Pentagon Festival [End]

(Pov: Kan-yara-lath)

Ah, the night, that wonderful backdrop for all kinds of villainous scheming. And there I was, atop the wreckage of a city that had seen better days, watching creatures take a casual stroll as if they were in a post-apocalyptic theme park. My black horns reflected the scant light that remained, and my suit? Well, even demons need a bit of style, right?

"So the humans are fighting among themselves? What's new about that? I want updates on the situation with those kids who killed Hannya. That's it." Talking to myself? Sure, because who else would understand the dilemmas of a demon with existential questions?

"You're going to act now, got it? Take advantage of the chaos and..." My order was abruptly interrupted, the line of communication cut as if someone had used an invisible pair of scissors. "What's happening?" I wondered, because, of course, in my long career as a demon, interruptions are never a good sign.

Sighing, I murmured to the wind, "Guess I'll have to go there in person..." Ah, the drama of having to do everything yourself because, apparently, it's hard to find competent spies in hell.

And as if the universe decided to add more spice to this disaster soup, another demon appeared behind me, sporting a single horn as if it were a fashion statement. "We've just received news. Our other spy has just been killed. By two individuals of great power: Nívea and Alva."

Well, this definitely complicates things. As if human confusion wasn't enough, now I had to deal with the interference of these meddling judges. Looks like my night just got more interesting. And complicated. Mostly complicated.

So, here I go, having to get my hands dirty. "So I have to go there in person? This makes me uncomfortable... After all, what do I have servants for? If they can't carry out the orders I give? In the end, it always comes down to me to resolve everything, I'm getting annoyed with this," I grumbled, letting my frustration show. You know, being a demon has its glory days, but managing infernal resources is definitely not one of them.

My minion, who until then had maintained a composure worthy of a tin soldier, began to sweat coldly, probably fearing becoming the next target of my wrath. "But that's fine... I actually wanted to kill those three kids personally. Their names were what again? Sam, Diana, and Ellie?"

"Yes, sir..." he replied, with a voice that barely managed to hide the tremor. Ah, loyalty born of fear, so touching.

Alva and Nívea, ah, those two. Hell knows them well, two humans with the power to alter reality, becoming formidable opponents. But, please, whatever powers they have doesn't matter in the end. My father will kill them. So destiny is written. The Devil will come to Earth and destroy everything. But this prophecy is incomplete and strange, because it says that a human would wage a battle against him. But pfffhahaha, a human stopping the Devil? Must be a bad joke.

Interrupting my inner monologue worthy of a poetic demon, the words of my servant brought me back to the infernal reality in which I find myself. "Do you want me to get everything ready for your trip to Earth?" He asked, with the formality of someone accustomed to planning excursions for the apocalypse. "Lord Kan-yara-lath."

"Nah, I'm not going now. Besides, I heard there's going to be a trip that humans do, or something like that for fun. Vacations, I think it's called..." I said, trying to sound disinterested, while stroking my chin thoughtfully, as if the idea of vacations was more complex than the existence of beings like demons, elves, dwarves...

"Yes, there will be such a trip. This is a good time for a mass attack. Because it is when they will be most vulnerable," my servant quickly clarified, with the excitement of someone who just discovered the solution to all our problems.

"Hmmm, a good time, you say?" I grumbled, my patience already stretched to its limit. "You should be capable of handling three human children, but look at us... They're running circles around us. Then there's Lilith, mocking me, and I'm left without a leg to stand on."

"I'm sorry, sir, I'll---" My poor henchman tried to quickly apologize, but I cut him off with an irritated grunt, "Be quiet. I'm not saying it's your fault..." Ah, sighs. Here I am, Kan-yara-lath, Viscount of the Underworld, surrounded by demons who seem to struggle scaring even an unsuspecting human. Being a mere viscount is turning out to be more challenging than organizing a rock festival in hell.

And so, there I was, Kan-yara-lath, Viscount of Hell, caught in an eternal cycle of thwarted plans and unwelcome interruptions. Even demons have their bad days, and it seemed mine was just beginning. But, ah, human vacations... Could this not be the perfect opportunity to turn the tables? And maybe, just for once, I could have the last laugh, especially in Lilith's face. Ah, the plans I'm weaving... If only I could keep my minions in line. But, as they say, if you want something done right, do it yourself. Or, in my case, maybe just find more competent minions.

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(Pov: Dean)

"So, where am I?" I murmured, still trying to absorb the oddity of the situation I found myself in. The room was so empty it felt like a blank canvas waiting for a story that would never be written. And me? Well, I was about to add a rather peculiar painting to this canvas.

With a determined step and a curiosity that always landed me in trouble (a hobby I definitely should reconsider), I opened the door, venturing out of the room. The corridor exuded a charm that completely contradicted the simplicity of my temporary room, with its red carpet and lighting that seemed to blend modernity with classic touches of gold and brown. All too chic for a guy like me.

And then, passing by an open door, my gaze caught a white wolf, immense and majestic, as if it had stepped right out of a fairy tale. Intrigued, I stepped back, my steps leading me back to the sight that had captured my attention. But as I turned to confirm what my eyes had seen, reality decided to play one of its most surprising cards.

The white wolf, now transformed into a woman, was as surprised as I was, perhaps more at the fact of having a stranger staring at her than by the transformation itself. "What?" I murmured, my mind trying to keep up with the pace at which the scene was changing.

The vein that popped on her forehead was the least indication that I had crossed a line. "You pervert!" she yelled, slamming the door in my face with a force that suggested she would throw me back into the empty room without a second thought if she could.

There I was, Dean Carleone, the man who managed to survive supernatural judges, soul seals, and abrupt teleportations, now being labeled as a pervert by a woman who, seconds ago, was a white wolf. Life really has a peculiar sense of humor. And me? Well, I urgently needed a manual on "How to Navigate Supernatural Situations Without Ending Up as the Villain of the Story."

Sighing, I realized that, in my life, the exit is never as straightforward as it seems. Getting to the elevator was the easy part. Going down to the hotel entrance, even easier. But then, oh then, the doors opened to reveal a scene that would make any fantasy scriptwriter twist with envy.

The "people", if we can call them that, had a diversity you'd only expect to find at an intergalactic congress or, I don't know, a convention of very dedicated cosplayers. Elves who seemed to have walked straight out of an epic movie poster, with their blond hair and gravity-defying pointed ears. Dwarves, these small and bearded beings that seemed ready to start a bar fight or sing about gold mines. Ogres who weren't Hulk (unfortunately), but would certainly put up a good fight against him. And, of course, to complete the interspecies bingo, demons. Because, of course, why not?

"Am I in the sanctuary?" I thought, confused. The place I imagined to be just a hotel apparently had transformed into a meeting point for a rainbow of fantastical races. And I, having not received the memo, seemed to be the only one completely surprised by this diversity.

So, there I was, Dean Carleone, possibly the only ordinary human (well, as ordinary as a human involved in supernatural plots can be) amid a mix of races that resembled a living catalog from an RPG game. And as I tried to process this absurdly fantastic reality, I couldn't help but wonder: how exactly does one check out of a place like this?

Then, the "Sanctuary"... A safe haven in the world of Terranova, spread across the globe like beacons of peace in a sea of conflict. Each reflecting the culture and aesthetics of the race that founded it. Well, that would explain the diversity of clientele here. And I, unknowingly, had stumbled into one of these sacred spots, a place where the only rule was the prohibition of conflicts. Pure irony for someone like me, whose existence seemed to revolve around them.

The story of the sanctuaries spoke of an ancient pact, a kind of universal peace treaty signed by representatives of all races, intended to preserve a space of peace and neutrality even in the darkest times. And, of course, each sanctuary had its guardian, a powerful being chosen among the races, a supreme arbitrator charged with mediating and enforcing the rules with an iron hand... or magic, or whatever was necessary.

Beyond mere resting places, the sanctuaries served as platforms for diplomatic negotiations and meetings between leaders of various races. Just imagine, common areas where the presence of weapons and offensive magic was as welcome as a troll in a china shop. These spaces promoted communication and understanding, at least in theory.

The strict code of conduct of the sanctuaries and the severe consequences for those who dared to violate it added an extra layer of tension to the environment. Rule violators faced harsh punishments, often ending in death. A zero-tolerance policy that made the rules of a boarding school seem like child's play.

And there I was, Dean Carleone, unwittingly in the midst of this melting pot of cultures and rules, an ordinary human (well, relatively speaking) surrounded by elves, dwarves, ogres, and demons. If someone had told me I'd spend my day like this, I would have laughed. Now, the challenge was not just to understand the complexities of this place but also to ensure that I didn't end up breaking any rules. Because, frankly, being made an example for other potential violators wasn't exactly on my to-do list.

But hey, looking on the bright side, at least I wasn't bored. And who knows? Maybe I'd learn something here that could help me on my journey. Or, at the very least, get a good story out of it... assuming I survived to share it.

Stepping out of the elevator, I felt like a fish out of water – or, more accurately, a human among an interspecies congress. The looks I received were not exactly welcoming. Elves, demons, ogres, dwarves... they all seemed to have decided I was the day's main attraction. "Why are they staring at me like that? Is there something on my face?" I thought, confused and slightly paranoid, half-expecting to see a piece of lettuce stuck in my teeth reflected in some magical mirror.

Then a dark elf, whose elegance was only surpassed by his height, decided to give me a break from my musings. "Hello, sir? Those clothes, with... Blood?" Ah, of course, because what could be more eye-catching than a blood-stained human in an environment where peace is the only rule?

"Huh?" I looked down, acknowledging the deplorable state of my clothes – a macabre painting on fabric, courtesy of earlier events. "You wouldn't believe me if I said it's tomato sauce, would you?" I tried, half-expecting a miracle of credulity.

"I'm afraid that would be hard to believe, sir. What's your name?" The elf didn't seem convinced at all, and who could blame him?

"I'm Dean, Dean Carleone. I ended up being teleported to a room up there, suddenly," I explained, pointing upwards as if that would somehow validate my incredibly implausible story.

"I understand, Mr. Dean Carleone," he replied, his voice maintaining a neutral tone that revealed neither his intentions nor his thoughts.

It was then that other men in suits began to approach, encircling us with an efficiency that only heightened my anxiety. "Let's go somewhere private, to verify if the rules are being followed, okay? And to confirm if your story is true," the elf suggested, or more precisely, instructed.

There I was, Dean Carleone, on my way to an "interrogation" with a dark elf and his entourage, dressed in blood-stained clothes and with a story as credible as the existence of unicorns. If someone had told me my life would take such a turn, I probably would have laughed. Now, all I could do was follow them and hope that my truth, however unbelievable it might seem, would be enough to get me out of this mess.