The Imp smirked, eyes trailing past the article to a wanted poster tucked beneath it — a grainy sketch of a demonlike silhouette with a jagged grin.

He rose from his seat, leaving behind a weather-worn town sign:

Welcome to Flora

In his hands, he held a badge, marked with James’ insignia. With a flick of his claws, the Imp’s form twisted — skin stretched, bones cracked, and in his place stood Melissa, a young woman with sharp eyes and a furrowed brow.

“What is it with these kids and their desperate need to ascend...”

His voice rasped through her lips, drained of the giddy flair he once wore. Gone was the thrill of the hunt — what remained was a husk. A predator more tired than entertained.

Before him loomed a jagged silhouette carved into the horizon — The Mars, a dungeon baptized in failure, known for housing traps so complex even Saints used it as a trial by fire.

“If she survived this,” he whispered, bloodlust simmering beneath his borrowed skin, “she might just be worth it.”

The stench of malice leaked from his pores, thick enough to poison the wind. From deep within the dungeon’s threshold…

 Melissa stirred.

 She could smell him.

Melissa sprinted forward, jagged blade in hand, and without hesitation, decapitated a child who had wandered too close. Her eyes burned with focus. Ahead of her, dozens of participants fought in a brutal frenzy, each one desperate to bask in the Angel’s Light — the final reward, the holy spark that appeared only when one contender remained.

No one would leave willingly. Not here.

Melissa raised her voice, letting it boom over the chaos:

“I am the Guildford’s prize!”

 “Drop out now, and I will entertain you with riches.”

The arena froze — for a breath.

Then came the scoff of an elder slicing through his opponent.

“Why would we listen to a Balaterinian?” he sneered.

 “Wealth doesn’t entertain me. I want status. Your rags won’t save your life.”

The others rallied to his words. Their rage, once scattered, redirected — toward her.

Dozens of eyes locked on. Dozens of blades raised.

Melissa’s grip tightened on her sword, so hard her palms began to bleed. She opened her mouth—

“ENCHA—”

Too slow.

“ENCHANT!”

 The word exploded from the crowd instead. Dozens screamed it, not in unity — but in spite. They charged her, teeth bared, voices raw with bloodlust.

Melissa took a step back.

Then everything turned black.

She blinked awake.

The screaming was gone. Replaced by silence — the kind that hums in the ears. Her body ached. Her blade dangled loosely in her blood-slick hand.

Around her: corpses. Piled, torn, scattered like broken dolls. Some still twitched. All dead.

Melissa exhaled.

“...What happened?”

She didn’t remember striking them. Didn’t remember anything after the moment the crowd screamed “ENCHANT.” And yet, here she stood — alone in a field of carnage.

Then she smiled.

And then she laughed.

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHA—!”

Her voice bounced off the dungeon walls, growing sharper, louder, more violent. Her smile stretched too wide — so wide it split her cheeks open, blood trickling as her expression twisted.

Her eyes contorted, spiraling with a glow no mortal should have — the shape of something divine, yet perverted.

A corrupt angel.

“I am the only one left,” she cackled.

 “The Angel’s Light falls to me, and me alone! I am the one with passion!”

“But your passion is misguided.”

She turned.

There, standing in the blood-soaked chamber, was the Imp. Short. Crimson-skinned. Piercing eyes. The same monster whispered about in every alley, every sermon, every dream.

Melissa grinned.

“Cutting a God down is irreparable,” she hissed.

The Imp scratched their chin, then sneered.

“God? No. Our true God is resting. You lot? You’re just posers.

 Gifted infinite power — and you declare yourselves rulers. Saints. Angels. Gods. Whatever makes you feel big.”

They chuckled darkly.

“Well… I don’t know why I’m lecturing you.

 You won’t touch that Light anyway.”

From the ground, ruby spears burst forth, encircling Melissa in a tight, crystalline cage.

“Is this flirting?” Melissa asked flatly.

The Imp blinked, baffled.

“How in any world is this flirting?”

Melissa rolled her eyes.

“Kill all participants, or be the last one standing. Then the Light descends. From that Light, you ascend — Saint, Angel, or God. In that order of power.

 That’s the system.”

She gestured lazily to the corpses around her.

“You crash the trial to prove a point? You hate the system, so you’re going to throw a tantrum instead of doing something political?”

The Imp yawned.

“Shut up already.”

They flung a ruby spear toward her skull.

Melissa tilted her head — and smiled.

“Bad move, you filthy devil.”

Melissa slammed her forehead into the spear’s tip — not to absorb the blow, but to redirect it.

“Return to sender.”

The spear rocketed back at incomprehensible speed, aimed straight at the Imp’s torso.

They chuckled, unfazed. “Is my life supposed to flash before my eyes?”

 The spear pierced through them — not with blood or resistance, but as if through mist.

“I’ll let you decide.”

Then, their knees buckled. The Imp collapsed.

Unconscious.

100 Years Ago

The Imp awoke on a muddy forest floor, grime clinging to their skin. A goblin crouched beside them, yellow teeth jagged like broken glass, and breath foul enough to burn the eyes.

“Hello, Zero,” the goblin said, his voice reeking as much as his breath.

The Imp blinked. “Deb?”

“Yes. It is me.”

“How the hell are you alive?”

They looked around. The forest was empty — no birds, no wind, just rotting silence.

“Eliza told me to come,” Deb whispered.

Zero’s eyes ignited. “Eliza?”

“I don’t know what to do,” Deb continued, grabbing Zero by the ear. “But we have to go. Now. The Angels are coming…”

“Angels?”

“The First Angel. Amarze. The Decimator. We won’t survive unless—”

“No.”

 Zero began to grow. Slowly, monstrously, rising above the forest like a wrathful god. “I’ve done this already. Not again. Never again.”

The world trembled as his body expanded, eclipsing the trees — the mountains — the sky.

Deb screamed, caught in the titanic shadow.

 A single movement — a twitch of a foot — crushed him like a bug.

“TORMENTIA!”

The roar shattered clouds.

120 AD

Melissa stared at the Imp’s unconscious body. There was no pity in her eyes — only disdain.

“So this was the serial killer?” she muttered. “Underwhelming.”

She stepped past the limp form and approached the glowing Angel’s Light. Its brilliance beckoned, divine and pure.

She reached out, touched it.

“Give me divinity.”

Silence.

Nothing.

The glow faded.

Her fingers trembled. Not from fear — from rage.

She turned and walked away, unchanged. Unascended. Unrewarded.

The trials were a lie.