The arena, still thick with the acrid stench of blood and ash from Rage, pulsed under the frenzied roars of the infernal crowd.
The stands, lit by flickering flames, seemed on the verge of collapse beneath the demons' excitement, their macabre, blood-stained banners snapping in the air. The 23 survivors—some wounded, others broken, all marked by violence—stood at the center, surrounded by the remnants of their foes. Their eyes met, brimming with mistrust and resolve, as an oppressive silence settled.
A scarlet light flared, and Natass Magna XIII burst forth on his floating platform, his black suit glinting in the infernal glow, his glossy onyx horns reflecting the flames. He waved his cane with exalted frenzy, his monocle gleaming, and his carnivorous grin widened as he riled the crowd.
"O MY TORMENTED SOULS!" he thundered, his deep voice rumbling like a storm, each word laced with a sinister promise.
"YOU HAVE REACHED THE EIGHTH CIRCLE, A FEAT OF ABSOLUTE RARITY!"
The crowd erupted in screams, rusted chains clanking through the air, flames bursting from the stands in a chaotic spectacle.
"For eons, only a handful of the damned have dared tread this cursed ground… but the ninth circle has NEVER been reached! Will you be the first to break this curse?"
He unleashed a guttural laugh, his eyes sparkling with sadism, letting a heavy silence hang that chilled even the hardiest souls.
He raised his cane, and an obsidian ring adorned with glowing red runes appeared in his hand, pulsing with dark energy.
"To those who survived Rage, here is your reward: the Ring of Wrath!"
He brandished it, and the rings materialized on the survivors' fingers, their searing heat drawing grimaces from some.
"This artifact turns your rage into a deadly force, fueling your powers, and helps you manage your energies and inner demonic entities… You'll need it, believe me!"
His tone dropped to a near-whisper, sending a shiver through the arena.
"For in Ruin, everything crumbles… including your hopes."
With a theatrical flourish, scarlet holograms flared above the arena, displaying the survivors' odds.
"And now, my dear infernal gamblers, the betting is open for the next Demon God!"
The crowd roared, demons hurling frenzied wagers, flames flaring in exaltation.
• "Gills of the Blazing Skulls, a fiery leader, 3 to 1!"
• "Tyrnat of the Styx Reapers, master of shadows, 4 to 1!"
• "Bhaadon of the Nephalems, a shattered mystery, 5 to 1!"
• "Orak, the icy survivor, 7 to 1!"
• "Promantis, the insatiable beast, 6 to 1!"
• "And the underdogs, Zarkon and Viktor of the Iron Talons, 10 to 1!"
He paused, his grin stretching wider.
"But who among them will reach the ninth circle… and at what cost?"
With a final cackle, Natass vanished in a cloud of ash, leaving the arena to transform with a sinister rumble, as if it were alive.
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During this interlude, the survivors seized the brief respite to tend their wounds, though the air was thick with suspicion. Nera of the Styx Reapers, her leg gashed, sat apart, her shadow threads quivering like living serpents. With surgical precision, she used her puppeteer skills to stitch her wound, her threads acting as needles, closing the gash in tense silence. Each motion was deliberate, but her hands trembled faintly—not from pain, but from dread of what lay ahead. Tyrnat watched from a distance, a mix of respect and calculation in his gaze, while Yulius, impassive, cleaned his sword Massacre, his eyes scanning the others like a predator.
Bhaadon of the Nephalems, his shattered mask revealing a scarred face, tended his wounds with Solom's help, who used minor lightning to cauterize them, a faint sizzle cutting the air. Kron, towering but shoulder-wounded, leaned against a rock, clenching his fists to suppress his pain, his stare fixed on nothing.
Zarkon and Viktor of the Iron Talons, still haunted by Aria's death, bandaged their wounds in silence, their eyes burning with vengeance against Promantis. But Promantis… where was he? Suspicious glances darted around. The insectoid had vanished, and a murmur of unease rippled through the survivors—was he plotting an ambush?
Orak, alone, used his ice to soothe his bruises, his face closed off, while Sylas of the Silent Blades watched from the shadows, a calculating smirk on his lips, tracking every move. In a corner, a masked warrior in black armor adorned with runes observed silently, his face hidden, his presence nearly imperceptible.
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The Circle of Ruin
The arena morphed into an apocalyptic nightmare, each shift amplifying the tension. The ground became a cracked plain, jolted by sudden earthquakes that shook the earth beneath their feet, lava geysers erupting without warning, their flames casting menacing shadows. Blinding ash storms swept through, reducing visibility to near nothing, the wind howling like a living entity. Guttural roars echoed in the dark—ash hounds, canine beasts with incandescent fangs, prowled the shadows, their red eyes piercing the haze. Obsidian Fragments, needed to open an exit portal, glimmered in deadly zones: at the edges of crumbling chasms, near lava geysers, or guarded by the hounds.
Trial Rule: Survive 24 hours and collect at least 3 fragments per team or individual to unlock the portal. Those who fail would be swallowed by the arena at time's end. But a detail Natass omitted became clear: the arena was alive, its traps adapting to the competitors' moves, as if eager to devour them. Every step was a gamble, every fragment a lure.
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The survivors scattered, each adopting a strategy to endure.
The Blazing Skulls—Gills, Soehpt, and Kira—moved cautiously, using the Ring of the Calculator to detect fragments from afar. Gills led, his red flames lighting their path through an ash storm, but Soehpt seemed distracted, his blue flames flickering as he clenched his fists. "You okay, Soehpt?" Kira asked, her voice tinged with worry. He nodded, but his gaze was haunted—Volgurax, the demon that possessed him in Hysteria, stirred within, roused by the hostile environment.
The Styx Reapers—Tyrnat, Yulius, and Nera—chose stealth, using their shadows to scout the arena. They spotted a fragment near a lava geyser, but an earthquake split the ground beneath them, forcing a retreat. Nera, slowed by her injured leg, stumbled, sliding toward a chasm. Tyrnat caught her at the last second, their eyes locking in unresolved tension. "Don't slow me down too much," he growled, but he didn't let go. As they withdrew, they glimpsed Promantis lurking in the shadows, his claws glinting red. Yet something was off—his movements were stiff, almost mechanical, and no clacking came from his maw. Tyrnat narrowed his eyes, a sly smirk forming, but he said nothing, letting Promantis vanish into the haze.
The Nephalems—Bhaadon, Solom, and Kron—advanced methodically, Bhaadon's telekinesis shifting debris to block a lava geyser threatening to engulf them. But as they neared a fragment, an ash storm enveloped them, and Bhaadon was struck by an arena-triggered illusion. He relived the fall of his kingdom, Iff—a haven for souls, demons, and outcasts he'd united under his banner. The images were vivid: flames consuming Iff's towers, cries of despair, and at the chaos's heart, two familiar figures—Tyrnat, summoning shadows to slaughter the inhabitants, and Yulius, wreaking bloody havoc with Massacre. The illusion unveiled his past: Bhaadon, born of a fallen angel and a high-ranking demoness of Beelzebub's court, had risen through self-sacrifice to become king, only for Iff to fall in a war Tyrnat and Yulius had fueled.
In the vision, Gota, his companion lost in Hysteria, appeared, blaming him: "You fled… You abandoned us!" Enraged, Bhaadon struck the illusion, roaring, "I survived to rebuild!" But as reality snapped back, an ash hound lunged, its fangs aiming for his throat. Solom dove, a lightning bolt blasting the beast, but the ground beneath them shattered with a grim crack. Kron, slowed by his wound, was swallowed by the arena, his scream echoing as he vanished into the abyss. Bhaadon and Solom, now alone, shared a look of pain and resolve, Bhaadon silently vowing to confront Tyrnat and Yulius in the ninth circle. "They'll pay," he muttered, his eyes burning with restrained fury.
Zarkon and Viktor of the Iron Talons, obsessed with avenging Aria, pressed through the arena, gathering fragments despite the traps. Near a lava geyser, they spotted Promantis lurking, his claws glinting red. Zarkon, roaring, charged: "You'll pay for Aria!" Promantis struck with mechanical ferocity, his claws slashing the air. Zarkon dodged, his silver claws raking the insectoid's body, but no blood flowed—its movements were rigid, too precise. Viktor, sharper-eyed, shouted, "Zarkon, wait! Something's wrong!" But before they could grasp it, Promantis lunged, a claw aimed at Viktor. Zarkon, in a desperate surge, stepped in front, the claw piercing his chest in a spray of blood. "Viktor… run…" he gasped, collapsing, his blood staining the ground. Viktor, horrified, tried to retaliate, but Promantis retreated into the ash storm, leaving him alone with Zarkon's body.
Orak, solitary, progressed alone, using ice to block lava geysers and claim fragments. But as he neared one, Sylas emerged from the shadows, stealing his fragments and fleeing into the mist. Furious, Orak summoned an icy storm in pursuit, shards streaking the air. Sylas, swift, dodged, but in his escape, he collided with Viktor, still reeling from Zarkon's death, on an unstable platform. The impact threw them off balance, and a lava geyser erupted, shattering the platform. Viktor and Sylas plummeted into the fiery abyss, their screams swallowed by a blaze, claimed by the ruthless arena.
At the arena's core, the Blazing Skulls were suddenly surrounded by ash hounds, their glowing fangs gleaming in the gloom. Gills and Kira fought fiercely, their flames repelling the beasts, but the ground trembled, on the brink of collapse. Soehpt, apart, waged an inner war. The environment—earthquakes, ash storms, and hound roars—had awakened Volgurax, vying for control. Visions of devastating blue flames flooded his mind, Volgurax whispering, "You're weak… Let me consume you!" Soehpt fell to his knees, his blue flames flickering, hands clutching his head as he battled to stay in command.
"Soehpt, hold on!" Kira shouted, smashing a hound with a fiery punch, but another leapt, knocking her down. Gills, busy shielding Kira, couldn't reach him. Soehpt's rage surged, fueled by the Ring of Wrath. "I won't let you break me!" he roared, channeling his anger into deadly energy. In a burst of blue-and-black flames, he merged with Volgurax, his body morphing into a hybrid demonic form—Soehpt/Volgurax, a humanoid wreathed in spectral fire, with twisted horns and blazing wings.
This transformation came just as the platform beneath the Blazing Skulls crumbled, hounds closing in. Soehpt, in his new form, roared, his flames sweeping the creatures into ash. The platform gave way, but Soehpt spread his wings, grabbing Gills and Kira to pull them to safety moments before the ground vanished into the abyss. They landed hard on a nearby platform, fragments still in hand. "I'm ready," Soehpt murmured, his eyes alight with newfound resolve, though Gills and Kira exchanged a worried glance—was this fusion a blessing or a curse?
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As the 24 hours ended, the arena collapsed in an apocalyptic roar, the ground splitting like a ravenous beast, swallowing those without enough fragments. The survivors, exhausted, raced to the portal, but a final ash hound blocked their path. Soehpt, in demonic form, reduced it to ash with a single gesture, clearing the way. Of the 9 lone competitors, only the masked warrior survived, the rest consumed by the arena or felled by hounds.
Survivors
Only 10 endured:
• Blazing Skulls (Gills, Soehpt, Kira)
• Styx Reapers (Tyrnat, Yulius, Nera)
• Nephalems (Bhaadon, Solom)
• Blue Fangs: Orak, sole survivor
• Unknown: Masked warrior, sole survivor
Natass reappeared, laughing:
"Congratulations, my survivors! You've endured Ruin, but the ninth circle, Egoism, awaits! Who will you sacrifice to claim the Black Flames Crown? HAHAHA!"
He raised his cane, and a new ring appeared in his hand—an obsidian artifact with golden runes, pulsing with oppressive energy.
"To those who triumphed over Ruin, here's your ultimate reward: the Ring of the Tyrant!"
The rings materialized on the 10 survivors' fingers, their scorching heat branding their skin like a seal of nobility.
"This ring marks you as high nobility, granting dire authority over most infernal creatures and bestowing the title of Grand Tyrant—a rank just below Infernal Monarch! You are now lords among the damned… but will you prove worthy?"
With a final cackle, the arena darkened, leaving an unbearable tension.
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As the survivors crossed the portal, a chilling detail emerged:
Promantis, spotted throughout the trial, suddenly collapsed, lifeless, like a puppet with severed strings. Nera, a cold smile on her lips, cut the shadow threads from her fingers. "He served well," she murmured to Tyrnat, who nodded, pleased. Promantis had been dead since the trial's start, slain by the Styx Reapers and puppeteered by Nera—a ruse that sowed chaos, ensured their survival, and led to Zarkon's tragic end.
But as the portal closed, a hologram of Natass flickered back, displaying updated odds: the masked warrior, now 2 to 1, the frontrunner for Demon God. Who was he? Had he manipulated events from the shadows? The suspense lingered, setting the stage for a ninth circle even more dramatic.