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.
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."
