The Colosseum - Neb Domina: Second City of Clan Iradiam
When Daemian saw the wrestling ring, he nearly salivated on the spot.
The Hierophant’s servants led Brax, Victor, and Daemian into a large structure that reminded Victor of the Colosseum in Rome, where Gio and Spike had fought during the championship. Only, its ‘rim’ was bethorned with jagged edges, and the stones a strange, dull-glowing violet. The hosts of Hell, of all clans, watched from the rows–their eyes glowing in the twilight realm. Most of them were of Clan Luxerian and Iradiam, a strange contrast of body types–bulky brutes, and lithe, beautiful demons.
The three were led behind the stalls, towards the equivalent of ‘lock rooms’, but the break between the aisles gave the gang a clear view onto the battlefield, illuminated in green and blue fire.
And there was the Hierophant, up on the main riser reserved for demonic ‘royalty’. Yet, the two stone thrones behind him–reserved for the leaders of the Clans of Wrath and Lust–were conspicuously absent. The proud, pale demon leered down at the fighters meandering through the back passageways.
Now, the denizens of Gehenna were no strangers to gladiatorial spectacles–but they had never put on a spellbreaking match before. Crimson, serving as liaison between the terrestrial visitors and the local council of demons, provided all the specifications that the demonic showrunners needed for production. The demons of Wrath were enthusiastically on-board. The prospect of a bloodsport titillated them. The romantic demons of Luxerian, upon hearing the promise of buff, beautiful men entangling with each other, eagerly invested their magickal capabilities as well. In a short time, the forces of the joined clan had whipped up a splendidly spooky ring that nevertheless adhered to earthly regulations and limits.
One might have suspected The Hierophant’s hand in making sure Brax, Daemian, and Victor failed in their endeavours–and any casual observer of infernal affairs would have been correct…almost. Being a demon of Pride, The Hierophant was not immune to hubris. To them, this was already in the bag. Their right-hand Wrath-clan bodyguard, Kalfaxo, salivated over the prospect of seeing that worthless Brax torn apart by Ralgar, the rightful ruler.
However, his Luxerion counterpart, Calis was conspicuously absent. The Hierophant looked to his right, where the demoness should have been standing, and narrowed their eyes at the empty space. They recalled the she-demon muttering, “You…” when she had first laid eyes on that masked halfling back on Earth. The Hierophant had thought nothing of the outburst, at the time–they had merely chalked it up to shock at seeing a cambian in the flesh, walking on Earth.
–
The beautiful and strong demon, with her Amazonian figure, approached the masked Crimson in their private, veiled balcony. The Incubus nearly bolted up, reaching for his dagger, when he recognized the semi-familiar face.
“You know who the human is,” Calis said. “Don’t you? Do not turn your charms upon me. I have grown sick of The Hierophant’s lies and manipulations. Luxerian deserves a rightful ruler. One who is just. One who does not meddle with the realm of the Children of Eve, Honoured Sister.”
Crimson scanned the pretty-eyed demons face for signs of mistruth. “Rare is the occasion I hear a Child of Lilith use the respect epithet for the Mother of Mortals."
"I am educated. I do not foresake the humans, despite their occasionally trifling ways. Mine is a faith of compassion..." She stepped forward. Crimson felt her power. "And prudence. I am pragmatic, not naïve."
Crimson looked upon this demoness with interest and admiration. He smiled. "I do recognize you. Calis, is your name? You are a Judge. A daughter of the law. Julissa, one of the former king’s most trusted bodyguards, was your mother.”
The demoness crossed her arms. “Who the Earth are you? Why invest yourself with these Sons of Adam and an exiled Wrathling?”
Crimson shrugged. “Because they are good people.” He paused. “And you are as well. Which is why I was surprised to see you at that ugly egg of a Supervian’s side.”
Calis’ shoulders slackened. “The fugitives are pure of intention, if not dubious of character. I saw it in their eyes. That’s why I sent you the message telling you where to find them in The Hold.”
“So, it was you? Then...why forsake your master, honored Calis?”
“The Hierophant is NO master. No one could ever lay claim to that title, anyway. But the Supervian offered a solution, one at the time that made sense. One that promised peace between the clans in absence of leadership.”
“And now?”
“And now…” Calis took a seat next to Crimson. “Now I find myself wondering why we’re about to watch a ridiculous wrestling match.”
“That we are. And what about you, Calis? I am aware of the respect you command among your people. Why would you not rise to the occasion and claim leadership? There have been a few Luxerian queens, lest we forget.”
Calis gave Crimson a wry smile. “You have the scent of nobility about you, so I thought you’d know best, of all. Only the king and their heir can pass along a title of that calibre.”
“A truly archaic system. Though, if given a choice, would you take it.”
Calis never had time to give her strange, new companion an answer. Cheers, erupting from below, drew their attention to the commencing fight.
A thousand demonic eyes (some, multiple, on the same head) turned towards the platform erected above the ring in which the commentator sat.
“Aaaand we are just about to experience the FIRST Spellbreaking match here in Gehenna, folks.”
“AND I FOR ONE CANNOT WAIT TO SEE RALGAR FEAST ON THE BONES OF THESE PUNY HUMANS!”
The commentator, or rather, commentators, were a two-headed, serpentine pair named ‘Mean’ Dag-Reen, and Glorcax–indistinguishable only by Glorcax’s insistence on wearing a Hawaiin shirt (and leaving open the question how how a demon from Gehenna had come to obtain said article of clothing).
A geyser of sparks erupted at the entrance arch–shaped like a screaming, demonic mouth. The imposing silhouettes behind the wall of blue and red fire caused the audience to gasp and whisper in excitement.
“Speaking of which, Glor, here come the big, bad boys now! Defending their home terf–and the throne of Clan Iradium–it’s Ralgar the Bone Eater and his boys, ‘Firebrand’ Phleg and ‘Cold Hearted’ Cytus!’.
Ralgar emerged, chest first, through the fire wall. Like the demons of Wrath, he was large and monstrous, with cranial features not unlike a rhinoceros (with multiple horns), and large, green eyes with neither sclera or pupil. His battle armor was a spiked harness, but his fighting gear was more of a gladiatorial, leather loincloth. Unfortunately for the more amorous audience members, it was lined underneath. The Incubi and Sucubbi booed in disappointment, drawing the ire of their Wrathling peers, who stood and drowned out Ralgar’s detractors with their defeating war cries and howls.
Dag-Reen was impressed. “Ooooh, and that’s a big pop for big papa Ralgar! Interesting to see the big man out here without his famed battle ax, which he lovingly crafted from carving the bones of his enemies.”
Glor took a fistfull of the squirming, slimy creatures in the bowl in front of him and shoved them into his gullet. “GLOR DOES NOT UNDERSTAND WHY THESE FIGHTERS DO NOT WIELD WEAPONS OF PAIN AND TORTURE! ARE THEY MEANT TO USE BARE HANDS ALONE?”
Ralgar surveyed the arena. He was unimpressed. “Curse you, Hierophant, for agreeing to these ridiculous terms! I crave the blood and sand of the fight pits, not this…glorified, roped-off trampoline! But my fight is with Brax, not these mewling humans. I would not dare sully my hands tearing out the throats of the Sons of Adam.” Ralgar snarled at the thought. “That is a duty for my lessers. Phleg! Cytus! Go in there and tear these mortals from limb to limb. But leave the traitor to me.”
Stepping through the blue and red walls of flames, Ralgar’s elementally-inclined henchman stood tall (and buff). Phleg, a fire-wielder with feathery, orange hair, wore a pink leopard print speedo. It contemplated his vermillion skin tone, along with his blue eyes and horns.
“But boss, where’s the guys we’re meant to beat up?”
Cytus, Phleg’s counterpart, smacked him up the side of the head. “They come out after we do, hot head!” The blue complected ice demon contrasted Phleg purposely, wearing instead a green, tiger-print set of trunks. “Let’s make this quick. I have places to be.”
Ralgar waited outside the ring while his two goons stalked and intimidated the ref, a young, shaggy-haired incubus who was in way over his head.
Dag-Green returned to the mic. “Now, here comes our hometown boy, Brax–who’s recently been training in a human nation called…” Dag squinted at the info card on the table in front of him. “Aus…tria?”
Behind the entrance curtain, Daemian slammed his hand into his own face and sighed. Brax shoved past him. “Buddy…” Daemian started. “You got this?”
“Grrrr.” Brax held up his claw and formed into a ‘thumbs up’. “I have run from destiny for far too long. Now…I SHALL RIP MY ENEMIES INTO SHREDS.”
“Atta boy!” Daemain, who was still adjusting to his ‘different’ ring wear, tugged on his harness and looked at the stalls behind him. El Amante was still changing. The dark mage bit his lip, tonguing the depressing where he usually kept ‘snake-bite’ lip piercing. Daemian hadn’t told the others his ‘Plan B’, should things go to shit–mostly out of fear that the demons might have the means of listening in on their conversation. He was primed to open up a dark corridor and usher Brax and Vic back to San Antonio, then whip up a few last-minute wards to keep Hell from following behind. Beyond that defense, the only magi capable of intervention were the Ministry of Daemonology in Canberra…and that would take heaps of paperwork.
In other words, farewell Halloween plans. Daemian looked over at Brax, taking up the frame of the entrance arch. Being soul-bound, he could feel his fear, his longing, his confidence. It was electric.
As soon as the crowd got a look at the next fighter, they gasped. Then–mostly from the side of Wrath–came the waves and waves of jeers and boos.
“Traitor!”
“Human-loving, worthless scum!”
“Tear him to shreds, Ralgar!”
Daemian held his breath. This wasn’t good.
Instead of lashing out, however, Brax’s muzzle turned into a toothy, upturned grin. “Such a familiar, empowering sound.”
Then, Daemian remembered–he and Brax were Heels. The dark magi smiled. “Hehehe. Even in Hell, we bring the heat.”
Brax flipped off the crowd as he descended the ramp (a gesture that, if anything, mostly confused the audience as it was how demons usually signified the number ‘one’). “GOOD! BOO ME! GIVE ME WHAT I WANT!”
Ralgar whipped his head towards the familiar voice. His veins on his arms popped and throbbed with fury. “You…”
But Brax ignored his former rival, which was more insulting than anything. He jumped into the ring, shaking the canvas, knocking down the red, and causing Cytus and Phleg to throw each other concerned glances.
“THIS IS MY RING!” Brax roared, pounding his chest. Them, he cleared his throat. “And my friend’s ring too.”
Ralgar (who practically snorted fire and smoke from his nostrils) stared down his rival from ringside. “You DARE make reference to such foolish concepts as…the power of friendship?” The demon spat (and his saliva sizzled on the ground).
“Bold talk for a Wrathling who sends his servants to do his dirty work!” Brax snarled back.
The fire and ice demons pointed at themselves simultaneously, offended.
But whatever further heat could be raised, literal or figurative, would have to wait. The twin commentators took the mic back up to introduce the next contender on the ‘Team Earth’ stable.
“Making his way to the ring–he’s tall, he’s mean, and his weight is none of your business. It’s Brax’s buddy, who just happens to be a summoner!”
This earned a huge book from the crowd (just as Daemian had hoped). For the denizens of Gehenna, summoners were either easy marks to torment and drain life energy from, at best, or brutal slave masters at worse. One of Daemian’s few redeeming qualities was equitability with Brax and respect for demon-kind…but the crowd didn’t know that.
“...All the way from ‘Fuck You’ Australia, it’s Deadboy Daemian! Not sure why he’s given himself the moniker ‘Dead’ but if Ralgar has his way, he might just get his wish.”
“That’s…Daddy Daemian to you.”
Foregoing his usual horror thematic entrance, tonight’s Deadboy was something new. Daemian had styled his hair in a slick ponytail. He wore a leather vest over his sculpted body, and the leather didn’t stop there. A harness made his already large chest stand out. Even his briefs were polished leather, down to his boots. He looked like an S&M punk–and he showed it in his eyes.
“Oh no!” Phleg squeaked, biting his fingernails in his corner of the ring. “He’s…HOT!”
“You’re literally hot,” Cytus snapped. “Don’t drool at our opponent, you firebrand buffoon! KILL HIM.”
Daemin’s snarky and sinister aura was tempted by cold menace as he strutted slowly to the aisle. He commanded the audience with his eyes. An assembly of handsome incubi near the ring even called out ‘Step on me!’
In other words, El Amante’s suggestion was working out well…even if, on the inside, Daemian felt like a dumb slut.
The leather-clad human slowly took off his jacket, making a show of looking simultaneously bored and angry. He slammed his coat into the cute ref and stared at him down. “Don’t get it scuffed,” he warned.
“Y-y-you can’t talk to me like that!” the cute incubus stammered back. “Y-y-you’re a human!”
“I am. And I’ll show you what hell really looks like if you cross me…” Daemian reached out and intertwined his fingers around the ref’s curly, beautiful hair. “You look…breakable.”
The poor incubi swallowed. “I’ll take care of your jacket.”
“Take care of my jacket what?”
“I’ll take care of your jacket, sir.”
Daemian pat the ref’s cheeks. “That’s more like it.” He was done playing with the appetizer. It was time to dig into the main dish. He cracked his neck and looked over at his opponents. “Well, well, what do we have here? A couple of showgirls! You two look…beefy. Like demonic minced pies.”
The air around Cytus crystalized with his wrath. “We…are…NOT…PUFF PASTRIES!”
“Heh! Will be even more fun when I make you kiss my boots.”
On the commenting platform, Glor dabbed at his head with a kerchief. “DAG–I AM CONCERNEDLY AROUSED BY THIS HUMAN.”
“He does appear to be drawing an interesting fan reaction! Mostly from the incubi side of the spectrum. Now…finally, our last entrant is none other than the son of our former king. Wherever you are, Asmodin, I hope your boy makes you proud. Introducing El Amante…Skeleto!”
Now this is gonna’ be rich, Deadboy thought with a knowing smirk, turning his violet eyes towards the entrance. With subtle movement, Deadboy twirled his finger, pooling dark energy into a circle on the archway platform. Victore and he had only practiced this unusual ‘shadow’ entrance once, but Victor was surprisingly unaffected by the darkness. Deadboy chalked it up to the oversized, overly romantic golden retriever being half-demon, and therefore immune to the sickening effects of dark corridors.
Either that, or his heart was so obnoxiously pure that not even the darkness between dimensions could hope to bother him.
Like a demon rising from the graveyard, the shadowy and bulky luchador floated up from the pool of liquid black. Liquid black, or latex, was the outfit he wore–a substance that clung to his skin, accentuating every muscle. A pattern of iridescent, glowing skeleton bones–including his ribcage, broadly protrusive over his giant chest–covered this outfit. Unlike the open mouthed style lucha libre mask El Amante was fond of wearing (all the better to show off his kissable lips) this one was the closed mouth balaclava style, with the startling image of a skull. Deadboy had enchanted Victor’s wavy hair to glow orchid purple, giving the fighter the illusion of tongues of violet fire sprouting from his head.
The audience drew in a gasp–they were either afraid, or entranced. .
For the first time since meeting Victor, Daemian found his eyes swelling with something akin to desire. “Damn, Brax. He’s…scary.” Daemian swallowed. “Sorry, Joey, but I think I’m sexual for Skeleto.”
Brax nodded in tacit approval. “And yet…still buff.”
Even so, Victor could never be anything but a tecnico at heart, as demonstrated as he affably shook hands and high fived the demons brave enough to reach out to him. As Daemian watched, black heart swelling with pride, he thought he saw a few audience members bow their heads in profound respect. Had Victor proved himself heir?
Back in the rival corner, the twin demons alternated between fear and loathing. Only their leader snapped them out of their trance. “Quit gawking at this ridiculous pageantry, you fools. These antics make a mockery of the sport of combat.”
Victor floated up from the ground, onto the turnbuckle, on which the struck a starling pose before backflipping right in front of his partner. He tossed his hair back, sending forth purple sparks.
“Hello, Daemicito,” Victor said.
Welp, he’s still a himbo. Daemian tugged on Victor’s fetishtic, freaky outfit. “It’s like Clive Barker putting on a fetish night at The Laird on Day of the Dead.”
“...What?”
“Deep cut. Never mind. Digging the skin-tight fit, mate.”
The demon brothers had just enough of these leather-clad losers. Flames sprouted from Phleg’s eyes. “Your skin will not be tight enough to save you! I will burn your flesh from your bones!”
“And I will freeze your heart,” Cytus said. “And shatter it.”
Daemian thumbed his nose. “Old mate, my heart was frozen a loooong time ago.” He nodded to Victor. Daemian would go first. “Ready?”
“Oh yes!”
“Hehe. Never thought I’d fight alongside a tecnico.”
“Well, how about fighting alongside an amigo?”
Daemain shrugged. “Nah yeah, I can do that.”
Ralgar snapped his fingers. Dark thorns of pulsing, black electricity sprouted from the ground all around the ring, ensuring anybody tossed from the canvas would be inflicted with a nasty punishment.
“Cease your thinly veiled references and steel yourself for battle, humans,” the demon lord bellowed. “We shall bring Hell…to HELL.”
The bell rang. Only, it wasn’t so much a bell as a strange, bird-like creature that–upon its tail being yanked–let out an ear-piercing scream.
*SCRAWWWWW!*
Cytus practically shouldered his own partner out of the way. He wanted a piece of Daemian. The punk prince went for a round house kick, attempting to go for quick and efficient, but Cytus ducked under it, elbowing Daemian in the gut.
The audience winced. As did Victor and Brax. At ringside, Ralgar grinned.
Daemain fell into the ropes, shaking off the blow. “Ugh, what’s with ice magi being so bloody thick headed!”
Cytus, emboldened by his assault, conjured a brass knuckle of ice around his fist, and went for a jab. Suddenly, he found his fist caught in midair. “What?”
A tendril of dark energy wrapped itself, like a tentacle, from Cytus fist to floor. The demon had just enough time to look up, in shock, and see Deadboy’s grinning facade as the high flying ghoul descended from the top ropes, like a human missile.
BAM!
“BY MOTHER LILITH!” Dag exclaimed. “He just nearly knocked the block off Cytus!”
Glor scratched his head. “I do not understand. Why do Phleg and Cytus simply not EAT their opponents?”
Cytus went flying through the air, dangerously close to slipping through the ropes and into the writhing thorns below. He stopped himself with a conjured wall of ice. And now, he was pissed. He wiped green blood from his lips. His breath turned cold and smoky in the air. “Fine. You like to play dirty? I’ll RIP YOUR ARM OFF!”
A blade of solid ice, sharper than metal, appeared in the air.
Brax shouted. “Daemian, look out!”
The spinning blade soared towards Daemian at shocking speed. Daemian’s eyes went wide.
SHINK!
The Luxerians in the crowd shrieked. The Earthlings, however, shouted out in excitement. “THIS IS MORE LIKE IT!” After all, it wasn’t a real fight until someone lost an appendage.
Trailing black shadow, Daemian’s severed arm landed at his feet. Victor reacted in horror. While there was neither gore nor trail of blood where Deadboy’s arm had been, it had been lobbed clean off. Daemian’s ponytail hung across his face, obscuring him.
Cytus, smiling, turned to Ralgar, who nodded with approval (while, in the corner, Phleg gagged in disgust).
“Is…that all you got….cunt?”
Cytus whipped around. But there wasn’t a human standing there, where Daemian had been, but a new sort of pale-faced demon. Daemian, grinning maniacally, with black particles of unknown substance trailing from the hole in his socket, casually reached down and picked up his own severed arm.
Cytus took a step back. This wasn't just a human. This was…something darker.
Daemian jumped through the air like a predatory cat, brandishing his own appendage–which, despite its removal, turned its hand into a fist.
SLAM!
Daemain struck Cytus with own hacked off arm, knocking him into the corner. He didn't stop there. He used his severed arm to slam and beat Cytus silly. The ref was far too shocked and afraid to act!
Finally, Daemian reached up and grabbed Cytus bruised and bloody face. “Unnnggggg,” the woozy demon moaned.
Daemian’s eyes remained marble black. “Good boy. Daddy had to punish you. But…it’s all over now. Let daddy give you a kiss….goodnight.”
Daemian covered the hapless, hunky demon’s mouth with his own. Out in the audience, someone whistled. Victor crossed his arms, annoyed to see someone gangking his gimmick. Nothing happened, at first, until Cytus began convulsing violently, a trickle of purple liquid leaking from the space between his and Daemian’s mouths.
Dag shouted. “What absolute horror, folks! Deadboy has planted his kiss-of-death on poor Cytus, injecting him with his evil venom!”
Cytus’ eyes went white, just as Daemian–still smiling–pulled back. “Unnnnggggg….” Cytus groaned, as he fell like a ragdoll out of the ring.
“He’s been completely zombified folks!” said Dag. “Cytus is out of this fight. But remember, this is a best out of 3 match. Ralgar could very well turn this around. But this is a shocking start for what we all thought might be a one-sided matchup!”
Ralgar clenched his fists so hard that they began to drip blood. “I will NOT be shown up by a traitor and his human CATAMITES!” He glanced over at Cytus, twitching and entangled in the strange vines. “It seems my vines of agony have turned against me. PHLEG!”
At ringside, the red demon gulped. “Y-yes.”
“Get in there and burn that leather-clad human to cinders!”
Daemian pressed his arm to the black void of his arm socket. Tendrils of darkness restitched flesh together. He tested his nerves out by opening and closing his fist. “Still numb,” he said through his teeth. “Vicko, you’re up.”
Victor nodded, tagged Daemian, and bandera’d over the ropes into the ring. Wordlessly, Victor gazed menacingly at his opponent with eyes of bright violet.
Phleg flinched. “R-R-Ralgar. It’s bones.”
El Amante struck his signature arms-over-chest pose. “Your name is…Phlegm?”
!!!
The fiery demon, far from intimidated by Victor’s earnest mistake, burst into flames at this grave insult. “PHLEG!” He roared. “I WILL BURN YOU ALIVE.”
The demon shot himself like a comet at El Amante, leaving a trail of burning in his wake. The quick-footed luchador stepped to the side. Phleg bounced off the ropes like a pinball and rebounded, changing direction.
“Don’t try to grab him when he’s on fire!” Daemian shouted from the sidelines. “You’re not fire proof!”
“A mistake I will not make twice!” El Amante said as he jumped over the demon’s head. “But I will not be able to make my attack until his fire dies down.”
“I COULD DO THIS FOR HOURS!” Phleg shot back. “Come here, pretty boy–I’m gonna scorch that presumably handsome face of yours!”
Physicality would not work here, El Amante decided, which meant he’d need to rely on magick instead. El Amante’s abilities typically extended to harnessing his powers of seduction, leaving his opponent’s paralyzed with lust and good feelings. But this ‘darker’, ‘scarier’ mode would call for an emotion El Amante wasn’t accustomed to channeling: fear.
ZHOOSH
El Amante smelled smoking rubber before he even realized Phleg had grazed him with a fireball. He sucked his teeth and patted down the patch of exposed, raw skin smoking through the hole in the material over his shoulder.
“Looks like you’re pretty flammable after all!” Phleg laughed. His eyes burned yellow, like embers, illuminating Ralgar’s sinister face at ringside. Victor could feel the heat coming off of him.
“Let’s find out what your nightmares are made of,” Victor said, holding his hand out to stop the charging Phleg in his track. Sure enough, the fire elemental did stop–El Amante’s magic infiltrating his mind space.
Victor poured more energy into his glyph. Activating the ‘positive’ emotional centers of the brain was easy. Finding what made people scared, it seemed, was more foreign to the half-incubus.
Daemian, watching his partner’s every move, bit his lip. “I should have told him to stick to what he knew. Mate isn’t equipped for terror.”
Suddenly, an image came to El Amante–that of a towering, somewhat anthropomorphic, and (strangely) muscular bear. ”You’re…afraid of bears? Well, okay.” Victor snapped his finger, turning the demon’s fears against him and assuming–in the demon’s mind, that is–the shape of his worst nightmare.
“I will eat you!” Victor snarled.
Phleg stopped. His jaw hung low. His lips trembled. “D…d….d…”
“It’s working!” Victor shouted triumphantly. “That’s right, I am a big scary bear!”
“D-DADDY, I’M YOUR CUB.”
“...What?”
Phleg’s fire turned fuschia, and the demon dropped to his knees in lust. He began pawing at El Amante’s leg. “Please…sir…bear hug me.”
It seemed Victor’s magic had re-routed itself back to its amorous default. “Er…more wet dream than nightmare, I guess. But, if you insist…one of my bear hug will surely end this match quick! And…maybe you should grab a towel, ref, just in case.”
This was it. The moment of victory. Daemian turned around and gave Brax a thumbs up, but his face fell when he saw that his demonic partner did not return the gesture.
Because…as soon as El Amante went to reach for his stunned, drooling demonic opponent, he felt a mighty jerk from behind. Victor didn’t realize how close to the ropes he’d gotten until Ralgar’s meaty claws wrapped themselves around Victor’s ankles and yanked him flat on his face and out of the ring.
“WHAT’S THIS!?” Dag shouted over the shocked audience. “Ralgar is interfering! He just won’t allow El Amante to clinch a victory this easy. Ref, you gotta’ step in there!”
“Ooof!” Victor grunted, cushioning the blow with his meaty forearms. Like some horror movie victim, the muscle man was dragged clear underneath the ropes. Fortunately, Ralgar wasn’t going to waste time with ringside interference. He reached his long arm out and slapped Phleg out of his enchantment, tagging himself in the process.
The hulking demon stepped through the ropes, towering over the referee who had come to argue. Ralgar picked him like a rag doll and tossed him into the corner, knocking him out.
Daemian gasped. “Shit, and I thought I was a heel.” This wasn't good.
Phleg wobbled over and ducked beneath the ropes, going over to attend to his damaged brother. Meanwhile, Ralgar dominated the center of the ring, beating his chest. He pointed to Brax. “Now…YOU HAVE NO CHOICE BUT TO FACE ME, WEAKLING! Come, walk with DEATH!”
Brax tensed. It had been two decades since he’d lost to this hulking monstrosity calling him out. It would be too easy to run again. Brax looked over at Daemian. Despite the human’s sinister appearance, his watery, soft eyes were what always betrayed his true nature as that little boy Brax had rescued so many years ago. The boy who had liberated Brax from a life of constant, mindless warfare…and taught him the joys of Earth.
It was time to repay that favor.
To Be Continued
