The journey to the Neutral Wastes was less of a road trip and more of a slow descent into a monochromatic nightmare. The landscape outside the carriage window had shifted from the jagged, dramatic peaks of the West to a flat, endless expanse of gray dust and twisted obsidian formations that looked suspiciously like clawing hands. The sky here was a permanent, bruised yellow, hanging low and heavy over the world, pressing down with a silence that felt thick enough to choke on.
Inside the Black Carriage, the air was cold. Valdred sat rigidly on the velvet bench, his arms crossed over his chest, staring out at the desolation with an intensity that suggested he was trying to disintegrate the scenery with his mind. He was fully armored today, his polished black plate reflecting the dim light, his crimson cape pooled around him like spilled blood. The greatsword, Night-Eater, rested against his knee, vibrating with a low hum that matched the tension in the air.
Elara sat opposite him, clutching her knees. She was wearing her dress uniform—the military-style coat with gold buttons and the high collar—but she had accessorized with a heavy utility belt filled with potions, scrolls, and gadgets. Val-Jr, the bat plushie, was strapped securely to her shoulder with a tiny leather harness she had fashioned specifically for this trip. She wasn't looking out the window. She was watching Valdred.
He hadn't spoken in an hour. The silence wasn't the comfortable quiet they shared in the library or the office. It was a jagged, sharp silence.
Elara cleared her throat, the sound startlingly loud in the confined space. "You're brooding, Boss. On a scale of one to ten, you're at a solid eight. Maybe an eight-point-five."
Valdred turned his gaze from the window to her. The red glow of his eyes was dim, guarded. "I am not brooding," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the carriage floor. "I remain in a state of tactical contemplation."
"Tactical contemplation usually doesn't involve clenching your jaw so hard I can hear your teeth grinding," Elara countered, trying to keep her tone light, though her stomach was doing somersaults. "Whatever happens out there, we've got a plan. We have the training. We have the element of surprise."
"The element of surprise is that I brought a human to a gathering of monsters," Valdred said darkly. "They will target you, Elara. The Council... they are not like the mindless beasts of the dungeon. They are cruel. They are ancient. And they know that you are the architect of my recent successes."
He leaned forward, the leather of his armor creaking. "If they hurt you to get to me..."
"They won't," Elara interrupted firmly. She reached out and patted the cold metal of his gauntlet. "Because I have the strongest Demon Lord in history watching my back. Unless you're planning on napping during the tournament?"
Valdred looked at her hand on his armor. The tension in his shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. "I do not nap in enemy territory."
"Good," Elara smiled, though it was a little brittle. "Then we're fine. Besides, I brought snacks. Nervous eating is a valid strategy."
The carriage slowed, the wheels crunching over gravel that sounded like shattered bone. The driver, a Dullahan who held his head in his lap, knocked on the partition. "We have arrived, Lord Valdred. The Arena of the Eclipse."
Valdred took a deep breath, the sound like a bellows fanning a fire. He reached up and adjusted his helmet, sliding the visor down until only the glowing slits of his eyes were visible. The man vanished; the Demon Lord remained.
"Stay close to me," he commanded, his voice taking on the metallic echo of the helm. "Do not engage with Vex's taunts. Do not accept food from Malacor. And if Grog yells, cover your ears; his voice operates on a frequency that liquefies cartilage."
"Understood," Elara whispered. She checked her belt one last time, patted Val-Jr for luck, and nodded.
Valdred kicked the door open.
The noise hit them first. It wasn't a cheer. It was a wall of sound—a cacophony of roars, shrieks, drums, and chanting that physically shook the carriage on its springs. The Arena of the Eclipse was a colossal structure carved from the fossilized ribcage of a dead god, the white bone curving hundreds of feet into the yellow sky to form a massive amphitheater.
It was packed. Tens of thousands of demons had gathered. There were Orc tribes from the North beating drums made of skulls. There were legions of floating Wraiths from the East, silent and terrifying. There were covens of Succubi and Incubi from the South, draped in silks and shadows.
And they all hated the West.
As Valdred stepped onto the obsidian sand of the staging area, the noise coalesced into a unified, rhythmic booing.
"TRAITOR!" someone screamed from the stands.
"SOFT!" roared another.
"HUMAN-LOVER!"
A rotten pumpkin came sailing from the upper tiers, aimed directly at Elara. Valdred didn't even look up. He simply raised one hand, and a pulse of gravity magic caught the projectile in mid-air, crushing it into orange paste before it could come within ten feet of them.
He scanned the crowd, his aura flaring. It was a heavy, suffocating darkness that rolled over the front rows like a tsunami. The goblins nearest to the railing choked and fell silent. The orcs stopped drumming.
"Silence," Valdred said. He didn't shout, but his voice was amplified by magic, cutting through the din like a razor.
The crowd quieted, settling into a sullen, murmuring resentment. Valdred lowered his hand and turned to Elara, offering his arm with the grace of a courtier.
"Shall we?" he asked.
Elara took his arm. Her legs felt like jelly, but she kept her chin up, adjusting her glasses to catch the light. "Lead the way, Lord of the West."
They walked down the long, shadowed tunnel that led to the central waiting chamber, the "Green Room" of the underworld's most dangerous event. The air grew colder as they descended, smelling of old stone and aggressive magic.
The chamber was a vast cavern divided into four quadrants. Three were already occupied.
To the left, Grog, the Warlord of the North, was smashing a massive battle-axe against a grindstone. He was a mountain of red muscle and fur, twelve feet tall, with tusks that scraped his chest. "GROG READY TO SMASH!" he bellowed at no one in particular, drool pooling on the floor.
To the right, floating cross-legged in mid-air, was Malacor, the Lich King of the East. He was a skeletal figure draped in rotting, expensive velvet, surrounded by floating books written in blood. He didn't look up, but the green flames in his eye sockets flared as they entered.
And in the center, lounging on a chaise lounge that had definitely not been there a moment ago, was Lady Vex, the Succubus Queen of the South. She was breathtaking and terrifying, her horns curling elegantly from hair that moved on its own.
" well, well," Vex purred, her voice like silk over a dagger. "The happy couple arrives. And here I thought you'd be too busy knitting sweaters or baking cookies to attend a war council."
Valdred ignored her, guiding Elara to the stone bench in the West's quadrant. "Ignore her," he murmured.
"Hard to ignore someone who smells like perfume and despair," Elara whispered back.
Vex stood up, her heels clicking on the stone floor. She sauntered over to the invisible line dividing their territories. "And this," she gestured a manicured claw at Elara, "is the pet? It's so... small. Fragile. Does it break if I look at it too hard?"
"She is my Advisor," Valdred said, his hand resting on the hilt of Night-Eater. "And she has more fortitude in her little finger than you have in your entire court of sycophants."
Malacor chuckled—a dry, rattling sound. "Fortitude is irrelevant, Valdred. We are here to test power. And by bringing a mortal to the Arena of the Eclipse, you have brought a glass vase to a hammer fight."
"Grog hungry!" Grog announced, looking at Elara with disturbing culinary interest.
Elara stepped out from behind Valdred. She adjusted her coat. "Actually, Grog, humans are very high in cholesterol. Bad for the heart. You should stick to leafy greens."
Grog blinked, confused. "Greens?"
"The salad bar is that way," Elara pointed vaguely toward a dark corner. Grog actually looked.
Vex narrowed her eyes. "Clever mouth. I wonder how long it will keep moving when we begin."
Before the tension could explode into violence right there in the waiting room, a massive gong sounded. The vibration shook dust from the ceiling. The far wall of the chamber dissolved, revealing the sunlit expanse of the main arena floor.
A figure descended from the sky. It was the Arbiter.
The Arbiter was a creature of absolute neutrality—a massive construct of brass, clockwork, and geometry. It had no face, only a rotating cube head that displayed different expressions painted in oil. Currently, it showed a neutral, expressionless mask.
"LORDS OF THE SHADOW," the Arbiter's voice boomed, mechanical and toneless. "THE TRIAL OF THE BLACK SUN COMMENCES."
The four Demon Lords walked out onto the sand. The roar of the crowd returned, deafening and bloodthirsty. Valdred stood tall, Elara a distinct, small shadow by his side.
"THE RULES ARE ABSOLUTE," the Arbiter continued. "THREE ROUNDS. WINNER TAKES ALL. LOSER FORFEITS DOMINION."
The Arbiter floated lower. "ROUND ONE. THE TRIAL OF THE SHACKLED KING."
Valdred stiffened. "Shackled?"
"IN THIS TRIAL," the Arbiter intoned, "POWER IS MEANINGLESS WITHOUT LOYALTY. THE LORDS WILL BE BOUND. THE SUBORDINATES MUST NAVIGATE THE GAUNTLET TO FREE THEM."
A collective gasp went through the crowd. This was not a standard duel.
"Wait," Elara whispered. "You're going to be tied up?"
"It appears so," Valdred said, his voice tight. "They are removing my physical advantage. They are forcing you to compete against..." He looked at the other subordinates.
Grog's second was a Goblin Berserker, frothing at the mouth and holding two jagged knives.
Malacor's second was a Death Knight, seven feet of silent, heavily armored undead malice.
Vex's second was a Shadow Assassin, a creature that flickered in and out of existence like a glitch in reality.
And Valdred had Elara. A human with a clipboard.
"I object," Valdred shouted, his voice thundering over the crowd. "This is an execution, not a trial. My Advisor is a strategist, not a gladiator. Pit me against the others, but do not involve her in physical combat against monsters."
"OBJECTION DENIED," the Arbiter buzzed. "ADAPT OR FORFEIT."
Valdred looked ready to draw his sword and fight the Arbiter itself. His aura flared, turning the sand around his boots to glass. "I will not allow it."
"Valdred," Elara said.
He looked down. She was pale. Her hands were trembling slightly. But her eyes were clear behind her glasses.
"It's a gauntlet," she said quietly. "That means obstacles. Puzzles. Traps."
"The other subordinates will kill you before you reach the first trap," Valdred hissed.
"They're monsters," Elara said. "They rely on instinct. I have a brain. And I have you."
"You do not have me," Valdred argued, agony in his voice. "I will be shackled."
"I have your training," she corrected. "And I have your trust. Do you trust me, Boss?"
Valdred stared at her. The silence stretched. The crowd jeered. The Arbiter waited.
Finally, Valdred nodded sharply. "With my life."
"Then let's win this," Elara said.
The ground rumbled. Four massive obsidian pillars rose from the sand. The Demon Lords were marched to them. Valdred allowed himself to be positioned against the pillar.
"BIND THEM," the Arbiter commanded.
Chains made of pure, sizzling magical energy erupted from the pillars. They wrapped around Grog, Malacor, Vex, and Valdred.
Grog roared in annoyance. Vex hissed as the magic burned her skin. Malacor looked bored.
Valdred didn't make a sound, even as the red-hot chains tightened around his armor, searing through the metal to the skin beneath. He didn't flinch. He just locked eyes with Elara, who stood fifty yards away at the starting line.
"THE RULES," the Arbiter announced. "THE FIRST SUBORDINATE TO PULL THE LEVER AT THE END OF THE COURSE FREES THEIR LORD. THE LAST LORD TO BE FREED... IS ELIMINATED."
Elara looked down the track. It was a nightmare.
Zone 1: A pit of shifting quicksand filled with bone-vipers.
Zone 2: A narrow bridge with swinging pendulum blades.
Zone 3: A magical barrier that required a password or a massive amount of force to break.
"BEGIN!"
The explosion of motion was instant.
The Goblin Berserker didn't even look at the obstacles. He just screamed and leaped into the quicksand, frantic energy propelling him forward.
The Shadow Assassin vanished, attempting to teleport past the first zone.
The Death Knight began to march, heavy boots crushing the sand, ignoring the vipers that bit futilely at his greaves.
Elara didn't run. She stood perfectly still for one second, analyzing.
The Assassin hit an anti-teleportation ward—he's stunned. The Goblin is stuck in the mud. The Knight is slow.
She moved.
She didn't run into the quicksand. She pulled a scroll from her belt. "Ice Magic: Flash Freeze."
She threw the scroll. It unrolled in mid-air, slamming into the mud. A path of solid ice crystallized instantly across the churning sand.
Elara skated. Literally. She slid across the ice, passing the struggling Goblin who was currently trying to bite a viper.
"Cheater!" Vex screamed from her pillar.
"It's called utility!" Elara yelled back, hopping off the ice onto solid ground.
She reached Zone 2: The Pendulum Blades.
The Death Knight had caught up. He didn't dodge the blades. He just walked through them. CLANG. CLANG. The massive iron blades bounced off his supernatural armor. He was a tank. He was gaining on her.
Elara couldn't tank a blade. One hit and she was sliced bread.
She looked at the rhythm. Left, right, swoosh, pause.
She took a breath. "Okay, Elara. Just like dodging Lilith when she has a budget report."
She sprinted. She ducked under the first blade. She jumped over the second. The wind of the third blade ruffled her hair, cutting a single strand loose.
The Shadow Assassin materialized beside her. He swiped a dagger at her ribs.
Elara didn't block. She dropped. She slid under his legs like a baseball player stealing home.
As she slid, she pulled a pin on a small round object from her belt and left it behind her. "Flashbang."
BANG.
A blinding white light erupted. The Assassin shrieked, clutching his eyes, stumbling directly into the path of a pendulum blade. He was knocked backward into the pit.
Elara scrambled up the ledge to Zone 3.
The Magical Barrier.
The Death Knight was right behind her. He raised his massive greatsword. He was going to smash the barrier with brute force.
Elara looked at the glowing runes on the barrier. It was a riddle lock.
Riddle: I have cities, but no houses. I have mountains, but no trees. I have water, but no fish. What am I?
The Death Knight smashed his sword against the forcefield. BOOM. The barrier shuddered but held. He raised his sword again.
Elara shouted at the barrier. "A MAP!"
The runes flashed green. The barrier dissolved instantly.
The Death Knight swung his sword down into empty air, overbalancing and stumbling forward.
Elara sprinted past him. She saw the lever. It was ten feet away.
But the Goblin Berserker had somehow dragged himself out of the mud. He was ahead of her. He was reaching for the lever.
"NO!" Valdred shouted from his pillar. The agony of the chains was forgotten; his voice was pure panic.
The Goblin's hand was inches from the lever.
Elara didn't have a weapon to stop him. She had a wand, a notebook, and a plushie.
She grabbed Val-Jr from her shoulder.
"Forgive me, Val-Jr!" she cried.
She threw the plush bat.
It wasn't a hard throw. It was soft. But she cast a quick cantrip as it flew. "Cantrip: Heavy Weight."
For a split second, the cotton plushie weighed five hundred pounds.
It hit the Goblin in the back of the head.
THWACK.
The Goblin face-planted into the dirt, knocked unconscious by a sudden, incredibly heavy toy.
Elara dove. She scrambled over the unconscious Goblin. She grabbed the cold iron of the lever.
She pulled.
CLUNK.
Across the arena, the red chains binding Valdred shattered into sparks.
Valdred fell to his knees, smoke rising from his armor. He didn't check his wounds. He didn't look at the crowd. He looked instantly toward the finish line.
"WINNER: WEST," the Arbiter announced.
The crowd went dead silent.
Elara stood there, panting, her uniform dusty, her glasses crooked. She retrieved Val-Jr (who was light again) and dusted him off.
The Death Knight finally smashed his way through the barrier area, but it was too late. Malacor was freed second. Then Vex.
Grog was last. The chains disappeared, but he was eliminated.
"NO!" Grog roared, smashing his own pillar. "GROG NOT LOSE TO TOY!"
Valdred stood up. He moved faster than he ever had in the dungeon. In a blur of black steel, he crossed the arena.
Elara turned just as he arrived. She flinched, expecting a lecture on reckless throwing of familiars.
Instead, Valdred grabbed her by the shoulders. He dropped to one knee so he was eye-level with her. His helmet was gone—melted off by the heat or discarded, she didn't know. His face was streaked with soot, his eyes burning.
"You," Valdred breathed, his voice shaking. "You calculated the trajectory of a plush toy."
"Physics is the great equalizer," Elara managed to wheeze, her adrenaline crashing. "Are you okay? You look... extra crispy."
"I am fine," Valdred said fiercely. "I am... impressed. Beyond words."
A faint ding sound echoed in Elara's mind. Validation Gauge: Rising.
"See?" Elara grinned weakly. "I told you. Brains over brawn."
"ROUND ONE COMPLETE," the Arbiter interrupted, ruining the moment. "ELIMINATED: NORTH."
Grog was dragged away by the Arbiter's security golems, screaming about eating the referee.
"PREPARE FOR ROUND TWO," the Arbiter droned. The face on its head rotated. The neutral mask disappeared. It was replaced by a twisted, frowning mask of tragedy.
"ROUND TWO: THE TRIAL OF SACRIFICE."
The ground shook again. The atmosphere shifted from competitive to oppressive.
"IN THIS ROUND," the Arbiter said, "THE LORDS MUST FIGHT. BUT DAMAGE INFLICTED UPON THE LORD... IS TRANSFERRED TO THE SUBORDINATE."
Valdred froze. His hands on Elara's shoulders tightened painfully.
"What?" Valdred whispered.
"IF YOU BLEED, SHE BLEEDS," the Arbiter clarified. "FIGHT TO THE DEATH. OR SURRENDER."
Valdred looked at Malacor and Vex. They were smiling. Wicked, predatory smiles. They knew they could take pain. They knew their subordinates were expendable undead or shadows.
But Elara was human. Fragile. Mortal.
Valdred looked at Elara. She stared back, her eyes wide.
"Boss," she whispered.
Valdred stood up slowly. He turned to the Arbiter. He drew Night-Eater.
"I forfeit," Valdred said.
The crowd gasped.
"No!" Elara grabbed his cape. "You can't forfeit! If you forfeit, we lose the West! We lose everything!"
"I will not fight if it means you get hurt," Valdred said, his voice absolute stone. "I would rather lose the kingdom than see a single cut on you."
"OBJECTION," the Arbiter buzzed. "FORFEITURE REQUIRES UNANIMOUS CONSENT OF THE TEAM."
The Arbiter looked at Elara. "DO YOU CONSENT TO SURRENDER?"
Elara looked at Valdred. He was pleading with her with his eyes—a look of desperate protection.
She looked at Vex and Malacor, who were laughing.
Elara straightened her spine. She adjusted her glasses. She took a potion from her belt—a Potion of Iron Skin.
"I do not consent," Elara declared.
"Elara!" Valdred roared.
"Drink this," she shoved the potion into her own mouth and swallowed. Her skin took on a faint, metallic sheen. "I can take a hit, Valdred. I'm not made of glass. Now go out there and don't get hit."
"This is madness," Valdred snarled.
"This is loyalty!" Elara shouted back. "You trusted me in Round One. Now trust yourself! Just don't let them touch you!"
Valdred stared at her. He saw the fire in her eyes. It matched his own.
He turned back to the other Lords. He raised his sword.
"Very well," Valdred said. His voice dropped to a register that made the ground vibrate. "If you touch me... if you make her bleed even one drop..."
He ignited his aura. It wasn't just darkness anymore. It was a chaotic storm of black and red lightning.
"I will not just defeat you," Valdred promised. "I will unmake you."
"FIGHT!" the Arbiter screamed.