The chamber felt smaller than it was.
The devil lounged upon his stone seat like a king, wings folded, crimson eyes glowing with mirth, while Erebus—the monstrous wolf—waited at his side. The squad was still behind him, a wall of tension and whispered disbelief, but Vance felt none of them. His world had narrowed to the pounding of his own heart and the suffocating weight of silence after his words.
The sentence still echoed in his mind, as if someone else had spoken it. His lips were dry, his grip slick on the hilt of his sword. Yet it was his voice, his choice, and now every eye was on him.
It wasn't bravery. Not really. Vance knew that much. His decision hadn't sprung from noble sacrifice or the instinct of a warrior. No, his reasoning was messier, uglier.
Not of Erebus—not primarily. No matter how terrifying the wolf looked with its molten eyes and scarred cheek, a beast was a beast. It could bite, it could tear, it could kill—but at least it followed instinct. A creature like that had limits. Its strength could be measured, countered. And if he fell to it, at least it would be quick.
That was different. That was something Vance couldn't comprehend. Just standing in the presence of that horned figure had frozen his spine and turned his guts to water. That suffocating aura, that casual arrogance, the way he seemed to toy with their lives as if swatting flies… Vance had never felt so insignificant.
Better the wolf than the devil.
That was the first truth. The beast was danger. The devil was despair. Between the two, he'd rather gamble against fangs than sit helpless under that abyssal gaze.
And yet, that wasn't the whole of it.
As his teammates argued—Hiro declaring his duty as captain, Zion demanding a leader's restraint, Mia measuring strength against survival—something had ignited in Vance. Not courage. Not exactly. Something uglier, but no less sharp.
When the devil had demanded a champion, Vance's mind had spun faster than his fear. Champion. That word carried weight. Stories were told of champions, songs sung about them. Even if the battle ended in failure—even if he was crushed by the wolf's fangs—his name would be written beside theirs. Back in the human domain, no one would care that he was weaker than Hiro or less brilliant than Zion or Mia. They wouldn't care that he'd joined this squad last, clumsy and mistrusted. No—they would remember that when the devil demanded a champion, he had stepped forward.
Not Hiro. Not Zion. Not the golden children of the so-called new generation. Him.
His breath hitched at the thought. Even if his life ended here, the tale would spread. His family, his guild, his rivals—they would speak of him with awe, not pity. He would be remembered as one who stood against the darkness when called.
His chest tightened. If he survived, then everything changed. His weakness, his hesitations, the way others had always looked down on him—all of it would burn away. He would walk back into the world as a hero, no matter how hollow the truth beneath it.
A wolf was still better than a devil. And a wolf could still be beaten.
Vance's gaze flickered toward Hiro, whose eyes still burned with frustration. Zion's jaw was clenched tight, his expression carved from stone. Lisa and Mia were studying him carefully, weighing whether he could endure what he had chosen. Sylvia's bow hand trembled slightly, her sharp eyes betraying unease.
They thought him reckless. Maybe even foolish. But none of them had stopped him. And that mattered.
For once, he wasn't just the extra piece in their formation. He was the centerpiece. The chosen one.
If I die, I'll die with a name.
The devil chuckled again, low and amused, as if he could taste the frantic calculations running through Vance's head. Erebus growled, its massive chest rising and falling, hot breath misting the air. The scarred wolf lowered its head, amber eyes narrowing, like a predator savoring the first twitch of its prey.
Vance swallowed hard, feeling his throat scrape raw. His knees screamed to buckle. His hands begged to let go of the sword. Every instinct cried for him to turn, to run, to slam himself against the door that had sealed behind them and beg for escape.
But he couldn't. Not anymore.
Running would mean facing the devil's contempt, and that was worse than death.
Better to be devoured than to crawl as an ant.
He straightened his back, though it felt like lifting a mountain, and stepped forward. Each footfall echoed in the vast chamber, louder than his own heartbeat.
Inside, his thoughts spun in a storm:
This isn't courage. It's survival.
This isn't loyalty. It's self-preservation.
This isn't glory. It's desperation.
And yet, to the others, it would look like bravery. That was all that mattered.
He lifted his chin, forcing his voice not to tremble. "I am ready."
The words echoed, frail against the oppressive dark, but they were words nonetheless.
Behind him, he thought he heard Lisa whisper something like a prayer. Hiro cursed under his breath. Zion exhaled, as if resigning himself to the decision. Thıs text ıs hosted at 𝔫𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔩⚫𝔣𝔦𝔯𝔢⚫𝔫𝔢𝔱
Mia's gaze lingered longest, her spear steady, her eyes unreadable. Did she see through him? Did she know this wasn't the heart of a hero but the desperation of a coward clawing for meaning?
The devil's laughter filled the chamber again, smooth and cruel. "Good. Then step forward, little champion. Prove to me you are more than the dust beneath my heel."
Erebus's growl deepened, claws gouging the stone floor as it padded forward, each step deliberate, each movement radiating hunger.
Vance inhaled once, shallow and ragged. His chest burned. His knees quaked. But he did not step back.
For better or worse, his gamble had been made.
And now, before the beast and under the devil's gaze, Vance prepared to stake his life on the thinnest thread of logic, cowardice dressed as courage, and the desperate hope that victory—or even failure—might finally give him the recognition he had craved all his life.