Book 3 – Prologue
The Demonic Plane - Domain of The Pit Master
The Pit Master gripped the rough stone balcony with six massive palms, each resting leisurely on the demonically crafted architecture. Atop the Blood Palace as he was, a perfect view could be seen. Pit after pit had been gouged into the rocky wastelands below, each sporting combatants. The hundreds of arenas were specifically constructed in concentric circles around the palace, connected by scarred stone serving as channels.
Even now, those channels filled with blood that ran inwards within the pit’s domain, disappearing beneath into its great stomach.
When a combatant bled, the pits drank.
And when a combatant fell, new ones were brought. Always.
“A thirsty night! We have already run through a good deal of our weekly newborns. You still think we should reserve the guts for them, huh?” asked Percilus. The demon was sitting at a glass table nearby, pausing just long enough to get the question out before once again drinking heavily from a bottle, wine spilling from it and sliding down his chin. The fourth tier pitborn paid it no heed, simply guzzling the expensive drink as fast as he could. His other five hands were crossed behind his back, holding his bulk.
Whether his younger brother was referring to the thirst of himself or the pits, The Pit Master did not know. Nor did he care. “Brother,” said The Pit Master. “You are my kin. You know this. Act like it. Why do you think that for thousands of cycles, the inner arenas have been reserved for only the pure of our own clan?”
Percilus shrugged, seemingly not caring. “Tradition? Is that not what you are always going on about?”
“Tradition has its place. But no. The reason we keep the reservation as we do is power. The arteries of the inner arenas are the oldest and greatest. They won’t take well to the vitality of… lessers.”
Percilus rolled his eyes, setting down his emptied drink and fishing around the crate at his feet for another. “You always think so highly of other pitborns. But you know, brother, they’re not so different from the rest of them. Just look.” Pulling out a fresh amber bottle, he waved it aimlessly at the arenas further in the distance. Those that held the beings that were brought here by the other clans.
The Pit Master glanced at his brother. His own flesh and blood, born of the pits and forged of their scars. Only in his case, he’d protected Percilus. Many a fight was fought not by the six soft hands of his younger sibling, but his own. He loved the demon—it was his nature. The purity of his bloodline was more than prominent in him, and it drew him naturally.
But he didn’t respect him. Cases like this reminded him why.
His brother had been here so long, and still had no idea how things worked. Turning his attention outwards, The Pit Master witnessed as the latest gift from the Brood Chair—otherwise known as The Overflow—took combat in one of the outer arenas.
The Overflow’s contribution to the pits was an enormous land walker that had been a fusion between a dire hound mother and a void seeker. The result was an eldritch horror of purple and red skin with over twenty tentacles. Each one carried the fangs of the dire hound along them, turning them into deadly whips.
Whips that spun and spun, wreaking havoc on the more than a hundred opponents locked into combat with it. Every revolution rained blood like the wine spilling from Percilus’s chin.
Yet, despite all that vital energy, despite the mountain of corpses it’d claimed yesterday and the day before, and despite the sheer death it would wreak before he finished milking the monster for all it was worth, it was marginal. A creature not born of the pits simply didn’t feed his domain the same way.
The pits didn’t really drink the blood. They drank the wrath. The core nature of rage and violence.
Something that was best exemplified by a pitborn. Especially the latest champion. That brilliant warrior was currently taking battle in the arena right below the balcony of his palace, in the greatest of the gut pits.
He was an albino white pitborn, sporting the typical six arms of his namesake. They all spun in a flurry, each holding a different weapon. Unlike his brothers, however, he was more agile. More cruel. More wrathful.
Across from him, two of his crimson skinned brothers returned with a dozen swords between them.
For every drop of blood that single battle dropped, The Pit Master felt more wrath enter his domain than anything else. And it wasn’t even close.
Unfortunately, that latest champion would soon leave. Off to the draft pools. There was an equilibrium to these things. Unlike the exterior fighters, the interior ones gave him more tasty benefits when balanced with The Plane’s demands. It always wanted new members for its draft pools and offered rewards fitting for such.
“He is almost tier four, brother. Almost time for—oh?” The Pit Master cut off, cocking his head.
“Huh?” Percilus looked up in confusion.
The Pit Master’s demeanor shifted instantly. “Brother. Watch over The Pits.”
Mists of red began to collect around him, a wrathful aura exploding outwards in waves palpable enough to be seen with the naked eye. Before his brother could ask what was going on, he leapt upwards. A sonic explosion of air nearly sent his poor sibling tumbling from the table below.
Carried by the powers of rage coursing through his veins, The Pit Master shot upwards. Throwing out his arms, he used them like a wedge, pressing the humid airs of his domain aside.
Up and up he went, the pits and palace below growing to tiny specks. Being a land of The Plane, there was no curvature to the surface beneath. It was perfectly straight. A slab of domain encased in the powers of wrath.
It only took a handful of seconds before he hit the divide. The part between one domain and another. In this case, it was part of the great expanse. The vast nothingness and everythingness that made up the vast majority of The Demonic Plane.
But he felt that presence. And only one being could possibly be coming from that direction. The envious aspected corruption blossoming made it even more clear.
As he paused midair, his body had the oddest sensation. Like pressing between two giant plates of thick mud. One was wrath—the other a toxically convoluted mix of corruptions.
He spared a moment to look down. The red clouds that blanketed the skies of his lands were swirling, his aura’s unleashed presence summoning them naturally. A vortex was forming below—a sign that The Pit Master’s full power was unleashed.
Yet for all that strength and monstrous wrathful energy, it couldn’t break the divide. When it hit it, his presence bled away into a darkness of stars, filled with streaks of colors that were hard to parse.
Except for one.
A comet of orange was blazing towards him, leaking an envious emotion so distinct that The Pit Master nearly thought The Creator himself was aboard that entity.
Nearly.
The comet drew closer and closer, slicing its way through the void like butter. When it was perhaps ten seconds from impact, The Pit Master raised all six arms and shoved.
A tidal wave of wrath erupted from his hands, lifting around him and coating the domain behind him. It met the powers of forge with a responding clang, sending orange and red tendrils spiraling in the void.
With a screech, the column of orange forged power drew to a halt against the will of The Pit Master. For several moments, he stood there, a wall of wrath incarnate against a dwindling storm of forge.
Finally, the envious power gave out. The cloud around the construct began to disperse, revealing a metallic face. No body, just a crude metal chassis with orange eyes and a grated mouth.
“Pit Master! Were you part of this?!” it bellowed in rage.
“Good to see you too, fellow board member.”
“Were you part of it?” it repeated, its voice booming through the skies.
With a clap, The Pit Master encased the construct in a cylinder of wrath. “Let me remind you that this is my domain. You may be powerful, but you are not absolute.”
Despite only being here in a partial form, The Creator tried to resist. To reshape the world around him to meet his whims. The air began to sizzle and pop, mists trying to solidify into a cage of sharp iron.
Yet, a part was not nearly enough against the full force of The Pit Master. With a screeching noise, the metal that had started to form into existence bent and broke away.
Leaning back, The Pit Master set his head against two of his hands. “This is getting boring. I have arenas to refill. Now either tell me what you want or fuck off.”
“You dare?! Do you know how old—”
With another clap, the metal forged skull began to bend and warp under the strains of wrath. Red fires blazed around it, corrupting the very material it was made from. Pieces of it began to drip, wilting into the nothingness of the void.
“I will not repeat myself. A fight is pointless if it has no challenge. And believe me—this is no challenge.” Honestly, The Pit Master half expected this to end with him destroying the little bauble. Part of him hoped for that. It would end this quicker and let him return to his pits. Plus, it did sound a bit fun.
A bit.
But to his surprise, matters did not escalate further. With a sound like molten steel cooling in a barrel of water, a hiss filled the air.
“Fine. Fine, fine, fine.” The Creator wasn’t happy, but it seemed he had a purpose yet. Taking a deep breath—which was somewhat surprising given it was simply a skull—The Creator went on. “There has been a thievery. Something precious was stolen from me. From my domain itself.”
The Pit Master blinked. That proclamation brought a much more serious mood. “I think I’m actually impressed. From your domain?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“A farm city holder named Kairon tried to make a subpact with me.”
Snorting, The Pit Master looked at him incredulously. “Truly?! How is that even possible?”
“I do not know. But he did.”
“What did you say?”
The construct gave him a flat look with its hollow metal eyes. “What did I say? It was some lowly farm demon. What do you think I said?”
“Don’t know. You have grown old. Some fresh blood might have done you good,” said The Pit Master with a toothy grin.
“I rejected.”
“I see… Listen. As amusing as that picture is, I fail to see anything of thievery here other than time. Speaking of, mine is also being stolen. So if you don’t—”
“I am not done!” spat the construct. “After the subpact, a circle was summoned. One from The Plane itself. It took from me something I value highly. Something that was directly connected to my VERY BODY.”
The Pit Master’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. He was struggling to make sense of what he just heard.
Someone had stolen directly from The Creator?
Seeing the mix of emotions on his face, the metal skull roared in outrage. “The Plane stole from me! It took from my very body! My very core! It took without regard, warning, or purpose!”
His voice echoed throughout the divide, the void around them their only witness.
For several seconds, The Pit Master basically gawked at his fellow board member. Seconds that were filled only with the booming remnants of the shout.
The Pit Master began to laugh. Like a freight train, there was one chuckle. Then two. Three. Four. Once it got going, it didn’t stop until the void filled with a new noise.
Laughter on an outrageous scale.
“Oh by The Plane! I can’t believe this! Oh wow! Wow, wow, wow!” Nearly losing his balance, The Pit Master struggled to heave in great breaths between fits of laughter.
“CUT IT OUT. If The Plane steals from me, it can steal from you.”
“No, no.” Wiping his eyes, the great demon tilted his head back and tried for all he was worth to hold in the bubbling amusement.
It took some doing, but he finally regained enough of himself. “You don’t get it! The Plane didn’t steal from you! Some lowly city lord did! Some tiny city demon busy running around, chasing imps, found a way to take something from The Creator! From you!” he roared in newfound cackles.
“You are a fool.”
Ignoring him, The Pit Master went on. “The very farms meant to feed us, instead have fed upon you. You! I wonder how you tasted!”
“This could be you soon. Do you not see?”
The Pit Master shook his head mirthfully. “No. I do see. You are weak. You spread yourself amongst your contraptions. I, however, harness my power. No city lord would do such with me.”
With an orange grin reeking of coal and embers, the skull snarled. “Perhaps I should return here. In person.”
The laughter finally ended at that remark. “When was the last time you left your cave, old friend?” asked The Pit Master, voice dropping in volume to just above a whisper.
“Too long ago. Maybe I should change that.” The metal skull’s teeth seemed to grind together, making an uncomfortable screeching noise in the air.
“Maybe you should.” A flare of new red light twinkled in the pitborn’s gaze, his blood pumping at the thought of the fight it would bring.
The two stared at each other, another stalemate forming.
This time, however, it wasn’t allowed to sit for long. The metal construct broke it first. “Gah! I can see this just excites you. I am wasting my breath. Listen, pitborn. We all have a reason to believe we are immune to the whims and desires of The Plane. But we are not. If The Plane can enable a city lord to do this, what will be next, hmm?”
“Even if that were true, that is simply the way of it. Strength is all. I for one have not had a good fight in a long, long time,” said The Pit Master, cracking his knuckles. “If a city lord, a plane, or a demon wants to pick one, I’m up for it. As long as the challenge suits me.”
The skull stared at him for a few moments, grinding its teeth together. “You are still a brute.”
“And you are still… Not you. Just a construct.”
“I am everywhere my creations go. You are only here. But I digress. If you feel no concern at the thievery The Plane has enacted, then I will persuade you in another way.”
“Oh?”
“Help me find what was taken from me. In return, I will complete a single task of forge.”
Now that was interesting. He was willing to go that far. “Is that so? A single task? Anything?”
“Of forge.”
If he could get a new arena… One made specifically for his needs… Maybe The Pit Master could once again take to battle. Maybe he could once again bleed for his own domain and find yet a new challenge worthy of him.
But he did not trust The Creator. If he was going to spend time on this silly matter of his, then he wanted assurances. “If I do this, I want this task of forge done within ten cycles of my part of the bargain. I locate this city lord and his property, and convey anything I learn of it to you. This will not be contingent upon you getting it back. Just knowing where it is.”
“That is sufficient. But know I am making the same offer to all of the board. Only the first to give me the location will receive any payment.”
“Sure. Whatever. Do what you want. Oh—one more tiny little detail. I want it notarized by The Vaunt. Of course, you’ll foot the bill for that.”
This made the creation pause. For three heartbeats, it just stared at him.
“Fine.”
“Good. We can finalize it at the next table meeting. In the meantime, what exactly did this Kairon steal from you?”
“All you need to know is this. It is known as… The Infernal Industrializer. It is the only thing that will feel as I do.”
“Simple enough.” Sighing, he studied the damaged construct. “Are we done here?”
“We are.”
“I see. So I was the first.”
“You were.”
“Good. See you at the next meeting.”
With that, he clapped all six hands. This time, he didn’t hold back. A collision of powers met, and in less than a heartbeat the forged creation before him exploded into shrapnel and dust.
A tiny head start against his fellows. And a stab at his overzealous board member. A reminder, if you will.
Watching the last of the metal skull dissipate into the air, The Pit Master began dreaming of his shiny new arena.
He just needed to locate this Kairon, and then this Infernal Industrializer. Of all the board members, he might be the most likely to do so even if he didn’t have the head start. After all, the pits funded more souls to the draft pool than any other clan.
It was time he took a look at who’d been drafted lately. Chances were, at least one of his pitborn resided in this peculiar farm. One that somehow managed to steal from The Creator himself.