No one knew where he came from, the stray. One day he was just there, without warning, without reason, and without memory. No one took him in. Hell no – pardon the pun. There are few such people in the underworld. That boy merely wormed his way into their lives, nothing but an unnoticed shadow if not for his personality. The ragged punk thought himself a king. No, he did not cry vulnerability and insist exemption from laborious tasks. Neither did he hold an ounce of civility or diplomacy. And yet when someone finally demanded his name – in a sense, as the kid was thieving in the market at the time – right off the bat the boy replied,

     “Dante, the next king of Hell.”

     While the witnesses to this remark were far from riled – being who they were, they only gave half a shit about their king as it was – they could not help but be amazed at the ridiculousness of the claim, not to mention how casually serious the kid’s eyes were. It was sometime soon after this when they learned that, even more surprisingly, Dante didn’t even have any recollection other than his own name.

     He attended the school in town, though they suspected it was merely to pass the time. The teachers were a joke to him. Only one instructor couldn’t be pushed around by him. Clevh, young for a demon, took crap from no one, and anyone who dared to would find it hurled back at them. The faculty left the burden on his shoulders, unable to discipline him and unable to expel him. Begrudgingly, Clevh taught the stray. Their relationship was unique to say the least. They clashed often, yet silently understood each other better than most would guess. Their personalities were similarly stubborn.

     Some would call it affection. They’d call it annoyance.

     Brotherly assumptions aside, Clevh did happen to know Dante best. Since making his home in Brinstone, Dante had a tendency to steal, pickpocket and the like, and then disappear until he chose to turn up again. Clevh, some time later, eventually came across the long unknown rock under which the boy hid. It was a cave hidden in the cliffs, where only the skilled and fearless – more often called “insane” – could reach. In said cave, there were heaps of treasure, and Clevh noted the bones of an ancient dragon curled around his sleeping student. After a brief squabble beginning with a swift kick to the skull, Clevh inquired as to why exactly Dante felt the need to pickpocket when he had this at his disposal.

     That was the day that Dante learned – or relearned. Who knew, really? – about currency.

     “I thought merchants just liked weird stuff like that.”

     “Stuff like…”

     “Those round things.”

     “Coins. Yes…yes, they do like that. But I assure you, they wouldn’t mind this shit one bit at all!”

     There were a few less robberies from then on, although, if he ran out of pocket money, Dante didn’t wait to cash in when he wanted something then and there. He didn’t return to his makeshift home every day. When he tired of worthless teachers, Dante occasionally visited the library until the one class he cared for. Which, to Clevh’s dismay…

     “I’m busy. Wait until class, runt.”

     He’d much rather spar, but he would need some of this knowledge in his alleged future reign over Hell. There were a few useful texts, which Dante used to set up wards on his home. He could care less about the treasure, but the weapons and bones were important to him.

     That, however, was his secret. The villagers needn’t know the trace of respect Dante felt for the dragon or anything else. It was amazing, really – the way he was able to hold indifference in a permanent glare. They all wondered what he was doing with his life. An independent soul like him drifting around their scrappy town? They couldn’t fathom why. Clevh often wondered as well – mostly because he wanted him to leave. But Dante even admitted that he had no plan, claiming to be waiting until his next move came to him. It must have been a very literal outlook, as Dante made no moves at all.

     Years later, all that changed…



     “Oi. Rocky.”

     “Call me that again and I’ll gut you.” The threat was blatantly ignored.

     “What’s that?” Dante pointed to the poster being pinned to the wall by a young student council member. The group had briefly made their attempt at his expulsion long ago. Clevh looked up from the papers he was grading – he rather enjoyed brutally grading his students, only wishing Dante would slip up. Fat chance. If there was a subject Dante was weak in, it definitely wasn’t Combat Physical Education. The poster was eye-catching, to say the least. Brightly colored and so tacky it nearly hurt. But Clevh doubted that’s why Dante gave it a second thought.

     No, Dante was likely more interested in the bold words reading “Tournament” standing out at the top. Below were details and entry information.

     “Ah. That. You don’t know what a tournament is, dumbass?” Clevh made to put pen back to paper, but was smacked in the forehead by an unfortunate passerby’s notebook. A bloodlike streak of red ink cut across a wrong answer.

     “Of course I know what it is, you bastard. Are you as dumb as a rock as well?”

     Clevh grumbled, handing the notebook back to the student, who quickly scurried away from the lunch table. He ignored the crack at his favored element, and replied, “It’s an annual thing. Every 50 years there’s a tournament like this. Schools elect a student, or a few, to compete. It’s a famous event.”

     Dante scoffed through a mouthful of pork. “Really?” He swallowed. “Doesn’t that just make it a glorified spelling bee?”

     Clevh, sadly, was unsurprised. “Well,” he continued without acknowledging the stupid remark, “it isn’t only our schools. Heiban competes as well.”

     Dante was silent, his face devoid of even the perpetual small glare. “Heiban.”

     “Yeah.” Clevh rested his head in his hand, scribbling violently, inwardly cackling. “I suppose it could be considered war, in a way. At least it seems to pacify both sides well enough. Tensions are low. We hardly ever have to see their mugs.” The two returned to comfortable silence.

     “Have you ever seen one?” Dante asked after a while.

     “Hn?”

     “An angel.”

     “Ah.” Clevh shrugged. “Yeah, a while back.”

     “Huh.”

     It wasn’t mentioned again for the next few weeks.

---

     The old demon fidgeted underneath his desk, avoiding the hard gaze of the lad in front of him. The school was in no way prestigious, and he wasn’t like some other principals. He was not fierce or esteemed. His feeble appearance hid nothing. The students couldn’t even remember his name, which was Wrindlmace. Or perhaps they did remember, and intentionally called him “Wrinkleface”.

     He wasn’t quite sure which reason he preferred.

     He’d rather not do this himself, truth be told. He tried to enlist the help of his professors, but none of them really respected him either. Some pitied him, but not enough to do this for him. Wrindlmace had begged Professor Clevh, but the man didn’t have an ounce of pity or respect in the first place. Still, he tried, because there was no one better to stand – or sit, in this case – against the intimidating deadpan of their resident delinquent. Wrindlemace cleared his throat.

     “W-well,” he stuttered, shuffling through completely unrelated papers on his desk, “I see you’ve come.” His only reply was silence. Apparently that didn’t merit a reply. It was stalling, after all. He was surprised, though. This student respected him the least of all. “A-anyway. I’ve called you here because,” he cleared his throat again, “we are electing students for…an event. I-in which you would do well to repri-.” No, no, that wouldn’t do. “Which you may have…interest in.”

     A pitiless smirk inched its way across Dante’s face. “So you say.” He obviously knew what the old man was getting. And it was clear that he wasn’t going to put him out of his misery.

     Wrindlmace shivered. “I-it’s a tournament that we have every 50 years. You may have seen the posters.” No reply. “O-or not. Um.” The principal wrung his hands. “We decided that y-you would be the ideal candidate for entry…If you wanted to, that is!” he ended quickly, not wishing to upset the boy.

     Dante chuckled, rising from his seat. “So,” he began in a low voice, “You came crawling to me after all.” His smirk widened and he folded his arms. How someone so short could look down on a person so well was beyond Wrindlmace’s comprehension. “No matter, I would’ve entered whether you wanted me or not.” Wrindlemace was suddenly very glad he asked him first. “Do not think this is for your sake.” He didn’t. “This is for me alone. If you want to glory up this stink hole, you’ll have to leave it to someone else here.” That said, Dante briskly walked out, long red scarf barely fluttering out before the door could shut on it.

     With a sigh of relief, Wrindlmace sunk into his chair – a plush one, the solitary solace in these hours. The moment was brief. Seconds later the door opened again with a smash – he wept inwardly for his azaleas – to make way for his secretary.

     “Mr. Wrinkleface!” Good GOD, even his staff? “There’s been an update on the tournament.” She continued breathlessly, “It was announced last night, but I didn’t remember you don’t own a TV or radio and you don’t hang out in town and all your friends are old coots too and-!”

     “What is this update, Ms. Topan?” Wrindlmace cut in dryly. She nodded.

     “Right, right. Of course.” She caught her breath and cleared her throat. “The winner of this year’s tournament will be the next king of Hell!”