The cacophony of infernal cheers reaches a crescendo as the assembled devils roar their approval at what appears to be the heroes’ imminent doom. The arena trembles with their collective bloodlust, the very air shimmering with heat and anticipation. Then, as if a spell has been cast over the entire colosseum, the noise dies to a reverent whisper.
Every devil in the arena rises as one, their forms creating a sea of horns, wings, and burning eyes. The whispered name passes through the crowd like a prayer: “Geryon… Geryon… Geryon…” The syllables drip with fear and devotion in equal measure.
The blood-red curtain that conceals the royal box parts with theatrical grandeur, revealing the titanic form of the archdevil himself. Geryon’s massive torso, bronzed and gleaming with perspiration, towers above the balcony as his serpentine lower body coils across the marble floor. Each black scale catches the torchlight as he moves, creating ripples of shadow and flame. His bat-like wings unfurl slowly, pumping with lazy power that sends his oiled black hair dancing around his shoulders. Those heavy brows cast deep shadows over eyes that burn like twin coals, sweeping across the arena with ancient authority.
When he speaks, his voice rumbles from deep within his chest, the oddly cherubic shape of his mouth at odds with the bass thunder that emerges: “Let the games continue!”
At Geryon’s side, Jaquila maintains her serene composure, offering the heroes a smile that seems smug in its declaration of their imminent defeat. She remains oblivious, however, to the subtle movements of Lula’s lips. Their quiet incantations weaving through the air as lemon-yellow clouds begin to gather overhead, thickening and darkening with each whispered word.
The momentary distraction of Geryon’s arrival provides the opening Reklaw needs. Sand sprays beneath his feet as he charges across the blood-soaked arena floor, his muscles coiled for the leap that carries him onto the gorgon’s metallic back. The construct bucks and writhes, its bronze surface slick with condensation and gore, but the monk’s grip holds firm against the creature’s desperate attempts to dislodge him.
Kiki’s eyes narrow in concentration as she weaves her magic around the towering construct. The Heat Metal spell takes hold with visible results—the gorgon’s four massive hooves begin to glow with angry orange light, radiating heat that causes the sand beneath to glass over. The creature’s bellow of rage and pain echoes through the arena, a sound like grinding gears mixed with agony. Behind her, Doggo’s mechanical systems whir to life, launching jets of blessed water that hiss and steam against the gorgon’s flanks. Where the holy water strikes, rust blooms like flowers across the bronze surface, spreading in oxidized patches across the construct’s face and chest.
One of the gargoyles, sensing opportunity in the chaos, bounds forward on powerful legs. Its stone claws rake across Five’s back and arms, leaving trails of torn fabric and blood. The young archer staggers backward, shock and pain written across his face. But his training holds—two arrows sing from his shortbow in quick succession, both finding their marks with devastating accuracy.
Above the arena, Lula’s ritual reaches its climax. They arch their back, scarred arms raised toward the gathering storm clouds, and shout the final words of the Control Weather spell. The change is immediate and dramatic—heavy rain begins to fall, each drop hissing as it strikes the sulfurous torches that illuminate Geryon’s royal box. The wind picks up, creating a funnel of foul-smelling air within the arena’s confines, while the temperature begins its steady, inexorable drop.
Vali’s Vicious Mockery cuts through the air like a blade, striking one of the gargoyles with words that wound deeper than any sword. The creature’s roar of rage and anguish roll out before it as it charges toward the bard’s position in the bleachers. But Vali is ready—his form shifts and grows, becoming tall and blue and terrible to behold. Two of the gargoyles, confronted with this intimidating visage, launch themselves skyward in terror just as the first flakes of snow begin to mix with the driving rain.
From his position in the stands, Arman draws his longbow with practiced ease. His arrows find their target, sinking deep into stone flesh, but the wounded gargoyle’s response is swift and violent. It bounds up into the stands, claws extended, forcing the changeling to flee. Arman’s form ripples and shifts, taking on the appearance of a chain devil, and he melts into the crowd of fleeing fiends. The blizzard that Lula has conjured is clearing the arena of spectators, and in the chaos, the gargoyle loses sight of its quarry.
Lula’s magic reaches out again, conjuring their slaying longbow with a gesture. The arrow they loose is a thing of beauty and death, sinking deep into the gargoyle’s back. The creature’s howl of agony pierces even the storm’s fury as it takes to the air, forgetting all about Arman in its desperate flight.
The gorgon, now immobilized by the heat coursing through its hooves, makes one final, desperate attack. Its breath weapon emerges as a weak stream of petrification magic that engulfs both the rooster and Lula. For a moment, the arena holds its breath—but fortune favors the heroes, and neither falls victim to the stone curse.
Then, through the howling wind and driving snow, comes a sound that chills even the devils’ blood. Geryon tips his massive head back and releases a cry of savage joy that echoes off the arena walls. The ice storm has awakened something deep within the archdevil’s memory—visions of his former glory as the ruler of Stygia, when ice and cold were his domain.
“The fight,” he calls out to the few devils still brave enough to remain in the arena, his voice carrying easily over the storm, “is finished! The soulless ones are victorious! You are granted passage onward to the realm of Phlegethos!”
The arena falls silent except for the whisper of wind and the soft patter of snow on stone. The heroes stand victorious, but their trials in the Nine Hells are not yet over.
