The challenge did not come from outside.
That would have been easier.
It came from within the Ashen Horde, born of fear, loss, and the quiet, poisonous belief that mercy was a luxury Hell did not allow.
Thomas felt it before it happened—the subtle withdrawal of attention, the way some demons no longer met his gaze, the way conversations hushed when he approached. Authority in Hell was never declared; it was tested, constantly, and weakness—real or perceived—was an invitation.
The challenger revealed himself at dawnless hour.
He stepped forward as the Horde gathered near the fractured runic basin, where molten light pooled like a dying sun. Tall and broad, his form was hardened by repeated regeneration—horns swept back like broken spears, chest plated in jagged bone etched with sin-glyphs that pulsed red instead of green.
His name, he declared, was Kael Varrox.
"I watched you hesitate," Kael said, voice carrying easily across the gathering demons. "I watched you spare those who went feral. I watched you lose warriors because you chose restraint."
Murmurs rippled through the Horde.
Kael's eyes burned. "Vareth would have crushed our enemies. You let them walk away."
Thomas stepped forward calmly. "Vareth left because the cost was no longer worth it."
Kael laughed, sharp and humorless. "That is what weak leaders tell themselves."
The Circle stirred.
The runes embedded in the basin flared, symbols rearranging themselves into an ancient configuration Thomas recognized instinctively.
A Trial of Claim.
Liora hissed. "They're allowing it."
Eddric's voice was tight. "They want to see which vision of Hell survives."
Kael spread his arms. "I challenge you, Thomas Hale. Not for dominance alone—but for command. Winner leads. Loser feeds the Circle."
Silence fell like a blade.
Thomas did not hesitate.
"I accept."
The runes ignited.
The basin sealed, molten walls rising around them, isolating the two demons beneath the Circle's gaze. The air thickened, heavy with judgment and probability.
Kael attacked first.
No feint. No pause.
He struck with overwhelming force, every movement brutal, efficient, fueled by certainty. Thomas blocked, claws scraping bone and stone, pain lancing through his arms as Kael drove him backward.
"This is what leadership looks like!" Kael roared, hammering blow after blow. "Strength! Finality!"
Thomas absorbed the assault, retreating step by step, studying rhythm, weight, intent.
Then he shifted.
Not harder.
Smarter.
He redirected Kael's momentum, letting him overextend, striking at joints, balance points, fault lines in hardened regeneration. The fight became a brutal dance—Kael's raw power against Thomas's controlled mastery.
Kael adapted quickly, snarling as he tore free and struck Thomas across the ribs, sending molten blood spraying.
"Still holding back!" Kael spat. "You're afraid to finish!"
Thomas wiped molten blood from his jaw. "No," he said quietly. "I'm choosing how."
The duel escalated.
Kael's strikes grew wilder, fueled by rage and desperation. Thomas's movements grew tighter, more deliberate. Every blow Thomas landed served a purpose—slowing, exhausting, dismantling.
Finally, Thomas saw it.
The opening Kael didn't know he was offering.
Thomas stepped into Kael's swing, claws flashing—not at the throat, not at the heart, but at the sin-glyphs etched into Kael's chest. He tore through them, ripping away the runes that fueled Kael's accelerated regeneration.
Kael screamed.
He fell to one knee, stunned, weakened, his power bleeding back into the Circle's runes beneath them.
Thomas stood over him, claws raised.
The Circle pulsed, eager.
"Finish it," Kael gasped. "Prove me wrong."
Thomas looked down at him.
He could end it.
Hell expected it.
Instead, Thomas lowered his claws.
"You want strength without restraint," Thomas said. "That already exists. Its name is Vareth."
He turned away.
The basin walls lowered.
The Horde stared in stunned silence.
The Circle dimmed—not angry, not pleased.
Measuring.
Kael remained alive, broken, stripped of claim—but breathing.
Thomas faced the Horde.
"This is what survives the fire," he said. "Not cruelty. Not mercy. Choice."
Some demons bowed.
Others did not.
But none challenged him again.
Not that day.
High above, unseen mechanisms shifted once more.
Thomas Hale had not merely won a challenge.
He had rewritten the rules.