desolation. There, huddled against the decaying stone, was a young woman. She was a mere 22 years old, her youth a stark contrast to the brutal, unforgiving world that surrounded her. Her innocence was palpable, a gentle glow that seemed to radiate from her very being, a beacon of hope.