The Rhodheoga Arena lay to the south of the Pillar That Holds Up The Sky. It was the most representative structure ever built in the Demon Realm, an enduring symbol of infernal pride. Constructed in the 2379th year by Luciferian Reckoning, it had taken over a century and a quarter to complete. Each year it hosted grand martial tournaments, with the most illustrious taking place during the Day of the Fall festivities. As Lucifer once said, As long as the Arena stands, Rhodheoga stands. If the Arena falls, so too shall Rhodheoga.
Demons who had already earned high merits could proceed directly to the finals, while nobles, regardless of status, had to participate in the preliminaries if they had no battlefield distinction. Even someone like Mammon wasn’t exempt. The finals crowned two champions: the Grand Warlock and the Dark Knight.
In Heaven, leadership was rooted in wisdom. An archangel didn’t need to be the strongest among the Seraphim, only the most skilled in governance. But the demon race thrived on brutality: power was everything. A true leader had to dominate in strength. During the Grand Tournament, a newly crowned Grand Warlock or Dark Knight would be given the right to challenge Lucifer himself. Whoever bested him would become the next Leader of the Seven Satans, the new Sovereign of Demons.
But in thousands of years, only one Dark Knight had ever dared challenge Lucifer—and after being annihilated in seconds, no one else ever tried.
The preliminaries weren’t as dazzling as the final duels, but they still offered an array of unique combat styles and arcane arts rarely seen. I split my days between the library and the arena. Before long, the long-awaited January fourth arrived.
The matches that day were exceptional. I dragged the entire angel delegation from the Hall of Ghana with me—who by then were dangerously close to becoming a flock of pampered pigs. Thankfully, even they knew how to present themselves when it counted. As we made our way to the arena, we drew no shortage of attention.
The Arena could seat 100,000 spectators and spanned tens of thousands of square meters in a circular citadel-like design. As we entered, I spotted a wide empty section just to the north—Beelzebub was waving at us, arms full of food. I glanced left and right; every seat was packed, and hundreds of round demon eyes were trained directly on us.
I signaled. Our party took flight and soared clean across the stadium to land by Beelzebub’s side. From lift-off to landing, the arena echoed with astonished gasps. From the opposing stands, the scene must’ve looked quite spectacular—a field of black pierced by a block of white, and a dot of gold at its heart.
I glanced around, then fixed my eyes on the central dais.
The Seven Lords of Hell sat aligned in the pattern of the Big Dipper, with Lucifer and Lilith at the very center.
Lilith was gently twining her fingers around Lucifer’s arm, peeling grapes one by one and feeding them to him. At first, Lucifer seemed reluctant, perhaps aware of the crowd, but he eventually gave in to her persistence, frowning as he ate. When the grapes were finished, he kissed her lightly on the forehead.
Mammon had both feet propped on the stone table, smoking lazily through a pipe. The smoke curled around his head like a ghostly crown. Lilith waved the smoke away with a look of maternal scolding, but Mammon remained unmoved, just turned the other way and kept puffing.
Two angels beside me were chatting enthusiastically.
“Seems like the rumors were off. I never thought Lord Lucifer would look this handsome… or act this… personable.”
“He and Lady Lilith do make a striking pair. Their relationship seems strong too. Pity they’re our enemies.”
“That’s nothing. We have perfect champions too, and perfect families among them.”
Their conversation gradually turned in my direction. I looked back at them.
“That’s enough. No point in comparisons. Watch the match.”
The arena was split into two fields—one for mage duels, the other for close-quarters combat.
On the mage side, two groups of four warlocks stood across from each other, each clutching a staff. Above them loomed enormous, twisted skull-shaped phantoms that devoured one another in mid-air. The entire scene radiated a morbid, oppressive atmosphere.
On the melee side, Mastema gripped an iron chain, its links spinning through the air in a wide arc; across from him, Sariel notched six arrows to a shortbow, all drawn taut in a single pull.
Iron hooves kicked up clouds of dust. Sariel suddenly drew his bow—the six black-feathered arrows on the string trembled heavily and shot straight at Mastema’s face. Mastema raised his chain whip to block, but he was caught off guard. One arrow struck his arm, and blood sprayed through the air. In the brief instant that followed, Sariel loosed another six arrows, this time targeting his limbs and waist. Mastema bent low, wrapping the chain around his horse’s neck; the black horse reared with a sharp neigh.
An arrow pierced his waist—his body slumped sideways.
Sariel closed in, driving his steed forward.
—Too hasty. Mastema wasn’t down yet.
Sure enough, the chain sprang up like a venomous fang, coiling around Sariel’s throat.
Choked for air, Sariel’s face turned red. The chain yanked him down with brutal force—he tumbled from horseback like a startled bird, crashing to the ground.
Mastema’s supporters erupted in cheers. Sariel’s fans let out a collective groan.
Soon after, Sariel returned to the sidelines covered in wounds. As he passed me, I smiled. “That was a fine match.”
He started slightly, then sighed in regret. “So close. A pity.”
Seeing the mages tending to him, I added, “You’re a great archer. Would you teach me sometime?”
“The Archangel Michael doesn’t know how to use a bow?”
“Yeah, I’m not good with light things.”
Sariel drew an arrow from the quiver on his calf and nocked it. “Who says archery is light? Without real strength, you can’t do it.”
“I wonder if I’m strong enough.”
He handed me the bow and positioned me to draw it, lifting my wrist. “Like this: focus your mind.”
Out the corner of my eye, I noticed Lucifer and his retinue looking our way. I steadied myself—can’t mess this up in front of them.
“Your Highness, try aiming at that blue banner across the way. Not far, right? Pull the string with all your strength, then release it quickly.”
I nodded solemnly, drew the bow forcefully—
Sariel folded his arms with a tiny touch of smugness. “Takes more effort than it looks, right? Archery isn’t as easy as you think.”
Creak. The string groaned.
It really did take serious strength… Alright, more power…
One, two, three—release—bang!
Bang?
BANG??
The black-feathered arrow dropped straight to the ground. The bow stayed in my hand. My fingers buzzed with numbness.
I stared at the bow. Then the arrow. Then the bow again. The spring-like string spun and bounced in midair, vibrating wildly.
What… just happened?
I flicked the string. Tried to straighten it. Tried to reattach it. Even wrapped it once. But it was clearly too long now—lost its tension.
Angels and demons alike were staring at me.
I stared at the bow.
They were still staring at me.
I looked at Sariel. He was also staring.
I hesitantly offered, “I think… it broke?”
A waft of smoke rolled in. A hand with a pipe plucked the bow from my grasp. I turned to see Mammon frowning as he pinched the string.
Azazel and Samael came down with him. Azazel smirked. “I’ve seen all kinds of archers, Your Highness. But you’re the first who broke the string before hitting the target.”
Samael clicked his tongue. “Tsk. Look at that. Totally warped. You really live up to your title, Archangel. Remarkable in every way.”
Mammon finally exploded. “He asked you to shoot the arrow, not break the bow! SHOOT the ARROW! Not SNAP THE STRING! Do you even understand the difference? Angel, you’ve embarrassed us every warrior here!”
Lucifer turned his head the other way, shoulders trembling.
I rubbed the bow and asked Sariel, “I- I’m terribly sorry… Can it be fixed?”
Sariel looked heartbroken. “I’ve had that bow since my time in Heaven. It was a gift from His Majesty Lucifer… They say it would never break…”
Lucifer finally turned back, his mouth twitching. “Let it go, Sariel. I’ll give you a better one later.”
Mammon looked ready to keep roasting me, so I fled back to my seat.
He tried to follow but was stopped by Azazel. “Prince Mammon, someone’s challenging you down there.”
Mammon turned.
Mastema was circling the field on horseback, holding his chain aloft in one hand and pointing at Mammon with the other. Mammon slung his scythe over his shoulder with a sigh and leapt over the stone barrier, gliding down to meet him.
Hanniah frowned. “Father, don’t you think Mammon is being rude?”
“He’s still a child.”
“He doesn’t treat himself like a child. And he doesn’t seem to treat you like a proper elder either.”
“Mammon’s fond of me. He just has an awkward personality. It’s nothing.”
“But don’t you think he’s trying to… seduce you?”
“That’s just Demon Realm customs. They’re naturally flirty, so you shouldn’t take it seriously.”
“Really?” Hanniah looked at me doubtfully, then turned his eyes back to the two men. “Why isn’t he riding a horse?”
“Word is that he only mounts up when facing a worthy opponent on the battlefield.”
“That’s disrespectful to his opponent.”
“Everyone has their own code. If he’s confident in victory, it’s not unreasonable.”
Hanniah studied me for a long while before pouting, “Father, why do you always take his side? I’m your son.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Alright, alright. Mammon’s just an outsider. Why compete with him?”
Satisfied, Hanniah turned back around, trying to hide his smile as he continued watching, chin in his hand.
On the field, Mastema and Mammon faced each other in silence. Mammon leaned lazily on his scythe.
Suddenly, Mastema charged, iron chain swinging. The pounding of hooves grew louder with speed. Mammon stood still, as if he couldn’t see his opponent, even spinning the scythe lazily once.
Mastema’s black cloak billowed like a storm-tossed flag. Just before he reached Mammon, the latter raised his scythe skyward with one hand.
Clang-clang-clang-clang!
The chain wrapped itself around the scythe’s haft, coiling like a living thing.
Mastema’s eyes widened. He hastily gripped it with both hands. But Mammon simply held the scythe aloft, unmoving.
Mastema leaned back, pulling with all his might. His horse skidded across the stone, hooves screeching.
But Mammon’s scythe stood tall—like the Pillar That Holds Up The Sky.
Mastema strained to pull it down. The scythe finally tilted—barely five degrees.
And that was it.
The instant he loosened his grip, Mammon suddenly yanked.
Mastema and his horse lurched forward in one step. The chain slackened.
Mammon gave the scythe another twist, binding the chain tighter.
One step at a time. One coil at a time. Mammon’s movements grew faster, while Mastema’s resistance weakened—until, at last, he was being dragged helplessly forward.
I remembered something I’d once heard from a few archangels about battlefield tactics: never let Mammon get close to you.
And now, Mastema had been dragged right in front of him.
Mammon swung his great scythe with one hand, its curved blade sweeping through the air. Hanniah, beside me, jolted at the sight.
The black horse’s front legs were sliced clean off.
Scarlet blood drenched the ground. Mastema, still astride the falling steed, pitched forward over the splintered hooves.
Mammon twisted his wrist and drove the base of the scythe’s handle straight into Mastema’s chest.
Blood sprayed from the blade in a twisting arc, scattering in the air. Mastema screamed, fell hard, and rolled several times across the field.
Gasps rippled through the arena.
Mammon slung the scythe back over his shoulder.
Lucifer, seated high in the royal box, wore a faintly proud smile. Lilith frowned as she looked at Mastema, shaking her head slightly. Samael and Sariel exchanged glances and gave a thumbs-up. Azazel clapped.
“Demon Realm combat is so brutal,” Hanniah murmured.
I sighed. “What a shame. That horse was magnificent.”
Mammon scanned the audience, waiting for another challenger. By now, the Grand Warlock match had become background noise. Soon, a relatively unknown archdevil entered the field. As soon as he rode forward, Mammon raised his scythe with both hands and slammed it into the ground.
The earth cracked. A streak of blue light raced along the fracture line. On the challenger’s side, both rider and mount went flying.
Azazel: “The little prince of structural destruction.”
Sariel: “Let’s hope His Majesty Lucifer doesn’t make me fix the roads again this year.”
Next came a female devil, quite beautiful, with a killer figure. Her face reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t quite place who.
Before she even made a move, Mammon stepped forward and kissed her hand.
Samael threw up his hands. “Jenny! Don’t fall for that flirt!”
Jenny turned back and shouted: “Dad, shut up!”
Samael was aghast. He collapsed dramatically against Sariel’s shoulder, sobbing. Sariel patted him, full of sympathy.
Jenny whipped out a barbed leather whip and lashed at Mammon. He crouched low and curved his body, hooking his scythe upward. Jenny leapt over it, dodging easily. Mammon immediately countered, blade tearing a gash in her low-cut top. Blood welled.
He struck again with the butt of his scythe, hitting her in the stomach. The blow was impossible to dodge—she flew backward.
Mammon dashed forward to catch her. She hooked her arms around his neck, red-tipped nails lifting his chin with a flirtatious scrape before she leapt free and picked up her whip.
He took off his coat and draped it over her torn clothes. A moment later, she placed her lips over his for a long time, then sashayed off the field.
Hanniah was speechless. I groaned and rubbed my forehead.
Mammon really was a miniature version of his dad in terms of behavior. Though to be fair, Mammon probably had more lovers—while his dad had only one. Not sure if that was progress or regression.
Ten or so more challengers came next. All were soundly defeated.
The arena floor had been utterly destroyed. Mammon stood alone at its center. When no one else stepped up, he suddenly raised his scythe high and pointed at the stands with his other hand.
Every eye snapped to me.
I looked around, but no—it wasn’t me thinking too much of myself. The brat really was challenging me.
Silence fell across the arena.
I instinctively glanced at Lucifer. He rested his chin on one hand, gazing at me with his jaw slightly lifted—there was challenge in that look too.
Hanniah leaned in, uneasy. “Father, are you going to accept?”
“If I don’t, am I still a man?” I replied. Then I spread my six wings and flew into the arena.
There was still stains on Mammon’s scythe. He stood there like he had emerged from a sea of blood.
“If I lose,” Mammon said, “I’ll be at your mercy. But if you lose—then what?”
I smiled. “What do you want?”
Mammon murmured, “Sleep with me for a night.”
“Out of the question.”
“Scared? So even the Archangel Michael has things he fears?”
“Victory and defeat are part of warfare. Refusing a challenge is cowardice, but I don’t believe losing is disgraceful.”
“You know you’ll lose so you’ve already prepared your retreat, how clever.”
“Provoking me won’t work. In Heaven, physical intimacy is something shared only between lovers. Please respect our culture.”
“Oh? Then you’re saying Metatron is your lover?”
I froze. No words came.
Mammon rubbed his chin. “Alright, I’ll give you a little time to think. I’ll count to three. If you don’t speak by the end, that means you agree one two three.”
“Hey—!”
Mammon lowered his voice, softest of the soft: “Noble Archangel Michael… I look forward to stripping you bare tonight.”
Mammon was the finest warrior in the Demon Realm, and he’d inherited Lucifer’s perfect power. But from what I knew, the moment he faced a true opponent, he often slipped up, because he only knew how to attack, not defend.
I walked over to the weapon rack and casually pulled out a steel spear, planting the tip on the ground.
“Your Highness Michael, why not use your holy sword?”
“The holy sword is a weapon of magic, and enchanted with fire. If I used it seriously, you wouldn’t be the only one injured.”
Mammon grinned, blade at his side. “If you lose, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I smiled back. “Thank you very much for the reminder, Little Prince Mammon.”
Author: Tav Tav
Translating
The Right Wing of God, the one seated at the right hand of the Most High.
