Paris stared at Miles.

The pressure in the room spiked. His gaze was calm — but wrong. Eyes that saw through skin, through bone. Not searching. Judging.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Paris said evenly, voice laced with honeyed venom. “About this place too.”

Miles didn’t blink. “Quit staring like that. I’m not in your age range.”

A ripple of laughter cracked from the saints’ table. Paris chuckled too, slow and quiet.

“This system’s broken,” Paris continued. His tone was polite, even serene — which somehow made it worse. “You let Saraline — someone far weaker than you, by the way — get taken. She’s gone. It’s in the news, if you even read it.”

He flicked his wrist as if swatting dust. “The Third Saint outclassed by the Seventh? What a joke. The rest of you didn’t even touch the Imp. No wonder Alabendo’s in the infirmary.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Miles growled.

The confidence he’d shown earlier was gone, replaced by something hollow — a husk still trying to burn.

Paris tilted his head. “Golden boy feeling angry?” He bit down on his own knuckle until it bled. “Then challenge me. Inferno rules.”

The cafeteria fell into silence so thick it had weight. Even the angels stopped whispering.

Miles clenched his chest, then raised his head.

“I, Miles Phillips of Asaldom, challenge Paris Guildford… to the Inferno.”

Paris’s grin widened. “Remember my bloodline, and still choosing violence? Respect.”

“You’re still a Balaterinian.”

“Very well,” Castor and Pollux intoned in unison. Their voices echoed in harmonics as they tore open a flaming rift — a dimension choked in smoke and brimstone, with a boxing ring forged from fire in its center.

“If you want to see carnage,” they said, “come watch.”

The saints, priests, and outcasts followed the portal into hell.

Inside the arena, Paris leapt into the ring effortlessly. Miles stepped in, hands already wrapping into divine gloves of molten gold.

“I’ve met a Guildford before,” Miles muttered.

“Melissa?” Paris said, disinterested.

“She jumped off a building once. Had to catch her.”

Paris smirked. “Should’ve let her fall.” Then forced his face into a frown. “I’m honest.”

Rosamire, arms crossed, took the role of referee. “Ready, set, go!”

Miles charged — raw, trained, disciplined.

Paris didn’t move.

A clean shot to the gut. Paris flinched, then looked down at him.

Then uppercut. Nose-shattering. Miles staggered.

He threw a right hook — missed.

Paris moved like smoke. Dodging. Smiling.

But Miles lunged again — body blow, then elbow, then an arc-strike to the chin.

Paris fell.

“Round One: Miles,” Rosamire called before Paris could rise again — though he was already on his feet.

Miles smiled… and then froze.

The boy was gone. In his place: a shadow. Something ancient. Something is wrong.

Miles’s mind flooded with a memory he never lived — a divine archive burned into his brain.

Thidos. The boy. The trials. The war.

“I’ll kill you,” Paris whispered.

Before the bell rang, he vanished. Reappeared at Miles’s chest.

One punch — light-speed — cratered Miles out of the ring, out of the dimension, into space.

Planets exploded from the shockwave.

The shadow flinched.

Then Amarze appeared, face cloaked, annoyed. “This is why I shut these down.”

He snapped his fingers — gravity reversed. Miles was yanked back into the arena, slamming into the floor.

“Copying my style now?” Amarze asked, eyeing Paris.

Paris said nothing. His eyes flickered back to normal.

“The Guildford nev—” he started.

“Enough,” Amarze cut in. His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

He looked down at Miles — bloody, groaning, but conscious.

“I’ll talk to you. Privately.”

Another snap.

They were gone.