Minutes passed.
But in the Colosseum of the Underworld, time didn't feel like time.
It felt like anticipation being stretched until it became suffocating.
One by one, the contestants were guided into the arena floor.
Not stands.
Not safety zones.
The arena itself.
A vast circular battlefield stretching wider than entire cities, enclosed by towering walls that rose nearly 200 meters into the abyssal sky. Above them, massive formations of suspended stone platforms floated like broken rings around the interior, each one filled with spectators.
And not ordinary spectators.
Millions of them.
Demons with fractured horns and burning eyes.
Demon Lords seated like royalty carved from violence itself.
Demon Gods whose presence alone bent the air.
Demonic Ancestors—ancient beings whose existence felt older than history.
The Ruler of Hell himself, watching in silence from a throne that seemed grown from the Colosseum's structure.
Abyssal entities with forms that shifted between existence and void.
Creatures that defied classification entirely.
Every gaze was focused downward.
Every thought was hunger.
Damian stood among the contestants.
Not separated.
Not protected.
Just placed inside the same battlefield as everyone else.
Like prey or predator depending on what survived first.
A large stone platform rose in the center of the arena.
From it, a figure stepped forward.
The announcer.
His voice echoed effortlessly across the entire Colosseum, amplified not by magic—but by authority.
"Contestants."
The air quieted slightly.
Even the demons above leaned forward.
"You will draw your numbers."
A long pause.
Then a smile.
"The numbers will be called at random."
"And not in order."
Murmurs spread through the contestants.
Tension tightened.
The announcer continued casually.
"As for the rules…"
He tilted his head slightly.
A grin formed.
"There are none."
A beat of silence.
"You only escape by death… or you can forfeit."
He laughed lightly.
"But I doubt anyone would want to do that."
"In the Underworld… forfeiting is a sign of weakness."
The Colosseum erupted instantly.
"DEATH! DEATH! DEATH!"
The chant spread like wildfire.
From the lowest demons to the highest beings in the stands.
The entire structure vibrated with it.
Damian stood still.
His eyes moved slowly across the crowd.
Not reacting.
Just observing.
The announcer raised his voice again.
"Those who make it to the final round…"
"…and win…"
A pause.
A heavier tone entered his voice.
"…will be given a chance to be judged by the Black Pillar."
The arena went quiet again.
Even the air felt heavier.
"The worthy… will learn its true name."
Damian's eyes narrowed slightly.
Just a fraction.
Not emotion.
Recognition.
Something important was buried in that statement.
He did not speak.
He simply stored it.
The drawing began.
Numbers were pulled.
Assigned.
Flashing symbols burned into each contestant's arm or soul imprint.
Damian lifted his hand when called.
A number formed on his skin.
20.
He didn't react.
Of course it was arbitrary.
But not meaningless.
Everything here had purpose disguised as chaos.
The contestants were then guided away.
Through massive stone corridors beneath the arena.
The waiting room.
A vast underground chamber lined with sealed gates leading directly into the battlefield.
Some contestants were shaking.
Some were laughing.
Some were already sharpening weapons.
Others were silent.
Damian stood apart.
Hands in pockets.
Motionless.
Like he was already past the outcome.
Above them, the announcer's voice echoed again.
"Let the first match begin."
A pause.
"Number 5…"
The entire arena leaned in.
"…and Number 8."
The gates beneath the arena slowly opened.
A grinding sound like reality itself being forced apart.
From one side—
A being stepped out.
An abyssal serpent.
But not fully serpent.
Its upper body was that of a woman—beautiful in a distorted, unnatural way, with eyes like liquid void and hair that moved like submerged shadows.
Her lower body dragged like an endless coil of living darkness.
From the opposite gate—
A Hell Dragon emerged.
But not in beast form.
It took humanoid shape.
A tall, armored figure with draconic horns and molten cracks running through its body, as if lava flowed beneath his skin instead of blood.
He rolled his shoulders.
The air ignited slightly around him.
The match had begun.
The Colosseum roared again.
The first battle of the Underworld tournament had started.
And above it all—
Damian stood in the waiting room.
Silent.
Watching.
Unmoving.