The crowd froze as if an invisible hand had severed the lifeblood of the entire stadium. The demon lay in the arena within a pool of its own blood, which hissed and smoked as it eroded the concrete. Its eyes, which moments before had burned with a malevolent yellow fire, were now dull and vacant, staring pointlessly into the void.
Petrov's jaw dropped so low it seemed he might lose it to the dust. The leash he had used to parade his beast now dangled from his hand like the useless string of a popped balloon. I stood there, arms crossed, savoring the silence. Even after two millennia in the Pit, moments of absolute silence like this were rare enough to count on one hand. The first was when Lilith appeared at the auction. The second was when the entire underworld went still upon hearing that someone had actually satisfied the Desire of Lust herself. And finally, after the death of the Apostle of Gluttony at the hands of a mortal, all of Hell had frozen in disbelief when I walked onto the main thoroughfare and, before the greatest archdemons, cast aside my mortal name to declare myself a Prince of the Pit, the first and only son of the Mother of All Demons.
Oleg Gromov was the first to regain his senses. His face turned a violent shade of crimson, looking like an overripe tomato ready to burst on a grill. He marched forward, his fists clenched white, and stood before me with a low, menacing growl.
"Krivtsevich. What in the name of the Goddess just happened? The rules were clear. No killing. You just slaughtered another hunter's familiar in front of everyone."
"The rules were indeed clear. No killing," I replied, meeting his gaze with unblinking coldness. "There was no mention of suicide. And if you want to talk about rules, was his command to tear out my throat part of the protocol?" I gestured vaguely toward my late opponent.
Petrov finally snapped out of his trance. His face twisted with grief and fury. He dropped the leash and lunged at me, but a group of hunters intercepted him before he could do something fatal. Losing a familiar is a wound to the soul, so his explosion of rage was understandable, if pathetic.
The crowd erupted into a low roar of whispers. A murderer of familiars. The label was large and ugly, and they were already pinning it to my chest. Gromov rubbed his temples, clearly regretting his involvement in this entire disciplinary mess. He waved me away, telling me to get out of his sight before he decided to behead me for insubordination himself. I gave a perfunctory nod and walked toward the edge of the arena.
My team met me at the barrier, a collection of exhausted failures whose faces were a chaotic mix of shock, anger, and a strange, childish excitement. Artyom, our unofficial leader, stood at the front, looking uncomfortable in his own skin. His usual charismatic smile was gone. Svetlana stood beside him, her eyes burning with a zealot's fury.
"Zhenya, what was that?" Artyom stepped closer, his voice steady but laced with an undeniable tremor of uncertainty. "How did you make someone else's familiar commit suicide? That was not magic. It was something else. Explain yourself. We are supposed to be a team, but this is terrifying."
The question hung in the air like a guillotine. I could have lied and used the classic noble excuse of a family secret or bloodline talent. It would have been a half truth at best. But before I could speak, Svetlana surged forward.
"You are a monster," she cried, her cheeks flushed with the heat of her elemental affinity. "You took a companion from a fellow hunter. Familiars are partners, part of the team. And you made it kill itself. That is pure cruelty. How can you call yourself a tamer when you murder the very things you are supposed to lead?"
My patience, already thin, finally snapped. "Partners? Friends?" My voice was a jagged edge of mockery. "For a cultist like you, befriending a monster is heresy. Have you forgotten what your Church of Supremacy teaches? Monsters are the enemies of humanity. They are to be purged on sight. So decide for yourself who your monsters are. The enemies you kill, or the ones you keep as slaves with a brand. Or are you only allowed to be friends with the ones wearing chains?"
The atmosphere turned volatile. The veins in the girl's neck began to glow, and her skin cracked with the patterns of an ancient elemental spirit. Artyom tensed, ready to intervene, while Igor stepped forward to plead for calm. Svetlana tried to retort, but the words died in her throat. My words had struck the hollow center of her fanaticism. She was a typical zealot, desperate to follow orders while harboring deep, unspoken doubts about the very dogmas she championed.
The silence stretched too long. I sighed, deciding to give these children a fragment of the truth.
"Listen well. This was not forbidden sorcery. It was simply exploiting the greatest flaw in your slave seals. You give orders and the beast obeys, but you never consider how the familiar feels. For them, every command is a whip to the soul. If you give a weak monster a choice between eternal servitude and the silence of death, most will choose the exit."
A profound shock settled over the team. Svetlana turned pale, her lips trembling as she likely replayed every moment she had spent with her own familiar, wondering if it too felt only pain. Artyom looked down, the gears in his head turning with a newfound skepticism. My words had resonated with his desire to be a true leader, but now he was lost. Should he condemn me for being different, or acknowledge the dark nobility in my actions?
"So you are saying," Artyom swallowed hard, trying to gather his thoughts, "that these seals are breaking them? But what about other tamers? Not everyone is lucky enough to form a spiritual pact like yours."
"Everything is complicated when you live a lie," I mocked, the words hitting him like a hammer. For a moment, his knees buckled and his vision clouded.
The hunters dispersed slowly, each carrying a heavy knot of existential dread in their throats. Everything they had been taught since childhood was crumbling. It was not necessarily the malice of the elites. They likely did not know better themselves. But the thought was even more unsettling. What else was a lie? Was their faith in the Mother Goddess also based on a misunderstanding?
Before she left, Svetlana shot me a look filled with anxiety and a desperate curiosity. She remembered my words about having my own opinion of the Divine Mother. I wondered how many sleepless nights she would spend questioning her beliefs, and whether she would ever find the courage to confront me directly.
The arena eventually cleared. Petrov was gone, crushed by the loss of his slave. His heart was a wreck of thorns and daggers. I felt no envy for him. If someone were to harm my Hanako, my soul would feel a pain so immense that a millennium of hellfire would feel like a summer vacation.
Gromov, his face still the color of a boiled lobster, made an announcement. My squad had narrowly avoided latrine duty. The losers were those who had failed every single bout so spectacularly they were likely to be expelled by the end of the week.
"Listen up, you bastards," he barked, glaring at us like a general before an execution. "Enough embarrassment for one day. Sparring is over. Most of you were pathetic, but at least you did not die from slipping on your own incompetence. Now fall in and head to the classrooms. We are going to force some actual knowledge into your thick skulls."
The classroom felt like a relic of a mundane life. Worn wooden desks, a large cracked blackboard, and the faint smell of chalk and old paper. Under my desk, I found a piece of dried chewing gum, a memento from a previous failing student. Gromov stood at the front, pinning up diagrams of various entities.
"Pay attention," he growled, pointing at a demon. "Demons are not just cartoon monsters. Their strengths are regeneration, acidic blood, and soul manipulation. They can reattach a limb in minutes unless struck with holy steel or fire." He moved to another diagram. "Beastly undead. You remember the rats. They are weak to mental attacks, but since mentalists are rare, we just cut them into pieces. Remember this. Even simple hypnosis can trick the lesser undead. This knowledge is what keeps you alive when your strength fails."
I listened and found myself in silent agreement. You do not survive the Pit without regeneration, and the beasts are indeed too simple, mistaking every planted thought for their own. Gromov knew his craft. Even Svetlana was taking diligent notes.
"And now, ghosts," Gromov continued, sketching a blurred silhouette. "These are ethereal, terrified of light magic and holy artifacts. Light a blessed lantern, and they vanish like smoke."
I frowned. He was not entirely wrong, but he was missing the point. Ghosts do not fear light in a literal sense. They fear life force, an element that stands in direct opposition to their nature. Light simply carries a fraction of that energy. To strike with pure life force requires grueling training and often shortens the user's lifespan.
The lecture ended with tactical theory. Gromov paced the room, emphasizing that as Rank F and E underdogs, our only hope was to exploit the weaknesses of higher ranked monsters. He omitted the fact that even with this knowledge, a Rank S monster usually turned humans into red mist. There was no point in demoralizing the fresh meat so early.
"What if the monster is a ghost demon?" Svetlana suddenly asked, and I felt a physical urge to facepalm.
"Kutuzova, you disappoint me," Gromov said with pity. "Demons and ghosts are children of different Mothers. You will never meet a ghost demon or a Death Sin."
"But what stops a demon from becoming a ghost? People become ghosts when they die," she argued.
Gromov looked like he wanted to hide his face in his hands. "Kutuzov, I am not prepared to answer questions that stupid. Go find some common sense on the internet before bed. Now, pop quiz." He slammed a stack of papers onto the front desk.
The questions were standard. Demon weaknesses, how to safely dispatch a wounded beast, which magic works against spirits. I stared at the paper, suppressing a yawn. If I wrote the truth about ghosts, they would lock me in a ward. So, under the spirit section, I scribbled:
Ghosts are terrified of rhythmic tambourine dancing and holy prayers. They fear the beat and true faith in the Mother of Humanity.
It took effort to write something that idiotic.
After the test, Artyom leaned over from behind me. "I hope I was not the idiot Gromov was talking about. What did you write?"
I just groaned and stretched. Beside me, Igor was complaining about the ghost section. "I have never even seen a real ghost," he muttered.
Gromov began grading the papers immediately, muttering curses under his breath. When he reached mine, his eyebrows shot up, and a rare, terrifying smile touched his lips.
"Krivtsevich, what is this?" he read aloud, barely stifling a laugh. "Summer starts with the first scoop. Even demons crave our ice cream. Today only, buy one get one free. Phone number included, with a drawing of a sundae. What kind of advertisement is this? Who paid you for this?"
The class exploded into laughter. Dima was pounding his desk, tears in his eyes. "Will this save me from a Demon King?" he wheezed.
"Only if you buy him the most expensive one on the menu," I replied. "He will not sell out for cheap."
Svetlana jumped up, her eyes flashing. "You are an idiot. Like a child. These hunters risk their lives to teach us, and you write this garbage? You do not belong here."
"If it works, you will thank me," I shrugged. "Besides, it is not an ad. No one paid me a cent."
"Enough theatrics," Gromov barked, clapping his hands. "An hour for lunch. After that, you will watch a documentary on how the world's strongest hunters saved us from the demon invasion."
We headed for the exit. The invasion happened twenty years ago. My last escape attempt was a century prior, so I was curious to see the human perspective. There was a common joke in the Pit that the only reason humans won was because the Lord of Wrath lost a bet to the Lord of Envy and turned his legions back to settle a grudge.
The cafeteria was chaotic. I sat in a corner with a tray of steak, bought with points from Hanako's account. Dima appeared beside me, grinning like a shark, with a tray piled high with food.
"Hey, bro, join us?" He nodded toward his new followers.
"Go back to your fan club," I murmured. "You are the leader now. Strengthen those bonds, or they will think you are ditching them for the squad idiot."
"Maybe you are right," he laughed, winking as he walked away. "See you at practice, loser."
Lunch ended quietly. As I walked back through the corridor, the air suddenly grew heavy, like a gathering storm. Three figures blocked my path. Nobility. I recognized them instantly. A tall man with a wolf crest, a redhead with singed lashes, and a bald, ugly man with a face like a boar.
"Look who it is," the tall one mocked. "The outcast tamer. The one who writes ads on exams and peeks at girls in the shower. Rumor is, you are quite the pervert, kid."
They crowded me, their insults raining down like confetti at a funeral. I stood still, arms at my sides, but inside I was simmering with anticipation. These high society puppets thought they were breaking me.
"Shut up," I said quietly, clenching my fists with feigned helplessness. "What do you want?"
They shared a look of triumph. The tall one leaned in, smelling of expensive tobacco.
"We saw what you did with that demon. That was not a rookie trick. You have potential, Krivtsevich. Join our team. Imagine a commoner like you standing with us. The influence would be beyond your dreams. In exchange, we need just one thing. Invite your friend Dima for a talk. Lead him to the dark alley behind the gymnasium after morning practice. Do that, and you are one of us."
"And if you refuse," the redhead added, poking my chest, "your little followers will suffer. That white cat of yours? I wonder how she would look if she lost her other eye."
My act was perfect. The struggling outcast forced to betray a friend to protect his kin. From their perspective, it was logical. People have betrayed for far less.
"Fine. I agree," I sighed, releasing my fists. "Tomorrow, after practice, in the alley. I will tell him we need to talk privately."
"Good boy," the tall one said, slapping my shoulder too hard. "Do not let us down."
They walked away, laughing and calling me a spineless coward. I watched their retreating backs. The fish had swallowed the bait, hook and all. Rule one of the Pit. Deceive everyone, then use them or kill them. These three had just signed their own death warrants. I had not decided if I would kill them yet. Perhaps I would simply break their wills and make them dance to my tune instead.
I returned to the hall, where the documentary was starting. It was pure heroism, hunters cutting down demons with artifact blades. I regretted not having popcorn. Humanity only survived because the Overlords were busy fighting each other, but the film made it look like a divine victory.
I went back to the barracks and kicked the weights under my bed. My flesh was still mortal enough to feel the bite of the metal. I lay back, staring at a cobweb on the ceiling, refining tomorrow's plan. Bait Dima, lure the prey, and wait for the results.
I took out my phone and sent a message to Airi. I sent only two words through our spiritual link.
Crimson Dew.
I told her to bring the special combat supplements from the secret vault. She would find a use for them tomorrow morning.