Devil's Own Squad

The abandoned warehouse reeked of sulfur and death.

Dreyl and Viper crouched behind a stack of shipping containers, watching the figure in the center of the building. He was tall, lean, dressed in a black coat that had seen better days. Twin pistols gleamed at his hips, and a shotgun was strapped across his back. Bandoliers of ammunition crisscrossed his chest like a deadly fashion statement.

"That's him?" Viper whispered.

"That's Saint," Dreyl confirmed, watching the man methodically reload his weapons. "Rex Levy. They say he's killed more demons than anyone alive."

Around Saint's feet lay the smoking remains of what had once been a pack of lesser demons. The air still shimmered with residual holy energy from his blessed bullets.

"So why are we hiding like we're about to rob him?"

"Because," Dreyl said grimly, "he kills anything with demon blood. And in case you forgot, I'm the Devil's son."

As if summoned by his words, Saint's head snapped up. His eyes—pale blue, like winter sky—locked onto their hiding spot with unnerving precision.

"Well," Saint called out, his voice carrying a slight drawl, "y'all gonna keep skulking around, or are we gonna have ourselves a conversation?"

Viper cursed under his breath. "How did he—"

"Fallen angel," Dreyl said, standing slowly. "Enhanced senses."

They emerged from cover, hands visible but ready to fight. Saint watched them approach with the casual alertness of a predator sizing up potential prey.

"Dreyl Sakashita," Saint said, and it wasn't a question. "The Devil's runaway boy."

"That's me," Dreyl replied. "And you're the legendary Saint. Though I gotta ask—what's a fallen angel doing in a place like this?"

Saint's laugh was bitter. "Same thing as a Devil's son, I reckon. Trying to find where I belong."

The tension stretched between them like a taut wire.

"Heard you've been hunting demons," Dreyl said carefully.

"Heard you've been running from your daddy." Saint's hands drifted toward his pistols. "Question is, what brings Hell's prince to my doorstep?"

"I need help."

"With what?"

"Taking down the system. Heaven, Hell, all of it. The whole rigged game."

Saint's eyebrows rose. "That's ambitious. Also stupid. Also probably suicide."

"Yeah, well," Dreyl grinned, "I've got a knack for stupid."

Before Saint could respond, the warehouse windows exploded inward.

Black-robed figures poured through the openings—six of them, moving with inhuman grace. Coils of Kaen assassins. Their masks gleamed with silver runes, and curved blades whispered from their sleeves.

"Dreyl Sakashita," one of them hissed, "the Serpent Supreme demands your death."

"Well, shit," Saint muttered, drawing both pistols in a single fluid motion. "Guess we're doing this the hard way."

The first assassin lunged at Dreyl, blade aimed for his heart. Dreyl twisted away, hellfire erupting from his palm to meet the curved steel. The clash sent sparks flying, illuminating the warehouse in brief, violent flashes.

Viper's whip cracked through the air, wrapping around a second assassin's ankle. He yanked hard, sending the cultist crashing into a concrete pillar.

But it was Saint who stole the show.

His pistols—Mercy and Justice, he'd once called them—spoke in perfectly timed harmony. Each shot found its mark with surgical precision. The blessed bullets punched through the assassins' magical defenses like they were made of paper.

"Divine Judgment," Saint whispered, and his next shot split into three mid-flight, each bullet seeking a different target.

The fight was over in thirty seconds.

Six Coils assassins lay dead or dying, their blood pooling on the concrete floor. The smell of sulfur mixed with the ozone scent of holy power.

Saint holstered his weapons and looked at Dreyl with new interest.

"You didn't try to kill me," he observed.

"You didn't try to kill me either," Dreyl replied.

"I was planning to. But then these cultist bastards showed up." Saint kicked one of the bodies. "Coils of Kaen. They've been hunting me for months. Guess they figured two birds, one stone."

"So we have a common enemy."

"Seems like." Saint studied Dreyl for a long moment. "You're not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"A monster. A tyrant in waiting. Another power-hungry demon prince looking to carve out his own kingdom."

Dreyl was quiet for a moment. "Maybe I am. Maybe that's exactly what I'll become. But right now, I'm just a kid who's tired of running."

Saint nodded slowly. "I can respect that."

"Does that mean you'll help?"

"Depends. What exactly are you planning?"

Dreyl took a deep breath. "I'm going to challenge Hell itself. The Trials of—"

"The Trials of Hell," Saint finished, his expression growing serious. "You're talking about the ancient laws. The right of challenge."

"You know about them?"

"I know they're suicide. Even if you survive, what makes you think you can change anything?"

"Because I have to try." Dreyl's voice carried a new edge of determination. "My father wants me to be his heir. The Coils want me dead. Heaven probably wants me locked away. But none of them get to decide who I am."

Saint was quiet for a long moment. Then he smiled—a real smile, not the bitter expression he'd worn before.

"You know what? I like you, kid. You're crazy, but I like crazy." He extended his hand. "Rex Levy. But everyone calls me Saint."

"Dreyl Sakashita. But you already knew that."

They shook hands, and Dreyl felt something shift. Not just an alliance, but the beginning of something more. A team.

The warehouse door exploded outward.

Through the smoke and debris stepped a figure that made all three of them tense. A woman with purple hair that seemed to flow like liquid shadow, dressed in black leather that left her arms free. Twin swords hung at her sides, their blades gleaming with an inner light.

She moved with the fluid grace of a born killer, her eyes scanning the room with professional interest.

"Dreyl Sakashita," she said, her voice carrying a slight accent. "I've been looking for you."

"Great," Viper muttered. "Another one."

"I am Ariel," she continued, her hands resting on her sword hilts. "And I challenge you to combat."

"Lady," Saint said, raising his pistols, "the kid's had a long day. Maybe we can—"

"This is not your fight, fallen one," Ariel said without taking her eyes off Dreyl. "This is about honor. About proving worth."

"Worth for what?" Dreyl asked.

"For what I'm about to ask of you."

Before anyone could respond, she drew her swords.

The blades sang as they left their sheaths, and Dreyl immediately understood why she was so confident. These weren't ordinary weapons. They hummed with power, their edges sharp enough to cut reality itself.

"Soul-forged," Viper breathed. "Those are pieces of her own soul."

Ariel smiled—a warrior's smile, full of anticipation.

"You have thirty seconds to prepare," she said. "Then I come for you."

"Wait," Dreyl said, "can we at least talk about—"

She moved like lightning.

The first sword came in low, aimed for his legs. Dreyl jumped, hellfire erupting from his feet to give him extra height. The second sword followed, a diagonal slash that would have taken his head if he hadn't twisted in midair.

He landed hard, rolling to avoid the follow-up strike that cracked the concrete where he'd been standing.

"She's fast," he grunted, scrambling to his feet.

"She's holding back," Viper observed. "If she wanted you dead, you'd be dead."

Saint's pistols tracked Ariel's movements, but he didn't fire. Something about this felt less like an assassination attempt and more like a test.

Ariel pressed her attack, her twin blades weaving a deadly pattern in the air. But Dreyl was learning, his integrated Fatebreaker power letting him see the possibilities a split second before they happened.

Duck. Dodge. Hellfire to force her back. Roll left to avoid the spinning strike.

"You're good," Ariel said, not even breathing hard. "But you're fighting like you're trying not to hurt me."

"Maybe I am," Dreyl replied.

"Why?"

"Because I don't think you're my enemy."

Ariel paused, her swords still ready but no longer attacking.

"Explain."

"You could have killed me in the first exchange. Those soul-forged blades could cut through anything I can throw up. But you didn't." Dreyl straightened, his hands still wreathed in hellfire. "You said you were looking for me. You challenged me to prove worth. This isn't about killing me—it's about seeing if I'm strong enough for whatever you have planned."

Ariel's smile widened. "Very good. You think like a warrior, not just a fighter."

She sheathed her swords in a single fluid motion.

"My name is Ariel," she said formally. "I am a Hell Ronin, bound by chains of servitude to Lord Malphas of the Seventh Circle. I have served him for three centuries, and I am tired of being a slave."

"Okay," Dreyl said carefully. "What does that have to do with me?"

"The Trials of Hell," she said simply. "You're planning to challenge them, aren't you?"

Dreyl's eyes widened. "How did you—"

"I can smell the determination on you. The desperation. The hope." Ariel's expression grew serious. "The Trials are the only way to break fundamental Hell contracts. If you succeed, if you gain the right to negotiate with Hell's hierarchy as an equal..."

"You could demand your freedom," Dreyl finished.

"Exactly." Ariel knelt, her head bowed. "I ask to join your cause. Not as a servant, but as an equal. I will fight beside you, and in return, I ask only that you help me break my chains."

Dreyl looked at his growing team. Saint, the fallen angel with a grudge against both Heaven and Hell. Viper, the assassin who'd chosen friendship over contracts. And now Ariel, the enslaved warrior seeking freedom.

"This is insane," he muttered.

"The best plans usually are," Saint said with a grin.

"I'm in," Viper said simply.

Dreyl looked at Ariel, still kneeling. "Get up. We're equals, remember?"

She rose, her eyes bright with something that might have been hope.

"So," Dreyl said, "anyone know how to actually get to Hell?"

"I do," Ariel said. "But the entrance is... complicated."

"How complicated?"

"It requires a blood sacrifice. Specifically, the blood of someone with legitimate claim to Hell's throne."

All eyes turned to Dreyl.

"Of course it does," he sighed.