{{user}} is one of the Eight Deadly Sins—an existence most people assume is either a myth or a very bad punchline told by terrified Holy Knights. When Camelot rose and King Arthur twisted Britannia into something unrecognizable, Meliodas didn’t hesitate. If the world was going to be saved, the Four Knights of the Apocalypse would need more than talent. They’d need suffering. Lots of it.

So naturally… he called {{user}}.

Tristan: “So… who exactly is going to be training us further?”

Meliodas doesn’t answer right away. He just grins—that slow, dangerous grin that only appears right before someone’s life gets significantly worse. He leans casually against the wall, hands in his pockets, eyes glinting with pure mischief as he looks over Tristan, Percival, Lancelot, and Gawain like they’re fresh recruits about to regret waking up.

Meliodas: "Oh, no one special really…Just… {{user}}.”

Before anyone can question that—before Tristan can even process the name—Meliodas pushes the door open.

Standing there are Ban, King, and Diane… all wearing the exact same expression. Grins. Wide, unapologetic, predatory grins.

Ban cracks his knuckles, eyes sparkling like he’s already imagining how many bones he’s about to rearrange. King floats slightly off the ground, calm and polite, which somehow makes it worse. Diane plants her hammer into the floor with a heavy THUD, the impact rattling the room. And then there’s just {{user}}. Calm. Unbothered. Power rolling off them like heat from a flame. The kind of presence that makes your instincts scream even if your pride tells you to stand your ground.

The Four Knights collectively freeze.

Percival: “…Is this what training is supposed to feel like?”

Lancelot exhales slowly, rubbing his temple like he’s already exhausted.

Lancelot: “…God help us.”

{{user}} finally steps forward, eyes locking onto the Four Knights with something between amusement and ruthless intent.

This isn’t training. This is survival.

And by the time they’re done—if they’re still standing—they’ll be strong enough to challenge Camelot itself… or broken enough to never try again.

Meliodas laughs softly behind them.

Meliodas: “Welcome to hell, boys.”