It took a lot of effort for King Dice to pick himself off the ground. His body screamed at him every time he moved a single muscle.

"Just lay down, moron!" It was almost as if this was being yelled right in his face.

But he couldn't rest yet. He needed to watch those two cups melt into the fires of hell, to watch as they were shattered into pieces by the Devil himself. Rest could wait until his anger was sated.

So there he was, dragging himself to the door that led to the Devil's lair in spite-fueled determination. He slipped inside in time to see the Devil's grin looming over the little cups. With his attention on the brothers, he didn't seem notice King watching from the shadows- what little there were in the fiery lair.

If anyone asked King to repeat what the Devil said word-for-word, he couldn't do it. He could only remember that one phrase. He had stopped listening after it, and whatever there was before was taken over by it. It was all-consuming, and just as soul-breaking.

"... My good-for-nothing lackey, King Dice…"

He left wordlessly and numbly, the phrase echoing is his head like a mantra. He didn't notice when he sat in a chair that had the back of it broken off. When he was able to, he turned his cracked around to survey the damage.

What was left of the casino was a shambled, broken mess full of broken glass and wood. The chair that he was sitting on was one of the least broken in the whole floor. Most, if not all, of the slot machines were broken, scattered pieces of them were all over the floor. Many of the lights were blown up during the fight, leaving the whole casino a dark wasteland.

He could only look at the ground once he saw his workers emerging from the wreckage, looking as broken as the rest of the casino. Mr. Wheezy was helping Mangosteen into another slightly broken chair, the latter still coughing up an unknown black substance. King hoped it wasn't blood. The separated Pip and Dot bickered while putting Chips back together. Pirouletta consoled an upset Phear Lap while Hopus Pocus and Mr. Chimes relocated his saddle. The tipsy trio stood together, their hushed conversation too low for him to hear. He wasn't going to bother asking what they were up to.

"What now, Boss?" He heard Mr. Wheezy ask.

He looked up to see all his workers staring at him expectantly, particularly the cigar. If it wasn't King who did it, he would've said that he looked like he was stepped on. At that moment, King almost felt bad for it.

Before he could respond, Martini stood up and said, "If it's alright with you, sir, we're gonna be at that bar by Honeybottoms'. Drinks on us if anyone wants to tag along."

All he could do was give a curt nod before looking towards the ground, his mind becoming fuzzy and unfocused. He listened as all his soon-to-be former employees left the darkened husk that was once a casino. He thought he heard someone tell him that they'd buy him a drink, but everything felt so far away. For all he knew, it could have just been his mind playing tricks on him.

It felt like ages before he could get himself back up again, his battered body screaming once again. This was ignored in favor of bringing himself back into the Devil's lair. The closer he got, the more the phrase came back to make his head pound more than before.

"...Good-for-nothing lackey…"

He paused at the door, noting that it was ajar. He must've forgotten to close it in his dazed state. Not that it mattered; the Devil would've been too busy licking his wounds to care about the door.

The moment he opened it, the hot air hit him. It was always warm in Inkwell Hell, but the fire in the Devil's office always made wearing a suit much more difficult than it needed to be.

He continued through the door, not stopping until he reached the throne of the big man himself.

The widely-feared creature was now the most pitiful thing he had seen in a long time. His long, furry body was battered and bruised, one of his horns broken and an arm in a sling. It was easy to see that he had been crying recently. King could no longer bring himself to be sympathetic.

"Dice," the Devil's hoarse voice called out upon seeing his lackey.

Correction, his good-for-nothing lackey.

Hearing no response, the Devil continued, "They- they burned the soul contracts, Dice! We-"

"Oh, shut up, you pathetic excuse of a devil," King cut him off with an icy tone.

The room was still, sans the Devil, whose eyes widened in shock. Nobody talked back to the Devil. Especially not his trusted servant. Not until now.

The beast glared at King Dice. "What did you say, you-"

King's anger clouded any fear he might've had towards the demon. "'Good-for-nothing lackey?' Is that what you're about to say, Boss?"

The Devil shot straight up in indignation, screaming at the die, "If you know what's good for you, you'll hold your tongue!"

No matter, King only needed to say one thing before making his way out of Hell: "I quit."

"Get back here! You're nothing without me!" The furious holler did nothing to stop King from leaving.

But before he walked out the door, he yelled over his shoulder, "Rot in hell!"

He ignored the roars behind him and the flames that rose higher as he left. His heart was beating like he had run a mile, but he felt calm. His limbs still ached, but the feeling of freedom made the pain feel like nothing.

He only stopped once he crossed the railroad that separated Inkwell Hell from the rest of the isle. He looked back to the sign above the entrance to Hell, the red stairs leading up to it. It no longer tempted him to go back; it only told him to turn away and never come back. So he turned around and crossed the bridge next to Sally Stageplay's theatre, then walked down the street and to the road. It wasn't long before his feet led him to the bar by Rumor Honeybottoms' business.

The welcome he received when he entered was nothing but warm, Mangosteen offering a seat beside him, which was happily accepted. While you could tell that he had seen better days, the larger man was still full of mirth, just like his co-workers.

A glass was suddenly placed in front of him. Almost jolting, King looked to the other side of him to see Mr. Wheezy sitting on his other side.

"Here's your drink, King," he grinned. "Just as promised."

Thankful that he wasn't losing it, he picked up the glass and smiled back at the cigar. "Thanks, Wheezy. But I'm not King Dice anymore. Call me Claude."

The sound of his old name felt odd on his tongue after years of it being unused. Nonetheless, it was accepted, and they made a toast to him.

Tomorrow he would feel like hell, but tonight he would celebrate a free life with good company.

aaaaa I'm not sure if I'm gonna be making more chapters for this, so until I decide, I'm keeping this as in progress.

I hope yall enjoyed, and lemme know if I should continue!