Demons had no need for trash talk or petty vitriol.
When Brax entered the ring, clad in his spiked, iron harness, he barely had time to stare down his nemesis–the hulking Ralgar–before the two charged forward, passions fueled by their mutual hatred of each other. This was a grudge match.
Therefore, El Amante and Deadboy–watching cautiously at ringside–knew instinctively that this was not the time to interfere, tag in, or try and get involved. This was Brax’s fight alone. Deadboy looked askance at their defeated opponents, the demons of fire and ice lying unconscious in a nest of darkly conjured thorns. The Australian punk scratched his neck.
“Not keen on apologies, mate,” the black mage started, just as Brax and Ralgar locked up in the center of the ring, grunting viciously while all of demon-kind cheered from the stands. “But I feel bad I got you all involved in this.”
The stalwart and emphatic luchador tilted his head upwards towards the exclusive balconies, just about where he thought his mysterious benefactor, Crimson, was watching. “This is fate, my handsome devil. The period between October 31st and November 2nd is a ‘thin veil’, just as it is for the Eastern Ghost Month. The dead come back. Unresolved destinies return in full force to demand resolution. It is a time of death and rebirth.”
Deadboy swallowed. “‘Dead’ is part of my name, but even this is a bit too bloody much for me. I feel…so….naked? And not in the good way.”
“Heh. Because you have begun to open up to your teammates? Does it feel good?”
“...It doesn’t not feel good.” Deadboy’s attention was grabbed by a sudden grunt from the ring. With growing horror, the punk watched as his best friend was hoisted into the air by Ralgar. “Shit.”
The vicious leader of the Wrath demons cackled with glee. “Now do you see, foolish one? Now do you see how more powerful I am than you?”
Brax strained against his rival’s iron grip. “If I die, I die with honor and satisfaction at facing you.”
“Just as I thought you’d say. Then…you shall die with the knowledge that, when I am through with you, I will turn my violence towards your human worms. And then I will rid the Two Cities of those mewling, weak Luxerians.”
Brax roared. “SO! That’s it then. You and the Hierophant. This is your scheme. A craven power grab. I bet you don’t even realize you’re being played.”
High in the stands, watching over all, The Hierophant smiled with satisfaction, consumed by this premature victory. So consumed, in fact, that they failed to notice the figure, the shadow, slip past their partition, stabbing the puppet master’s henchmen with sleep venom, knocking them out…
Back in the ring, an enraged Ralgar body slammed Brax into the mat so hard that it could have caused an impact crater. The stunned demon went limp.
Deadboy, foaming out the mouth with fury, snarled and slammed his fist against the ring apron. “COME ON, YOU BIG, BAD, FUCKER! TEAR HIS FACE OFF, BRAX! I know you got it in you, Ripper!” Fuck it, I’m getting there. Nobody messes with my demon mate.
Still, the specter of doubt weighed heavy on Deadboy’s heart. Victor sensed it and held his hand out, detecting Deadboy’s heel tendencies triggering. “Basta. I sense something…”
In ring, Brax peeled himself off the ground. Green blood ran down in steaks from the gashes in his face and shoulders caused by Ralgar’s assault. The demon breathed. The crowd, stunned, held their breath. Even the two-headed commentators were rendered speechless.
“You…exert force through fear,” Brax said to his towering opponent, who was more annoyed than impressed to see his rival toughing it out.
The monster narrowed his red, glowing eyes. This whelp was only delaying the inevitable. “Oh? And what would you wield as power?” A swell of red energy wreathed around his claws as the demon laughed. “Don’t tell me. Love. Friendship?”
“Actually…something like that, yes.”
At ringside, Deadboy lifted his head up to reveal that, much like his demonic opponent, his eyes had tinted over in a single hue–that of purple black, the color of Daemian’s magic, fused with Brax’s. A tether of energy, a black band, traveled from the demon to the demoniac, connecting two souls together. A black spark became a flame, washing out the ring in ethereal light–even Ralgar was forced to step back and throw his hands in front of his face.
Brax’s wounds healed over in rapid time. His muscles tightened. He stood tall. “I am soul bound to a human. Without shame. With perfect trust.”
Ralgar would not accept trickery. He dashed forward to tackle Brax and tear his heart out right then and there, ending this farce. But the Wrath demon latched onto the usurper's arm and used his momentum to throw the massive monster into the ropes. The burst of strength caught the audience off guard.
Shocked, but not shaken, Ralgar spat onto the mat and stared his opponent down–aura or no. “Borrowing your human’s magic won’t be enough!”
This time, it was El Amante who answered the demon king’s threat. The skeletal luchador tossed his flaming, violet hair back over his shoulder, gallantly. “Correct! But when he’s empowered by the magic of another…”
Victor went for it. He pressed his hand upon Daemian’s shoulder, and initiated his magic. The soft pink glow enveloped El Amante. Magic flowed from his meaty arm into Daemian’s body, making the dark mage radiate with new vibrancy.
For Daemian, such overwhelming love was an almost alien emotion. Though, one not unwelcome. Not anymore. Still, caught off guard, the ‘Prince of Darkness’ turned to his partner. “Victor?”
The larger man became aware of Daemian’s innermost feelings. “Your heart…is a curious reflection of my own. Two sad, mad, lonely boys. Lonely no more. Take my power and give it to Brax.”
Daemain said nothing. He had never been one for sentiment or affirmation. Instead, his power grew larger, and he poured it into Brax. A river of pink, violet, and black light intertwined and expanded. The energy swelled. Then, like the calm proceeding a storm, everything fell silent.
The audience waited. A thousand demonic eyes focused on the pillar of light emanating from Brax, and the demonic leader…waiting to initiate his next move.
They all failed to notice the thorns gathered around the ring. A twitch of a branch here. Then, movement. The unconscious bodies of Phleg and Cytus fell from the unraveling, undulating vines. The whole tangle was moving. Alive. The brambles reached the ring, passed over and under the ropes, and descended on Brax.
El Amante, never relenting, opened his mouth to issue a warning–but Daemian shook his head. This was intentional…
The thorns wrapped themselves around Brax, cocooning him, shielding him from the green flames pouring from Ralgar’s mouth–a last minute attempt to end this. The nest of thorns bulged at the top, then transitioned to a more shadowy substance. They formed into Brax’s familiar silhouette–towering, even over the arena. The earth beneath the ring cracked, and the runes glowed with intensity at the influx of raw magic.
“THORNS OF DARKNESS,” the massive Brax bellowed. “YOU ARE MINE TO COMMAND.”
Ralgar stepped back and stared up at the entity. He clenched his fists. Defeat, the very thought of it, never crossed his mind. ““I WILL NOT RELINQUISH MY KINGDOM! DO YOU HEAR ME?”
Two moons, slits of lights, opened up on the area where the thorn conglomerated giant’s ‘face’ would have sat. “NOBODY ASKED FOR YOUR INPUT,” the beast roared, sending out tendrils of dark ropes towards the puny demon in its shadow. “MAGGOT.”
The giant’s prehensile appendage wrapped itself around Ralgar, immediately choking off any guttural noises the king could have made, had Brax permitted him to breathe. The punishment was swift, and far more merciful than Ralgar deserved. Brax hoisted the demon into the air, and then SLAMMED him down–once, and only once–into the canvas, putting him straight through it. A black, lightless ‘Ralgar-sized’ hole remained, the only testament to the demon’s existence.
Ralgar would live, of course, but his ego would never recover. Brax, demon of few words that he was, had no more to say. He had been waiting for this moment for more than twenty years.
A jubilation of chaos swept through the arena, and the audience–but up in the balcony, the The Hierophant–watching slack-jawed–could only seethe at this inauspicious outcome. “No!” they hissed. “This is NOT what I had ordained.” It was only then, in the grip of failure, that the Hierophant detected the icy chill of…something amiss. They whipped around, coming face-to-face with the regal individual in the sweeping cape and mask, standing amid the unconscious bodies of the Hierophant’s useless servants.
The assailwent’s stature was familiar to the demonic mediator, but the mask obscured everything else the Hierophant could have possibly known about them. “Do you intend to kill me?” The Hierophant asked, plainly. In fact, they wished for it. Better a death than endure the humiliation of failure.
Crimson knew it. “And spare you justice?” the regal demon laughed. “Hierophant. Your authority has been revoked.”
“On whose order?”
“The order of the ruler of Clan Luxerian.”
“There is no ruler of Luxerian, you sniveling dandy!”
The demon in the wide brimmed hat tilted their head past the Hierophant, bidding them to turn and look. The Hierophant hesitated, but knowing the bastard meant not to kill them, followed their captor’s lead. Across the way, standing on the opposite balcony, the demoness known as Calis stared back at them triumphantly.
“Oh yes,” Crimson said. “There is, now. Pity it took a ridiculous wrestling match to watch all the chips fall into place, but setting things on their proper course often takes both time and the intermingling of most unusual bedfellows.”
The Hierophant groaned. For years, they had cleverly orchestrated demonic politics to their advantage. Peerless. Now? Undone.
Meanwhile, back inside the ring, the timid referee bestowed the win upon El Amante, Brax, and Deadboy, who raised their arms in triumph.
“My first win as a good guy,” Deadboy said. “Feels weird to be cheered. How do you feel, Brax?”
The demon in the middle snarled his approval. El Amante, however, was strangely silent.
The twin-headed commentators were more than happy to fill in the gaps. “Annnnd that’s all she wrote, folks! Ralgar and his men have been wasted. What a match! The winner, The Infernals and El Amante Intoxico!”
It was Glor, the less talkative of the double-headed demon, who noticed the figure standing at the edge of the ring…watching. “BUT WAIT. WHO IS THAT?”
Crimson had waited until the three unlikely heroes had basked in the audience’s approval. He spoke only when Victor sensed his presence. He held his hand up, letting them know he meant to harm. “Congratulations.”
Victor dulled his magic, allowing his hair to return to its normal luster. “Crimson?” He looked towards the balcony, where The Hierophant had stood, and saw the tail-end of the demon being led away in chains. “I see you have disposed of the fiend pulling the strings.”
Crimson stared back at the fighter.
How strange, Victor thought. He gives off the mystique of a luchador. But why has he been helping us?
“Oh, I’m afraid he was not the true master of puppets in this mummer’s farce,” Crimson said. Until now, he had spoken with a rich clarity, as if he’d rehearsed in his head what he would say next. This time, Crimson wavered.
“Hmm?” Victor felt like he was on the verge of remembering something, or the sensation of having woken up from a deep dream and forgetting everything that had transpired.
“But what a farce it is,” Crimson said. “Now that the play is through, it is time for the actors to take off their masks.”
The suave demon removed his hat, letting free a tangle of beautiful, raven colored hair. In one swift movement, he removed his mask. The being that looked back at Victor, with soft, black eyes, had purple flesh, golden, regal, horns, and a meticulously trimmed mustache and goatee. He was handsome, in an unearthly way.
“Optional, of course, for you…my son.”
Daemian’s mouth went dry. “Oi, Vicko, he kinda looks…like a purple ‘you’.”
Victor blinked. “Father?” His first thought was that this was one of Daemian’s tricks. But no, even he wasn’t that cruel. He went to speak up, open his mouth, but his words were lost in the collective gasp of the audience.
“Lord Asmodin!”
“Lord no longer,” the regal demon said. He gestured to the balcony. “I abdicated this seat long ago. However, I fear I have hidden among shadows for far too long. I bestow my title among Lady Calis.” He nodded to Brax. “And to the Earthlings, your new king. Braxius.”
The audience had fallen silent yet again–save the muffled whisper of ‘this is some good shit,’ from one drunken Luxerian to another. Atop the balcony, Calis stood back and held her hands fast to the rail, clutching it tightly.
Brax looked just as dumbfounded as Victor. “But…Lord Asmodin I do not want the title of King. I only wish to go back to Earth, with my companions.
“Father…” Victor repeated.
Crimson, or Asmodin, bowed deeply to the large demon. “Then the throne shall remain vacant, until a new king is decided.” The purple-skinned demon turned to Victor. “Conrado. You are owed answers. I regret that you will not receive them today. Just know that what you have done here has benefited the realm of both the Children of Eve and the Children of Lillith. The universe has been restored. And I am proud.”
Victor bristled. “You…”you don’t just get to…pull off that telenovela crap like it’s nothing!” “Where were you all those years!”
Daemian flinched at Victor’s outburst. He had never heard Victor ‘angry’ before. He didn’t like it. He couldn’t imagine what was going through the man’s mind now.
Asmodin smiled softly, but he was wiser than to try and approach his son. “Not an even a master of rhetoric such as I could conjure an apology that would do you justice or soothe your righteous anger! But I am afraid that the curtain has now closed. We will make amends ‘ere long. So, good night until you all.” Asmodin held his forefingers up and snapped them.
A sudden rush of air behind Daemian, and the shocked cries of the demonic audience, made the dark mage look over his shoulder. A dark corridor, perfectly shaped and highly stabilized, appeared in the air. Usually quite obscure, the window to the other world was a perfect view onto the ramshackle, dusty barn that Daemian, Victor, and Brax had left only several hours before.
“Holy shit, this…this is POWER.”
“A shadow corridor between worlds,” Brax observed. “With the snap of a finger.”
It wasn’t just a normal corridor, either. Victor felt the tug on the hairs on the back of his neck. It was pulling them in. So that was it, then? This being who claimed to be his father had just dropped a bomb on them, only to send them on their way.
“You don’t just get to do that!” Victor snarled. Asmodin remained unmoved.
But Daemain interceded before the large man could step forward and do something stupid. The look of fear in the handsome Australian’s eyes was what snapped Victor out of his rage.
“Vicko,” Daemian said, over the rush and roar of wind, “mate. Your pops isn’t just a regular demon…he’s one of the Seven Principles.”
The words were lost on Victor, but it didn’t matter. The color and light drained from the world around him, as the luchador realized that his father had enchanted them all away before he could get a word in. The last thing Victor saw was his so-called father’s handsome visage, staring back at him. He thought he saw a glint on the side of the demon’s face. Perhaps, a tear.
Or maybe this was just mere wishful thinking.
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