Far in the distance, Satou saw mountains begin to glow red from within. Volcanus was awakening volcanoes—multiple volcanoes, all at once.

The volcanoes erupted simultaneously, massive pillars of lava shooting thousands of feet into the air. But the lava didn't fall randomly. Instead, it flowed in perfectly controlled streams through channels that were forming in the earth, all converging on the location where they stood.

Azshara raised her hands, and water began rising from the ground—not normal water, but deep ocean water pulled from miles below the surface. She shaped it into a massive sphere hundreds of feet across, then began manipulating it with casual gestures that belied the incredible power required.

The water collided with Volcanus's approaching lava streams. Steam exploded upward in tremendous clouds, but Azshara controlled it all, directing the steam and cooling the lava at precise points.

Meanwhile, Thalassian floated higher into the air, his starlight body blazing brighter. He reached out toward the sky, and the clouds above began to part. Actual starlight—light from stars thousands of light-years away—became visible in the daytime sky, concentrated by Thalassian's power into focused beams.

The three demon lords worked in perfect synchronization, their powers combining and complementing each other.

Volcanus's lava was cooled by Azshara's water into obsidian. But not regular obsidian—this was infused with deep-ocean minerals and pressure, making it harder than steel. The obsidian spread across the ground, forming a perfectly circular arena exactly one quarter-mile in diameter.

The surface was polished to a mirror sheen by Thalassian's concentrated starlight, which heated and cooled the stone in rapid succession, creating a glass-like finish that reflected the swirling sky above.

Around the edges of the arena, Volcanus created channels of flowing lava—not random flows, but perfectly maintained streams that circled the arena like a moat of liquid fire. The heat from these channels kept the arena floor warm but not dangerously so.

From the lava, Azshara pulled moisture and minerals, creating elevated platforms that rose from the fiery moat. These platforms were made of a combination of cooled lava and crystallized water—impossible materials that shouldn't exist together, but did through the combined will of two demon lords.

Thalassian's starlight carved intricate patterns into the obsidian floor—ancient runes and symbols that would contain the fight, prevent either combatant from fleeing, and protect spectators from collateral damage. Each rune pulsed with cosmic power, glowing with light from distant stars.

The whole process took perhaps five minutes.

When it was done, where there had been ancient ruins, there was now a perfect arena. A circular battlefield of mirror-smooth obsidian, surrounded by channels of flowing lava, with elevated platforms for spectators positioned at safe distances. The sky above had been cleared, replaced by a dome of concentrated starlight that would prevent anything from entering or leaving the arena without permission.

At the center of the arena, two circles had been carved into the obsidian—one white, one black. These were the starting positions.

Satou stood there, mouth slightly open, staring at what three demon lords had created in minutes through casual application of their power.

They'd reshaped the landscape. Awakened volcanoes. Pulled water from miles underground. Concentrated starlight into physical barriers. Created materials that shouldn't exist. Built a perfect arena from nothing.

And they'd done it effortlessly, barely even focusing. This was just a preparatory task for them, not even worth their full attention.

"So this is the level of demon lords," Satou said quietly, awe in his voice.

He'd known they were powerful. He'd felt Malakor's overwhelming presence. He'd seen Loki's bloodlust at the summit. But knowing and seeing were different things.

This was the power he was aspiring to match. This was what it meant to hold a seat on the demon lord council. Not just individual combat prowess, but the ability to reshape reality itself on a massive scale.

Loki smiled at Satou's expression. "Now you understand. This is what you're working toward. This is what being a demon lord truly means—power on a scale that makes armies irrelevant, that makes conventional warfare obsolete, that makes kingdoms think twice before provoking you."

"And you're the weakest of them in direct combat?" Satou asked.

"In raw destructive power, yes," Loki confirmed without shame. "I could never create something like this arena. But I don't need to. My power lies in being connected to people who can, in knowing which strings to pull to make demon lords like Volcanus, Azshara, and Thalassian work together despite normally competing for influence."

He gestured to the arena. "I didn't lift a finger, yet here's a perfect battlefield, because I asked the right people in the right way. That's my strength—making others' power work for me."

Volcanus's voice boomed across the arena. "THE ARENA IS PREPARED. Let the challenger and champion take their positions."

Malakor's skeletal hand rose, and silence fell instantly. "Satou, provisional seventh-seat. Richard Clay, champion of Chronus the Timeless. The Arena of Fallen Stars has been reborn for your battle. Take your positions. Prepare yourselves. And when I give the signal..." His hollow eye sockets seemed to bore into both of them. "Fight with everything you have. Show us whether Satou deserves his seat, or whether Chronus's judgment was correct."

Satou took a deep breath, his hand unconsciously touching Void Fang's hilt.

This was it.

Everything he'd fought for—the dungeon, the transformation, the power he'd gained—it all came down to this moment.

He walked forward onto the mirror-smooth obsidian arena floor, his boots clicking against the polished surface. Around him, the channels of lava hissed and bubbled. Above him, concentrated starlight swirled in protective patterns.

And across from him, Richard Clay stepped into his own starting circle, those dead gray eyes watching with the cold assessment of someone who'd killed hundreds, maybe thousands, over his centuries of existence.

The demon lords took their positions on the elevated platforms, sitting or standing to observe. Satou could feel the weight of their attention—eleven beings of immense power, all focused on this single fight.

Loki caught his eye and nodded once—confidence and faith in that simple gesture.

Satou nodded back.

He was ready.

"Begin," Malakor said.

And the Arena of Fallen Stars erupted into violence.

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