In the make-believe wrestling ring stood tall two members of the Demon race. Both Demons locked their gazes at each other rather fiercely. This had amounted to two eyes that would rain destruction on the artificial realm if they could.

Those two eyes had belonged to no other than the very Bobathan and the High Prince, Jimothan.

There was the presence of a third Demon in the realm. Namely, the Little Prince, Johnathan. His striking yellow eyes were unphased by the supposed bloodlust of these two Demons inside the make-believe wrestling ring.

As the referee he declared himself. Aside from the bare bones rules, there are no limits, he said. Clapped his hands twice, and said, “Go!” as loud as his vocal cords can handle, he has.

First to dash forward was the High Prince. Although missing the first move by minimal difference, Bobathan was determined not to let the first strike slip from his grasp. He, too, dashed forward.

The two Demons wasted no time, nor did either of them take their time wearing down their opponent with insipid insults.

When their paths intertwined in the centre, they made their move. The High Prince grasped his opponent's with his left hand and his shoulder with his right.

Bobathan, too, had made a similar move; he grasped the High Prince's shoulder with the right hand. His intentions seemed to be different than that of the prince's, however; he used his right hand to apply pressure on the shoulder from above as if he was trying to increase the gravity for the prince to make it harder for him to move.

This may have been possible with magic, but since he was unable to do so, it was more effective as a massage rather than a form of physical restraint.

The High Prince was perplexed by this move. It must not even have hurt him, hence, he had a surprised expression. Taking advantage of this fact, Bobathan slid his left arm in between the High Prince's legs.

The High Prince tried to counter this low blow letting go of Bobathan's upper body and firmly grasped Bobathan's left arm and pushed it downward towards the ground. 

Due to the window of opportunity, the High Prince unintentionally created for Bobathan, he did not have the time to react quick enough to stop Bobathan's manoeuvre despite being physically superior.

Combining all of his muscle strength, Bobathan lifted the High Prince in the air. He had wrapped his right arm around the High Prince's waist to keep him in control. As he did so, the High Prince screamed in agony with the immense pressure on his crotch. He was aghast at the sheer audacity, but more so because he did not foresee this move.

Disregarding wrestling or the competition, he jabbed Bobathan in the face. A reaction that came from his heart. This was a reaction that the pain sensors in his body had motivated him abstrusely. 

With the power and impact of this heartfelt punch,  Bobathan staggered backwards, lost his balance and fell.

When both participants had fallen to the ground, moaning in pain, the referee started counting.

“One…”

“Two…”

The High Prince lifted his head up.

“Why…?”

“Three.”

“So that's how it is…”

The High Prince tried to pull his body up by pushing the ground so his body would move the opposite way. His body was still suffering from the low blow, and he could not. He realised by then he did not have enough time to rest and let his body naturally overcome the shock. Ergo, he forced his elbows on the milk-like white floor and used his arm as a pillar. He forced his torso up. The height between his torso and the floor was akin to the approximate mass of a balloon filled with half its capacity of air.

Bobathan was not being magnanimous. He understood what the referee was referring to and attempted to stop it by also getting up. He sprinted forward. Once he got up, the referee stopped counting at four.

Bobathan loutishly stomped the prince to the ground. The prince felt Brobdingnagian pain in his back. His elbows felt pain as if it was impaled with a dagger, although this pain was caused by friction in reality. His head collided with the floor and made a loud thud. The durability of his body prevented any serious injuries, but of course, it could not entirely get rid of pain. He moaned in displeasure. He could not move his body for the entire five seconds it took until Bobathan scored a point due to the shock. This was a concussion that had caused the effect and did not necessarily imply Bobathan's physical strength.

Bobathan wanted to mock his opponent but was promptly told off. He argued the High Prince would have done the same, the Little Prince counterargued, “Even though my brother can be bumptious or supercilious at times, that does not mean you should not be sportsmanlike, either.”

The perseverance of a Demon's body showed its virtue. Within a few minutes, the High Prince had fully healed. Minus vertigo, although he could recover from that naturally, and also it was not recognised as an injury.

This process of self-healing was one that every Demon possessed. The usefulness of this differed in each Demon by two factors: One, genes they acquired from their parents directly related to the parents’ magical prowess, and two, their own magical prowess and Essence pool. 

One massive disadvantage of this healing was that it was not biological. It uses Essence stored in the body. Considering that this process is done automatically by one's body meant that one could not stop this healing even if they wanted to.

Anyhow, the High Prince got up after a small rest. He looked around as if he woke up from cryogenic sleep*. The first words he uttered were:

“What the fuck, John?! How was that supposed to be fair? I thought we were wrestling!”

“I did say I don't know much about wrestling, so it's anyone's game.”

“Bullshit!”

“If that were the case, you would be the one eliminated, Jim. You punched him in the face.”

“He used such an underhanded tactic! He definitely deserves that and you know it!!”

“What I mean is that if actual wrestling rules were to apply, I assume you both would be unqualified and there would be no participant left.”

“Yeah, stop crying, c’mon. That was totally fair.”

“Fair my ass! I want a rematch!”

“You did say best to three.” the referee affirmed.

“Tsch. I wanted to win fair but you're asking for it, Bob.”

“Okay, little bro.” Bobathan cachinnated.

The High Prince grit his teeth as he took stance in the centre.

“Hey, John, are you sure there is no threat to my life here?!”

“You goaded him over and over and NOW it hit you that he might get angry?”

“Well…”

“Try not to die, then.”

“WHAT—”

“Three.”

“Wait, what? Are you serious?”

“Two.”

“John! Hey, I'm talking to you! Hey!!!”

“One”

“HELLO? CAN YOU EVEN H—” 

The Little Prince clapped twice.

“Go.”

The High Prince charged forward like a buffalo. He headbutted into Bobathan's stomach and cut him off. Bobathan stumbled back with the blow but before he could fall down, the High Prince wrapped his arms around his waist. He then charged forward again, his head on top of Bobathan's belly. 

Bobathan tried to free himself during this. First, he tried pinching different parts of his hand to try and activate his instincts to let go. Unsuccessful, he tried to push his hands. He could not escape because of the High Prince’s iron grip on his body. He tried jolting the High Prince’s body to no avail. As a last resort, he started punching the High Prince, first his back, then his face. He could not, however, prevent his loss.

The High Prince rammed into one of the chairs of the dining table. He, however, let go of Bobathan’s waist the moment before the collision so as not to touch the ornament first and lose the round. Then, he pushed Bobathan onto the chair with his head. His motion was quite literally that of a wild buffalo's when he swung his head upward, launching Bobathan onto the chair.

“Score.” 

Bobathan ploughed into the chair, and with the aid of the High Prince's strength, broke the chair's upper portion intended for the sitter to lay their back on. He rolled on the ground along with the chair's broken remnants.

By the time he had accumulated enough friction that his pain ceased, he had wounds all over. Minor wounds, such as a bleeding scratch from a piece of the chair stuck in his arm that he pulled out as he stood back up, a bleeding cut on his right cheek from the flying particles at the moment of impact and the bruises from rolling on the floor at high speed. He had also hit his head but he did not have a concussion as the High Prince had.

“That hurt,” he spoke with a cold mien as he walked back inside the wrestling ring. He put the broken chair back where it was before it splintered.

“Now you get what I felt when you fondled my balls?!” the High Prince shouted with chagrin.

“Am I supposed to regret it?”

Both princes were perplexed. They watched the blood leaking from his wounds slowly dry up. In the small period of silence where they exchanged glances, traces of the scars had gone nonexistent. They felt a cold shiver down to every last bone like the chill of fresh snow on the outskirts of Hjelmstad's barrier.

They thought hell would freeze and heaven would be crushed by an avalanche before they would encounter Bobathan being serious. Who would have thought his gaze known to radiate happiness that is capable of extinguishing any cantankerous behaviour had vanished in the blink of an eye, replaced by utter lividness.

“Are you okay?” the High Prince questioned. From the looks of it, he was worried for his well being, despite hosting the competition in his own mind. 

“Why?” he replied coldly.

“Just… a gut feeling.”

“I'm fine.”

“Okay… and you, Jim? Are you ready?”

“Yeah, sure. Bring't on.”

The Little Prince nodded. He tried to seem poised.

“In that case… Take stance.”

“Ready…”

Impatience lingered in the eyes of both participants.

“On my mark…”

The Little Prince swallowed audibly. He clapped twice.

“Go.”