A week before the grand graduation ceremony, in the fabled City of Gold and Gods.
From the outside, it looked like a glittering masterpiece — towers kissing the clouds, temples glowing like divine lanterns, and streets paved with enough gold to make a dragon jealous. But every shiny thing has its ugly underbelly. In this case, the underbelly was massive: a whopping 10% of the entire city was nothing but sprawling, miserable slums.
(If you're trying to picture the scale, the team behind *Hell Force* once answered a fan asking what the City of Gold and Gods was based on in real life. Their reply? "Merge Sri Lanka with Nepal." That's roughly 213,126 square kilometers total. Do the math — 10% of that is over 21,000 square kilometers of pure slum chaos. Yeah… big enough for trouble.)
In a place this huge, with corruption dripping from every golden spire, frequent mysterious deaths, and emotions thick enough to choke on, demons didn't just visit — they thrived. Hiding here was easier than finding a decent cup of tea in the slums. That's why the Temple had opened several branches in the city… and yet, demons still roamed freely. Business as usual.
Deep in a shabby, rundown, definitely-haunted bar on the edge of the slum district, six demons sat around a wobbly table for a secret meeting. Their faces were so well hidden in shadows that even *they* probably couldn't recognize each other.
"So? When are we throwing the party?" asked an overly excited male voice.
"Arantar! Calm down, you're the weakest one here!" snapped a cold, metallic voice.
"What did you just say, you walking scrapyard?!" Arantar shot up, pointing dramatically. "You piece of tin and rust! How dare you judge *my* power? Your entire bloodline is weak! Your future is weak! You… you bastard!"
Before he could continue his dramatic rant, a heavy hand slammed down on his head, smashing his face straight into the already broken table. The table promptly broke again with a loud *crack*.
"Quiet," growled a burly voice. "We are the Ravenias — the last will of a great lineage. We do *not* get excited over some pathetic little party. If you don't want to die by my hand, keep your mouth shut."
From the darkest corner of the room, a low, chilling voice finally spoke:
"We will attack. The graduation ceremony is coming."
---
Meanwhile, inside the grand ceremony hall.
Arthur Flamebout stared up at the massive ceiling mural. It depicted the Great War — epic battles between humans and demonic creatures. In the center, a powerful demon fought bravely alongside the humans… only to suddenly stab one of his human allies in the back.
Arthur tilted his head. "Huh. Bold artistic choice. Very 'trust issues' energy."
An elderly man with flowing white hair and a matching beard stepped onto the stage. He carried a large wooden wand and wore luxurious robes that screamed both ancient wisdom and "I own half the city." The hall fell silent as he raised his hand.
"Good morning, students!" his voice boomed. "Congratulations on finally reaching this stage. But before we proceed with the ceremony, we shall follow our sacred tradition. The Challenge!"
He paused dramatically, letting the words sink in.
"Anyone may challenge anyone. This is your last chance — especially you fifth-years. This is your final exam. Do you wish to graduate as you are, quietly accepting that you couldn't win? Or do you want to change your fate? Your choice!"
The last three words — "Your fate! Your choice!" — echoed through the silent hall like a war cry.
No one moved. Not a single hand went up.
Except one.
A lone hand rose slowly in the middle of the crowd.
All eyes turned. Teachers, students, even the janitor in the back — everyone stared at the boy.
"Arthur Flamebout!" the principal's voice rang out, sharp as a sword.
The elderly man's eyes narrowed with interest. "The son of Ashoka Flamebout. Arthur… do you wish to challenge someone?"
The entire hall erupted into whispers.
" Who is this guy?"
" Another Nobel from Flamebout?"
" Idiots! Can't you hear his father is Ashoka Flamebout!"
" You don't mean _"
" The young master of Flamebouts!!"
" What? We were in the same year? Same class? And we never knew him? Never heard of him?"
" Yeah! How can a Nobel of that house kept silence for 5 years? How can he not shine brightest among us?"
" Oh! I know. He didn't got any flame. That's why he was weakest! He was a student of literature!"
" What? You mean that guy that doesn't have any power?"
" Then why is he challenging?"
" Maybe it's cause he is Flamebout!"
"What do you mean?"
"What do you know? Flamebout is all about flames! Even the weakest among them have tendency to stand out!"
The top 10 students, however, stayed quiet. They could feel Arthur's calm gaze sweeping over them. Power or no power, they recognized the look — the unshakeable pride of a noble house. Especially one famous for flames.
Arthur ignored the growing chatter. He simply looked straight at the principal.
The student sitting next to him quietly scooted his chair several feet away.
Then Arthur spoke, loud and clear:
"I challenge you, Mr. Principal."
A beat of dead silence.
Then the hall exploded.
"WHATTTTT?!"
"HE SAID WHAT?!"
"Is he insane?!"
"That's the principal!"
Even the teachers looked stunned. The headmaster nearly fell out of his chair.
The principal, however, threw his head back and laughed — a deep, booming, genuinely delighted laugh that echoed through the entire hall.
"Hahaha! Hahahahaha! Hahahaha!"
"As expected of a Flamebout!" he roared, wiping a tear from his eye. "I accept your challenge!"
"But sir!" the headmaster protested, standing up again. "How can a mere student challenge *you*?!"
The principal waved a dismissive hand, still chuckling.
"It's not against the rules, Headmaster. Calm down and sit."
The headmaster slowly sank back into his seat, muttering something about "reckless nobles" and "early retirement."
Arthur stood there calmly in the middle of the chaos, while the entire graduating class stared at him like he had just announced he was going to fight a dragon with a poetry book.
The principal grinned widely, twirling his wooden wand like a baton.
"Well then, young Flamebout… shall we begin?"