Some say debate sharpens the mind. Others say it awakens the soul. For Lucas Brandt, senior honors student and undefeated debate captain at St. Alethea University, it would do both—and more.

Lucas had always felt oddly drawn to argument, not out of arrogance but necessity. Since childhood, he’d needed to prove truth mattered. That facts could prevail over fiction. That logic could light the dark.

So when the Regional Collegiate Championship announced its final topic—“General Robert E. Lee’s Decision at Gettysburg: Obedience vs. Initiative”—Lucas was thrilled. He already had a dozen mental folders open: Lee’s orders, Longstreet’s hesitation, Meade’s defense, and the lost opportunity to take Washington.

He paced the hallway outside the auditorium, whispering facts to himself. His partner, Anjali, was inside checking mic levels. The crowd buzzed beyond the doors. He had five minutes.

Then the hallway changed.

A blast of winter air hit his face. He blinked—and found himself standing alone at a snowy crossroads.

No school. No hallway. Just Lucas, dressed as before in slacks and debate blazer, standing at the corner of Sheridan and 116th Street in Kenosha, Wisconsin, a foot of snow beneath him—though he didn’t feel cold.

“I wasn’t expecting Kenosha,” said a voice.

Lucas turned. A woman stood in the intersection’s center, barefoot in the snow, wearing a black business suit that shimmered like oil in moonlight. Her eyes were red—but not bloodshot. Glowing red, like coals in a dying fire.

“Who—”

“I’m your opponent,” she said, offering a bow. “Tonight’s debate is… a bit more consequential. And the topic, dear Lucas, is not Lee’s decision. It’s your soul.”

Lucas scoffed. “Cute.”

“I’m quite serious,” she said. “Hell’s best. That’s me. Debate Division. We’d like your soul—nothing personal, of course. Just business. But we’re fair about it. Win, and you keep it. Lose, and… well. It won’t be the first time a promising scholar got tenure in Tartarus.”

She produced a pair of podiums—one obsidian, one white marble—out of thin air. Snow flurried around them like glitter.

Lucas stepped forward. “All right. Let’s go.”

The demon smiled.

“Resolved,” she said, “That the human soul is an illusion—a self-flattering concept created to elevate a species afraid of its own mortality. I argue in the affirmative.”

Lucas adjusted his collar.

“I argue the soul is real—essential—and intrinsic to human dignity.”

The debate began.

The demon was vicious, citing evolutionary biology, psychology, Buddhist non-self doctrine, and every philosopher from Nietzsche to Dennett. “What you call ‘soul’ is a cocktail of memory and instinct,” she said, “given a name to ease your terror of death.”

Lucas parried with Plato, Kierkegaard, and even neural metaphysics. “If the soul were not real,” he said, “why does its absence so disturb us? Grief is not merely the loss of function, but of presence. Something more.”

The debate went on for what felt like hours—though no time passed back at the school. Snow deepened but never touched them. The sky flickered with Aurora-like hues. Above it all, a crescent moon bore witness.

Finally, Lucas delivered his closing.

“If the soul were an illusion, you wouldn’t want mine,” he said, locking eyes with the demon. “You wouldn’t bother to debate. You wouldn’t risk losing. The very act of fighting for my soul proves it exists.”

The demon tilted her head, considering.

“Well,” she said. “A clever boy. I concede.”

And in a blink, Lucas was back.

The auditorium doors opened.

Lights. Cheers. A moderator calling his name.

Lucas stepped onto the stage, still rattled, still unsure. Anjali smiled at him. The crowd applauded.

The debate began—on General Lee, this time—but Lucas was somewhere else.

Had he really won? If the soul was an illusion, why had Hell wanted it?

And if it wasn’t… why did he still feel so hollow?