Gnarled claws and twisted limbs of broken, changed creatures stab into the fresh sands of the arena floor, the stonework of the temple having been crushed into dust by the sheer, radiating power stemming out from the freshly resurrected demon that stands down before the altar on two sharp, long legs, looking down at her own hands. Screams fill the air as people try to evacuate the overly packed colosseum, at the same time as others stay quite content in their place, cheering and hollering as if they either didn’t know that this wasn’t a part of the show or didn’t quite care that much. It’s not every day you get to see the Demon-Queen.

 

“I…” starts a solitary, chittering voice, casting itself around the walls of the arena, bounding up and around past the sounds of freshly brewing chaos, up into the starlit air of the night above, which has now been revealed due to the grand destruction of the soil above the dungeon, exposing it to the surface. The strange demon lifts her gaze, looking around at the colosseum. “- Am.”

 

She lifts her long, sharply jointed arms. Green, undulating magic winds its way up from her chest like serpents, reaching to the tips of her raised fingers and then dripping downward like droplets of venom.

 

The crowd cheers, going insane. People lean over the railings, waving and throwing personal adornments her way.

 

Munera watches in tepid confusion, much the same as the Demon-Queen herself likely does, as she hasn’t been ‘made aware’ of the real situation that is happening right now.

 

Perhaps she thinks a legion of her followers has resurrected her from the dead? Given the shape of the arena, which is in the form of a temple, it certainly doesn’t help the looks of the matter.

 

What a tangle!

 

The Demon-Queen lowers her arms, bathing in the glory of excited praise, as her cold, lifeless eyes stare around the arena, ogling its many thousands of guests, just as metal starts to ring. The portcullis opens down at the end of the temple, and a legion of armored crusaders and paladins of the Holy-Church break into the arena. A full stream of hundreds of bodies, having come from all across the world on pilgrimages to witness the rebirth of a true-hero, stream into the arena with weapons drawn and spells ready. They break into groups as the insectoid monsters that the gladiators have been transformed into charge towards the intruders.

 

“Dogs always come in packs.” She smirks, watching them and then looking up toward the visitor boxes, where many high-priests and bishops sit, as she swirls a sharp finger through the air. The energy of her magical radiance trails after the sharp digit as she walks in sharp, collected steps, her legs always falling one foot exactly straight in front of the other as she walks down the stairwell in a cat’s stride, twirling her finger in the air. “But I -” She extends the finger, revealing her palm to the sky, the magic slowly and venomously oozing out of her finger and dripping to the ruined soil at her feet. “- Am a swarm.”

 

As if in response to this unholy invocation, a horrific swarm of insects surges forth from the bowels of the world, crawling through sand and crevices, and descends upon all that oppose her.

 

The once-orderly ranks of the crusaders immediately begin to falter as the insect swarm engulfs them in a relentless sea of chitinous bodies and gnashing mandibles. The holy combatants, their armor being spotless, fight desperately, yet they are steadily overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of their foes, who are simply too small to fight with swords and hammers.

 

The larger insectoid monsters, sure. But the swarm of ten-thousand locusts, no.

 

The battlefield is enveloped in a drone of anguished cries intermingling with the sinister buzz and hum of the voracious insects. Each swing of a sword or thrust of a spear cannot halt the advancing tide; for each fallen insect, countless more converge on its place, driven by an insatiable hunger. Illuminated by giddy starlight, many crusaders suffer a grim fate, being devoured alive as insects crawl over them, burrowing in below armor plates that many flailing hands try to hastily remove to reach the soft and unprotected flesh beneath.

 

It’s quite an ugly sight, really. This is hardly a fight worth watching. It’s entirely unbalanced. There’s no challenge, no sportsmanship. She’s just wiping the field clean. Even the crowd seems a bit on edge about this, with many of the excited cries slowly quieting as they watch a few hundred people get eaten alive by a swarm of insects.

 

As it works, Munera watches as rows of white, polished armor fall down into the crumbling sands, entirely devoid of the bodies that had inhabited them a moment ago.

 

Ugh. These guys are going to be such a mess to resurrect.

 

“You. Creature,” says a voice from down below. Munera can feel itself being probed, its invisible sense of presence being touched and felt upon by sickering, reaching magical extremities — feelers. “Core,” says the Demon-King. Munera keeps fiddling on the side but looks at her. “What power have you?” she asks, the swarm, having finished their feast, rising up into the air in a dense, tight formation that moves and flows around her like draping fabric. “To restore me to this world?”

 

‘Power’?

 

Munera stares for a moment, giving its equivalent of a shrug, as it returns to its work.

 

“Do NOT ignore me,” barks a sharp voice, the world shaking.

 

Munera orders a skeleton to roll its eyes for it since it has none itself.

 

The skeleton also has no eyes. However, for its failure to obey, it will be disciplined. Harshly.

 

Demonic energy wraps itself around the dungeon-core, which is sort of unusual, really. It doesn’t think that it has ever been touched in this life. It would have preferred if it stayed that way. The Demon-Queen just ruined its winning no-contact streak. She doesn’t seem to realize that it can kill her just as easily as it had remade her. But that’s okay. This is fine. Everything is fine.

 

— People scream in horror, running and escaping, as insectoid monsters, dripping with venom, eat the viewing public alive. A skeleton continues to blow its trumpet in the background. One of the children in the cages below the ceiling cries.

 

Everything is good.

 

Munera nods, content, and then looks back at the Demon-Queen. “Close your eyes.”

 

“What?” she asks in a hissing voice, narrowing her eyes, which is close enough to count as far as Munera cares. “You WILL -”

 

- She stops, her words falling short, her eyes freezing, as the world shakes down to its core, a pulse breaching to the surface from the deepest bowels of the planet as a burst of energy finds its way up and about, carrying with it a radiating heat that blasts through the air, pressing up toward the sky like the draft of a great fire, blasting up like the breath of a furnace. A gentle chiming fills the air, like that of a thousand wind chimes, and with the growing heat comes a coalescence of the sounds. The ringing, the pressure — both of these intensify into a hammering, pounding striking against metal like the roar of a dragon that carries around the world a hundred times over with rising intensity. The bones of the world shake, the air crackling with energy. Electricity gathers in the sky in such abundance, creating so many strands of connecting, broken light, that the heavens above look as if they were fracturing like breaking glass.

 

Everything in the arena, in the colosseum, comes to a full halt as the world goes white. The monsters, the people, the Demon-Queen, and Munera itself, as the strokes of paint that make up reality, are washed clean with blinding white everywhere, all at once, except for the single, blackened silhouette of an ever-marching presence that strides forward from the aether, rippling, tearing streaks of sharp power leaking out of him in all directions like an overloaded lightning-rod.

 

It’s time to get this show rolling.

 

Munera drops a single sword from the sky, letting it hurtle through the chaotic fields of energy toward the man who lifts a hand in preparation, as if instinctively knowing it would be there at its appointed time, as are all good things.

 

— The hilt strikes against his palm, a streak of lightning connecting him to the heavens themselves as he acts as a conduit for their powers.

 

 

All around the world, for every person, every man, every woman, every child, every goblin, and every beast, every demon, and every king, and every noble, every fairy, every frog, and everything else that lives upon the world, the message appears. It is the same message — the warning of a new crisis that has emerged once again in their world.

 

Fun! FUN! FUN-FUN-FUN-FUN!

 

If Munera had feet, it would be stomping them right now like an excited rabbit, as it watches in joy as the pieces of the most fun competition it has ever created lock eyes with one another in the blinding glory of the hero’s resurrection — as all of the Demon-Queen’s insects and monsters are disintegrated by the power of his sheer presence. Both of their gazes recognize the other; both of their powers, their energy, and their spirits are reaching around in the air and contesting their dominance with one another.

 

And before the light of the new sunrise has a chance to die down, before the darkness of a new night has a chance to set forevermore, a single twitch born of muscle-memory sets the games into motion. The Demon-Queen barely has a chance to refocus her eyes before the silhouette is already in front of her, her long, chitinous claws catching the blade.

 

“Prayven…” she hisses, her fingers noisily scraping over the metal like nails over a chalkboard. “Did you miss me?” she asks mockingly, her mouth opening, dripping with venom as she snarls like an animal as she pushes the blade back against him. She lifts her other hand, striking toward his neck with her thin, needle-like nails.

 

His short hair, black, like the contrast of his now fading silhouette as the light of his return begins to die down again, blows wildly in the winds of their conflicting strength as he stares at her poison eyes, his other hand reaching out to catch her other hand — the two of them locked.

 

“More than you know,” replies the man, speaking his first words back on the world; these clearly are not the ones she had expected, given her confused look, which also doesn’t change after she is sent flying back and crashing through a column, having been kicked by a powerful leg.

 

She shrieks like a banshee, her eyes glowing as she lunges out of the rubble like a feral monster, charging his way as she charges hers, as if they had never stopped fighting all of those many years ago.

 

The two of them meet in the middle, sending shockwaves blasting out in all directions.

 

Munera nods contently as the crowd and the viewers are resurrected or otherwise slowly ushered back into the arena by skeletons that are holding vouchers for ‘buy one, get one free’ deals on snacks and drinks.

 

You’d think it would take more to convince people to go back to the same spot where they were almost eaten alive a few seconds ago, but you’d be wrong. It really is that easy. A free sausage goes a long way.

 

And all around the world, the whispers of the dungeon-core that could bring back the trend, change from those softer tones to desperate cries and hollers as the greatest nobles, politicians, and clergymen of the land scream their heads off about what to do about this situation.

 

But their voices aren’t heard over the roaring, thunderous applause as the hero gets fresh cuts across his face, and the Demon-Queen a new bruise in her gut. Munera resurrects the dead crusaders, the dead gladiators and has a skeleton with a broom shoo them away, as it is too busy watching what might become the start of the greatest spectacle the world has ever seen.

 

Maybe it will make them fight for the best out of three…