πŸ“š the demoness' champion Part 2 of 1
Part 2
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SCIENCE FICTION FANTASY

The Demoness Champion Ch 02

The Demoness Champion Ch 02

by flex_fictionist
19 min read
4.61 (1400 views)
adultfiction

AN: Welcome back to Chapter Two of

The Demoness' Champion!

If you're new, I highly recommend starting with

Chapter One: The Descent

to get the full experience. Thanks for all the support on the first part--it means a lot!

***

Chapter Two: Pride

Was this true fear?

Drake asked himself that question over and over again. Had he ever truly experienced fear, or had everything else been a shallow imitation? Usually, he could suppress it--hide it behind a smirk, bury it beneath bravado.

But this was different.

Fear had always been contained, locked away behind layers of armor, kept in his chest where he could control it. But now? Now, it spread unchecked, seeping into his bones, crawling beneath his skin, invading every inch of his body from his fingers to his toes. The sensation was crushing. All-encompassing.

Or was that just her presence?

Something sweet lingered in the air as she held his chin with her claws, her golden eyes studying him.

He met her gaze and peered deep into the flames, trying to unravel her nature through sheer will. But instead of clarity, he found himself sinking. His thoughts blurred, his sense of self wavered, her presence pulling him into an abyss.

He tore his eyes from hers before he lost himself entirely.

"Earlier..." he began, his voice uncertain. "You said I'd never faced anything like you."

She tilted her head, inviting him to go on.

"Then... what are you?"

Lush lips curled into a smile as she released his face and straightened.

"Ah, yes. Introductions."

She slowly lifted her hands, allowing the moment to linger like a performer awaiting applause.

"I am Pride, one of the seven Archdevils of Hell."

Her voice echoed throughout the chamber like thunder. Torches flared brightly and stretched toward the ceiling as if cheering for their master. The castle shook slightly, acknowledging her presence.

As far as he knew, there were greater demons; above them was Lucifer himself.

"Pride? Like the deadly sin?"

At his recognition, the inferno in her eyes burned brighter.

"Precisely."

The seven deadly sins were just that--Bad traits. At least, he had thought so. As a hunter, none of his superiors ever mentioned archdevils. They never appeared on the surface, so it's possible the corps wasn't aware of them. Anyone who might've known would've been above his pay grade.

"However," she continued. "You will refer to me as Mistress."

The title settled over him like a shackle snapping shut. There had to be a way out. This couldn't be how it ended--serving a devil, becoming her champion, whatever that meant. Maybe there was a way to truly die here, to fade into nothingness, never to return.

Was that even an option? Could he vanish into oblivion, or was this place an eternal prison? Questions gnawed at him, but he couldn't ask outright. If he was too direct, it might raise suspicion. He needed an excuse to frame his inquiry so it wouldn't reveal his true intentions.

The tournament--maybe that would work. If he could make it seem like curiosity rather than desperation, he might get the answer he needed.

"This tournament... Is it to the death? Can I die again?"

Pride's smirk deepened. "An interesting question."

She sauntered behind him and draped her arms over his shoulders like heavy blinds. Long claws reddened his skin as they traced up his chest. She bent down, brushing his ear with her lips. The weight of the demoness' bulk was crushing.

"I can show you," she whispered.

Drake stiffened as his hot breath tickled his ear.

"Show me?"

Claws sank into his neck with a terrifying ease, and she ripped his throat out.

He staggered, choking, hands clawing at the gaping wound as blood gushed down his chest in thick, pulsing waves. His body spasmed to the floor as his throat convulsed, struggling to draw in air that would never come. His vision blurred, darkening at the edges, but the pain remained razor-sharp--like a thousand needles stabbing into raw, exposed flesh. Each attempt to breathe was met with wet, gurgling failure. Only spit and blood flooded his lungs, drowning him in a sea of red agony. His nails scraped against the slick warmth of his shredded esophagus, his mind screaming for release that would never come.

He expected darkness--expected release, but there was only suffering.

Only choking.

Choking.

Choking.

Choking.

Death never arrived, and the pain didn't fade. His body was on the verge of letting go, but life--or whatever this was--clung to him. Seconds stretched into eternity as his lungs burned, brimming with fluid.

Pride rested her head on her hand while she watched. She let him suffer. Let him soak in the reality of what she was showing him. Then, she cupped his jaw, tilting his head back with a touch far too gentle for the brutality she had just inflicted.

With the tip of a nail, she brushed against his wound. A thin, fiery light spread from it, instantly knitting his flesh back together.

She stepped back, admiring her work as he gasped for air like a man breaching the ocean's surface after being dragged to its depths.

He touched his throat. The skin was whole, but the phantom pain lingered. A lake of crimson sprawled across the marble floor, reflecting his hollowed eyes and disheveled brown hair. It was his blood--every drop spilled from his body--yet now, with his flesh seamlessly restored, the pool seemed like it had belonged to someone else.

Fingers, still trembling, brushed against his neck, smearing the remnants of his suffering. In the reflection, he noticed it--a handprint left in blood where he had touched himself, a grotesque signature of what had just transpired.

His gaze lifted to meet Pride's, though a part of him hesitated as if daring to look might provoke her further.

She stared down at him, impassive yet pleased.

"Death cannot claim you twice, Drake."

She traced a single claw down his chest, savoring his shaking body. Her eyes flared with satisfaction as she reveled in the lesson she had etched into him.

"Keep that in mind."

He couldn't speak--his throat might tear open again. The sensation still wrapped around his neck like an iron collar. Having it ripped out was one thing, but enduring the ceaseless agony of choking, the desperate struggle for breath with no release, was a torment beyond anything he had ever imagined.

The realization settled like a stone in his gut. There was no escape--not through defiance, not through death. His fingers twitched at his sides, then curled into fists, nails digging into his palms as if grounding himself in the only pain he could endure.

"Perhaps," Pride mused, her voice carrying an air of amusement, "a tour is in order. To help you get your bearings."

She turned her gaze to a space before her and snapped.

A column of fire erupted, then dissipated, revealing a tall man with long black hair streaked with gray. Part of it was tied in a warrior's bun, the rest cascading over broad shoulders. He wore a long, sturdy-looking coat with a cape. On the back was a symbol of a lion with blazing eyes, much like Pride's.

He dropped to one knee immediately, bowing his head.

"Mistress," he said, his voice deep, steady.

Pride's hand came to rest on his shoulder, a gesture both possessive and approving.

"Drake, meet Garrick. One of my most accomplished champions."

Drake's eyes narrowed.

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One of?

The thought was discarded. With another guy in the room, he remembered he was naked.

Pride's claws traced over Garrick's cheek before she withdrew.

"He will show you around the castle. When you're finished, return to me. Be ready to make a decision."

Drake's fists balled tighter.

"What decision?"

Pride's expression didn't change.

"Whether or not you serve me willingly. I could control you, but where's the fun in that? I have more than enough mindless servants as is."

She stepped closer, voice soft but absolute.

"Should you choose to be mindless, you will be useless to me."

She turned to Garrick, tapping him lightly.

"Be a dear, and show your new peer around."

Garrick's head bowed deeper.

"As you wish, mistress."

He stood, towering over the still-kneeling Drake, beginning to stride toward the grand double doors at the end of the hall.

"This way."

Drake hesitated, his body still tense, but found himself moving. He followed Garrick, the heat of Pride's gaze burning into his back.

Just as they reached the doors, her voice called out once more.

"And Garrick?"

He stopped, turning to face her fully.

"Make sure he understands what it means to be useless to me."

Garrick bowed again.

"Of course, mistress."

Drake's breath slowed. He glanced between them, unease creeping into his bones.

Then, without another word, he followed Garrick into the unknown.

Drake followed Garrick through winding hallways, their path dimly lit by the occasional torch. Shadows stretched along the stone walls, flickering with each step. Yet, Garrick moved with ease, his pace steady and unbothered.

Could he see in the dark, or had he memorized these halls?

Without breaking stride, Garrick reached into a side alcove and pulled out a folded set of clothes, tossing them at Drake.

"Put those on. The Mistress might not mind, but spare me the view."

Drake slipped the clothes on as Garrick waited with his back turned. They were a simple tunic and trouser combo, but he would've even been grateful for a loin cloth.

Drake finished tying a belt around his waist.

"Where are we going?"

When Garrick saw that Drake was finished, he continued walking.

"The mess hall."

Garrick didn't elaborate, simply continuing forward. Laughter and chatter grew louder as they walked through the corridors until emerging into an atrium crammed with people and demons. The space was enormous, its high-vaulted ceilings adorned with banners. Each had the same sigil as the one on Garrick's cape--a demonic lion, its eyes burning with fury.

"Here it is," Garrick said, gesturing to the space before them.

Beings of all kinds ate and drank together, sharing tales of past battles and victories. The air was thick with roasted meats, spiced wine, and something faintly metallic--like blood that had long since dried. Though the room buzzed with life, it had an unusual order: no shouting, brawls, or recklessness. Instead, warriors laughed over meals, exchanged knowing glances, and gestured in animated conversation.

Drake had expected chaos. The spawn of Hell--monsters, demons, and fallen warriors--should have been loud, unruly, and wild. But here, they ate with measured fervor, careful not to drop crumbs. Those who finished their meals disposed of their trays with practiced efficiency, setting them neatly at the counter to be cleaned.

It was discipline, not civility, that kept this place in check. Was this simply the way things were under Pride? Or was it an unspoken rule among the warriors? Strength alone wasn't enough to thrive here. There were rules, even in Hell, or at least under the demoness.

The moment they stepped in, the room nearly fell silent. Conversations died down, and heads turned. Drake felt their stares, most unreadable, some curious. But Garrick? He was met with smirks, nods, and winks.

He returned them effortlessly, strolling through the tables like he belonged there. On the other hand, Drake stuck close behind, his presence an afterthought.

"Hungry?" Garrick asked.

They stopped at the serving desk, a long buffet-style spread of food laid out in a decadent display. Garrick reached for what looked like a sweet bun--soft bread dusted in sugar.

Drake glanced around at the others feasting, the clatter of plates and low hum of conversation filling the air.

"Not really."

Garrick chewed, then swallowed with a shrug.

"Ah, right. New soul. Takes a while."

He dusted crumbs from his fingers before nodding toward the food.

"Won't last long, though."

Drake watched as he took another bite.

"People get hungry here?"

"Kinda," Garrick said through a mouthful of food, the word muffled. He swallowed before elaborating. "It's essence."

Drake rubbed his chin, considering the word.

"Essence?"

Garrick nodded.

"Yeah. You get it from eating and drinking."

With that, Garrick turned away, still munching on his damn bun.

Drake followed.

"Why do you need essence?"

Garrick shrugged.

"So you don't feel like shit."

Drake exhaled sharply.

"Can you die without it?"

"Without it," he paused. "You don't exist."

A cold weight settled in Drake's stomach. What could he have meant by that? If there was no death, then what came after? Maybe that was his way out. If he could lose his essence somehow, he wouldn't have to serve Pride for eternity.

Garrick glanced at him and added, "But that'll only happen if the Mistress consumes you."

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Drake shifted.

"Consumes me?"

Would she eat him like a sweet bun?

"What if I just don't eat or drink anything?" Drake asked.

Garrick finished his bun, licking his fingers.

"Then you just suffer. Personally? Wouldn't recommend it."

Garrick led Drake out of the mess hall and into another long corridor, eventually stopping before a wide archway. Beyond it, the atmosphere changed--the air thick with the scent of alcohol and smoke. Dimly lit lanterns cast a golden hue over dark wooden tables, each crowded with figures engaged in drinking contests, arm wrestling, and gambling. The weight of the space felt different--less rowdy, more personal.

"The bar," Garrick said, gesturing. "If you want to eat or drink somewhere a little quieter, this is the place."

Drake took in the scene, noting the collection of warriors, some nursing drinks, others barking out bets. At a dimly lit corner table, a group of demons whispered among themselves, their voices hushed but tense.

"I'm telling you, Greed's up to something," muttered a stubby demon."

A demon with a long snout scoffed in response.

"Like what?"

The stubby demon leaned in slightly, and Drake could barely make out his words.

"Word is, he's been securing new champions in secret. Not just fighters--champions."

The long-snouted demon shrugged.

"So? The Mistress has the most champions. Why would it matter if Greed's picking up a few more?"

"It ain't no damn 'few more' from what I heard. Not to mention, Envy's been real quiet. That ain't ever a good thing."

Greed and Envy. More sins. Those must be the other Archdevils. Drake couldn't help but wonder if they were all as powerful as Pride.

Garrick nudged his arm.

"Come on. No time for gossip."

Before he could ask anything else, Garrick had already moved on.

They continued through the hall until they reached another chamber, the air thick with heat and metal. The glow of molten steel flickered across the stone walls as blacksmiths hammered away at glowing blades.

Drake's eyes scanned the weapons on display--axes, polearms, swords. His gaze lingered on one in particular, a blackened longsword resting on a weapon rack. The blade's surface rippled as if barely containing something beneath.

Garrick caught him staring.

"This is the forge."

Drake tore his eyes away from the weapon.

"So, you just come in here and take something?"

"Yeah," Garrick nodded. "But if you take something you can't handle..." He flashed a grin. "It's your funeral."

They moved on to the training hall.

Like all the other rooms, it was massive. The chamber stretched far and wide, with racks of weapons lining the walls--bows, swords, halberds, and shields, all polished and well-maintained. But not all the weapons were conventional. Some pulsed with arcane energy--blades wreathed in fire and ice, whips of pure light and crackling electricity. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, steel, and something else--magic.

The hall buzzed with motion. Warriors sparred in every corner, their clashes ringing out like a symphony of war. Men, women, demons--some wielding weapons Drake recognized, others using ones beyond his comprehension.

"Welcome to the training hall," Garrick said. "You'll be spending most of your time here."

Drake barely had time to register his words before something flew toward him at alarming speed. His body tensed, but there was no time to dodge. Instinct took over, and he threw his arms up to shield himself.

Ping.

The impact never came.

When he lowered his hands, Garrick stood in front of him, his sword drawn. The projectile--a dagger--lay harmlessly on the floor. Drake hadn't even seen him move or draw his weapon. Where had it even come from? Was it hiding beneath his cloak?

Garrick sighed. "Here we go."

Footsteps approached. A man--if that's what he was--strolled toward them. He was shorter than Garrick but still taller than Drake. Was everyone in this place so damn tall? His hair burned like embers. They were a mix of dark strands and flame mirroring the pulsing glow of tattoos that ran from his neck down his chest.

"Whoops," the man said, his voice deep, utterly devoid of remorse. "Sorry, newbie. My hand slipped."

Garrick rolled his eyes, sheathing his sword. "Really, Vale?"

Vale held up his hands in mock innocence. "It's the training hall. Shit happens."

He kicked the fallen knife into his hands, twirling it effortlessly between his fingers as he circled the pair. His gaze swept over Drake, scrutinizing him like an examiner judging fresh meat.

"So, you're the new kid?"

Drake felt irritation coil in his gut.

"I'm not a kid. Are you blind?"

Vale smirked, his glowing eyes glinting with amusement. "Sure, but you are new."

Drake narrowed his eyes. "What does that have to do with you throwing a knife at me?"

Vale shrugged. "Throw? I told you, my hand slipped."

"Quite a slip."

Garrick sighed. "Come on, Vale. Quit hazing. I was ordered to--"

"Show him around. Yeah, I know," Vale interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. "I'm just greeting our new friend."

Drake stiffened as Vale stopped before him, standing slightly too close. His presence was like the edge of a blade pressed against his neck--sharp enough to draw blood. Heat from his ember-like hair radiated faintly, stoking their tension like a flame. His eyes appraised Drake and pursed his lips.

"You ain't much, huh?"

Drake stepped in, closing the distance so that their chests almost touched.

"Enough for you."

Vale's smirk widened as the soft glow in his eyes burned a little hotter.

"That so?"

The surrounding warriors paused their sparring to watch the interaction unfold. Vale tilted his head, seeming excited at the prospect of a fight.

"Show me."

Drake's fist clenched. He didn't hesitate and attempted to punch Vale's smug face, but it only made it halfway.

His wrist was caught in an iron grip. Not by Vale--but by Garrick, who had stopped his punch. Vale hadn't moved, knowing the punch would be stopped or intending to take it directly. That smugness never left his expression.

Drake's eyes flicked toward Garrick, a mix of confusion and irritation rising within him. Looking at Garrick's hand holding his wrist, a wedding ring was on his finger.

"Enough," Garrick said, his voice firm. "Save it for sparring. I got one more thing I need to show you."

Drake tried to yank free, but Garrick's hold was absolute. It wasn't until he chose to release him that Drake regained control of his own hand. Vale exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with mock disappointment.

"Ah, Garrick. Ever the buzzkill."

Garrick ignored him, gesturing for Drake to follow. Reluctantly, he turned away, though he could still feel Vale's smug grin burning into his back.

"See you soon, rookie."

As they continued down the maze-like halls, Drake blurted, "I didn't need your help."

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