The arena, still scarred from Ruin's devastation, flared with scarlet light, the infernal stands quaking under the roars of a delirious demonic crowd. Flames danced in the air, casting menacing shadows over the 10 survivors—Gills, Soehpt, Kira (Blazing Skulls), Tyrnat, Yulius, Nera (Styx Reapers), Bhaadon, Solom (Nephalems), Orak (Blue Fangs), and the mysterious masked warrior—standing in a circle, their gazes flickering between mistrust and resolve. A blinding light erupted at the arena's center, and the Black Flames Crown appeared, hovering above an obsidian pedestal, pulsing with black-and-red energy, wreathed in spectral flames that seemed to whisper promises of absolute power.
Natass Magna XIII burst forth on his floating platform, his black suit gleaming in the infernal glow, his glossy onyx horns reflecting the firelight. But for the first time, his carnivorous grin faltered, replaced by sheer astonishment. He adjusted his monocle, eyes wide as they fixed on the survivors, his usually confident voice trembling slightly.
"O MY DAMNED SOULS… TEN SURVIVORS IN THE NINTH CIRCLE?!"
He clutched his forehead as if about to faint, then erupted into a nervous, near-hysterical laugh.
"This… this is an incredible feat, even for an ancient imp like me! In eons, the ninth circle has NEVER been reached—let alone by so many damned souls!"
The crowd exploded into roars, waving macabre banners, flames bursting from the stands in chaotic splendor. Natass, regaining his composure, waved his cane with exalted frenzy.
"The bets are back on, my infernal gamblers! Who will become the Demon God? The masked warrior holds at 2 to 1, but the Blazing Skulls climb to 3 to 1, and the Styx Reapers to 4 to 1!"
He turned to the survivors, his sadistic smirk returning.
"Here's your final trial, my little ones… Egoism! The Black Flames Crown lies there, at the center, within your grasp. But you must choose: who among you will wear it?"
He paused, his gaze glinting with malice.
"No rules, no limits—let egoism reign! HAHAHA!"
With a final cackle, he vanished in a cloud of ash, leaving the arena ablaze with tension.
The arena ignited into total chaos within seconds, the survivors plunging into a brutal melee, their motivations laid bare as the battles unfolded. Bhaadon and Solom of the Nephalems, fueled by searing rage, charged the Styx Reapers without hesitation. Bhaadon, wielding telekinesis, rose into the air, levitating with a grace nearly matching Solom's, his eyes burning with suppressed fury. "You destroyed Iff!" he roared, hurling obsidian shards like spears at Tyrnat and Yulius. "You don't deserve the crown—you deserve death!" His voice thundered, revealing his drive: vengeance, even at the cost of the crown itself.
Solom dove from above, lightning streaking across the arena, targeting Nera, who dodged nimbly, her shadow threads forming a shield. Tyrnat, swift, summoned Nidhoss—a colossal demonic serpent with black scales and ember eyes—erupting from the ground with a guttural roar. "You want to avenge your pathetic kingdom?" Tyrnat sneered, his contempt clear. "Iff was weak—and so are you!" Nidhoss spat a corrosive venom stream, forcing Solom to swerve, though a lightning bolt struck one of the serpent's heads, eliciting a howl of pain. Bhaadon, hovering above the fray, lifted a massive boulder with telekinesis, hurling it at Nidhoss, but Yulius, unflinching, conjured a lance of congealed blood with Massacre, deflecting the assault. "You're an obstacle," Yulius murmured, his cold voice betraying his motive: eliminate all threats to secure the crown, even at his teammates' expense.
Orak, alone, eyed the masked warrior with suspicion, his gaze narrowing. "I won't let you take the crown," he growled, revealing his drive: survival and proving his worth after betrayal and isolation. He channeled his dire ice power, his body transforming in a burst of polar light. He became a Polar Ice Knight, a towering 2-meter figure clad in translucent ice armor that shimmered like a glacier under winter sun, wisps of frozen mist trailing from his shoulders. His eyes glowed icy blue, and in his right hand, he forged a lance—a 3-meter stalagmite of razor-sharp ice, its tip seeming to devour light, wreathed in swirling frost crystals. Orak charged, his lance whistling through the air, shards of ice trailing each thrust.
The masked warrior dodged with supernatural agility, drawing a black rune-etched blade, parrying Orak's strikes with lethal precision. "You want the crown for yourself, don't you?" the masked warrior murmured, his deep voice echoing beneath his helm, sensing Orak's egoism. Orak, enraged, summoned a frozen tempest, ice shards whirling around him, but the masked warrior sliced through it, gashing Orak's leg. In a sudden twist, Orak tapped the Ring of Wrath, channeling his rage to freeze the ground beneath the masked warrior, briefly trapping him. He thrust his lance at the warrior's heart, but with a fluid motion, the masked warrior shattered the ice and countered, his black blade slashing Orak's shoulder deeply, forcing him back, frozen blood seeping from the wound.
Gills, watching the chaos, murmured to Kira and Soehpt: "We can't stay passive. If we want Soehpt to take the crown, we act now." His voice betrayed his hidden motive: crowning Soehpt, whom he saw as the only one fit to rule the hells without bias. Kira, grasping his intent, nodded with a determined smile. "I'm with you, Gills, no matter what," she replied, her unwavering loyalty clear. She summoned the Cestus of Astrugg, her fists engulfed in roaring demonic red flames, spectral chains clinking around her wrists, amplifying her raw strength. Soehpt, unaware of Gills' plan, clenched his fists, ready to defend his team. "We fight together," he said firmly, his motive pure: do anything for his team, devoid of personal ambition.
Seeing Orak struggling against the masked warrior, Gills made a snap decision. "Kira, Soehpt, cover me! I'll help Orak—we can't let that masked warrior near the crown!" Gills surged forward, red flames flaring around him, and unleashed a fiery wave at the masked warrior, forcing him to dodge and giving Orak a moment to breathe. "Why help me?" Orak growled, wary. "Just returning the favor," Gills replied, flames dancing in his eyes. "But don't get it twisted—I want the crown for my team." Orak nodded, a temporary alliance forged, and the two charged the masked warrior together, their combined assault—red flames and polar ice—creating a dazzling spectacle.
Meanwhile, Nera seized an opening, betraying Tyrnat and Yulius, her shadow threads binding them. "The crown is mine," she whispered, her pure egoism laid bare—she'd never intended to share power. But Tyrnat, unleashing a wave of demonic shadows, shattered the threads, his eyes blazing with rage. "You dare betray me?" he roared, summoning a horde of clawed specters to assail Nera.
She dodged, her threads forming a shield, but Bhaadon, hovering above, exploited the distraction, striking Tyrnat with a massive boulder that pinned him to the ground, wounding him gravely. "That's for Iff," Bhaadon growled, but Yulius, breaking free of Nera's threads, retaliated, his blood lance piercing Bhaadon's shoulder, forcing him to land, blood streaming from the gash.
Solom dove to shield Bhaadon, his lightning blasting Yulius, but Nera, in an unexpected twist, snared Solom with her threads, pinning him. "You're all obstacles," she hissed, lunging for the crown. Yet Kira, spotting the threat, leapt forward, her flaming Cestus of Astrugg blazing, and struck Nera with devastating force, hurling her against a rock. "Not so fast!" Kira shouted, her flames roaring. Soehpt, beside her, tapped the Ring of Wrath, morphing into his hybrid Soehpt/Volgurax form, blue-and-black flames lighting the arena. "We have to protect the crown!" he roared, his voice booming with demonic might, but the crown's aura stoked his own desire to claim it, Volgurax whispering in his mind: "Take it… you can change everything…"
Gills and Orak, locked in combat with the masked warrior, synced their attacks with stunning precision. Gills unleashed a wave of red flames while Orak conjured a frozen tempest, trapping the masked warrior in a whirlwind of fire and ice. But the warrior, activating a rune on his armor, summoned a black energy barrier, deflecting their onslaught. "You're pathetic," he murmured, revealing his motive: he deemed the others unworthy, craving the crown solely for himself. He struck back, his black blade slicing Orak's armor, knocking him down, then slashed Gills' arm swiftly. Gills staggered, blood dripping, but Orak, fueled by a surge of rage, rose, his ice lance aiming for the warrior's flank, narrowly dodged.
As the battles raged, several contenders vied for the crown. Nera, after Kira's blow, stood, her shadow threads shielding her. She dashed for the pedestal again, but Soehpt, in hybrid form, spread his spectral fire wings, unleashing a flame wave that forced her back. "You won't have it!" he roared, though the crown's aura deepened his egoism, Volgurax urging: "Take it for yourself…" Struggling against this pull, Soehpt turned to Gills, who, despite his wound, nodded. "Soehpt, you're the one to take it," Gills said, unveiling his plan. "You're the only one who can rule the hells without prejudice." Soehpt, stunned, blinked, his voice shaky. "Me? But… the team…" Kira, beside him, smiled. "We're with you, no matter what."
Their respite was brief. Bhaadon, levitating again, used telekinesis to hurl Nidhoss at the pedestal in a desperate bid to take out the Blazing Skulls. The demonic serpent crashed near the crown, shattering part of the pedestal, but Soehpt, in hybrid form, shielded Gills and Kira from the impact. Tyrnat, furious, freed himself from the debris, summoning clawed specters to assail Bhaadon, who countered with a telekinetic wave, repelling them but draining himself. In a sudden twist, Yulius, seeing Tyrnat weakened, betrayed him, his blood lance aimed at his back. "The crown is mine," Yulius murmured, but Nera, anticipating it, ensnared Yulius with her threads, slamming him unconscious against a rock.
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As the masked warrior, having repelled Gills and Orak, lunged for the Black Flames Crown, his hand inches from the artifact, a blade of pure light streaked from nowhere, severing his arm in a blinding flash. He screamed, reeling as his severed arm fell, black blood splattering the pedestal. The survivors, frozen in shock, looked skyward. A radiant white portal tore open above the arena, spilling forth celestial beings—angels with luminous wings, wielding golden spears, their faces etched with divine wrath. Beams of pure light slashed the arena, shaking the infernal stands.
The demonic crowd shrieked in panic, flames snuffing out under the celestial glow. Natass reappeared on his platform, his monocle slipping from his eye, his expression shifting from astonishment to raw disgust.
"What are these glowing pigeons doing in MY domain?!"
he roared, his voice dripping with scorn, hands gripping his cane as he glared at the angels descending upon the arena. The survivors, still reeling, braced for a new fight, their eyes darting between the crown and the celestial host swooping down, intent on ending the cursed tournament.