The Circle did not speak.
It never needed to.
The runes suspended above the battlefield rotated slowly, their sickly green light washing over the survivors of the Ashen Horde. Symbols flared, rearranged, and burned themselves into new configurations—recording, judging, remembering.
Thomas felt its attention like a blade pressed gently against his spine.
The newly turned demons huddled together behind jagged stone and obsidian ridges, clutching at themselves, whispering, staring at Thomas as though he were something impossible. A few knelt instinctively. Others simply watched, waiting for instruction.
Waiting for permission to exist.
"This is wrong," Liora murmured. "The Circle does not reward deviation. It tolerates it only long enough to measure the consequences."
As if summoned by her words, the air split.
Reality folded inward above the canyon, the ash freezing mid-fall as a vertical tear opened in the sky of Hell. From it descended a presence so heavy the ground cracked beneath its weight.
Thomas felt his molten veins recoil.
Not hunger.
Fear.
The being emerged slowly, deliberately—towering, robed in layered obsidian plates etched with ancient runes far older than the Circle itself. Six wings of blackened bone unfolded behind it, each feather a blade. Its face was hidden behind a smooth mask of green crystal, within which burned a single, unblinking eye.
Eddric lowered himself instinctively. "An Arbiter," he whispered. "One of the Circle's hands."
The Arbiter landed without sound.
Then the screams began.
Several of the weaker demons collapsed instantly, their bodies convulsing as green fire tore through their veins. Symbols ignited across their flesh—sins surfacing, magnified, weaponized. One burst apart. Another petrified into obsidian, frozen mid-plea.
Judgment.
Thomas stepped forward.
The air resisted him, pressure building with every step, but he forced himself onward until he stood between the Arbiter and the survivors.
"Stop," he said.
The word echoed—unnaturally loud.
The Arbiter's eye shifted, fixing on him.
When it spoke, its voice did not vibrate the air—it resonated inside Thomas's skull.
THOMAS HALE.
DESIGNATION: DEVIANT ASSET.
CRIME: INTERFERENCE WITH CULLING PROTOCOL.
Thomas clenched his claws. "They were dying without purpose. You wanted to see who would rise. I gave you an answer."
The Arbiter tilted its head slightly.
INCORRECT.
THE CULL REVEALS STATISTICS.
YOU CREATED VARIABLES.
Liora coiled beside Thomas, trembling but defiant. "He taught them restraint. Cooperation. Survival beyond instinct."
SURVIVAL IS NOT THE GOAL, SERPENT.
REFINEMENT IS.
The Arbiter raised a hand.
Green light surged toward the kneeling demons.
Thomas moved without thinking.
He slammed his claws into the obsidian ground and pushed.
Molten energy erupted outward—not in a blast, but a wall. The Arbiter's light struck it and fractured, scattering harmlessly into sparks.
The canyon went silent.
The Arbiter froze.
For the first time, its eye narrowed.
INTERESTING.
Thomas felt it then—the shift. The Circle wasn't angry.
It was curious.
"You want refinement?" Thomas growled. "Then let them learn. Let them fail, adapt, endure—like you forced me to."
The Arbiter studied him for a long moment. The runes along its wings pulsed as data flowed, probabilities recalculating.
YOU DISPLAY LEADERSHIP INSTINCTS INCONSISTENT WITH DAMNED PROFILES.
YOU PRESERVE IDENTITY BEYOND EXPECTED DEGRADATION CURVE.
Eddric spoke carefully. "He is not refusing Hell. He is mastering it."
Silence stretched.
Then the Arbiter lowered its hand.
The green light receded.
TRIAL PARAMETERS UPDATED.
The surviving demons gasped collectively, some collapsing in relief.
THE ASHEN HORDE WILL BE ALLOWED TO PERSIST.
UNDER YOUR OVERSIGHT.
Thomas's chest tightened. "You're making me responsible for them."
INCORRECT.
YOU ARE BEING MEASURED THROUGH THEM.
The Arbiter stepped closer, towering over Thomas.
FAILURE WILL RESULT IN THEIR TOTAL ERASURE.
SUCCESS WILL ALTER YOUR DESIGNATION.
The words sank deep.
Altered designation meant elevation—or annihilation.
The Arbiter turned, wings folding.
BE ADVISED, THOMAS HALE.
OTHERS WILL NOTICE.
NOT ALL WILL APPROVE.
With that, the Arbiter ascended, reality stitching itself closed behind it. The ash resumed falling as though nothing had happened.
For several long moments, no one spoke.
Then one of the newly turned demons approached Thomas cautiously. "What… what are we supposed to do now?"
Thomas looked at them—all of them. The broken, the fearful, the damned.
He exhaled slowly.
"Now," he said, "you learn how to survive Hell without becoming monsters who forget why they fell."
Liora studied him, awe and concern intertwined. "You've placed a target on your back."
Thomas nodded. "I know."
Eddric's voice was grim. "Higher demons will come. Commanders. Lords. Perhaps even Malrik himself."
Thomas's molten veins pulsed steadily—not wildly, not hungrily.
Controlled.
"Then we prepare," he said.
Above them, the Circle of Runes rotated once more.
Not in judgment.
But in anticipation.