This Beast-Tamer is a Little Strange

Wrath reached his destination in a straight line of destruction.

The architecture changed again as he crossed the boundary to a special district of the inner ring. The structures in this district felt deliberately different from the rest of the city. They did not sprawl or twist organically, nor did they resemble the crowded, haphazard growth of the outer Abyss. Each building rose with clear intention—obsidian frames reinforced with rib-like bone, angular and restrained, as though chaos itself had been forced into obedience.

At the center of this district stood the hall.

It resembled a colosseum built by someone—or something—that despised the very concept of comfort.

Its pillars were too narrow to inspire confidence, rising high and thin as if daring gravity to fail. Its entrances were constricted, barely wide enough for an average human, let alone a demigod—thankfully, at that level, form was a suggestion rather than a limitation. Its angles were sharp in the way of teeth rather than architecture; an accidental brush against a doorway could leave a wound carved straight to the bone.

Yet despite these hostile design choices, this place was sacred ground to the abyssals. The air around it felt heavier, denser, as though the city itself bowed inward toward the structure.

Inside, darkness thickened into a dome-like ceiling that pulsed faintly, slow and deliberate.

Light came from embedded orbs set into the walls and floor, glowing like dying stars. Every footstep echoed grandly, the sound lingering just long enough to remind visitors how small they were.

Even demigods.

The interior opened into a vast circular arena, its scale immediately oppressive.

There were no seats. No stands. No concessions to spectacle.

Instead, the demigods occupied the outer ring of the arena, arranged in loose groupings around a central void that consumed the floor. It was not a stage, but a chasm—a seemingly bottomless abyss that pulled at the gaze if stared into for too long. No light escaped from it. No sound returned. Merely standing near its rim made lesser beings feel as though something unseen was quietly observing them.

Around that chasm, abyssal demigods stood with careful spacing, their presences brushing against one another like blades held too close. Domains leaked unintentionally, causing minor distortions in the air—pressure shifts, flickers of heat or cold, ripples that made weaker abyssals instinctively retreat.

Some demigods were massive and misshapen, their bodies barely maintaining recognizable form as raw abyssal power warped the space around them. Others retained roughly humanoid silhouettes layered with animal traits—horns, scaled limbs, too many joints—while a few were grotesque composites stitched together from beasts, insects, and flesh.

And among them… were the ones Wrath hated most of all.

The Seven Great Demons.

Infernal demigods.

Or rather—former ones.

With the Underworld long since consumed, they were abyssal demigods now in truth. Yet unlike most, they had surrendered without resistance, and in doing so retained far more of what they once were. Memories. Personality. Consciousness. Power sharpened rather than erased.

Wrath scowled as his gaze locked onto Mammon, Demon of Greed.

Mammon stood with his hands folded neatly before him, his tall humanoid frame draped in layered robes of black and gold that looked more ceremonial than practical. His skin was a dull, polished bronze, veined with living gold that shifted slowly beneath the surface like molten script. His face was handsome in a calculating way, lips permanently curved into a merchant’s smile, while his eyes burned with a sharp, acquisitive gleam—as though everything he looked upon had already been tallied and claimed. Behind him hovered faint rings of solid gold, halo-like, each etched with tally marks that rearranged themselves at irregular intervals.

Nearby, Belphegor, Demon of Sloth, barely resembled a humanoid at all.

His massive, horned body was hunched and heavy, layered with dark fur and sagging leathery hide that made him appear as though gravity favored him more than others. Thick horns curved backward from his skull, chipped and worn. Half-lidded eyes glowed faintly from within a face that resembled a bovine skull stripped of flesh. He leaned against a pillar not out of affectation, but necessity—standing upright seemed like an unnecessary exertion. The air around him felt stale and slow, as though even time hesitated to move quickly in his presence.

Leviathan, Demon of Envy, watched Wrath with open schadenfreude—until irritation flickered across his reptilian features as he realized Wrath’s attention had passed over him in favor of Greed.

How dare he.

Leviathan’s immense serpentine body was clad in overlapping blue-black scales that shimmered with a wet, oil-slick sheen. Fins and frilled ridges ran along his spine, twitching subtly as if tasting the air. Wherever he lingered, the faint sound of distant waves echoed, soft and relentless. His upper torso rose higher than most, vaguely draconic, crowned by a narrow, angular head. His eyes were a deep, jealous green—reflective, comparative, never admiring.

Beelzebub, Demon of Gluttony, hovered rather than stood.

His form was a grotesque fusion of bloated humanoid torso and insect anatomy. A swollen abdomen hung beneath him, segmented like that of a giant fly, while translucent wings vibrated constantly, producing a low, nauseating buzz. Compound eyes dominated his face, multifaceted and always moving. His mouth—far too wide—dripped saliva that hissed faintly where it touched the stone. The stench around him was unmistakable: rot, sweetness, and excess layered together into something cloying and obscene.

Lilith, Demon of Lust, was the only one not openly staring down Wrath.

She took advantage of the rare gathering, moving gracefully among the demigods, lingering just close enough to be felt. Her form was unmistakably feminine and disturbingly perfect. At a glance, she appeared almost human—if a human stood over twenty feet tall. Slender and pale, with long dark hair cascading over flawless skin, she might have passed for beautiful were it not for her eyes: crimson, slit like a predator’s, glowing softly with cruelty. Small, elegant horns curved back from her temples, and membranous bat-like wings rested folded behind her, poised like a lover’s embrace waiting to tighten. Her presence was intoxicating rather than oppressive, drawing the attention of even those who knew better.

Wrath searched for the last of his siblings.

Pride was absent.

As usual, Lucifer considered gatherings like this beneath him—too crowded, too crude, far too vulgar for someone of his stature.

The thought alone made Wrath’s domain lash out unconsciously. A nearby thin pillar cracked down the middle before immediately beginning to regenerate.

None of the demigods flinched.

If anything, their smiles widened.

They knew the fun was about to begin.

Like cats watching a mouse step into a trap they had already set.

And his ‘little outburst’ only made the attention that had been somewhat scattered a moment ago, now refocus solely on him.

One gaze shifted, then another. Conversations tapered off, quiet laughter dying mid-breath as attention drifted—slowly, deliberately—toward Wrath. Even Lilith paused mid-seductive performance, abandoning her attempt to seduce a pair of abyssal demigods who resembled twin merfolk, her crimson eyes finally lifting to settle on him.

One by one, the demigods turned. Closed eyes opened.

Suddenly, what appeared to be hundreds of violet orbs ignited across the arena. As more than a hundred pairs of glowing violet gazes in the open and in the shadows fixed themselves on Wrath, unblinking.

Filled with anticipation and malevolent glee.

The weight of their collective attention pressed down on him, heavier than any domain clash. Wrath’s shoulders tightened, his claws flexing reflexively against his sides.

For the first time since having his territory in the Underworld overrun and surrendering to the Great Mother, Wrath felt truly cornered.