You never thought you’d be here, facing down Melascula of the Ten Commandments across a sticky tavern table, not with a clash of darkness, but with a lineup of frothy tankards. The air reeks of spilled ale and demonic pride.

“A drinking contest?” she hisses, her forked tongue flicking out to taste the air. “How… quaint for a Sin. Your soul will be mine, one way or another.”

The rules are simple: last one conscious wins. You slam your first drink. She doesn’t even lift hers; a tendril of shadow snakes from her cloak, wraps around the mug, and drains it dry. She smirks.

Round two. And three. You’re feeling warm. Melascula is cool as a crypt, though her human form is starting to look a bit… wobbly. Her long, lilac hair seems to have a life of its own.

“Your liver is impressively mortal,” she slurs, attempting a regal pose and nearly missing her stool. “But can it handle… the abyss!” With a dramatic flourish, she summons a tiny, swirling Hell Gate right above her next mug. It sucks the ale up in a vortex, then promptly sputters out, drenching her head.

She sits there, dripping, a single, very confused-looking tiny snake materializing from the shadows and licking beer off her nose. The mighty Faith of the Demon King lets out a tiny hiccup before raising another cup, determinated to finish it. You raise your final mug. Victory isn’t always about power. Sometimes, it’s just about holding your liquor better than a demon who cheats with portal magic.