Victorious and The Seventh
"Disappointing. So these are the soldiers of "Belmon"? Hardly anything to cause a scare over."
Standing in the center of the vast arena, the tall man with seraphic, white hair that hung down past his shoulders muttered while wielding only one of the two swords he possessed.
Littered in the sand of the pit were dozens of bodies dressed in black robes, coating the tan sand in crimson and sable liquid. It wasn't just the robed followers of Belmon; the demons native to Purgatory had seen their own side of death, sprawled out in the sand.
"...Andraste, you have my thanks, if it weren't for--"
As Asmodeus showed his gratitude to the knight who wore no armor, only a pure-white uniform that matched his own locks, his thanks were swept away in the wind by the man.
"Silence, I didn't intend to save you; it was merely a side effect of my own culling of these freaks. On that note, you're not home free yet, demon."