Wrath Ring didn't welcome visitors.
It challenged them.
The air here burned hotter, not from flame, but from the emotional pressure that lived in the stone itself rage, violence, dominance. Everything in this Ring operated under a single rule:
If you want space, you fight for it.
And tonight, Ouroboros was claiming more.
Dreg stood alone in an open arena carved naturally into the volcanic rock. Ash fell like snow. Lava glowed from deep fissures beneath his feet. Hundreds of Wrath demons crowded the ridges above, hungry for spectacle.
Some had torches. Some had weapons. All had bloodlust.
Because it wasn't just a territory claim.
It was a public challenge.
Ouroboros had taken a foothold here quietly, efficiently but expansion required ritual acknowledgment.
And ritual acknowledgment in Wrath meant combat.
Dreg rolled his shoulders once, cracking his neck. No nervousness. No hesitation. Only purpose.
Footsteps echoed across the arena.
Three figures entered the current local ruling faction:
The Three Iron-Fury Overlords.
Not noble-born. Not political.
Self-made.
The kind Wrath respected most.
The leader stepped forward a massive demon with molten metal running under his skin like glowing veins.
A scar split across his jaw.
His voice was a growl carved from stone:
> "You're the serpent's war dog."
Dreg didn't blink.
> "I am his fist."
The crowd roared approval.
Wrath demons loved confidence especially when it sounded like a promise.
The molten Overlord continued:
> "Your boss wants our territory. He sends you instead of coming himself. Insult? Or arrogance?"
Dreg grinned, showing teeth.
> "Neither."
He stepped forward.
> "He sent me because you're not worth his time."
A wave of heat rolled through the arena.
Some demons gasped. Some laughed. Some immediately wanted blood.
Perfect.
The molten Overlord slammed his weapon into the cracked earth a halberd made of living steel.
> "Then prove you belong here."
The signal was given.
Fight began.
FIRST STRIKE
The first of the Iron Fury moved a tall, armored demon with spiked gauntlets. Fast for his size. He lunged at Dreg with a wild punch fueled by Wrath born adrenaline.
Dreg didn't dodge.
He caught the punch mid swing fingers closing around the Overlord's fist with bone crushing force.
A heartbeat later crack.
The gauntleted demon screamed as Dreg twisted his arm and slammed him face first into the stone, breaking it.
Crowd erupted.
Wrath loved brutality done with efficiency.
SECOND STRIKE
The second Overlord wiry, eyes glowing bright red used Wrath aura manipulation. Rage energy burst around her like wildfire as she launched a flurry of blows.
Dreg blocked the first. The second grazed him. The third he took deliberately.
Testing.
Measuring.
His grin widened.
Then he moved.
His punch wasn't fast it was precise. It hit her sternum like a battering ram.
She flew backward, skidding across volcanic stone until she crashed into an obsidian pillar.
She did not stand again.
More roars.
Approval.
Now only one opponent remained.
THE FINAL FURY
The molten Overlord approached not reckless, emotional, but focused.
Wrath Ring didn't just breed brute strength. Sometimes it bred something worse:
calculated violence.
Flames ignited across his arms and weapons. The lava under his skin pulsed brighter.
> "You fight well."
Dreg wiped blood from his lip not his own, but from catching the second demon's teeth on impact.
> "I was trained for worse."
A pause.
Then the molten Overlord chuckled.
> "Good. This won't be boring."
They collided in the center of the arena.
Steel struck flesh.
Shockwaves rippled outward, sending gravel and ash flying.
Dreg felt bones strain not break and his blood boiled with the thrill he never admitted aloud:
He enjoyed fights like this.
Not because he needed to win.
Because he needed worthy resistance.
The molten Overlord swung his halberd downward a killing strike.
Dreg didn't block.
He stepped inside the arc, grabbed the Overlord by the throat, and slammed him onto the ground so hard the arena floor buckled.
Before the Overlord could stand, Dreg lifted the halberd still hot, still glowing and pointed it at his opponent's throat.
Silence.
Then:
> "Submit," Dreg growled.
The molten Overlord coughed, his pride bleeding through clenched teeth.
Wrath demons didn't fear death.
But they respected force.
Finally, the Overlord lowered his gaze and spoke the only acceptable word:
> "…Ouroboros."
The crowd answered with a thunderous roar.
The claim was accepted.
Wrath Ring now belonged in part to the serpent.
AFTERMATH
Dreg released him and tossed the halberd aside.
Quill, Skit, and Bit approached from the sideline having observed the entire match.
Skit was practically vibrating.
> "BRO. You folded them like laundry."
Bit nodded aggressively.
> "Wrath loves you now. Like religiously."
Quill scanned readings.
> "Minimal injuries. Maximum psychological impact. Efficient."
Dreg shrugged.
> "They needed a message."
Skit raised an eyebrow.
> "And the message was?"
Dreg grinned sharp and wolfish.
> "Don't poke the serpent unless you want fangs."
Behind them, Wrath demons continued shouting one word:
"OUROBOROS!"
It echoed through the volcanic streets, through the underground pits, through the entire region.
And somewhere far away, in the shadows of Envy
the Watcher heard it.
And smiled.