I wake up screaming from a dream where I'm falling through endless cosmic layers, each one stripping away another piece of my identity until there's nothing left. My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape, and sweat plasters my shirt to my skin. The hollow space inside me where my cosmic power used to be throbs with phantom pain.
"Just a dream," I mutter, but we both know that's a lie. The power is gone. The Guardians took it. And no amount of nightmares or wishful thinking is going to bring it back.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, wincing as my bare feet touch the cool stone floor of my sanctuary quarters. The desert night seeps through the walls, a welcome chill after the fever heat of my nightmares. I reach for the glass of water on my nightstand, only to find it empty. Of course.
Estingoth stirs in my mind, his ancient presence like embers glowing in darkness. "You should rest more," he rumbles. "Your body is still adjusting to the... change."
"Change," I repeat with a bitter laugh. "Is that what we're calling cosmic amputation these days?"
I stand, ignoring the slight wobble in my knees, and make my way to the small kitchen area. The moonlight filtering through the window casts everything in shades of silver and shadow, making the familiar space seem alien. Or maybe that's just me—everything feels slightly off-kilter since the tribunal, like I'm walking through a world that's been shifted two inches to the left.
As I fill my glass from the tap, I catch my reflection in the window. I look the same—same disheveled black hair, same stubble, same exhausted eyes—but I feel fundamentally altered. Not just because of what was taken, but because of what remains. Knowledge. Purpose. Rage.
"They think they've won," I whisper to my reflection. "They think they've neutralized the threat."
My reflection doesn't answer, but Estingoth does. "They have merely changed the nature of the battle," he says with what might be approval. "And perhaps given us an advantage they do not anticipate."
He's right, of course. The Guardians took my ability to reshape reality directly, but they left me with something potentially more dangerous—the understanding of how reality works, and the determination to share that knowledge with others. Knowledge that can't be contained or controlled once it starts spreading.
I take a long drink of water, feeling it cool my throat and settle the heat of anger in my chest. Tomorrow, I'll meet with Valen to discuss restructuring some of the academy's curriculum. There are students from all three realms now, eager minds hungry for understanding. I can't reshape reality anymore, but I can reshape how people think about it.
A soft knock at my door pulls me from my thoughts. It's three in the morning—who the hell is knocking at this hour?
I move quietly across the room, years of combat instincts kicking in despite my cosmic downgrade. "Who is it?" I call softly.
"It's me," Caleif's voice answers, barely audible through the heavy wood.
I open the door to find her standing there in loose sleeping clothes, her ember-red hair tumbling over her shoulders in messy waves. Even in the dim light, I can see the concern in her golden-flecked eyes.
"I felt your distress," she says simply. "The connection between us—it's still there, even without your cosmic power."
I step back to let her in, oddly comforted by the idea that our bond survived the Guardians' meddling. "Sorry if I woke you. Bad dreams."
"I know." She takes my hand, her fingers warm against mine. "I saw fragments of them. The falling. The emptiness."
Something in my chest tightens at her words. "Is that weird? That you can still see into my head sometimes?"
"Probably," she admits with a small smile. "But weird seems to be our normal these days."
I lead her to the small couch by the window, where moonlight pools like liquid silver. We sit close, her head finding that perfect spot on my shoulder, her warmth seeping into me and chasing away some of the chill left by my nightmares.
"I'm going to make them regret what they did," I say quietly. "Not through violence or direct confrontation, but by finishing what I started. By spreading the knowledge they tried to contain."
Caleif's fingers trace idle patterns on my palm. "They're already watching the academy more closely. The Celestial Council has sent 'observers' to monitor your activities."
"Let them watch," I say, surprising myself with the calm certainty in my voice. "Let them see exactly what I'm doing. I'm not going to hide or sneak around—I'm going to teach openly, honestly. I'm going to share what I learned at the Threshold, what I saw of the cosmic structure."
"And when they try to stop you?"
"They can't stop ideas, Caleif. They can't stop knowledge once it starts spreading." I turn to look at her, finding her eyes in the moonlight. "That's what they don't understand yet. They're still thinking in terms of power—who has it, who doesn't. But this isn't about power anymore. It's about perspective."
She studies my face for a long moment. "You're different," she says finally. "Not just because of what they took, but... there's something else. Something new."
I consider this, feeling the truth of her observation. "I think I've finally let go of the idea that I need to fix everything myself. That cosmic responsibility has to rest on one person's shoulders." I look out at the moonlit desert, vast and patient and indifferent to cosmic politics. "Maybe this is better. Maybe change should come from many voices, not just one."
"A cosmic democracy," she says, echoing Valen's words from earlier.
"Something like that." I squeeze her hand. "Though I doubt the Guardians will appreciate the irony."
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, watching the moon's slow journey across the night sky. The hollow space inside me still aches, but it feels different now—less like an amputation and more like room for something new to grow.
"Do you regret it?" Caleif asks suddenly. "Any of it?"
I know what she's really asking. Do I regret putting on Estingoth's gauntlet? Do I regret becoming the Nexus Being? Do I regret reshaping reality in ways that made me a target for cosmic authorities?
"No," I say after a moment's reflection. "I regret some of the pain it's caused—to me, to you, to others caught in the crossfire. But the changes themselves? The doorways between realms, the connections being built, the barriers coming down? No. I don't regret those at all."
She smiles, a genuine expression that makes her eyes glow in the moonlight. "Good. Because neither do I."
As the night circles around us, Caleif and I are happy for once, but as always something has to go wrong. A sizzling sound rings out behind us as I turn around but not quickly enough as I'm pulled into a portal.
"Kamen! No!" Calief yells out panic written all over her face. She runs to the portal but it closes as she gets to it.
"That's not good at all." Rings out a familiar voice. Caleif turns to see Lucifer standing behind her, but not with his normal smile, the look on his face resembled anger.
"Where'd they take him?!" Caleif frantacly question Lucifer trying to scan his face for information. Lucifer let's out a sigh "It would seem that someone took our dear Kamen to Hell, but not the fun kinda hell where you dance and do drugs. Unfortunately, we cannot do anything about it, even if I am the Luficer Morningstar. He'll have to find a way out himself."
I crash to the ground with a resounding thud, the impact forcing the breath from my lungs in a painful rush. As I struggle to my feet, the world around me spins, and a cold dread fills my chest. My eyes dart across the unfamiliar landscape, a desolate expanse of charred earth and shadowy silhouettes. An oppressive heat presses down on me, the air thick with the acrid stench of sulfur and smoke. Panic grips me, and my voice trembles as I shout into the void
"Where the fuck am I?!".
I turn and see what looks to be demons encircling me as I look out and see millions of demons roaring as if drawn to battle. "You gotta be shitting me. What the fuck did I do to deserve this?!" I yell out in a panic as a demon swipes out with a blade and cuts into my chest.
Pain lances out as I feel myself getting angrier and angrier. I lunge towards the demon and punch him in the head with all the force I can muster. My fist connects with something that feels like hitting a brick wall wrapped in sandpaper, but the demon staggers backward, dark ichor spraying from what I assume is its face.
"That's right, you bastards!" I snarl, adrenaline flooding my system as more demons press closer. "I might not have cosmic power anymore, but I've still got these!"
I raise my fists, feeling Estingoth's presence surge within me like molten steel. The gauntlet on my arm flares to life, crimson energy crackling along its surface. Even without my architect abilities, I'm still bonded to an ancient demon lord—that has to count for something in this hellish nightmare.
A demon with wings like torn leather lunges at me, claws extended. I dodge left, feeling the wind from its strike ruffle my hair, and bring my elbow up into what I hope is its ribcage. The impact sends shockwaves up my arm, but the creature shrieks and tumbles away.
"Where am I?" I demand, grabbing another demon by what might be its throat. "What do you want?"
The creature just hisses at me, its breath like rotting meat mixed with sulfur. I throw it aside and scan the endless horde surrounding me. This isn't just a random attack—there's too much organization, too much purpose in how they're arranged.
"You are in the Pit of Judgment," a voice booms from somewhere above the crowd. I look up to see a figure descending from the smoky sky, wings spread wide. This one's different from the others—more human-looking, but with an aura of authority that makes my teeth ache. "You have been brought here to answer for your crimes against the cosmic order."
"Crimes?" I laugh, though there's no humor in it. "I prevented universal collapse! I saved everyone!"
"You defied the will of the Guardians," the figure says, landing gracefully a few feet away. "You refused to accept their judgment. You threatened continued rebellion."
I feel a chill that has nothing to do with the hellish heat around me. "The Guardians sent me here? They had me kidnapped?"
"Not kidnapped," the figure corrects with a smile that reveals too many teeth. "Transferred. To a place where your... influence... can be properly contained."
The pieces fall into place with sickening clarity. The tribunal wasn't just about stripping my powers—it was about gauging my reaction, testing whether I'd accept their authority or continue to resist. And when I made it clear I'd keep fighting, they decided on a more permanent solution.
"You're going to keep me here," I realize, my voice flat with understanding. "In hell. Away from the academy, away from the students, away from anyone I might teach."
"A regrettable necessity," the figure agrees. "Though I'm told the accommodations are quite... educational."
Around me, the demon horde presses closer, their roars growing louder. I can feel their hunger, their eagerness to tear me apart. But there's something else—a pattern in their movement, a rhythm that reminds me of...
"This is a trial by combat," I breathe. "You're going to make me fight my way out."
"Fight your way out?" The figure laughs, a sound like breaking glass. "Oh, my dear architect. There is no 'out.' There is only survival. For as long as you can manage it."
Rage builds in my chest, hot and clean and absolutely furious. They think they can just dispose of me? Lock me away in some infernal prison because I won't bow to their authority?
"Estingoth," I think desperately. "Please tell me you have some insight into this situation."
"I have been to this place before," his voice rumbles with ancient memory. "Long ago, when the hierarchies were first established. It is designed to break spirits, to reduce defiant beings to compliance through endless struggle."
"Any advice on how to survive it?"
"Do not merely survive," he says, and I can feel his savage grin in my mind. "Conquer. Show them what happens when they cage a being who has touched the source of creation itself."
The first wave of demons hits me like a living avalanche. Claws rake across my chest, teeth snap at my throat, and the world becomes a blur of violence and pain. But I'm not the same person who first put on this gauntlet—I've faced gods and monsters, reshaped reality itself, stared into the void of cosmic truth.
I fight with everything I have, every technique Elara taught me, every instinct honed by months of supernatural combat. The gauntlet blazes with power, turning my punches into devastating strikes that send demons flying. When one gets too close, I grab it and use it as a weapon against the others.
"Is this supposed to break me?" I shout over the chaos, backhanding a demon with razor-sharp wings. "Because I've had worse Tuesday afternoons!"
The winged figure watches from above, its expression unreadable. "Impressive. But this is merely the beginning. The Pit has many levels, each more challenging than the last."
"Bring it on," I snarl, grabbing a demon's horn and using it to lever the creature into a headlock. "I've got nowhere else to be."
But even as I fight, part of my mind is calculating, planning. They think they've neutralized me by throwing me into this hellish prison. They have no idea that every moment I spend here, every challenge I overcome, is just going to make me more determined to tear down their precious cosmic order when I get out.
And I will get out. Because somewhere in the mortal realm, Caleif is probably already planning my rescue. Because the knowledge I carry can't be contained by any prison, no matter how well-designed. Because the revolution I started doesn't depend on my physical presence—it depends on the ideas I've already planted in minds across three realms.
"If you think this is enough to stop me you're wrong, you made a mistake taking me here. In here I don't have to hold back, and trust me…I don't plan to." I yell out as I start punching, kicking and severing demonic limbs.
The words leave my mouth like a battle cry, and I feel something shift inside me—not the return of cosmic power, but something else. Something primal and utterly unrestrained. For months, I've been holding back, trying to be diplomatic, trying to find peaceful solutions. But this place doesn't respond to diplomacy.
This place understands only violence.
I grab the nearest demon by its throat and squeeze until I hear something crunch. Dark ichor sprays across my face, but I don't care. I'm beyond caring about anything except making these bastards pay for their mistake.
"You want to see what happens when you corner a desperate man?" I roar, hurling the dying demon into a cluster of its brethren. "Let me show you!"
Estingoth's presence floods through me like liquid fire, not the controlled partnership we usually maintain, but something wilder, more symbiotic. His ancient fury melds with my own rage, creating something that makes the demons actually take a step back.
"Yes," he whispers in my mind, his voice thick with savage joy. "Let them see what we truly are when unleashed."
I wade into the horde with renewed fury, each punch backed by millennia of demonic power. The gauntlet doesn't just enhance my strength—it transforms me into something the demons recognize as a threat. Claws that would shred normal flesh barely scratch my skin. Teeth that could crush bone find only resilient muscle.
But it's not just physical enhancement. I can feel Estingoth's memories bleeding through—knowledge of demonic weaknesses, understanding of hellish hierarchies, awareness of how to fight in ways that inspire fear rather than mere pain.
I grab a demon's wing and use it to spin the creature like a flail, clearing a circle around me. "You know what the funny thing is?" I laugh, blood running down my face from a dozen small cuts. "I actually tried to be reasonable with your bosses. I offered compromise, cooperation, balance."
A demon lunges at me from behind, and I catch it without turning around, my enhanced senses tracking its movement. I slam it into the ground hard enough to crack the charred earth.
"But you couldn't leave well enough alone, could you?" I continue, my voice carrying over the sounds of battle. "You had to push. You had to take my power, then try to bury me where no one would find me."
The winged figure above me shifts uncomfortably. I can see calculation in its eyes—this isn't going according to plan.
"The thing is," I say, breaking a demon's arm with casual efficiency, "I learned something during my time as the Nexus Being. Something about the nature of power, about what it really means to reshape reality."
I pause in my assault, standing in a circle of broken demons, breathing hard but far from exhausted. The horde has pulled back slightly, suddenly less eager to engage with something that's proven it can hurt them.
"Power isn't about cosmic manipulation," I continue, my voice dropping to something more conversational despite the hellish setting. "It's about understanding. About seeing the patterns others miss. About knowing exactly where to apply pressure to get the results you want."
I look up at the winged figure, feeling a cold smile spread across my face. "And right now, I understand exactly what you're afraid of."
"You understand nothing," the figure says, but there's less certainty in its voice now.
"I understand that this isn't just about containing me," I reply, wiping demon blood from my hands. "This is about making an example. About showing anyone else who might challenge the cosmic order what happens to rebels."
The truth hits me like a physical blow, and I can't help but laugh at the beautiful irony of it.
"But you've made a critical error," I continue, feeling Estingoth's amusement echoing my own. "You've given me exactly what I need to become a legend instead of just a troublemaker. Every moment I survive here, every demon I defeat, every challenge I overcome—it all becomes part of the story."
I spread my arms wide, addressing not just the figure above but the entire hellish landscape around me.
"Do you know what happens when you throw someone into the Pit of Judgment and they don't break? When they don't submit or beg for mercy? When they stand up and fight back with everything they have?"
The silence that follows is deafening. Even the demons seem to be holding their breath.
"They become a symbol," I answer my own question. "They become proof that the system can be defied. That the cosmic order isn't as absolute as it pretends to be."
I take a step forward, and the entire demon horde takes a step back. The balance of power in this place has shifted, and everyone can feel it.
"So thank you," I say, my voice carrying clearly in the sudden quiet. "Thank you for giving me exactly what I needed to finish what I started. Because every being in three realms is going to hear about this. About how the Guardians were so afraid of one man that they had to kidnap him and throw him into hell."
The winged figure's expression has gone from confident to concerned to something approaching panic. "You're trapped here. Your words mean nothing if no one can hear them."
"Are they trapped?" I ask, gesturing to the demons around me. "Because I'm betting at least some of them have friends in other realms. Friends who might be very interested to learn about the cosmic authorities' new recruitment methods."
I can see the moment when the figure realizes the scope of their mistake. This place was designed to break spirits through isolation and endless struggle. But I'm not isolated—I'm surrounded by potential witnesses. And I'm not struggling—I'm winning.
"Besides," I add, feeling more confident with each passing moment, "did you really think Lucifer Morningstar would just let the Guardians disappear someone from his territory without consequences? Because if you did, you obviously don't know him very well."
The figure's face goes pale—or whatever passes for pale in a being of its nature. "He wouldn't dare interfere directly."
"Maybe not," I concede. "But he's got a lot of friends. A lot of allies. A lot of beings who owe him favors. And they might be very interested in learning about this place, about what happens here, about who gets sent here and why."
I can feel the tide turning, can sense the doubt creeping through the demonic ranks. They signed up to break a defiant prisoner, not to participate in a cosmic scandal that might bring unwanted attention to their operation.
"So here's what's going to happen," I continue, my voice taking on the tone of someone who's used to being obeyed. "You're going to tell me exactly how to get out of here. And I'm going to leave. And in exchange, I won't make your lives any more difficult than they already are."
"This is not a negotiation," the figure says, but its voice lacks conviction.
"Everything is a negotiation," I reply. "The question is whether you're smart enough to recognize when you're in a losing position."
I look around at the demons, at the hellish landscape, at the entire system designed to break my spirit. And I smile—not the bitter expression I've been wearing lately, but something genuinely amused.
"Because the funny thing about throwing someone into hell is that if they don't break, if they adapt and overcome and thrive, they come out stronger than when they went in. And I'm already planning what I'm going to do with that strength."
The winged figure stares at me for a long moment, its expression cycling through anger, fear, and something that might be respect.
"You're insane," it says finally.
"Probably," I say with a grin, "but I'm right—and that's what makes me dangerous. Bring it on." I lean into the rage, Estingoth's crimson power roaring through my arm as wave after wave of demons charge.
I lose myself in the violence. Every punch sends a shock of satisfaction through me; my gauntlet blazes, turning my arm into a living weapon. Demons collapse like wheat under a scythe. I roar, "More!" Their fear is delicious—they've never faced anything like me.
Estingoth rumbles in my mind, "They're probing you for weakness." I snap a spine with a kick. "They won't find any."
Time blurs until the winged sentinel above finally shouts, "Enough!" The horde withdraws, leaving me standing in a circle of gore. Blood—mine and theirs—paints my skin.
"Impressive," it says, descending. "You fight with…unexpected skill."
"I've practiced," I shrug, wiping ichor from my cheek. "Turns out reality-bending gets messy."
Its eyes swirl with uncanny colors. "Perhaps we misjudged you. This was only the first circle. The Pit has many levels."
I crack my neck. "Then bring on the next test." Somewhere in the back of my mind I plot an escape—every prison has a weakness.
Reality shifts and I land in a molten cavern: the second circle. A voice with an unreadable accent welcomes me. Out steps Caleif—her face, her ember-red hair, even her scar—but her smile is wrong, hungry.
"Nice try," I say. "If you're using a shapeshifter, at least get the details right. My Caleif wouldn't wear that."
The illusion flickers into an obsidian being. "Violence won't help you here."
"Won't it?" I flex the gauntlet. "Worked fine so far."
The cavern dissolves into the tribunal hall where Guardians stripped me of my cosmic power. I watch—helpless—as they condemn the real Caleif. My heart twists with guilt and fury.
"Fight it," Estingoth snarls. "This is illusion."
I grip the rage burning in my chest. "I've faced this fear. They can't break me." The scene fractures.
I roar, "Give me more!" and the bloodlust gauge on the gauntlet spikes to 100%. Horns thrust from my skull as I tear into fresh demons, ichor spraying.
A quake splits the ground, and I plunge headlong into another pit—fresh demons surging at me.
Elsewhere, Lucifer paces a shadowed chamber. "Open a portal," he says to Caleif. "We'll watch—he won't see us." Tears in her eyes, she peers through: I'm ripping skulls apart.
Lucifer's face pales. "Hell's miasma is awakening him—fusing with Estingoth. He's beyond our observation."
Back in the Pit I stand amid ruin. Miasma coils in my wounds; armor of red-black steel forms on my skin with a thunderous boom—skull insignia blazing.
A lone figure hovers above the gore. "You're a monster who belongs here," she sneers. "But I'll kill you anyway."
"I am Kamen," I growl. Claws shred the air; she blasts me into the earth.
"This'll be fun," I laugh, rising as miasma floods me. My new armor flares. Flames roar from my gauntlet as I smash her into the wall, crushing the air from her lungs. My power floods her spirit—her eyes shift from red to ice-blue.
Estingoth's voice is awed: "You've never dominated a spirit like that."
I drop her shattered form to the ground and surge back into the throng, the crowd's fury igniting a fire within me. Their anger becomes my fuel, and none can withstand the relentless onslaught I unleash. One by one, demons fall before me, their bodies crumpling at my feet as the intoxicating pleasure of vanquishing them spurs me onward. "I need more," I taunt, my voice a challenge slicing through the chaos. "Come at me, all of you at once."
As if summoned by my words, three more winged demons materialize in the smoky air, their silhouettes cutting through the haze. But these creatures are unlike Rose; there's something distinctly different about them. A predatory smile stretches across my face, a hint of anticipation curling my lips. "You're different, aren't you?" I growl, my voice laced with a mixture of curiosity and eagerness, as they descend upon me with synchronized ferocity.
Their movements speak of purpose and power, and in a flash of realization, I understand—they are other Pillars. One of them bears a smirk, a silent acknowledgment of their superiority. "There are a total of 100 Pillars," the smirking demon informs, their voice cutting through the cacophony. "Each of us is stronger than the last."
"The Pillars of Judgment," I growl, feeling the thrill of recognition through Estingoth's ancient memories. "I've heard stories about you."
The demons circle me, their wings creating currents in the sulfurous air. Each moves with predatory grace, their bodies adorned with symbols of office and battle scars that speak of countless victories.
"Then you know you face your doom," the one with obsidian wings says, voice like gravel sliding over steel. "I am Vexatious, Pillar of Despair."
"Malphus, Pillar of Torment," announces another, whose skin ripples with what look like screaming faces trying to push through from within.
The third, smallest but somehow most unsettling, simply smiles. "Ezrael, Pillar of Doubt. A pleasure to break you."
I roll my shoulders, feeling my new armor shift and adapt like a second skin. The demonic essence I've absorbed from countless victories pulses through me, eager for more. "Three against one? Hardly seems fair." I flash them a bloody grin. "For you."
They attack as one, a coordinated assault that would have overwhelmed me mere hours ago. But I'm not the same being who arrived in this pit. The gauntlet has transformed me, merged with me in ways I never allowed before. Each demon I've killed has added to my power, my understanding, my rage.
Vexatious reaches me first, claws aimed at my throat. I sidestep and grab his extended arm, using his momentum to slam him into the charred earth. The impact creates a crater, but he's up in an instant, eyes blazing with hatred.
"You'll suffer for that," he hisses.
"Promises, promises," I taunt, feeling Estingoth's savage joy pulsing through me.
Malphus attacks from behind, tendrils of living darkness extending from his fingertips. They wrap around my limbs, and instantly pain explodes through my body—not physical agony, but something deeper, memories of every injury I've ever experienced playing simultaneously.
I don't fight it. I embrace it. Pain has been my teacher, my companion, my guide since I first put on this gauntlet. I let it flow through me, then channel it back through the tendrils connecting us.
Malphus screams as his own power rebounds, his body contorting as he experiences every torment he's ever inflicted. "Impossible!"
"You should really be more careful who you connect with," I say, advancing on him as he writhes on the ground.
Ezrael chooses this moment to strike, but not with physical force. I feel his attack in my mind—subtle, insidious doubt spreading like poison. *Are you sure you're still you? After all this killing, all this power, all this rage—what's left of the human you once were?*
It's a clever attack, targeting the fear that's haunted me since my transformation began. But I've faced this doubt before, wrestled with it in quiet moments and cosmic crises. I know who I am.
"Nice try," I say, meeting his gaze directly. "But I've made peace with what I've become."
I lunge forward, faster than thought, and grab him by the throat. The armor of my hand tightens, crushing his windpipe. "Can you say the same?"
Doubt works both ways, and I push back against his mental assault with questions of my own. *How many have you broken with this trick? How many were innocent? How do you justify what you've become?*
Ezrael's eyes widen in panic as his own weapon turns against him. While he's distracted, I slam my armored fist into his chest, feeling ribs shatter beneath the impact.
Vexatious recovers and charges again, his wings creating a sonic boom as he accelerates. This time I meet him head-on, our collision sending shockwaves through the hellish landscape. We grapple, his strength impressive but no match for what I've become.
"You're strong," he acknowledges, straining against my grip. "But I am Despair incarnate. I've broken gods."
"I've reshaped reality," I counter, headbutting him with enough force to crack the horns sprouting from his forehead. "And I'm just getting started."
I drive him back, each blow leaving dents in his armored hide. He tries to counter, to find an opening, but I'm relentless. The gauntlet pulses with crimson energy, channeling my fury into devastating attacks.
Malphus recovers enough to join the fray, his tendrils now aimed at my eyes. I catch them mid-air, ignoring the pain they transmit, and yank him toward me. As he stumbles forward, I drive my knee into his stomach with enough force to fold him in half.
"Is this really the best you can do?" I taunt, spinning to avoid Vexatious's desperate lunge. "I expected more from the legendary Pillars."
Their coordinated attacks become increasingly frantic, less disciplined. I can sense their growing fear—not just of defeat, but of what I represent. A being who doesn't break, who grows stronger with each challenge, who turns their own weapons against them.
Ezrael, recovered enough to stand, attempts one final assault—not on me, but on the fabric of reality around us. The air shimmers as he tries to transport us to a different level of the Pit, one perhaps more favorable to their abilities.
I don't let him finish. With a roar that shakes the very foundations of this hellish domain, I channel all my accumulated power into a single devastating attack. The gauntlet blazes like a newborn star, and I drive my fist into the ground beneath us.
The impact creates a shockwave that ripples outward, catching all three Pillars in its path. They're thrown backward, their bodies crashing through stone formations and skidding across the charred earth.
I stalk toward them, my armor gleaming with infernal light. "You wanted to test me? Consider me tested. Now, who's next?"
The three Pillars exchange glances, something like respect mingling with their fear. Vexatious struggles to his feet, ichor leaking from a dozen wounds.
"You've passed this trial," he admits grudgingly. "But there are ninety-seven more Pillars, each stronger than us. You cannot defeat them all."
I laugh, the sound echoing across the desolate landscape. "Watch me."
As if summoned by my challenge, the air tears open and five more Pillars step through. These are different—their power more refined, their presence more commanding. I can feel the difference immediately, like stepping from a warm room into a blizzard.
"So eager to die," one says, her voice melodious despite the cruelty in her eyes. "I am Seraphel, Pillar of Pride."
The others introduce themselves in turn: Abaddon, Pillar of Wrath; Mammon, Pillar of Greed; Asmodeus, Pillar of Lust; and Beelzebub, Pillar of Gluttony.
The Seven Deadly Sins made flesh. How appropriate.
"Five against one?" I observe, cracking my neck. "You're learning."
Seraphel smiles, a beautiful and terrible expression. "We're not here to fight you one by one. That would be... inefficient."
She gestures, and reality shifts around us. Suddenly we're in an arena, vast and ancient, with tiered seating stretching up into smoky darkness. And those seats are filled—thousands upon thousands of demons watching with hungry anticipation.
"Welcome to the Colosseum of Souls," Seraphel announces, her voice carrying to every corner of the massive structure. "Where the truly defiant are broken for public entertainment."
The crowd roars, a sound like the ocean during a hurricane. I scan the arena, noting the various entrances, the subtle weaknesses in its construction, the ways I might use this environment to my advantage.
"And what's the challenge?" I ask, though I already suspect the answer.
Seraphel's smile widens. "Survival. Against them."
Gates grind open all around the arena's perimeter, and demons begin pouring in—not by the dozens or hundreds, but by the thousands. A seething tide of claws and fangs and malice, all directed at me.
"Three million of our finest warriors," Mammon says, his eyes gleaming with avarice. "A fitting test for one who thinks himself beyond judgment."
I should be terrified. I should be begging for mercy, looking for escape, anything but what I actually feel—a surge of anticipation so powerful it's almost euphoric.
"Finally," I say, rolling my shoulders as my armor shifts and strengthens. "A real challenge."
The first wave hits me like a tsunami of teeth and claws. I lose myself in the rhythm of combat, each movement flowing into the next with deadly precision. My gauntlet blazes with crimson fire, turning my arm into a weapon of mass destruction. Every punch sends demons flying, every swipe of my claws tears through their ranks.
Time loses meaning in the fury of battle. I am no longer thinking, no longer planning—I am simply existing in this perfect storm of violence, becoming the eye of a hurricane made of blood and broken bodies.
The demons keep coming, wave after endless wave. I adapt, finding new ways to kill, new efficiencies in my movements. The armor covering my body evolves with each victory, growing stronger, more responsive, more attuned to my needs.
At some point—minutes or hours into the slaughter—I realize something has changed. The demons aren't just attacking randomly anymore. They're coordinating, trying to overwhelm me with sheer numbers. I find myself surrounded, the press of bodies so thick I can barely move.
So I stop trying to move and instead channel all my power inward, then release it in an explosive burst. The resulting shockwave clears a thirty-foot circle around me, the demons closest to me simply ceasing to exist while those further away are thrown violently backward.
The crowd roars its approval. This is entertainment for them—watching an outsider fight impossible odds. I wonder briefly how many have fallen here, how many were broken by the endless onslaught.
Not me. Never me.
I leap into the air, higher than should be possible, and come down in the midst of a fresh cluster of demons. The impact creates another crater, and I use the momentary advantage to grab two demons and use them as improvised weapons against their brethren.
"Is this the best you can do?" I taunt, my voice carrying over the cacophony of battle. "I'm barely warmed up!"
As if in answer, a section of demons parts to reveal something new—a massive creature, easily fifteen feet tall, with the lower body of a serpent and the torso of a warrior. Its six arms each hold a different weapon, and its face is a nightmare of misplaced features.
"Ah," I say, dropping the broken demons I've been using as clubs. "Something interesting."
The creature charges with surprising speed for its size. I dodge the first swing of its war hammer, duck under a spear thrust, but catch a glancing blow from its sword. The impact sends me skidding backward, and I feel something I haven't experienced in a while—actual pain.
"Finally," I laugh, feeling blood trickle down my side where the blade breached my armor. "A worthy opponent."
The creature hisses something in a language I don't understand, but the meaning is clear enough—die.