“Wake up, fiend.”

A voice, sharp and unfamiliar, shattered the Imp’s daze.

The devil blinked, slowly raising his head from the bar counter. His amber eyes narrowed as they met a masked man clad in pure white armor — the mask eerily shaped like the laughing face of Thalia.

“You see me?” the Imp muttered, voice hoarse.

“Yeah. You’ve been sleeping here for a week,” the man snapped, slamming his fist on the table. “We at Opena let customers nap for five hours — max. You? You’re squatting. And worse…”

He leaned in, his breath icy on the Imp’s ear.

“You’re the only one here.”

The Imp glanced around. The bar was empty — no bartender, no patrons. Just the two of them.

“Who are you?” he asked, not bothering to rise.

The man suddenly puffed his chest out like a comic-book hero. “I am Gabriel Khan, Second Saint of Floria!”

He shouted the title so fiercely that the floor trembled beneath them.

The Imp stood without a word, brushing past Gabriel mid-bravado. As he reached the door, he stopped — the outside was… blank. A void. No city, no sky, no sound.

“Nothing,” he whispered.

His tail flicked against the ground as he slowly turned, summoning a ruby-red spear from his palm. It didn’t hum with bloodlust — just old, cold hatred.

“Filthy knight scum,” he growled.

But Gabriel only laughed. “I’m not dumb, you are.”

His voice hardened. “You’re in my territory.”

The saint’s demeanor shifted. With a twist of his fingers, his mask warped into Melpomene — the face of tragedy.

The Imp approached slowly, dragging his spear along the floor, metal screeching.

“The news says she’s going to kill me,” he muttered. “Not you.”

He let the spear clatter to the floor and stepped closer.

Gabriel sneered. “You’re in my space, dickhead.”

With a swift motion, the saint transformed the bar table into a mounted machine gun — sleek, divine, and glowing with gold circuitry.

“I’m faster than bullets,” the Imp warned.

“These aren’t bullets,” Gabriel roared.

“They’re RAYS OF LIGHT!”

He opened fire.

Blasts of searing energy lit the bar as the Imp dodged — barely. One shot clipped his leg. Another seared his arm. He staggered, gritting his teeth.

Gabriel slammed his hands into the ground. The entire bar warped — tilting like a spinning stage. The Imp stumbled and fell.

“I’ve played long enough, KNIGHT!” the Imp howled, clapping his hands together. A shockwave pulsed outward, tearing through furniture and light alike.

Gabriel yawned.

With a wave, he transmuted the gun into a radiant white wall — impervious. He carved a hole through it just to smirk at the demon.

“I can’t kill you,” Gabriel said flatly. “Thidos wouldn’t like that.”

The wall collapsed on the Imp.

“But I can hurt you.”

As Gabriel turned to admire the champagne shelf, laughter echoed from beneath the rubble.

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow.

“I thought only humans lost their minds,” he muttered. “You demons really are the same.”

The Imp rose, grinning wildly, blood trailing from his mouth.

“No. You’re just foolish.”

He pointed — toward the champagne shelf.

Gabriel scoffed. “The defeated mocking the divine? Insolence.”

“Die.”

The ruby spear shot out from the bottles, piercing through Gabriel’s chest cleanly.

The Second Saint of Floria gasped — stumbling backward, the glow in his armor dimming as he collapsed to the ground, twitching. Silent.

The bar returned to normal.

The Imp rose and limped toward the exit.

“Stupidity.”