The slums of the capital city existed in a life of their own—filthy, desperate, and full of silent voices.
In the eyes of the outside world, the black market was just a place where you could have anything for literally pennies and something illegal ofcourse.
But That was only a half-truth.
Its real goldmine lay in the underground battlefield they have.
A place where men fought not for just the money, but for power, for survival, or simply because they had nothing to lose anymore.
The rule was easy: if you want to fight, you can. that's it.
But there was one important rule and that is -you must bet something worth something. Lose, and the winner gets it all.
Most bet money. A lot of money.
In this battlefield You either walked away becoming generational rich or crawled out with fate worse than beggars.
But money was not the reason why I was here.
"How much longer, brat?"
Asmodeus' voice cut through my thoughts.
I looked at him— impatient as usual.
"We're here," I said.
He let out a sigh, arms crossed. "Took long enough."
The slums stretched out in front of us—narrow alleys, broken buildings, and a thick atmosphere of grime and desperation. Beggars huddled in corners, their hollow eyes scanning for crumbs of mercy. Even the children sat quietly, too weak to even talk.
Looking at them past memories resurfaced, I know how it feels to be helpless.
Something in my chest tightened, but I suppressed it.
Asmodeus, of course ,saw it. He always did.
"Tch. Don't waste your thoughts on them," he grumbled. "Everyone has their own battles to fight. No one's going to save them. No one's going to save you either."
I looked at him but didn't say anything.
"Sympathy's useless," he went on. "For you and for them. Concentrate on why you're here."
I took a deep breath, shaking off the thoughts. He wasn't wrong.
Then I spotted him.
A worn blanket had covered an old man, slumped in the corner. His frame was stiff, as though he was in slumber.
I walked towards him.
He raised his head a fraction as if sensing me. His tone was rough but steady.
"Oh, kind sir , Spare a coin for this poor soul. The gods will definitely reward you."
I looked him straight in the eyes.
"I'd rather meet the gods personally."
A beat of silence. A quiet chuckle.
"The heavens don't open their gates for just anyone."
"Then I'll find another way in."
His fingers beat against his knee, weighing my words. His tone lower.
"The road is long and full of shadows. How will you walk through it?"
"With quiet steps and open eyes. Some paths require silence."
He blew out hard, a nod. "And when the sun sets, where will you rest?"
"Under the shadow of the raven, where no sun comes."
A slow smile pulled at his lips. Then, to my surprise, he stood up with a steadiness that was quite remarkable.
"Come, traveler. Let's see if the gods wish to greet you."
I did not hesitate. I fell into step behind him. His disguise could deceive others, but not me. He was no common beggar.
We walked through twisting alleys until we came to a small, broken coffee shop. A handful of scattered customers sat at their tables, absorbed in their own thoughts. No one looked at us.
He took me through a side door. Then another. And another.
At the fourth door, he placed his hand on a biometric scanner. A gentle beep verified his identity, and the lock clicked open.
A creaky elevator lingered within. The doors closed behind us, and the quiet hung.
The old man—no, the man who'd only pretended to be one—stood at my side, his face now fully uncovered.
He'd not said a word since we'd come in. Nor had I.
The air between us felt thick and unspoken understanding. He knew I was not here on a whim. And I knew he wasn't merely a gate for the desperate.
At last, he spoke.
"Sir…" His tone was softer now, calculated. "What are you actually here for?"
He did not ask out of curiosity. He already knew. He simply wanted me to tell him.
I looked at him, my eyes unwavering. My voice was without hesitation as I replied.
"I want to fight in the Devil's Den."
For an instant, there was nothing. No response, no words—only the whir of the elevator and the dim flash of the lights above.
Then he breathed out, a half-amused sound. His keen eyes examined me, measuring my value.
"You don't look like someone who fights for money" he said. "Or am I wrong?"
"I don't bet on something on something I'm not willing to lose."
His lips curled up slightly. "And what are you willing to risk?"
"Whatever it takes."
He laughed low and shook his head. "That's a dangerous attitude sir .The Den isn't kind to those who battle without reason."
I did not answer.
The elevator lurched to a stop, then slid slowly open. The doors creaked softly open, showing a dark, long corridor beyond. In the distance, the far-off roar of a crowd could be heard, their voices a combination of excitement and violence.
The man faced me again, his face unreadable as ever.
"Then welcome to the Devil's Den."