Demon Academia:SSS Fallen Berserker

The silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the distant clink of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter from other tables.

It was a moment of mutual assessment, each party trying to read the other's intentions without revealing their own.

Finally, the oldest of the three, a portly man whose beard showed streaks of gray that spoke of decades spent in Hell's unforgiving embrace seemed to reach some internal decision.

His weathered face creased into what might have been a smile as he reached for a vacant chair at a nearby table, dragging it over with a scraping sound that made several nearby patrons glance their way.

"Well, don't just stand there looking like a lost pilgrim," the old man said, his voice carrying the gravelly undertone of someone who had spent too many years breathing Hell's corrupted air. "Sit yourself down. You've got the look of someone with questions, and we've got the look of men with time to kill."

Daemon accepted the invitation, settling into the chair with a grateful nod.

The wood was worn smooth by countless occupants, and he could feel the weight of their stories in its grain.

Up close, he could see that his impromptu host bore the subtle scars that marked him as a veteran of Hell's various conflicts, a thin white line across his left temple, knuckles that had been broken and healed improperly, and eyes that held the particular wariness of someone who had learned to sleep with one eye open.

"I appreciate the welcome," Daemon said, his voice carrying just enough warmth to suggest gratitude without appearing overly eager. "You read me correctly, I am fairly new to this place, and I find myself... curious about certain matters."

The old man's smile broadened, revealing teeth that were surprisingly well-maintained despite the circumstances. "New, are you? Well, that's a relative term down here. Some folks have been wandering these circles for centuries and still consider themselves newcomers. Others adapt quicker than a snake sheds its skin." He extended a hand, calloused but firm. "Name's Jazparo. Been making Hell my home for longer than I care to count."

"Daemon," he replied, taking the offered hand. Jazparo's grip was strong, speaking of manual labor and hard-won survival. "And when I say new, I mean... very new. Still learning the rules, you might say."

The second man, who appeared to be in his forties with the lean build of someone who had learned to make every meal count, nodded in acknowledgment. "Singh," he said simply, raising his glass in a brief salute.

His accent carried hints of the Indian subcontinent, but like so many things in Hell, it seemed filtered through experiences that had nothing to do with earthly geography.

"So," Daemon said, leaning forward slightly, "I couldn't help but overhear part of your conversation as I approached. Something about... X Games? I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the term."

Jazparo and Singh exchanged a look that held entire conversations.

It was Singh who spoke first, his voice carrying the tone of someone explaining a dangerous truth to a child.

"The X Games," he said, pausing to take a sip of his drink, "are... well, they're exactly what Hell deserves. A tournament that makes every other competition look like a Sunday picnic."

"Every two hundred years," Jazparo added, his fingers drumming against the table in a rhythm that suggested old anxieties. "Like clockwork, the announcement comes down from whoever's currently calling the shots in the upper circles. Demons, humans, monsters, it doesn't matter what you are or where you come from. If you're in Hell and you think you're tough enough, you can enter."

"And the appeal of this tournament?" Daemon asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer. In Hell, there was always a prize worth dying for.

"The winner," Singh said, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "gets a wish. Not just any wish, a wish granted by the Nine Fates themselves."

The significance of this hit Daemon like a physical blow. The Nine Fates.

"I'm not old enough to have witnessed the last tournament," Jazparo continued, his eyes growing distant. "Two hundred years ago. The stories say ten million souls entered. Ten million." He shook his head slowly. "One survived. Just one. Some aristocratic demon with more power than sense and enough cunning to navigate the maze of death they call competition."

"Ten million," Daemon repeated, the number hanging in the air like a curse. "And what did this survivor wish for?"

"That's what shocked everyone," Jazparo said, leaning back in his chair. "Could have wished for anything, power, territory, revenge, escape from Hell entirely. But instead, he wished to find the Sixth Circle."

"The Sixth Circle?" Daemon's confusion was genuine. His knowledge of Hell's geography was still limited.

"No one knows where it is," Singh explained. "Hell's got its hierarchies, its territories, its circles of power and punishment. But the Sixth Circle... it's like it was erased from existence. The aristocrat's wish was to find it, to discover what had been hidden."

"And did he find it?"

"Disappeared the same day his wish was granted," Jazparo said grimly. "Gone without a trace. Most folks assume the Nine Fates delivered on their promise, but..." He shrugged. "Could be he found something he wasn't prepared for."

Daemon felt a chill that had nothing to do with Hell's perpetual twilight. "These Nine Fates, they can truly grant any wish? Without exception?"

Singh nodded slowly. "Every wish is rumored to have been granted. Even heard tell that the Fourth Circle's current monarch won the first or second edition of the Games. Asked for dominion over his territory, and got it."

The implications were staggering. If the Nine Fates possessed such power, then the X Games represented more than just a death tournament, they were a gateway to reshaping fate itself.

Jazparo must have seen something in Daemon's expression, because his weathered face creased into a frown. "Now don't go getting ideas, boy. I can see those wheels turning in your head, and I'm telling you to stop them right now. The X Games aren't for humans, system or no system. They're for elite demons, ancient monsters, things that have been perfecting the art of killing since before your species learned to make fire."

"I've never heard of a human winning," Singh added, his voice carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "Not one. Ever."

Daemon laughed, the sound carrying just enough genuine amusement to be convincing.

"Trust me, I have no intention of throwing my life away in some supernatural gladiator arena. I'm barely managing to survive Hell on a normal day." He paused, then asked with studied casualness, "When does this tournament begin?"

"Not for another ten months," Singh replied. "But people are already getting antsy for it. Some folks spend decades preparing, training, making alliances. Others just show up and hope their luck holds out longer than their sanity."

The mention of timing struck Daemon like lightning.

Standing abruptly, Daemon extended his hand to both men. "Jazparo, Singh...thank you for the information. It's been... enlightening." He paused, then added with a slight smile, "I hope your cousin makes the right choice."

Singh's response was immediate and vehement. "Hell no. There's no way I'm letting that boy participate. I'd chain him to a wall first."

The fierce protectiveness in Singh's voice spoke of bonds that transcended Hell's usual brutality. Even here, among the damned and the fallen, love and loyalty found ways to survive.

Daemon nodded his understanding, then turned toward the door. As he passed the bar, he caught the bartender's eye and offered a brief nod of farewell.

The thin man returned the gesture with the same economical movement, a small ritual of respect between strangers who might never meet again.