Glenn and Deathnibbles continued past the Herme’s Assistant into the PITT.

  The entrance swallowed light as soon as they crossed it like walking down in hell suppose to be like. The sound of the city faded behind them, replaced by a deep, rhythmic vibration that came from somewhere ahead. The air was cold, smelling faintly of sulfur, ash, and sweat. The only illumination came from a single floating torch that drifted lazily down the corridor, its flame pulsing like a heartbeat.

  The tunnel curved slightly before opening into a small chamber where four other figures stood motionless. They were lined up like mannequins, gray togas and blank eyes reflecting the dim firelight. Glenn recognized one immediately as the proud warrior who had shouted at the demons back at Gate One, now reduced to silence. His defiance burned out of him.

  Deathnibbles perched on Glenn’s shoulder, equally expressionless. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to; the numbness from the emotional audit at Gate Six made words unnecessary.

  From beyond the wall came a roar so deep, thunderous, and alive. The muffled sound of thousands of voices chanting, cheering, and arguing bled through the stone like the sound became physical.

  Then, with a hiss, the massive metal door in front of them began to rise.

  Light flooded in like a sunrise.

  It was impossible to take in all at once. The arena was a grotesque fusion of cultures and centuries, half Roman colosseum, half Vegas stage, half corporate amphitheater. The ground was smooth marble etched with symbols from every faith, glowing faintly underfoot. Above, holographic banners shimmered with slogans like “The next great manager can be you!” and “Rise or Burn.”

  A vast barrier of translucent energy enclosed the center area all the back to the door where Glenn stood, separating the combatants’ stage from the audience. It looked almost like a soap bubble, except it shimmered with runes that twisted in and out of visibility. Beyond it, the stands were overflowing, not with mortals, but with deities, heroes, and monsters from every myth imaginable.

  Each section was divided by pantheon. The Greek quarter was decorated with laurel leaves and amphorae spilling wine. The Norse contingent waved axes and skull goblets. The Hindu crowd sat in organized tiers, each soul glowing faintly with the calm of meditation, even as they shouted bets at one another. The Aztec section drummed rhythmically on obsidian plates. A handful of celestial beings from Christianity floated silently in their seats above demons below them. And these were the fans.

  Two beings stood out in particular. A man with a long beard and fig leaves named Adam, and another in bronze armor with a laurel crown named Aeneas. They were arguing excitedly, wearing identical T-shirts that said in glittering letters: TEAM GLENN.

  “Who’s that supposed to be?” asked a winged cherub sitting behind them.

  Adam beamed. “Glenn? Oh you will see. This is one of the best stories I’ve ever heard. Trust me I’ve seen it.”

  Aeneas nodded eagerly. “ Me too. Just wait. We even know how it ends, and we still came to see it live!”

  “Shh, shh—here come the gods!” Adam said.

  Above the arena, in a glass-walled box suite that looked like a mix between a boardroom and a throne room, sat the Gods of Death.

  They were arrayed in a semi-circle, each in their own throne of a chair that reflected their culture’s domain.

  Hel of the Norse, pale and regal, raised a goblet of black wine.

  Coatlicue of the Aztecs, draped in serpents, leaned back, scales glinting in the low light.

  Ereshkigal of the Sumerians sat motionless, her shadow stretching across the floor like spilled ink.

  Persephone of Greece was radiant but cold, her smile a blade that dared anyone to ask whats hiding behind it.

  Yama of the Hindus reclined with his ledger of judgment open in his lap, noting everything.

  Ekwensu, the Igbo trickster of chaos, fidgeted impatiently, drumming clawed fingers on his armrest.

  Izanami-no-Mikoto of Japan gazed with quiet disapproval of the others.

  Yanluo Wang of China stroked his long beard, unmoved.

  Hine-nui-te-pō of the Māori leaned forward, eyes shimmering like the ocean at dusk.

  And at the far ends sat Osiris of Egypt, serene and godlike and besides him, Lucifer or as some know Satan. He dressed in a black suit so immaculate it seemed cut from the night sky itself except for two perfectly symmetrical holes where his wings came out of.

  The gods murmured among themselves, their voices a storm of languages that blended into understanding.

  Hel was first to speak. “Good turnout this year. Coatlicue, how rare to see you here in person.”

  The serpent goddess turned her many eyes toward her. “Mictlāntēcutli’s killer walks among the contestants. I intend to watch him fail.”

  Hine-nui-te-pō leaned toward Yanluo Wang. “Are you not sending a contestant this time?”

  Yanluo smiled mildly. “No need for souls at present. I am simply here for the entertainment.”

  The others chuckled knowingly.

  Below, the great doors of the arena opened again.

  Standing at the threshold, framed by the energy barrier, was a familiar figure.

  A woman in a black gown that had souls burning in flames on it, her hair tied in a perfect corporate bun, a headset mic floating beside her lips.

  It was Lilith from HR.

  She beamed, the perfect HR professional turned ringmaster, her smile wide to be seen from the nosebleeds. A floating camera-eye hovered above her shoulder, projecting her image onto an enormous jumbotron suspended above the PITT.

  “GODS! DEITIES! DEMIGODS! HALFBREEDS! YOU SOULLESS BASTARDS!” she cried, voice echoing across eternity. “Welcome to THE PITT, the Performance Improvement Tournament and Trials!”

  The crowd erupted. Trumpets of bone blared, drums of thunder rolled. Lilith held up a manicured hand, basking in it.

  “At Lower Management, we only promote the best! And what better way to decide who deserves a corner office in eternity than a little friendly competition?”

  Static crackled in her earpiece. She paused, smiled wider.

  “Six contestents…Oh! I’m just being informed we have a last-minute seventh contestant this year. How exciting! I haven't even got out two words! The chaos starts early!”

  The crowd howled approval.

  “I am your host, Lilith. You know me as the Director of Human Resources, but for now Mistress of Ceremonies for eternal advancement. Thank you, gods of death, for gracing us with your presence!"

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  The spotlight swept across the ring, illuminating the door where Glenn and the others waited.

  Lilith’s voice rang out like thunder.

  “NOW. Drumroll please! Let’s meet our contestants!”

  “First up,” she said, “a returning favorite! A legend who just refuses to stay dead! The king of Uruk himself, the original hero, and Ereshkigal’s sponsored golden boy, GILGAMESH!”

  A massive figure stepped forward from the line. As he crossed the barrier, light flared around him. His armor reassembled itself piece by piece. Bronze and gold shining like the sunrise of creation. His body expanded, muscles hardening, eyes glowing amber.

  He put on two bronze knuckle plates and raised his fists in the air, and the crowd roared.

  Some cheered, others booed, shouting, “You’ll choke again!” or “Thousandth time’s the charm, King!”

  Gilgamesh simply grinned and gave a theatrical bow, already basking in the attention.

  “Oh, this next one’s exciting!” Lilith cooed. “Representing the ever-organized department of Yama, god of death and duty, please welcome the son of the sun himself, the champion of fairness, KARNA!”

  The warrior from Gate One stepped forward, his eyes blank but his posture regal. As he passed through the barrier, his golden armor he had since birth materialized around him. A great bow appeared in his hand, strung with light.

  He lifted it and fired three arrows into the air, where they exploded into constellations. The audience gasped, then applauded.

  Karna said nothing, only moved to stand beside Gilgamesh, his face ignoring Giglamesh’s presence but his aura fierce.

  “Now, this one,” Lilith said with a grin, “comes from a sponsor we haven’t seen since the retirement of Hades himself! Give a warm welcome to Persephone’s handpicked contender, a head scratcher to say the least, Andromache!”

  A slender woman stepped forward, her toga dull gray until she crossed the barrier. Then, in a flash, her garments shifted into the battle dress of ancient Troy. A round shield appeared on her arm, Hector’s crest upon it, and a sword gleamed in her hand, the blade that once belonged to Achilles.

  The crowd murmured. Some booed.

  “Her?” one godling jeered. “Why not send her husband?”

  “I heard her vengeance was so great she found Achilles in the afterlife,” another whispered, “and chained him in Tartarus, made him kill himself every day with his own sword.”

  “Whoa,” said the first. “Okay, that’s epic.”

  Andromache ignored them all. Her eyes never left the gods’ box above. She walked to the others, silent, poised, her fury cold as marble.

  “Ah, now this sponsor always brings surprises!” Lilith sang. “From the Igbo department, the trickster himself, Ekwensu, presents Oba Ifekudu, Hammer of the People!”

  The next figure strode through the barrier, and a great obsidian spear coalesced in his grip. Sparks danced across its edge. The crowd cheered as he spun it with effortless power, then slammed its butt into the ground. A tremor rippled across the arena floor.

  “Let’s keep this moving. Our next contender represents the disciplined of the East!” Lilith continued. “Chosen by Izanami-no-Mikoto herself, the soul of honor and duty! Please welcome the young, Taira no Atsumori!”

  The young samurai stepped forward, and the barrier bathed him in pale blue light. His armor reformed piece by piece with red lacquer plates, ribbons of silk, a helmet crowned with the symbol of his clan. He bowed deeply to the crowd. The audience melted in admiration.

  “That’s the type of human you want to worship you.” One crowd member said.

  “Yeah, it’s unfortunate he has no chance.”

  Up in the gods’ box, the mood shifted.

  “The next contestant. Am I reading this right?” Lilith looked up at the box for confirmation.

  Anubis had appeared, standing quietly behind Osiris’s throned seat. The gods turned their eyes to him in surprise.

  “Another Egyptian God blesses us with their presence?" Hel asked, sipping her wine. “Osiris, you’ve decided to compete again?”

  Osiris shook his head. “I did not.”

  “I did,” Anubis said, stepping forward.

  The room fell silent.

  Lucifer tilted his head slightly, studying him. “Oh? If not on behalf of Osiris, then on whose behalf?”

  “Not Egypt’s,” Anubis replied. “Mine.”

  “Oh, and claim do you have if it not on behalf of Eygptians?” Hel asked.

  Lilith, hearing the update through her earpiece, blinked in mock surprise.

  “…Wow. Even I didn’t see this coming. Folks, this is a first! Anubis has entered a contestant not for Egypt, but on behalf of the Reaper Corps!”

  The audience gasped. A wave of whispers swept through the pantheon boxes.

  Lucifer’s lips curved into a slow, thin smile.

  Lilith raised her voice over the noise. “We might need a ruling here. Anubis, care to explain?”

  Anubis stepped forward to the railing, his voice booming effortlessly across the arena.

  “I propose this: if my contestant loses, the victor’s realm gains full management authority over the Reapers. They may command them as they see fit. But if mine wins…” His golden eyes narrowed. “…then the Reapers are free. No more managers. No more middle-men between Death and duty.”

  The arena exploded in uproar. Half the audience cheered; the other half hissed.

  Lilith clapped her hands to restore order. “What say you, gods of death? Shall we allow it?”

  The gods whispered among themselves, exchanging wary glances. At first they did not like the trickier of Anubbis. But then it was Lucifer who suggested to the group, “Well, the ruler of death, would be the ruler of souls.”

  One by one, they gave their votes either thumbs up or down. All but one gave their thumbs up. Osiris was the only vote for no.

  Anubis inclined his head and sat beside Osiris. Lucifer leaned back, expression unreadable.

  Lilith’s grin widened. “All right then! Let’s meet this historic entry! Representing the Reaper Corps. Please welcome… Deathnibbles!”

  The squirrel marched forward. The crowd erupted in laughter. Even gods who rarely smiled now doubled over in mirth.

  “What is this?” snorted Yama. “A pet? I know as a animal you have a soft spot but come on.”

  Ekwensu nearly fell from his chair laughing. “Anubis, are you trying to lose?”

  Only Lucifer remained silent, eyes glinting faintly.

  Deathnibbles ignored the jeers, hopping through the barrier. A swirl of light engulfed him, and when it cleared, his golden Hermes shoes gleamed anew, his fur restored to its bright sheen, and his tiny scythe hung proudly across his back. He checked to see the necklace of Bakunawa, Cipactli’s ancient ring, and the Grootslang earring return. He struck a pose. The laughter continued.

  Lilith chuckled. “Well, it wouldn’t be a tournament without a few laughs!”

  “And finally,” she purred, “our last contestant. I may be biased, since his sponsor is my mentor, my king, but I can personally vouch for this one. I’ve seen him reap a god of death with my own eyes!”

  The crowd leaned forward.

  “Representing the Christian division… chosen by Lucifer himself… please welcome, GLENN THE REAPER OF GODS!”

  The last figure in the line was Glenn. He stepped toward the barrier. His heart pounded, the first real feeling since the emotional audit. As he crossed the shimmering threshold, a surge of energy rushed through him.

  His cloak wrapped around his shoulders once more. Mora’s scythe appeared in his grip. His lantern flared with gentle light, souls swirling within. The numbness shattered.

  His memories crashed back all at once, his friends, his failures, Yoshiko’s face, the pain of losing her, and the quiet promise he’d made to change everything. He gasped, staggering slightly. He just now realizing what just happened.

  The crowd erupted in mixed cheers and confusion.

  Glenn raised his head, scanning the stands until he found the gods box.. There was Anubis, watching from above, calm and distant. Beside him, Lucifer leaned forward, smiling like a proud parent admiring his new favorite toy.

  “Why?” Glenn whispered. That why was a thousands questions. Why is Deathnibbles representing the Reapers? Why is Glenn working for Lucifer the literal Devil. Why did he “handpick” Glenn? What kind of tournament is this? Glenn’s head hurt from all these thoughts.

  He looked down at Deathnibbles who was already glaring up at him with furious recognition.

  Lilith’s voice boomed again. “There you have it, folks! Seven champions! Seven sponsors! Seven chances to rise or fall! The stakes are higher than ever!”

  The audience thundered with excitement. Fireworks of divine light exploded above. Trumpets blared.

  Glenn stood among the others. Gilgamesh, Karna, Andromache, Oba Ifekudu, Atsumori, and Deathnibbles. Every one of them glared at Glenn as if he didn’t belong on that stage with them.

  He could feel the ground itself trembling beneath the roar of the gods.

  And from the highest seat in the box, the other Gods applauded in excitement. All but Anubis who couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling as he stared at Lucifer still in his chair with eyes fixated on Glenn.