Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

  Lord Sullivan could be described in many ways. Charismatic. Mysterious. Cunning (if you ask the right people.) Not to toot his own horn but he was a fairly topical demon. Such is to be expected of a member of The Thirteen Crowns. Racking up a healthy list of accolades is the only way to achieve that status, after all. However if one had asked his security devil, they'd probably say something different. Likely in reference to apathy. 

  For you see right now the demon Lord— in all his high standing glory— is drowning in a maddeningly boring array of paperwork. Admittedly of his own making. He had amassed quite the pile in the past few months. A pile that, with the Babyls entrance ceremony upcoming, could no longer collect dust. Much to his chagrin. The sweet, sweet embrace of death couldn't come sooner. Yet no matter how long he begged Sullivan still found himself slumped against his desk. Face flattened to it's surface.

  Another pitiful sigh wheezes out of the man. Remnants of his already low attention span turned to dust as he lazily grabs for yet another document from the never-ending stack. Sullivan didn’t even have someone to berate his work ethic today. For as much as he groaned about their chastising, without Opera he had to face a painfully uneventful fifteen hours in silence. Tortuous, truly! There's only so long you can listen to clocks tick. A devil has limits, you know?

  He sighs once again as of it's something to do. Sinking impossibly further into his chair. Staring at the ceiling as if it was the reason he's stuck here. By Satan, he swears he’d been cooped up for eons! A lecture would be welcome at this point. Perhaps Kalego would still be around the halls somewhere? He could probably muster up some sort of excuse to bother– ahem, rather, inquire about…well something or other. The weather. Flight test checks. His recent pay dock, even. Oh, he'd have something to say about that one. The Lord drums his claws on his desk. Stretching his legs as he ambles in his office. Eyes drawn to the door handles...it's never hard to find him...

  No, no. For as much as Kalego despised his senpai, if it meant ratting Sullivan out to the hellcat he certainly would. Spiteful dog.

  But devi. How can they expect a man to idle in here? They'll run out of numbers for the days! One could argue it's his tardiness that got him here. 'Waiting until last minute' as Opera would say. To be fair, running an institution of this caliber is more than script from a quill. Surely not every slip needs his specific attention. We're all capable demons here, aren't we? Anything to get him out of this hellish office would be most welcome.

  Perhaps some fresh air? 

  Papers strew across the floor, stretched wings blistering through those time-sucking piles of print. They'll still be here when he returns. Digging their heels. Taunting his woes. Be that as it may, the momentary ruckus is enough to tide him over as he waltzes out the window. Everyone needs time outside. Does a demon good. Encouraged, even! Opera couldn't reprimand him for thinking about his health! Not at his oh so feeble age! He'd go back to work anyway. He wouldn't be gone forever. Just a short flight. In and out. That's right, completely reasonable. Definitely.

  His spectacles glint in the sunlight. Cool evening air filling his lungs as he soared over the treeline. Flying free as the hanging sun.

  Until he wasn't.

  Blinding runes spark to life, aglow with a hunger that nips at his coattails. It sinks into his bones. Sticks to his skin. A presence he knew well. 

  Though the border between their worlds had been sealed long ago, he could still pick out a handful of times in which he'd felt the tug of a ritual. Sullivan had experience in a plethora of things. You can grow a bit restless when you live to reach your late thousands. However there's only so far one can pursue without dipping into more…secretive topics. Otherworldly subjects. He was far from estranged to such things as a result. The odd occasion with a misguided soul. A desperate plea from someone with nothing left to loose. Rare ventures of which satisfied curiosity, among some of his favoured outings with His Majesty. It was a sensation easy to pinpoint. Easy to recognize.

  Mainly because human magicks were exceedingly rude.

  They left no room for discussion. Perfectly set to tear a demon limb from limb if they were uncooperative. Bargains were either completely one-sided or purely nonsensical. With archaic offerings to boot. And that's overlooking the summoners, mind you. Laughable fools. Demanding, unstable, and far more trouble than they're worth. Shining examples of sin made boisterous.

  Which is what made this one so perplexing. Rather than painful or suffocating insistence, the circle lay still. There was a level of stability to it that he'd never seen in any human spell. The sheer volume of power pulsating in harmony with the Netherworld, rather than screeching and volatile. It was foreign, yes, but not destructive as he expected. Why, even now he remained airborne. Uncaged by it's unusual hold.

  Sullivan hummed. Drawn closer. The incantation shone in response. Blooming with energy that wound up and around his body like a bubble. Glowing a soft white-blue colour that pierced the sky. Although he was quite literally surrounded, that barbaric, smothering sensation was still nowhere to be found. In a way he couldn't describe, it was almost comfortable. Familiar, even...

  An idea sprang to mind and Sullivan flapped his wings. Sure enough he flew right out. The magic even parted slightly, as if to keep distance. He repeated the process, flying back and forth. So transfixed he didn't stop to consider how senile he seemed flapping around in circles. A light grasp at the cuff of his pant leg was the only sign the spell was still working. For all intents and purposes he was free to go. 

  He could leave. Wave and turn tail. Call DBC about an active anomalous bundle of magic and go about his day. His boring day. His lonesome, hellish day. Wander off without inspecting the most intriguing object he's witnessed in devi knows how long. Just ignore every demon's primal need for new exciting experiences to sit in an empty office for the foreseeable future. Indefinitely, perhaps.

  He could. 

  …

  He should.

  …

  …

  Sullivan descends into the glow. The bubble of blue reforming around him with as much careful consideration for his personal space as before. He did little to resist. Succumbing as he peers into its core. The world distorts, wrung in a bind of unreadable words. Fascination flourishes behind his eyes, building as a substance began pooling at his feet. Pure, unfettered. 

  Something new.

  Spiralling symbols perform a dizzying dance. His surroundings blurring in a haze of streaks that warped and trailed like comets. Power flooded his veins as he was submerged in the spell’s grasp. Pulled deep into the depths.

  Oh he'll never hear the end of it from Opera. Assuming, of course, they believe even an inch of the tale. One of the Three Greats, plucked from the sky? They'd have some choice words for sure. Even still, his lips curled into a smile. 

What an interesting turn of events. 

  Iruma would never forget the first time his parents had a ‘get-rich-quick’ scheme. The first of many to follow. A memory with the defiance of a bug, something to skitter and creak, to rustle and itch for the rest of his days. Living rent-free in the back of his skull.

  Such a sweet honey trap. They were nicer. They'd let him keep a fifth of his paycheck. Let him use their shower, clean their home. Sometimes, on really special days, they'd let him sleep inside. He'll never forget that feeling. The sheer joy that filled his heart. He was younger then. Iruma had still assumed people like him were normal. Too used to the woods, to the work, and long nights in the quiet. He thought everyone did what he did. Thought everyone dug through the plants and bins for breakfast, that everyone shed feathery plumes that caught on their clothes.

'Does mine look like yours, papa?'

'I bet your feathers are pretty, mama!'

  That he couldn't be the only one with a tail.

  An honest mistake. One he can't imagine he wouldn't have made, one he doesn't think he'd ever be able to avoid. Iruma will never forget his mother's face. It's so clear in his head. How her eyes gleamed with stars, tinted pink at how hard she smiled. It was the first time she hugged him. Maybe the last? He'd guess it to be true. His father asked him so many questions, too. Ruffling his hair without putting on gloves. They asked for feathers, for tricks, for pictures. Grinning when he showed them he could even pick stuff up or hang upside-down. Pride swelled in his chest at their happy faces, tail wagging all the while. He should've known something was wrong. They never look at him like that. Served him right, as they never answered his question either. Instead, they made him look presentable. Made sure he was more than skin and bones.

'Such a special boy, Iruma-kun!'

'You're going to make us so happy, Iruma-kun!'

  And sold him.

  Iruma could still feel that place. Eyes raking skin. Unwelcome hands. A puny, claustrophobic glass box he practically lived in.

'Such wonderful colours~'

'It's moving! Can you see it?'

'They're on his back, too.'

  Took them three months to take him back, and they never brought it up again. Not when he showed up battered on their steps. Not when he had to change his bandages. Acted as if nothing happened.

'Leave, eh? Sure. You can go. If you can make up for it, of course. Think of it as...a souvenir.'

  He never expected it to grow back. But when it did, he didn't tell them.

  Suffice to say Iruma learned to prepare himself for times like these. To watch for the coming storm. Over the years he'd managed to skirt past the more unsavoury schemes of theirs just like this. His Danger Sense always lighting the way. Letting him know when to work harder, when to pick up extra shifts. When to slip a hand into someone's pocket. Any sweet smile, any praise and gesture quietly slowing to a stop at the fountain of compensation.

  He wanted it to be real. To indulge in the contact or the roof over his head. But he knew better. Recently though, no matter what he did it wasn't enough. Every coin and check, every second of his time drained into whatever change he could muster up, and the feeling didn't go away. It'd been there for days now. Screaming bloody murder. Telling him to run. To hide or scramble. The loudest it's ever been, just rattling in his ears. Iruma was proven right with the biggest red flag of them all; his parents bought him food. They spent money. On him.

  ¥350! Outrageous! He was certain now. Suzuki Iruma, age fourteen, was going to die. Just one of those facts of life. He knew it would happen, he'd been running from danger since the day he was born. Just not today! He wishes he'd done more to stop it. Maybe he should've looked into that tuna boat job. Maybe he should've stopped his school work sooner. Maybe–

  ...Maybe he should've said ‘no.’

  In fourteen years of life he'd never done it. Not once has he said ‘no.’ He was possibly the biggest pushover in the world. From shady proposals to outright illegal deals, he'd yet to find anything he would decline. No matter how badly he wanted to. It's pathetic, really. Even he knows that. So when his parents— so kind, so polite— asked him if he could please finish a summoning circle for them, he walked into their basement without hesitation.

  One glance at the word ‘demon’ and Iruma wishes he was illiterate.

  Dabbling in the occult was far from something Iruma enjoyed. Even so, a paycheck was a paycheck, and 'not saying no' wasn't just an unfortunate trait. It's not the first time his parents have tried some 'unholy' ways of obtaining goods. They saw no problem in tossing their son out to deal with any kind of stranger. Especially ones that offered heavy pockets in exchange for someone who can follow instructions and keep their mouth shut. He brought what was wanted, got some cash, gave it to his parents, and washed himself until his skin was red and couldn't feel the aching burn of pure wrongness that rubbed off on him. They were never the kind to get their hands dirty anyway.

  Distinction being that he had never been present for whatever happens after. He didn't believe in that kind of stuff to begin with, but no one pays a teenager to bring them dead things in the middle of the night because they're planning some wholesome fun. Anyone would want out of that. But all those hours of borderline parental affection and one little word, he landed himself in just that predicament. 

  Not that he was given all the details. They'd never make something easy. As far as he understood, his parents couldn't figure out how to get their new money maker to work. They'd followed all the steps (skimming likely because he had to redo half the thing,) lit the candles (that he bought for them a few weeks prior which proves his Danger Sense right once again,) and offered their blood. Only for nothing to happen. Not ones for extended effort they handed him one hell of a creepy book and sauntered off.

  So now, here he is. Staring grimly at a finished (very much satanic, he triple checked) summoning circle. Box cutter in hand. Sterilized best he could, mere breaths away from his finger. Everything checked out. Looked as close as humanly possible to the picture provided. Now he just needed to test it. Just bleed a little on the weird demon circle in the middle of a basement. Nothing to it.

  Except there was a lot to it. He didn't know what this thing would do! Best case scenario, nothing. His parents give up, Danger Sense calms down, he roughs it back into the woods and prepares for another eighteen hour shift tomorrow morning. Everything goes back to normal. Worse case…

  Unspoken horrors consume his mind. Trembling through his hands and tensing his jaw. Crumbles of the old grip sticking rubber stench on white knuckled grasp. Trepidation reflects in the sheen of the blade, his own sullen eyes warring over acceptance or grief. Knowing well the terror that humans can create, how would a demon compare? He had no clue what the worst thing would be. How could he? Any number of wicked things could come from that circle. Hunt him. Skin him. Eat him. If demon demons live up to reputation. If it works.

  And that's all this boils down to. If. If it works. If he does what he always does. If he ends up getting hurt for the millionth time. If he doesn't do what they need him to do. If they try something else. If they don't let him leave. If. If. If.  His mind is in overdrive, swarming with static. Sharp ringing in his ears drowning out reality. 

  He wants to stop. They'll be angry. He needs to try. To make them happy. He wants to stop. He needs to do this. He wants to stop. He’s being paranoid. He wants to stop. He’s being selfish. He wants to stop. They've done so much already. He wants to stop. They need this. He wants to stop-

  Instinct snaps into action, launching him away from scorching heat. His stomach drops at the sight of candles in high blaze. Lavender flames licking the ceiling, leaving black smudges in their wake. Searing into the floorboards was the circle. Brimming with light. A small puddle of red at the edge of the chaos. In a moment of clarity he feels a warm drip down his palm. A startlingly wet knife in his other. 

  When had he...? Did he even?

  The light show flares brighter as if to answer. Drinking up the blood he doesn't remember shedding. Purple hues turn grey, then black in quick succession, the world refracting like a fish-eye lens around the mass of power. Though broiling hot, the rest of the room began to grow colder. Bone chilling sensations washing over him. A thin mist of fog puffing in his face. His breath, he realizes.

  Now would be a good time to leave.

  Body moving faster than his brain, he made it halfway to the door before the hairs on his neck stood straight. He dodges, slamming into the tight wall of the staircase. Too anxious to ignore the danger he glanced back towards the circle. Horror widening his eyes.

  Large masses of black ooze bubble up from the once bright hole in the floor. Adorned with yellowed eyes, and covered with a gooey substance. Shimmered in an oily rainbow tint. A sluggish menagerie of limbs pour out like tar, twisting, dividing, pulling apart and squishing back into each other. One moment resembling something close to arms and another blending into some form of tentacles. A fluid as alive as his own heart beats. Next to him in the stairwell sat the largest of the appendages, big enough to close around his torso. The arm(?) recoils and shakes itself off. Splattering the steps with sickening wet plops. The disconnected part of his brain wonders how difficult it'll be to scrub off when he does his weekly cleaning.

  He scrambles up the steps, shoes slipping on slick. Weak grip slides off the door’s knob, palm still gushing red. He grabs with his other hand in another futile attempt. Handle only ever jiggling halfway. Of all the times for it to be stuck! Just when he started to pound against the wood, goosebumps spread like wildfire over his skin. In a blink an iron tight coil wraps around his leg, yanking him off his feet. 

  He thrashes, bites and claws. Adrenaline pumping through his veins. Only succeeding on coughing up the lung-full of fluid that fills his mouth. The tendrils curl tighter, retreating downward into the center of the circle. Dragging him with them. He couldn't run, he couldn't move, and with the syrupy thickness of his restraints he could barely breathe. So he screamed.

"H-HELP! HE-HELP ME, PLEASE!"

  A last resort. He knows he's alone. He's wasting air. But he needs to try something.

"P-PLEASE! SOME– SOM-MEONE! D-DAD! MOM!”

  Encasing limbs climb up his body. The smell of ozone and ash stinging his eyes. Blocking his vision. Desperation keeps him screaming. Until his lungs ache for air. Until he can no longer taste the bitter tang in his throat. Begging for help. For someone. Anyone.

  But no one came.

Chapter Text

  Iruma hoped his death would be quick. Snap his neck swift and clean, or some captive bolt like the livestock he worked with. Something fast he couldn't avoid, or wouldn't see coming. Drowning in weird magic goop wasn't in that category. Being spit out of the sky wasn't either.

  The freaky eyeball-monster-thingy just dropped him here. From the sky. Why? What happened? Did he do the ritual wrong? Or maybe he wasn't lunchtime material? So disgusting that it would rather toss him out of the sky than leave him be? He had no clue. What he did know was that he was in a tree. A really tall tree. He couldn't tell how high up exactly, but looking down made him queasy.

  It's not like he'd never been this high up before. Iruma had been climbing trees all his life, it even got him through some tougher scrapes with wild animals. Some close calls with people too. But that didn't mean he wasn't scared. Trees were tall. Tall things mean falling. Falling means pain, and pain means bills he certainly cannot afford. A simple concept. One that has, so far, kept him alive. He made sure never to go up somewhere he couldn't come down from.

  Somewhere like this. Like right now.

  Luck was still on his side, surprisingly, as he caught a branch before his corpse stained the dirt. Iruma clung tight to the limb. Face to bark as his eyes adjust to a pink-orange sky. That in and of itself made him think he hit his head. Must've been knocked out by something anyway, because last he checked it was midday. He wasn't around his parents’ place often, but he was sure this wasn't their neighbourhood either. Bats weren't around these parts, were they?

  He shook his head. Not now. Survival first, questions later. 

“Now how to get down…”

  Lacking any grace, he shimmied his way to the trunk. Carefully transferring his weight. With koala style grip, Iruma clambered out of the tree, trying to maneuver his way down without breaking himself. Easier said than done.

  From branch to knot he worked through the leaves. Ambling with slow, short movements. It seemed he still had some luck left to spare as the tree’s trunk had strange, thick thorns of bark for extra footholds. Like the spikes of a durian husk. Thankfully not as sharp.

  ...He's never seen a tree like this before. Could trees be purple? Japan doesn't have purple trees, he doesn't think. He's sure he's been everywhere in the country by now. This seems like something he would've found before.

  As if to punish his curiosity, a misstep sends him tumbling. Turning the tree into a human pinball machine as he slammed off branches one after another. Cracks, crunches, and snapping wood crashing with cacophonous vigour. Finally landing on his back with a firm ‘thump.’ A twig bouncing off his forehead. 

 Good god everything hurts. 

  His breath came in raspy puffs, his lungs still rough from screaming. The skin of his hands were scratched and red, the first layer peeled from vain efforts to grab bark mid tumble. Sap and debris stuck from his hair to his pant pockets, and he only now realized that he was shoeless. He's pretty sure he's bruised to hell and back, but thankfully nothing's broken. He thinks. Nonetheless, he reached the ground in one piece.

  Splayed like a starfish (and none too eager to move) he stares blankly into space. How long had it been since he was this tired? He did back-to-back morning, noon, and night shifts at a slaughterhouse for a week straight and hadn't felt dead weight like this. He would kill for a blanket.

  Which made no sense. He'd done basically nothing today. Just the typical shifts, and, like, twelve quick helping hands on the way home. It felt like something deep inside had been siphoned out. Like all his reserves were spent…

  He shook his head. Still no time for that! What's gotten into him? Letting his mind wander isn't going to keep him moving, and it certainly wasn't going to fix his problems.

  With a great deal of effort, Iruma pushed himself onto wobbly legs. He picked a direction and started to walk. Looking for signs or stray paths he may recognize. Surely he had to be close to something. Orienteering was one of the few things he could say he was good at. He could even navigate constellations! He didn't know how drawing a circle turned into a wilderness trek, but it couldn't have popped him too far away from home. He could find his way back. He always did.

  Hopefully his parents won't be too angry with him…

  “You think it's over?” Asked the woman, tapping manicured nails against her emptied glass.

“I hope so,” Her partner replied. “Thought I'd have to grab the ear plugs if it kept going. Kid’s got some lungs.”

  The blue haired pair sat for a few extra minutes, munching on sweets and staring eagerly down the hall. Their usually tidy home had been reduced to ransacked blight. Chairs, shelves, and even the table were strewn in messy stacks. Haphazard barricades against the doors and windows. Possibly the most effort the two had put into anything in their lives. Spoke leagues to its necessity. They couldn't have any interruptions.

  With a final clink of their glasses, the Suzuki’s drained their champagne and made for the basement. The bottle tossed away as they unlocked the door, all but skipping down the steps. Smiling all the more at the room’s dishevelled state.

  Inky black fluid stuck in smears across the room. Oily blotches spanning halfway up the walls that streaked and speckled like cigarette smoke. Some spots, particularly near the stairs, the liquid dripped from the ceiling accompanied by an odd stench. Burnt matches and orange zest. A nightmare to clean that's for sure.

  Not that it mattered. By this time tomorrow this hovel would be someone else's problem. Soon enough they'd have enough wealth for whatever they please. Filth tarnished their clothes, hemming dyed black as they stepped to the center of the room.

  It was tall. Much taller than themselves, and gangly to boot. A mixture of bone and cloth woven together with grimey sinew. A skeletal frame that melded and tangled, like decay dipped in wax. Whether it was its real skin or grafted clothes they couldn't tell, a flayed and oozing torso muddying any distinction.

  Between twitchy segmented ribs bundled a cluster of deep amber cores. Beating like hearts, writhing like cancer. Masses of bulbous blisters swarming the creature’s chest cavity, weaving through its spine, and disappearing underneath a thick ring of grey feathers that hung on its collar. Lacking eyes or even eye sockets, its skull was nothing more than a sleek pointed beak. More akin to a plague mask than a proper face. Had it not been breathing they would have assumed it was. All topped off with two stubby horns that scraped their charred ceiling.

  Oh they were so excited!

“Hello demon-san! Welcome to our home, hope you found the place alright!” The man began. “We're so glad you're here! We've been trying this junk for days now, honestly, it's no wonder you guys don't get a lot of business.”

  The demon kept staring as the man rambled on. Face etched in suspicion that the humans couldn't identify.

  See, while demon-human contracts weren't exactly legal anymore, the process did come with quite the list of information. Failsafes, precautions, and general jargon that both parties had access to even if they weren't explicitly stated. Courtesy of Demon Border Control. Traits for both sides to ensure an even dealing, and certain factors that must be addressed before meeting.

  Nothing particularly shocking. Salt borders. Proper spell annunciation. Punishment for bodily harm.

  Language Barriers. To name a few.

  It goes without saying that Japanese is not a language demons speak. Nor one he could understand.

  Strange.

  With gnarled claws he snapped his fingers. A pungent smoke swishing between himself and the two bluettes in front of him. By that action he also took note of his appearance. That of his Origins. When mana and visage were one in the same. Something humans were incapable of spawning, not having mana to begin with. 

  Very strange.

  He straightens as much as the tiny room will allow, letting his aura seep into the air.

“What do you desire?” The demon asks.

  Voice husked and scratchy. The couple’s eyes shine, and the woman is the first to speak. That oh so human scent clouding his senses.

“Money! We want all the money we could possibly have!” She exclaims. 

“Enough to make us happy and comfortable for the rest of our lives!” The man adds, a wild grin plastered on his face.

  There was something else with their smell. Honey mixed with a strong, stinging aroma that tinged his nostrils.

  Greed. Shameless, consuming greed.

“Gold, jewelry, gemstones, we'll take it all! We're not picky, believe me.” She assures, extending her hand.

  Her husband follows suit. Expectant. If the demon had identifiable eyes, they'd be narrowed.

“What is your offering?”

For the first time, the couple falters. “Ah, w-well…it was…you know–”

“Didn't you already eat it?” The man cuts in, genuinely confused. “We don't have another soul to offer you…”

“Was he too small? With the whole demon thing we thought the younger the better. There's just so many stories about you guys stealing kids.”

“Nine is still a kid, right? Or was he twelve? I mean, either way he had to be worth something–”

  Tearing flesh silenced their banter. The yellowed lumps of his chest contorting against bone. Splitting open to reveal needle-thin pupils, a mountain of eyes glaring at the humans below.

  He seethes. Ribs crackling like chitin, squirming from irritation. Never in all his years has he been so disrespected by meager humans. Clearly they lacked the brain cells to know their place–

“Our son!”

  ...

  …What?

“It was our son! He was down here, we swear!”

Her husband continued. “Yes! Yes, he was! We made sure of it! We heard him screaming and everything! We thought you…well did w-whatever it is you wanted with him.”

“Yeah! He’s the one who finished the drawing, there's no way he wasn't here! We definitely–”

“I see.”

  He interrupts, keeping his tone even despite the malice coursing through his veins. All the pieces clicked together.

  Using their own child as a bargaining chip. Standing idly by as their own flesh and blood screams for help. So incompetent, or perhaps, so cowardly, that they demand said child to summon a demon in their stead. All to swoop in at the last minute and have the audacity to attempt a contract with him. A demon lord. With a soul that wasn't theirs to sell…

  The Netherworld was a cruel, cold mistress. Life expectancy is short, the lives many lived shorter, and birth rates scraping the barrel. Demon conception was far and away much harder than a human’s. Clans of dozens coveting their often once in a decade chance of baring a child. Demons became close knit and protective as a result. Their fledglings were treasures. Gifts. To see such greed-filled scum toss away something as precious as their kin made his skin crawl.

  He came to a decision. There was no reason for him to indulge in this any longer. 

  Sullivan raised an arm, crossing the spell border they hadn't established. 

“You shall reap what you've sown.”

  If there's one thing he knew well, it was that pretending– or ignoring in this case– could save a life. Not the best motto to live by, sure, but tell that to a mafia boss and he'll give you a reason to keep your mouth shut. It may not feel right, it may not feel good, but it can keep you alive. And it's times like these that really test his expertise.

  The haunting wails of unknown birds. Flora that twitched with teeth and shifting eyes. How the moon seemed to shine twice as bright.

  Iruma wasn't the brightest bulb in the box, having forgotten what grade he was supposed to be in by the time he dropped out of school, but that didn't mean he was stupid. Something was incredibly wrong. He just didn't want to think about it. Didn't want to believe it. But as he came to the forest’s edge his denial cracked under the pressure.

  Just a few more feet away stood what looked to be a plaza. Long cobble sett pathways with carved seats, grand statues, and lit by ornate lamp posts that lined the streets. Whimsical (albeit Gothic) buildings with flowering ivy. Shop signs in fancy calligraphy hanging over glass display windows filled with everything from baked goods to expensive shoes. Even though the sun had all but disappeared over the horizon, storefronts flowed with people. Surreal aesthetics aside this is exactly what he was looking for. He could find help, maybe borrow someone's phone. If push came to shove he could try to hitch a ride.

  But he didn't. Instead, he froze. Gawking. Not at the place.

  At the people.

  A blonde about his age balanced criss-cross style on a long pointed tail. A person(?) covered in long white hair carrying a sword. What looked to be a green dragon, happily munching on skewers of what he desperately hoped weren't real eyeballs. The variety was almost staggering. Some were huge, bulky builds, obelisks in the crowd. Muscles covered by fur or coated in scales. Others had tusks, horns, or animal ears. Sprouting from otherwise normal humans. At a distance he could see them as cosplay.

  Everything was too real. Too much. Like all the things he did his damnedest to ignore were piling up. Demanding to be seen. No matter how hard he wanted to pry his eyes away, he was glued to their features. Deathly sharp fangs. Long clawed fingers. Slitted pupils and pointed ears. The final nail in the coffin sent shivers down his spine; a simple song.

“Humans only exist to be our food~ Suck them dry, soul, blood, flesh, and all~”

  Iruma ran.

  His heart hammered in his chest. Pounding against his ribs like a caged animal as he hurtled through the thicket. Blood rushing through his ears and air coming hot through his throat. He didn't know where to go. Where would be safe. Iruma had no clue if ‘safe’ was even an option anymore.

  His legs burn and his soles are raw, thorns catching on his clothes. Bristles clipping skin. His brain is fogged and dizzy, eyes dry and skin raw, but he keeps running. The moon– no, moons reach full height by the time he stops. Lost, dazed and absolutely exhausted. Spluttering for air.

  Breathing was a chore. Every second using more force to keep his eyes open, stop his head from spinning. He knows better than to stay put out in the open. Not scouting for dangers, or double checking blind spots. But he couldn't help it. The world had worn him ragged. Down to the marrow. He just wants it to be over.

“It's a dream. Just a dream. A really bad, vivid dream.” He repeats it like a mantra hoping it'll come true.

  Slumping on his side, curling into the dirt with his back against bark. He lies again and again and again. Hollow words like cotton in his ears. He wills himself to numbness, blocking out his aches and his hitching breath. Hugging his knees to his chest he squeezes his eyes shut.

  Everything had fallen apart so quickly. All his life he'd spent picking up the pieces of himself, scavenging for something to hold together. Fragments that never fit together in the first place just to give himself something to fight for. His parents weren't good people– they weren't even decent at their best– but they were all he had. They were the frayed string that kept him whole. Why he worked until haggard to hand them a check. Why he fought for scraps to see the sun rise. Why he took every ounce of everything with a smile because it meant he'd be there for tomorrow, there for them.

  What was he now? What was he without them?

  And if he can find a way back, would they forgive him? 

  It was his fault, after all. He was the one messed up. Ended up turning a glorified chalk project into– into whatever brought him here. They'd punish him for less. Leave for less. But they came back eventually, when they needed money or wanted something new. If they didn't want to work they had to. Except this time he's the one who left them. They had no reason to go look for him now, no reason to wait around or bother finding him. They could move on. He abandoned them. And now he was alone.

“I’ll be fine. I am fine. It's not real. It's just a dream.” He murmurs, tightening the ball he's made himself into.

  He tried to shake away those thoughts. Despair threatening to make a meal out of him. Despair was a one way ticket to a brick wall. Nothing good ever came of it.

“I’m fine. I'm okay. Everything is alright. Tomorrow is another day.” He won't despair. Not yet.

  Slowly but surely Iruma's breathing calms, his body relaxing as he drifts off. It takes longer than it ever has but he falls asleep. Unaware of how the trees move to shade him from prying eyes. Of how Helldews snap and snarl at close crawling animals, and Strangling Moss drapes across his small form. How, in the short time he's been here, he hasn't once felt his Danger Sense. Small semblances of comfort he craves and leans into despite lack of consciousness.

  Iruma had no way of knowing how his life would change. How much he truly meant to this foreign land. The years have been long- longer than any had hoped- without their precious treasure. Left with a searing absence. But the wait was finally over. 

  Tonight, unbeknown to all, the Netherworld welcomed him home.

Chapter Text

  Having already started his morning with a quick reality check, Iruma could safely say that he was handling this better than he anticipated. He confirmed, yes, yesterday was very much real. No, he wasn't dreaming. No, the ground he woke from wasn't his shabby little tent. But most importantly; he was probably, very likely, almost one hundred percent sure that he would be eaten alive if anyone found him. He could still award himself with a nice pat on the back for only suffering one bout of inner hysterics upon waking up.  

  Usually Iruma would be welcoming with a bit of paranoia. Kept him on his feet. Kept him breathing. However he also knew that too much could have the opposite effect. Under normal circumstances, immediately jumping to man-eating monsters would fit in that category. And if literally anything had gone his way yesterday, he would follow that logic. Unfortunately nothing ever goes his way. Because of course it doesn't. Frankly he wasn't too keen on testing if the phrase ‘suck them dry, soul, blood, flesh, and all’ was literal. 

  Being paranoid is just another way of saying ‘cautious’ anyway.

  That being said, he wasn't going to give up just yet. He still had all his limbs, his wits, and one hell of a survival instinct. He won't just lay down and wait for death to catch up to him. He didn't give up when he was left stranded in the Amazon. He didn't give up when he was all but dumped in the Sahara. He hasn't tried this hard not to see his next birthday. At least being stuck outdoors was easier than making way on the street. Caveat being, without relying on quick jobs or street charity, his resources were painfully limited. So Iruma did what always kept him alive: autopilot.

  Extensive, gruelling years of trial and knowledge built up a dissociative rhythm to survive that lay deep in the recess of his being. Anywhere his parents dropped him, anywhere he had no choice but to bunker down, was a new firm layer of brick and mortar that reinforced his survival. An unwritten checklist boiled down to a pathing that he could follow even in the most dreary of states. He'd scout out water, chances triple if it's found. Territory, looking for resource accessibility and where he'll be the least vulnerable come sleep. Shelter, a place to defend so it can defend you. And finally, he'd get his hands on some grub. Food is fuel, after all, and the day isn't getting any longer.

  A river, a pond. A lake. Water was closer than he thought. It's too open by the river, and the ground's too wet to make a fire. The pond is shrouded by the trees. Almost tucked away. Iruma knows better than that, he can make out the edges of a den. The lake is quiet enough. He won't stay too close to the water, but there's a fine looking nook in the trees nearby. That he can work with. Midday sun catches through the brush by the time his camp is set (accounting for a minor struggle after learning that certain foliage fights back.) A nest cover to blend with the leaves, cradled with short walls of patterned wood. Practically invisible. Iruma wasn't all there for the process, but seeing everything come together always brought him a sense of pride. 'You're nothing if not efficient' as his old boss would say. Though there was still one thing left. Not one he could be in the clouds for, unfortunately.

  Which is what landed him in heart attack heaven. Howls just passing his line of sight. Horrid maws sprouting from plants and roots. Things and critters he had all but tuned out mere hours ago now blurring into a hailstorm of sensory muck. Turns out navigating through, not just unknown, but otherworldly wilderness can do a number on your psyche. But that's not what got his heart racing. Even though his Danger Sense was calm, even though he hadn't run into anything too troublesome, he couldn't help but feel off. Considering everything that's happened he shouldn't be surprised, but this was different than the usual amount of ‘off’ he felt. Everything was…clearer. Easier to breathe. To think. To be. As if all his life he's been deprived of something and he only just now connected to it. From the smells, to the sounds, to even the faintest of texture. Like a weight he never noticed had been lifted off his shoulders. A fluorescent buzzing that finally silenced. And it scared him.

  Iruma knew never to hope for a good thing. He never wanted to want. To yearn. All it would ever lead to is disappointment. The world never handed over easy victories, never took pity on folks like him who bit, gnashed and scratched just to get by. He shouldn't expect it here, either. He knows that better than anyone. And yet, here he is. Letting his guard down when he's completely exposed in brand new terrifying scenery. If he couldn't rely on his Danger Sense, what was left for him to trust?

“Nothing to do about it now…” He murmurs. With a sigh he trudges forward, ears and eyes at the ready. Wallowing won't fill his stomach, after all.

“I hope I can actually eat what grows heaAAAAAH!”

  Tripped up on a glaringly obvious root (that he swears was not there before,) for the second day in a row Iruma finds himself falling. Heels overhead he somersaults downhill. Rocketing like a tumbleweed and kicking up grass along the way, ending face down in a thick patch of loose dirt. Lovely.

“This is what I get for being dis…tracted…” Iruma loses train of thought as he brushes soil from his face.

  Around him is a clearing. Spread out in a sort of bowl shape at the bottom of the hill. The land is positively covered in what he could only surmise was food. Tilled land and natural garden beds filled with veggies ready for harvest, brightly coloured bushes dotted with berries and strange fruits, trees that bore comically large haunches of meat and bark that wafted with a light savoury scent. Though the open dirt was about as big as a pumpkin patch, he could see that plants spread far throughout the area, multiple bushes and trees rooted uphill with just as much if not more bounty. It looked a bit odd but there was more than enough growing here that he could vaguely compare to normal foods. Edible foods. After running on a ¥350 sandwich and a half-spoiled orange for, what, a week now? He could feel his mouth watering.

  And there's absolutely no way he can eat any of it.

  It's exactly what he was worried about. Too good to be true. Way too good. It had to be private property, set up and under surveillance. Waiting to pounce. It could be like those exotic plants, mimicking tasty things to lure in prey for the slaughter. Or it's all plain poisonous and there's a reason everything’s just sitting around. It's too perfect, too coincidental. There's too many variables. Too many opportunities for things to be horribly wrong. He can't. And that's final. He– he just can't.

  His stomach churns with hunger, sharp pangs of pain curling through his gut.

‘There's no way it's safe.’

  He can feel the saliva pooling in his jaws. A thin, wet line dribbling over his lip.

‘I shouldn’t. I won't. I don't know anything about this stuff. There's no way it's safe.’

  A smell unified them all. A blissful, beautiful aroma that made his head spin and his heart leap. Strong. Enticing.

‘ I can't. I– I can't.’

  The sweetest of nectar. The finest of wine. He had no clue what it was. What he was craving. Something…

‘I can make do. I've– I've been t-through…worse…before…’

  Absolutely…

‘Can’t take…the chance…’

  Delicious.

  Before he knows it, Iruma eats. Wolfing down forage with reckless abandon. Gorging like a dog on anything he could carve out of the ground. He eats, and eats, and eats. Voracious. Beastly. He doesn't stop when sod is torn by his teeth. Doesn't notice when he ravages both the plant and crop they bare, shrubs losing branches, trees with bitten leaves. He barely tastes any of it, honing in on that smell. That feeling. Compulsive and gluttonous he feasts on that delectable flavour. That wondrous feeling at the core of each bite, each desperate chew. Like something deep and slumbering finally rose. Years of neglect, of starvation finally quelled. He follows the fragrance like a bloodhound to the hunt. An alluring tang on his tongue, fizzling and bright. Blooming warmth that fills his stomach and something more he can't describe. He can see it. A web of tethers that ebb and flow. Shimmering bundle of golden threads. There's one that stands out. A comet in a sea of stars, pulsing radiance and that sweet, sweet scent. Something lurches inside his chest. He can't stop. He wants this. He needs this. Fangs meet flesh, a rough, almost crispy exterior with a gooey, sugary inside. It's warm. It's safe. It's–

  Iruma comes to by the sound of a reedy, high pitched squeal. He blinks. Once, twice, before he's really back to earth. Unable to see as the azure glow disappears from his eyes. Canines retracting.

  He's holding something? A root vegetable of some sort. A gray daikon radish with extra little nubs that look like short arms and legs. And-

  And a face. It has a face.

  Iruma makes a sound startlingly similar to what came from the veggie, dropping the maybe-alive-plant with a start. It hits the ground with a ‘wump’ revealing a jagged hole that gouges through where its neck would be. The missing chunk is in the shape of a bite mark, one that makes Iruma very aware of the light peppery flavour that lingers on his tongue. The radish wiggles a bit, flapping its tiny limbs before wheezing, coughing, and promptly laying dead in the grass. Iruma decides he should head back to camp now…

  ...Right after he finishes the radish...

  That night, Iruma dreams.

  He's long since lost the ability. He sleeps too little, or works too late for his restful mind to function anymore. He closes his eyes and sees only darkness. Then, he wakes up. The odd occasion he does dream they are far from pleasant. Night terrors. Waking nightmares. Sleep paralysis. Stress induced thoughts that spiral and morph into terribly vivid scenes. The last remnants of fear dissipating as morning comes, and he forgets all over again. But this time he does. Just another way this world likes to pull the rug out from under him.

  He's in a cave. Grandiose rocky walls draped in wilted flora. Crystals latch to the ceiling, a shining mockery of the night sky.  He's standing on a basin of deep, murky water somehow not sinking through. His steps cause ripples on the surface as he makes his way to the cave center. A waterfall pours in from above, a perfect cylinder. Like a beacon. Everything is still, frozen in time. He can't even hear his own breath.

  There's something in the middle of the pillar. He can barely make it out. A shadow ten times his height. Maybe taller. He can't see its face, or if it even has one, but he knows it's staring back at him. He reaches out–

  And wakes up.

  Maybe he really shouldn't have eaten from that garden. He really hopes the plants here aren't hallucinogenic.

  The following day he takes the time to explore. He doesn’t know how long he’ll be here. Hell, he doesn’t know the first thing about how to go home. Though he does know that being ignorant won’t do him any favours. Also, with his newfound paranoia over the ‘garden incident,’ finding something big enough to boil grass soup in was a high priority. Water he could get by with small carvings or whittled containers, but it would be a pain to taste nothing but grass whenever he took a drink. Especially if grass had the same stuff in it as the hill. 

  The outburst was still on loop in his brain. It just— just kind of happened? What’s more, he can scarcely describe the details. He remembers feeling hungry. Hungrier than ever, and eating, and eating, and…and almost decapitating something with his mouth. But that’s about it. He didn’t recognize the pure carnage he saw on his way back to camp, let alone that he’s who caused it. All he could think of was how good it felt. Like he regained something he’d lost. He didn’t know how to feel about all of it. Confused? Of course. Haunted? More than he'd like. Concerned? Definitely. Iruma entertained the thought as he walked, noting scenery of passing animals.

  That’s the other thing. Since the incident he couldn’t stop smelling that weird odour. That exquisite scent. He only just now noticed how abundant it was. Thoroughly laced into everything he passed. Like he could smell the sun. Abstract, he knows, but that's what it feels like. Just...comfort. Comfort given scent. It could be that this world is just kind of. He doesn't know. Just kind of smells like that? Did Japan ever smell like this? He’s pretty sure it didn’t.

  With musing as a diversion from the otherwise monotonous travel, it feels like minutes before he comes across yet another clearing. This one is far smaller than the hilly garden, but just as unfamiliar a sight. A moderately sized horned dome sits in the middle of well-trimmed grass. Pinkish-white with small round windows, surrounded by tendril-like plants in a range of colours. Two of the windows sat above an arched green doorway, Hand painted symbols dangling just over the doors drawn on paper signs. Whether they were real words he couldn’t understand, or were just heavily abstract decorations, he didn’t know. Other than the horns, this building was way different than the ones he saw on that fancy street. It was more homey. Cozy-looking. He would've loved to get a closer look. 

  Until the owner popped out.

  Iruma dove into the bushes hoping to god that the blue leaves could cover up his hair as he peeked through the bramble. It was a woman. Wearing a light green apron and white dress that ended just above her slippered feet. She sports poofy lime green hair pulled back into a low ponytail. Bangs cut straight across to frame both her face, and two ivory ram-like horns on her head. She's carrying a plethora of cooking supplies in her arms and happily humming. Jaunting about her yard as she places down each of her tools in a form of organised chaos. Some, much closer than he'd like to his hiding spot. She isn't as scary looking as some of the people (demons? creatures?) he saw at the marketplace, but he's far from keen on testing dangerous waters. The chances of her being completely normal and the chances of her being a soul munching demon are about the same…

“Why hello there Lord Azazel!”

Iruma freezes as a stern voice replies.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Valac.”

  It’s a man. Tall, with high pointed fox ears on his head. He also sports a ponytail, his fanning out in two sections that curl into themselves. Long ginger locks lay on his back in a sort of spade shape. Contrasting starkly with his plain black business suit and collar. His eyes are blocked by the sheen of his wire frame glasses, and other than a chinstrap beard, his face is neutral. Unreadable.

“To what do I owe the pleasure? Border control rarely pops in for a visit, I hope you found the place alright. You’re just in time for muffle waffle crackle bang! My little Konchie loves—”

“Thank you,” Azazel holds up a hand, “but that won’t be necessary. There’s been a recent disturbance in the forest that has caught our attention. Seeing as your family are the only residents of Hubbub, I came to ask you a few questions. If that’s alright.”

  Iruma inches further away from the two as quietly as the world will allow. Stopping only when Azazel's ear twitches in his direction. The ginger spares a glance his way while ‘Mrs. Valac’ finishes prepping a workspace for her ‘crackle bang.’

“Oh my! Well I’ll do my best, dear. It’s not everyday a Crown comes to chat after all!”

Her smile brightens and a shiver runs through him at her rows of razor sharp teeth. “What kind of disturbance?”

  Iruma watches in a mix of wonder and fear as Mrs. Valac reaches for her smile-embroidered pockets. With a gentle tap, her pockets shine, a blinding light pouring out like molten metal. In an instant the shine disappears and what's left is a cauldron. An actual cauldron. Big enough to bathe a bear! She sets it on top of a bonfire beside her other tools. Iruma can't help but think how useful that magic would be.

  Azazel pauses a moment, the glare on his lenses moving just enough so Iruma can see his eyes. A piercing gaze that scans the area, orange slits gliding over each inch and spec. He holds his breath for what feels like hours.

“Could we speak inside?” He asks, having passed over the berry bush. “This could be sensitive information.”

Mrs. Valac nods affirmatively. “I see no harm in it. It's probably for the best anyway. You wouldn't imagine how much trouble those imps can get into!”

  She brushes off her hands on her apron and makes her way back inside, Azazel following suit. When he's sure they won't come back out, Iruma allows himself to breathe. That was way too close.

  What did he mean, ‘disturbance?’ He wasn't talking about him was he?! No no no that can't be right. He hasn't done anything! That he knows of…other than him being here, anyway. Now that he thinks of it, how noticeable is a person falling from the sky? He doesn't remember seeing anyone around but what if there was? What if someone saw him in the street? Or at that veggie patch? He just saw a lady pull a literal cauldron out of her pocket like it was something anyone could do, so what else are these people capable of? For all he knows this whole forest is being watched by magic bats or something.

  Iruma carefully leaves the safety of the bush, side eyeing the array of cookware she left behind. He never likes stealing. He understands that everyone is going through life the same as he is, the last thing anyone needs is to lose what they've worked hard to get. Making off with a small water bottle, or an old blanket didn't feel good, but they were often what could tide him over until the next day. The next week. Any time he could he'd try to make up for what he stole even if no one knew he stole it.

  But. To be fair, he did just see her miracle out a cauldron.

  Maybe it isn't too big a loss for her? He waffles on it, nervously eyeing the path back to base and the front door of the house. He warily stares at the door.

“Sorry Mrs. Valac…” And snatches up the nearest pot, hightailing it out of there.

  That was a lot to unpack. At least he got what he was looking for?

  He has the dream again.

  There are a few new touches this time. The plants are more lively, no longer browned or dull, with some harbouring buds that nestle between vines. Rather than frozen, time crawls in the cave. Extreme slow motion, perhaps, but moving. There are gaps in the ceiling, too. Small crevices that stream light into the dark, dribbling water that add to the reservoir he stands on. He makes his way to the waterfall once more. The water is clearer now and he can see the shadow in better detail. 

  The silhouette is bipedal, humanoid. He can make out the shapes of long nails, and hair that falls far past its waist. Gazelle-like horns crown its head, highlighting its face. He can't see its eyes. But it's smiling. A wide, fanged grin. It reaches out to him—

  Then it's morning.

  After experiencing such a hectic start, (and extra anxiety running into demons) Iruma makes a point to stay as close to camp as possible. He settles into a routine. Scrounging, improving his makeshift camp, doing his best to ignore the gnawing feeling in his chest. He survives, just like he always did. If anything it's easier living out here than where he had his tent. He didn't have to stress over getting to a job that was two miles away, how much money was in his pocket, or if he had enough time to cram another shift into his schedule. He's even able to stretch out his tail without fear of being ridiculed, sold off or poached. Getting his first few days in years without cramps and spasms climbing his back. It was nice. Which meant it wouldn't last.

  This should be best case scenario stuff. He should be thankful. Even the grass tastes leagues above what he ate back home. And yet if it weren't for the consistent cave dream Iruma's sure he'd have nightmares about that first day. About losing control. Going berserk over the promise of food. Becoming something else, something he couldn't stop. Something less than human. He could hear his parents now. See it in their eyes. 

  See that they were right.

  Iruma wasn't going through that again. He didn't want to. Except he still had to eat. So he limited himself. A handful of berries, a cup of soup. Small game and tiny fish. Though they all had the same underlying scent, it was weak, chaste. Cooking seemed to dampen it further. Barely a whisper of the flavour left. It made something in his core burn and bubble. That ravenous monster howling for more. Which meant it was enough. He's used to handling a bit of discomfort, and if it means he keeps his head on straight, he'll stick with it. He was still himself. That's all he ever needed.

  It's a full week of dull aches before the pain kicks into high gear. Curled on his side, feverish and clutching his chest. Broiling sort of pain that pounds like a headache and scalds like a burn. He spends the whole day like this. Too tired to scream, too hurt to cry. He's been through sickness before, he can ride it out, but he's not sure how long he'll have to. For all he knows it's demon sickness. He fades in and out of consciousness, reality and dreams blurring together as the sun wanes over the horizon.

  He sees the shadow. It's not smiling anymore. Its hands pressed against the wall of water. He doesn't know why but he feels like apologizing when he looks at it. Watching it pitifully scratch at a wall that runs through his fingers. Iruma lays on the water's surface, the cool touch easing his heated skin. His vision rocks and wobbles. Brief flashes of the forest intertwined with sudden full body chills and waves of nausea that lump in his throat. He can see his legs too. Stumbling like a drunkard. Was he walking?

  Was this real?

  The figure whines and whimpers, sorrowful sounds muffled by its prison. It looks so…concerned. Sad, even. Iruma tries to stand and nearly hurls from his body's defiance. He gets a few more spots of the forest, further and further from where he recognizes. So he changes tact, pulling himself towards the falls with his arms, a slow shuffling crawl. The shadow encourages his efforts and tries to meet him halfway. He's not sure why he's doing this. Why he's here at all. In spite of it all, something tells him it will help. He won't be alone. Iruma forces his hand through the water. Just grazing the shadow’s hand-

  And he's back. Air shooting through his lungs that he greedily gulps down. He still hurts, still crummy, but he feels better than he has all week. Apparently the world knows, because god forbid he gets a break. Alarm bells screech in his ears and he dodges instinctively, his back hitting rock as he frantically searches for the thing that finally got his Danger Sense back online.

  You know Murphy's law? The concept ‘anything that can go wrong will go wrong?’ It must be his motto because in front of him is one. Hell. Of a problem.

  He's face to face with the glossy, white eyes of a lumbering beast. All four locked in a chilling blank stare. Its snout is rounded and wide, tipped with a flat nose. Unruly fur blankets its burly form, cocoa brown and short length. Everywhere spare for its back, shoulders, and jowls, which instead are enveloped in bushy, dark green moss and miniature vines. Its body is best described as a freakish cross between polar bear and snapping turtle; arms, height and size of the bear, and the robust stature, tail and leg style of the reptile. Claws, maw, and terror factor an equal mix. Iruma kept one eye on the thing as he took hold of his surroundings. A huge hollowed tree covered by rocks, torn logs and mud. 

  Oh fuck.

  He actively avoided the place. Iruma had been through enough shit in his life to know what a den looked like, demon world or not. He also knew how close was too close to said den, and what animals look like when they're about to educate trespassers. And he had walked here. Of his own volition. Half gone, high on sickness, and with about the same battle power as a fifth grader zooted on morphine.

  Oh fuck. 

“I don't suppose we could chat this out, huh?”

  In response the beast lunged, fast and heavy. Iruma ducked at the last moment, sympathy wincing at the colossal crash that could've been his bones. Head spinning and slogged every move was taxing on his body. Every dodge a near miss, every step a brush with death. He tries to get away but his movements are far too off. Too stiff to do anything but keep himself alive. He isn't focused on where he's moving, and he pays the price when he realises he's cornered. Pressed against the opening of its den, its hulking mass blocking any form of exit lest he wants to be snapped in half. Its panting, thick, hot breath spreads the smell of decay through his nostrils. Teeth bared in a drooling snarl. In his last resort mindset, Iruma grabs the first thing he can hold to defend himself. If he can't run, he'll at least go down swinging. He doesn't even have time to see what's in his hand before the beast recovers. With a lurch it hammers down, full intent to body slam him into mush. Iruma skirts the blow by a hair’s breadth and follows wherever his dodge takes him. 

  Latching on its muzzle, chin resting between its eyes. Even the beast looks confused. 

“Uhh…you have very s-soft fur, buddy!”

  Brilliant. Awe-inspiring. What a great thing to write on your tombstone…

  His complement (understandably) goes unheard as it promptly starts to buck and nip at the blue pest gripping its face. Iruma holds on for dear life as he's tossed to and fro, frantically grappling with whatever his fingers could catch on. His legs and tail straddling its maw in an attempt to keep it shut. It brings him back to that sketchy rodeo stint he did for a summer. Illegal bull riding felt safer than this by a long shot. His hands are already shaky, clammy with sweat and stress. The creature is only getting madder and with every jolt it's going to knock him off soon. He's not going to have the stamina left to keep fighting. He has to find a way out. He finally gets a look at whatever meager weapon he has to defend himself as the beast rears its head in a downswing. A splintered bone, sucked dry of marrow. He's jostled again and makes eye contact with his foe. 

  Eye contact. Eyes.

  He has an idea.

  Iruma whispers an apology as he makes his move, slicing open the beast’s eye. It roars in an agonizing pitch that rings through his ears, thrashing faster through its pain. He regains hold of its face with his legs and coils his tail as tight as he can around its jaws. He drops the jagged tool in the frenzy but instinct surges him forward. Jamming his hand thumb-first into the gushing wound. The sclera pops open from the pressure, cascades of watery, gel-like fluid washing over his fingers that mix with red. He smells iron. As it howls, Iruma pushes his hand further. Coating knuckles in the splitting, wretched squelches of its innards. Bodily matter like jelly that encases from his nails to his wrist. He smells it again. Stronger than ever. No longer the blood, but that sweet, delectable scent. He can feel it, too. Different from the garden. It tingles and dances along his scarred skin. Fluttering spirals of delight that wash his aches away. An embrace, tender and warm. Unaware and hazy as he plunges his other arm into its right socket. He longs for it, the comfort, the safety. The beastly baying gets quieter as Iruma revels in the sensations, a dripping siphon into his core. Muting the squeals of despairing agony.

  Bliss threatens to overtake his mind. It’d be just like before. He’d lose himself again. Be a monster again.

  Prove them right.

  All at once Iruma snaps back to reality. Himself. Watching in a cocktail of shock, horror and just a teeny tiny bit of pride as the beast falls dead beneath him. Becoming privy to the spongy, soft matter in his palms. To his immense surprise, he's up to his forearms in the creature’s eye sockets, damn near his elbows. Which he swears was not the goal. Lobotomy certainly wasn't the answer he was looking for, but survival makes fools of us all, he supposed. He was alive and right now that's all that matters. After dislodging his arms from its skull, he lays next to the corpse, beat.

  He’s never felt so refreshed in his life but the mental whiplash really had him in a choke hold. One second it’s like lava between his ears, the next he’s dream walking feeling like a breath of fresh air, and now? Like he can fly. Fight god and win. It isn’t exactly unwelcome, per se, he’s spent almost every day of his life feeling like trash and he won’t pretend that it isn’t a pleasant change, It’s just…he’s not sure. Not sure about any of this. Why he feels so fine here. Decent. His luck hasn’t run out. He’s alive and borderline well, given the circumstances. He had food. Good food. Even his camp felt the smallest bit more welcoming. Even if it was just a tad. Iruma wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean. Maybe his standards were just really low. 

  He lays in silence, watching gold-tinged clouds float through the evening sky. Maybe this place wasn’t as bad as he thought. 

  His stomach grumbles to break the moment. Reminding him that he was too woozy to hunt all day. He rolls his head to the side, contemplating the large cadaver keeping him company. Strangely, it’s smaller than he remembers. From David vs. Goliath to about a black bear’s scale. He swears it felt bigger. Either way, it was too big for him to hull back to camp. Not without risking something else stealing his prize or ending up with spoiled goods. He looks around again, weighing his options. The den spot isn’t too shabby. Cleaner than he expected, with a good amount of snug little spots to sleep in. He knows there's that lovely lake nearby, and that pond even closer. It’s pretty close to that garden too, now that he thinks about it. Plenty of space for a fire…it wouldn’t be hard at all to relocate.

  A small smile graces his lips. It’s genuine, free. Something he felt so fleetingly. 

  He scurries back to base, ready to put his old abattoir skills to use and test if brain tanning works as well in this world as it does in the human one, with no true concept of the mana in his veins. What should’ve been there from the moment he was born. He also had no idea of his own scent, and how it all but blossomed after his little meal. Or whose den he would be taking over.

  That’s how in the span of a week and a half, Suzuki Iruma, age fourteen, unknowingly became Hubbub Forest’s apex predator.

Chapter Text

 Heavy steps storm through Babyls, a thunderous warning. Suffocating presence swarming the building with overbearing pressure. The clouds grey and rumbled around the school, thin, sharp flashes of violet light sparking the sky. Sullivan knew he should rein it in. It wasn't the staff’s fault he was in such a foul mood. Wasn't their fault he could taste the temptation of an evil cycle on his tongue. He could still smell those foul things. On his clothes, on his skin. A mouth-watering sweetness. Sullivan’s lips curled, distaste contorting his shadowed features. He should've done more to those despicable freaks. Unworthy of the punishment he bestowed. If Border Control weren't already hot on his tail, he knows for damn sure he would've wrought ten times the hell he gave them. His blood boiled at the thought. Now he had to burn one of his best suits, too. A trail of scorched footprints marring tile as his long strides breezed through the halls. He noted the edge of purple robes sprinting just to his side.

“Dantalion.” He says, step unwavering.

“Yes, Sullivan-sama?” 

“Inform Kalego that he is to report to my office in thirteen minutes. Interruptions will not be tolerated.”

“Right away, Sullivan-sama.” Dali promptly left the crown to his devices. Normally, the Chair-demon had a level of jovial attitude that brought a bit of ease to their work. There were many times he indulged staff with their projects, or occasions he insisted on paid leave and extra vacation days in seasons like this when evil cycles were at an all time high. It wasn't often they saw the lax demon in such a dishevelled state. Something had him rattled. And a pissed off rank Tet (9) wasn't on his list of things to deal with, thank you. Much less one of the Three Greats.

Out of breath and lacking courtesy, Dali burst into the office of Mr. Doom-and-Gloom. The hellhound in question is already across the room. “Sullivan-sama requests your presence.”

‘No shit.’ Kalego thinks. Cerberus hasn't shut up since the old geezer decided to run amok. The last thing he needed was an unstoppable tantrum running through faculty, pulling at everyone's mana as if wicked phases didn't exist. Why that fool of a demon chose to unleash such an unpleasant aura during work hours eluded him. Only two months away from the opening ceremony at that, the pompous bastard! They still had plenty on their plate. A considerable amount of effort, work and time that needs to be utilized on more important things that do not include his whims.

“How long?” Kalego asks, speeding towards the Chair-demon’s office.

“Thirteen minutes.” Dali says, a few paces behind. “No interruptions. I’d try to dial back the attitude today, boss man’s lookin’ real spicy.”

Kalego spared a glance at his wristwatch only to curse under his breath. ‘Eight minutes to my office and back. Five minutes left. Hell’s rings I swear I'm the only professional in this building.’ He picked up the pace leaving the mythology teacher in his dust. Mad demon lord or not, he refuses to earn himself another pay cut.

He makes it to the office entrance with half a minute to spare. Fist raised to knock before the door beats him to it, swinging open unprovoked and blasting that strangled, thrice blessed energy straight to his face. ‘Satan I’m not paid enough for this.’

“Enter.” Sullivan's voice is deep, gravely. As if he hasn't spoken in days. ‘So he wasn't at Babel Tower…’ It's only a demon’s nature to be curious. Everyone at Babyls had their own theories about the Great’s disappearance, Kalego included (mainly out of annoyance.) To imagine him gone for so long without the pretext of a Thirteen’s Dinner was practically unheard of. Kalego does as instructed, side stepping to avoid the abrupt slam of the door behind him.

The Chair-demon's office is a wreck. The typically pristine workspace completely upturned and ransacked. Stacks of papers, notary stamps and numerous quills are flung through the air, magically scribbling away at documents that should've been done ages ago. Ink blots in thick bubbles float close behind pens, their inkwells crushed into the fine silk rug beneath. Sullivan may have the power reserves to waste on trifling paperwork, but such a thing would have a ludicrously high cost in exchange for little output. Telekinetic magic being a brand of magic that was almost exclusively used for levitation. Controlling multiple objects is easy, asking each to perform different objectives and thought conscious tasks was not. The only benefit would be the time he'd save. How much of a rush is he in that he can't wait to dip his quills? To press his own emblem? Sullivan himself was far less dignified than usual. Which was saying a lot. Kalego never had very high opinions of the spontaneous bloke to begin with. The prestigious crown was currently rummaging through the shelves of his office, scanning book titles and either tossing them on the floor, or shoving them into a satchel bag to his side. Had he not responded to his presence Kalego would have assumed he went unnoticed. Kalego had a bad feeling about this.

“You requested me.” He says slowly. A statement not a question. The sooner this was done, the sooner he could get back to work. Rather than his usual antics, for once in his life Sullivan gets straight to the point.

“I will be absent for the foreseeable future. Until my return Opera will take place in my stead. They will not be in office as often, so please schedule any questions or concerns around their time frame. I presume they will brief the staff of their availability as soon as possible. Shall they be unable to assist, you will be acting Chair-demon.” Sullivan continues searching the space as if what he said wasn't the worst news Kalego could've possibly heard.

“W-WHAT?! THAT DAMNED HELLCAT HAS NO BUSINESS-” He's interrupted by two stacks of papers unceremoniously shoved into his arms. 

“These are the documents you required, I apologize for the tardiness. The left stack has finalized deeds of construction for the diabotany tower repairs, lists of certified torture equipment for Marbus-Sensei, resource management, security checks, authentication protocols and other such like. I recommend removing the pages in yellow before you distribute as Furcas-Sensei’s report is hefty compared to other years.”

“WAIT JUST A MO-”

“The right stack has all the necessary information regarding the first semester’s festival activities, uniform processing, student council guidelines, student files, and essentially any documentation that involves student practice. The confirmation for acceptance letters are on the desk in the brown boxes. I recommend a thorough double check on the applicants in case there are any outlying factors I may have been unaware of. Do you have any questions?” 

Kalego takes a second to rein in his rage and steady his hands. Unfortunately, he knows good and well he has no say in the matter. He lowers the stacks enough so he can make eye contact with the Chair-demon. “ Fine,” He grinds out, “you could have at least mustered the decency to inform the staff.” Having just returned from an impromptu absence, he wondered how serious this new matter was. Perhaps he never finished what he set out for in the first place. Something flashes in Sullivan's eyes that makes his brow furrow. A rumble sounds overhead just outside the window. It starts to rain.

“Such things do not concern you. I have business of the utmost importance to attend to at my estate, business that leaves me little time to conduct proper work here. I am unsure of how long it will take. That is all you need to know.” He says. There's something between the lines of professionalism, something that tells Kalego the weight of the situation. He can't be sure if it's relevant to Babyls or something more personal, and it wouldn't be the first time he's neglected to disclose cardinal information until the last moment. His hackles raise.

“I see.”

Sullivan grunts. “You will be compensated for your time and increased responsibilities.” With that the crown stalks off. Gone as quick as he came.

He wants to be mad. He sure as hell deserves it, and frankly he is, just not as much as he could be. Something about the interaction had him feeling off. He couldn't care less about the personal affairs of that lunatic but that look in his eyes…there was something he was missing. Kalego straightens, marching back to his own office. If that ‘classified information’ involved his domain, he'd bare his fangs to protect his treasure. He'd be ready. They should expect nothing less, of course, from the Guard Dog of Babyls.

Opera’s ears twitch to the foyer, the familiar clink of the mansion doors sounding through the halls. They folded the last of the bed sheets in the laundry pile before all but sprinting to the entryway. Two weeks. Almost two weeks with nothing. No call, no text, no letter, he didn't even tell anyone he had plans. Honestly, how are they supposed to do their job if their foolish master wanders out with nary a word? Yes, they had trust in their employer, but there was a level of respect that came from them being his first contact. Security devils are more than simple bodyguards, more than caretakers. Going AWOL when one has a security devil at their side meant one of two things; their service was no longer required, or their master was dead. To Opera, both were detrimental. So hearing that familiar click gave them a wave of relief and frustration. They've been plagued with the worries of some lonesome mother for almost a full month now, that insensitive prick. Though their face yielded no change, their tail flicked behind their back, annoyance clear. They could hear Sullivan's footsteps briskly traipsing to the library, not even waiting for his typical ‘welcome home.’ He’d best have a good reason for this blatant disregard. Opera changes course, entering the library just minutes after their lord. They stop in their tracks at the sight.

Many demons are self absorbed. It is a fact of nature and of evolution. Compared to humans, demons tend only to take note of what has immediate benefit to themselves. If their opponent is weakened, if their rank exceeds their own, their aura or the strength of their mana core. Things they can utilize to their advantage come first, which is why demons with who express sympathy or empathy are practically unheard of. Those who intend on careers with a focus on protection or providing are put through specialized mandatory training to achieve even the baseline of sympathetic tendencies. To pay more attention to their masters. To gain an appreciation for one another. More direct attachment means a stronger bond and more incentive to protect those they are assigned to. Security devils are part of that category. Opera sees themselves as having a less professional arrangement with lord Sullivan given their history, which only made their observations more concerning.

His dress shoes are lacking their normal sheen. The leather scuffed around the sole line, their decorative over practical nature rubbing against the cotton of his socks. Undoubtedly giving blisters. His pants with small rips near the cuffs, muddy grime bleeding into cloth. His coat, typically preened and wrinkle free, was stained, tiny reddish-brown speckles around the sleeves. Puffed collar missing feathers with a crooked skull tie. The coattails bent and frayed. The wing slits in particular drew their eye. Roughed edging and loose seams, torn in thin lines where the wingtips would emerge. As if pulled out in a hurry. His eyes were sunken, his hands shaky. He looked closer to a Deviffee addict than their boss. Even his favourite spectacles had smudged lenses, something they knew Sullivan could hardly stand. Given the current state of their lord, perhaps they will save the lecture for later.

“Welcome home, Sullivan-sama.” They say sincerely. Sullivan doesn't even look their way.

“Yes, thank you Opera.” His voice is off, somewhere else. Their ears droop as they watch him rummage through the shelves.

They try again. “Is there anything you require, my Lord?” 

Silence…

“Sullivan-sama?”

“Hmm? Oh, ah yes. Yes, of course Opera.” It doesn't take a genius to know he wasn't listening. They weren't sure if they could get anywhere with him like this. Nothing useful to say, not to them. Perhaps they'll wait for him to adjust first…he was gone for a while. They have enough faith in their master to give them a proper explanation eventually. They bow, grabbing the handles of the double doors.

“Very well, Sullivan-sama. Dinner will be prepared in three hours.” Sullivan hums, but they're unsure if it's in response. They take it as their cue, and close the doors with a click. Clearly something is on his mind. They'll give him time to cool off. Based on the skies they'll hazard a guess he's bridging an evil cycle anyway. Maybe he'll be more open to chat once he's eaten? They'll strike the eggplant from the meal plan today. As Opera returns to their duties, Sullivan mulls over the knowledge he has.

He pours over pages, surrounded by books and ancient texts. Surely there's something here he can use. Something to find his summoner. The strain of mana fatigue from spending so long in the human realm and for what? Loose ends and a horrid web of places a mere child should never have been in. All over the world he found traces of the boy. Ghostly trails of a journey hard-fought. Boats, alleyways, mountains, deserts, dragged here, there, and everywhere by the poorest excuses for parents he's ever had the displeasure of meeting. If they even merit the title. He knew humans to be sinful, their unholy prowess dwarfing any rank of imp by a country mile. Disgusting pigs whose greed rivals that of natural-born demons. True Return to Origins. Callous, vain, cretins that were able to get away with a life of ill-gotten luxury. Daring to lust for more. To have the impudence to tie him, him, to a soul contract?!? A BLOODY SOUL CONTRACT?!?!  

A bolt of light struck fiercely through the wind, a charred hole left in its wake. Purple flames flickering in what was left of the grass. The hubris to tether a demon before striking a deal. Such archaic magic. Sullivan had assumed they had some way to channel mana, a way to open a portal that connected by way of mana core. An artifact. An idol. But no dice. No. Of course not. Unfortunately that left only one other option for a human ritual summon. And it would imply they had zero functional brain cells. In what world is a soul gate even remotely close to a good idea?! Let alone a process they were willing to try. A way to bridge worlds by offering payment before you strike a bargain. To guarantee a deal with something at the highest cost. There was no way they could've gotten out of selling their lives if they summoned him themselves, trying to get something for nothing. So they got their son to do it. He didn't stand a chance. The boy's soul was sold the moment he drew the circle. There's no telling what could've crossed the border had he not found it first. How the kid survived the process was nothing short of a miracle.

But now there's a different problem.

Now, Sullivan had half ownership of a human soul. A human child’s soul. A child who, despite all odds, was alive . His summoner. His summoner who was forced to link souls with a demon . Humans weren't capable of such things. It shouldn't be possible. It isn't possible. And yet…

He can feel it. Feel him. The connection. It's like…a familiar. But different. It's so cold, and- and so, so terribly small. Hollow. Sullivan's shrivelled heart goes out to the poor boy. He can feel the aches, the sorrow. Quite possibly years of torment that ripple through his body. Dull. Phantoms. Even in the human world he felt it. So scared, and tired . He must be so alone. Sullivan isn't sure how he managed to escape that rickety little building, especially with his ‘parents’ around, but he's relieved he did. He doesn't want to think about how terrified the boy would be when he realized what they did to him. Then again, if he's their son, Sullivan wonders if he'd even be surprised. The fact he might not have been makes Sullivan's teeth grind.

He should've done more to them . As was his right. Make them feel the pain they pressed to the shoulders of another. All to devour a life they didn't deserve. Those pa thetic, mea ningless, insigNIFICANT-

  “-ama! Sullivan-sama!”

The rage fades as he turns to his butler. When did they come back? He clears his throat, adjusting his spectacles. “Evening Opera. Do you need something?”

“With all due respect, Sullivan-sama, if you ought to have a conniption, we created a Wrath Room for a reason.” They say flatly. Sullivan blinks. Once. Twice.

“Pardon?”

They huff, an ounce of irritation slipping through their blank expression. “Allow me to reiterate. It's abundantly clear you're experiencing the start of a wicked phase. It is also apparent that whatever spurred this came from your unscheduled ‘vacation.’ Now if you were reacting to the signs your body is absolutely providing like a civilized demon, I wouldn't deny your urge for destruction. However,” They pointedly glared at their master, “it seems to me that your incorrigible behaviour has finally turned you vapid.”

Sullivan doesn't quite know what to say to that. Opera has always been honest, brutally so, but most of their insults are made in jest. With no response, they press on.

“You’ve neglected your health, demolished the garden-”

So that's what smells burnt…

“-caused the shattering of both your Qin and Anathan Dynasty tea sets, and haven't even removed your outdoor shoes. Based on your expression I can see you didn't notice, which I needn't remind you is very unlike your typical behaviour. Whatever is causing your strife isn't going to improve with you stressing yourself out. It would do you an immense service to act your age and vocalize your concerns. Otherwise, I will ensure you're corralled into the proper location for your hissy fit.”

Sullivan takes a moment to actually see his surroundings. The library is in tatters, many of the books he'd been perusing were missing pages or scuffed to some extent of rough handling. Most of the shelves he hadn't touched were in some state of disrepair, like he'd somehow missed an earthquake. Many of the windows were cracked or blown open. Wafting in the source of that burning smell no doubt. He didn't really want to see what he'd done to his darling Snarlips. The grandfather clock had toppled at some point, too. Thankfully he could still read the time; three in the morning. How long had he been at this? Hopefully not eleven hours like the clock suggested. With his unconscious rampage surveyed, his eyes fall back to his butler.

Opera’s tail was puffed, fists balled, their vest scorched in spots. If he had been smiting everything outside his house, they would be the one to take care of it, wouldn't they? They were accompanied by a serving cart packed with what he assumed to be dinner, Hell Grey tea and biscuits. They were cold. Perhaps time did get away from him. Just how long had they been standing there? He finally circled back to their face. Their ears were flat against their head, braid loose and a little damp from the rain. Their jaws set and clenched. Undoubtedly to hold their tongue. Upon further notice their eyes held an anxious sort of sheen to them, an underlying wobble in their stability. A tightness in their brow.

They were worried.

Sullivan let himself break from it all. From the chaos of the last few weeks. A part of him felt scandalized that he let such a thing get under his skin. So much happened, unfolded all at once. Pulled apart by the sorry excuses for humanity he'd spent hours of his life cursing. Hours he won't get back. Really, with the mana fatigue, near constant flying, avoiding border control, and the impossible-until-literally-weeks-ago soul tie, he really should've seen it coming. He’s a crown for hell’s sake! Derkila would never let him hear the end of it. He straightens his suit (devi had he been wearing this scum all day?) and snaps his fingers, restoring the room to its original state with the magic he has left. He pulls over his favourite armchair and its matching pair, trying to let the stress roll off him. He gestures to Opera.

“Have a seat with me. Pour some tea, if you'd like. I'm afraid this chat will take a while…”

And it did. The sun's rays peaked through torn curtains by the time he'd finished his recount. About his spur of the moment decision (after he was heckled to death by the admission,) about the meeting and subsequent punishment of his fake summoners, about stretching his mana stores to the limit in an attempt to find his real summoner while keeping his way home open, and so on until finally reaching the present storytelling. To say Opera was upset would be an understatement. Not just with him for making, in their own words, ‘the most obnoxious use of their status in demonic history,’ but also for the circumstance that brought him there. 

As highly illegal as it was, it was a comfort to have Opera by his side. Now that he had a confidante he felt more at ease with the mountain of work on his plate. Even if he did leave out the whole ‘I may be soul bonded to a human child' part. They knew he wasn't telling the whole truth, but if they had any reservations on the matter, they kept it to themselves. Better off for the both of them, truly. Disclosing his not-so-petty crime was already a poor choice, but the addition of buying a human soul was more than enough to lock both of them up by simple association. Willing purchase or otherwise. Opera went through a lot by proxy of being his security devil. They didn't need to know any more than this. Maybe one day, but not now. And as Opera cleared their plates and glasses, Sullivan couldn't help but think about the next steps.

Demon-human contracts had loads of connections in the Netherworld, ones far easier to find at that. If he'd known how this turned out to be he would've prepped the trip in advance! (Though by that logic it wouldn't have been an impulse decision, would it?) It’s sheer lunacy to think there’s nothing useful around. He knows he has something. It just boils down to where he put it. He doesn't care how long it takes. This isn't just about him anymore. Those humans may have been the worst interactions since he was introduced to the Tengu Clan, but he wasn't about to toss their son to the hounds like they did. He still has no idea what a half-bond even does to a human. However, Opera was right. What's done is done. No point in moaning over the past, just focus on what he can do now. He sips his tea.

‘What he can do now, huh?’ 

An idea roots in his head. A perfect solution. For the first time in weeks he finds himself smiling. 

“Opera?”

“Yes sir?”

“The guest room on the second floor…it's the largest, isn't it? The one we use for Levi and Belial.”

“That is correct.” 

“It has the additions as well, yes? Walk-in closet? Personal bathroom?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. I'd like you to have it cleaned and emptied at your earliest convenience. I want it refurbished with the highest quality everything money can buy.” 

They bow. “Of course, sir. It will be done.”

Sullivan's grin only widens. “Wonderful! Oh Opera what would I do without you?” He asks rhetorically, crushing his security devil in a hug. After a spin or two he skips towards his room.

“My darling grandson will love it, I’m sure!” A refreshing giddiness invigorates his old bones, he doesn't even hear Opera’s spit take. 

“I can't wait to meet you, Iruma-kun.”

And somewhere, deep in the neighbouring forest, a little boy sneezes.

.

.

.

“Sullivan’s back?”

“Seems like it.”

“Do we tell the boss?”

“Not yet.”

“Come on! Isn't a witnessed crossing enough? Even Azazel can't look past that.”

“It's his word against ours. No physical evidence. Besides, K said he's waiting for ‘the perfect stage.’ Creepy bastard…”

“So what then?”

“Well, a little bird said there were three triggers. Two in, one out. So we keep our eyes open. Something's bound to pop up.”

Chapter Text

 Scattered sunlight streamed through the leaves. Drops of glistening dew sprinkled on grass. Iruma found it ironic. How peaceful these mornings were in comparison to home. Starting days in restless anxiety, arriving hours before shift to get some shut eye in safer places. Yesterday’s hustle and bustle wearing down his limbs. Not to say it was perfect here either. It was a steep learning curve to be sure, figuring out what can kill him, what certain sounds meant, what was and wasn't a plant with a vendetta. But it was a different kind of danger. It wasn't the kind lurking in the shadows or in the eyes of touchy coworkers, it was just animalistic. They do what they must to survive and that was something he could respect. Something he could deal with. Not sure how that reflects on his time with real people, but he wasn't about to go down that rabbit hole. Regardless of the culture shock, he could see himself liking it here. Eventually.

Hopefully.

Iruma crawls out of the den, tail lashing with a few satisfying pops. The fresh morning air casting cool fog at his feet. He rustles through his stash of food, picking small munchies for breakfast as he clambers across fallen logs and rock. Sitting at its peak to watch the sun. Rays of dusted pink that bled into the fading night. A strange thing, that purple sky, but it sure made a wonderful view. He nibbles away in a peaceful quiet. His stores were getting a little dry, he's going to have to forage today. He still isn't sure how much he's been eating lately. It doesn't feel like much. About the same as it was in Japan. He's always been used to rationing, and it wasn't often his parents ditched him somewhere with an ample food supply, so really he should be grateful. And he was! It's just…well, now he has time to actually enjoy eating. Before, food was fuel. It was bland, burnt, or rotted. Literally anything he could pop in his gob that would give him enough energy to move. Now he has time to really taste, to savour it. To be frank it was heavenly. Over the days his scraps seemed to disappear faster and faster. Even the mountain of a carcass he managed to wrangle was reduced to bones. Mostly. There were a few bits he didn't eat. In all honesty solely because he didn't know what they were. Demon animals certainly had odd-looking insides. Outside of boiling and setting things on fire his cooking skills were limited, and he was not in the mood to experiment with game meat. Viruses, parasites, disease…many of which he unfortunately learned about first hand that he had no intention of experiencing again. Essentially he was left with a leaf bag filled with entrails tucked away in his camp. Hunting wasn't really his thing to begin with anyway, but sometimes push comes to shove.

Now fishing? That's a different story. It was simple, yielded fair results and used tools you could make by yourself. It was basically free! With his unorthodox training and the amount of cash you could make with a good haul, Iruma had long since learned how to get a fish or two in his belly. He could almost say he was good at it, relaxing even. Especially when he wasn't the bait- Wait. Wait just a second!

Iruma mentally kicks himself for not thinking of it sooner. He practically had homemade chum! Just sitting around! And he's over here thinking about what to eat? Man it's a miracle he's gotten this far in life.

“No better time than the present.” He says, stretching for the work to come. He preps for the venture, far more equipped after multiple sessions of trial and error. He busied himself with his rudimentary tools, brainstorming ways to lug back anything he could catch for a nice meal. That bear-thing was way bigger than anything he'd faced on Earth. He really hopes the fish are normal sized. Wonder if he could find a way to smoke them? Something to keep it from going bad too fast at least. With his gear in hand (and stomach rumbling,) he gives pause before he leaves. 

It doesn't look like rain, but that huge thunderstorm came out of nowhere yesterday. He doesn't want to get caught in it again. Took him hours to get dried off. He only has one set of clothes, after all. And while he's not sure if the seasons are the same here as they are in the human world, he has noticed it tends to get colder here than at home…

He goes back into the den, pulling out the tanned pelt he'd made. Iruma didn't really like furs and pelts, but if he already killed something, the least he could do was make use of as much of it as possible. It was baggy on him, and he didn't make it for travel, but it was cozy enough to be a sort of coat. He tosses it over his shoulders, the head flopping over his own. A makeshift hood.

It'll do.

“Mother, please, don’t you have more important things to do?!” 

“Oh don’t be that way Alice-chan! Nothing’s more important than my baby Basilisk~”

“MOTHER!”  

The sparkling battle hall was ablaze. Singed targets, smoking pot holes and countless training dummies reduced to ashen piles. In the center of it all, a tall, gorgeous woman happily smothering her son. Asmodeus Alice had been using his spare time to practice a few more advanced spells. As was his want, after all. Ensuring his splendor and penchant for sorceries was of the highest priority. Between that and his personal studies he needed to absorb as much knowledge and skill as demonly possible to prepare for Babyls. The honour student title was already given, and he’d been notified just days ago of his student representative speech for the opening ceremony. If he were to climb the ranks and take over an academy of such notoriety, he couldn’t spare a second for lackadaisical behaviour. If only he had known his mother would be home.

“Alice-chan, you never hang out with me anymore! How could you deprive your darling mama? I raised you better than that!” Amaryllis whines, her son in a death grip embrace. For one reason or another, the Thirteen’s Dinner she was supposed to be away for had been postponed. For the third time. Leaving Alice to handle a barrage of ceaseless coddling. For the umpteenth time Alice wrenches away from the head of lust, smoothing the wrinkles out of his dress shirt.

“I am not ‘depriving’ you of anything! How in the Nether am I to get any progress with you pestering me all day?!” Amaryllis gasps. 

“Pestering?! Alice-chan, how mean!” She pouts, crossing her arms in a fit. “This is the first time in ages I get so many days off! I want to see my little prince! There's dozens of places we could go together; The Aquacase, Buffet Behemolt, even Amduscias’ Odyssey is playing, but no! All you want to do is study! At this rate you'll burn out, love.” 

His brow twitches at that. The two of them would never see eye-to-eye on the matter, and the two of them had argued about it countless times. Alice simply didn’t see the merit in such trivial things. Going out to dine when David’s food was already top notch. Shopping when she knew well and good he didn’t need any new garments. Entertaining guests was useful on occasion, for making connections or for the sake of reputation but the frequency she suggested was excessive at best. And that wasn’t even considering the insufferable ‘tea parties’ she hosted for him. Inviting ill-mannered trout to talk to just because they were his age. Trying to ‘make himself some allies’ as if it was something he remotely desired. Why would any self-respecting demon waste their time on that? They only wanted to leech off of his status. You were never going to make something of yourself if you got caught up with common rabble. 

None of them were worth his time anyway.

With a hearty sigh he once again has to resist his mother from shoving him out the door. Her ravings have long since been ignored. Which is a shame, really, because it leaves him wholly unprepared for what he does end up hearing.

“-there's also the Sabnock Clan! I've they have fledglings with plenty of fight to them!”

Alice balks. “W-what?!”

His mother puts her hands on her hips. “You weren't even listening were you Alice-chan! I said that if you wanted to throw fire all day I could set up a playdate for you!” 

‘Satan preserve me.’

Alice can't keep the incredulous look from his face, but his mother wasn't paying attention anyway. “You know, Lord Azazel actually has a daughter who goes to Babyls! I hear she's ranked Vav (6)! She'd make a perfect sparring partner!”

“Mother I-”

“Alice,” His retort dies on his tongue when he hears her tone, “The way I see it, you're on the fast track to becoming a hermit-”

“HERMIT?!?”

“And on my name as Asmodeus Amaryllis I will not stand by to see it happen. I know how you feel about other demons, but spending all your time avoiding people isn't going to help you in the end. You'll be able to find someone if you keep an open mind, dear. You just have to give them a chance~”

Unfortunately Alice was too busy short-circuiting to hear her kind words, instead opting to get the hell out before his mother made good on her promise. His mouth moves faster than his brain and he barely processes his own words. “T-that won't be necessary. I- uh, that is to say- I…I- I HAVE A PRIOR ENGAGEMENT.”

Amaryllis blinks slow. Practically drawling her next words, completely unconvinced. “Really. And, pray tell, what exactly is this ‘engagement?’”

Shit. “We-well it’s, it's private! Yes, ah ah special, um, a-ally meeting!”

Her look shifted, if only a little, but it was exceedingly clear that she didn't believe a word her son said. “An ally?”

“YES! Um, ahem, yes. Yes, an ally. Believe it or not I do have plans that don't revolve around the mansion.” He forces a smile, inching toward the open balcony. He hopes his expression comes off more confident than frantic.

It doesn't.

“Is that so? Well darling, you should've told me! What are they like? I imagine there's a reason a demon good enough to fit your standards wouldn't want to pop in for tea.”

She definitely doesn't believe him. Alice wills his mind into action.

David, you will be remembered.

"IT'S AN EXTREMELY PRIVATE MATTER. ISN'T THAT RIGHT DAVID?" The butler in question startles as Alice throws him to sharks, his mother just as confused. The older man's face pales at the implications only seconds later.

"WHAT A TRULY WRETCH SHAME THAT IS, BUT I'M SURE HE CAN FILL IN SOME OF THE DETAILS FOR YOU MOTHER. AND OH WOULD YOU LOOK AT THE TIME! I MUST BE OFF!" Before either could react he took to the sky, the wind on his wings drowning out his mother’s indigent cries. He knows that if she was really upset she could drag him home before he could hope to unfurl his wings, so he wasn’t too worried about the consequences right now. Perhaps she was content enough knowing he’d left the manor. He tsked, realizing that was probably true.

He grumbles. It was too late to turn around and given the circumstances it wasn't ideal anyway. Though now he had to improvise his sparring session. The mansion obviously had everything he needed, so he rarely sought it necessary to train anywhere else. If he was particularly desperate he knew of a famous battle ring down in Magical Street. Their facilities seemed decent enough. If a bit more flammable than he was used to. It would be an acceptable replacement. He'd certainly get an earful from Lady Lust. Going through all that trouble just for him to go without her. She'd probably take it as an opportunity to book an unthinkable amount of ‘bonding time’ with him as recompense. Not to mention spite also had a role in his decision. She’d want him to hang out in a place like Magical Street, wouldn't she? ‘Act his age’ or some such nonsense. So obviously that's not happening. Any study halls would be there as well though, which strikes two options from the list. Suppose he could do some flight drills inst-

A plume of screeching feathers explode into view, a staggering sight that almost knocks him from the air. A colossal flock of Mournbirds that flap in waves from the trees below. Whipping like blown dust. They're gone before Alice can light a flame. ‘That was…something.’ Alice had fair knowledge in all facets of the Netherworld (it would be absurd to think otherwise) and enough common sense to pick up certain signs from the environment. Mournbirds were notorious scavengers, weak-willed and plain they were the Nether’s most brazen thieves. Despite any margin of disadvantage that came from being piteous, they would often leech off of more competent predators. They often flew in groups to strong-arm animals into giving up their prey. The bigger the swarm, the larger their target. But they were also flighty. In the Netherworld might equals right, and greedy peckers could be swallowed whole by any number of beasts or brutes. For a flock of that size however…

Alice changes course, diving low to the treetops and slowing to a glide. There was potential here. A valuable experience. He’d entertained the idea of wildlife training before. He can recall a handful of times his mother orchestrated hunting trips for him and whatever lowlife he was forced into tolerating in an attempt to bond over power showings. Facing threats in a hands-on, realistic environment, one that wouldn't cater to its foes or ease their strife had been illuminating. It always felt more responsive to aim for marks that gave him proper feedback. More educational to discover where and what is the best spot to hit. Woefully, however, the area surrounding the Asmodeus estate was inadequate. The Asmodeus line had built their territory in Wroughtmen’s Wood thousands of generations ago, and the bloodline’s high mana concentration acted as a sort of deterrent for the more hostile animals. There was a point where Wroughtmen’s transitioned into another forest’s boundary. Hubbub, he believes it’s called. If he had known this sector had such promise, he would’ve flown out here ages ago.

With his hopes effectively raised Alice descends. Effortlessly tucking his wings just before the land, falling into a quick, quiet step. He keeps his ears perked, his eyes readied, as he steadily crosses the forest floor. A haunting silence blankets the world. No rustling leaves. No twigs or branches to creak. The lightest of breeze is his only detection. Far cry from what a Netherworld forest should be. It’s as if all life had scattered, waiting with baited breath. Yet his mind wanders. Rather than the forested scent of pine and crisp bedew, his senses were blinded by a wondrous smell. Something entirely out of place. Almost indescribable. A hazy incense. A comforting spiced drink. Like a fond memory, or a nostalgic taste. He doesn't even realize he's walking towards it until he's traipsing through the brush. He remembers faint stories from his mother. Tale of behemoths of such fantastical strength that their mana leaked into the world, concentrated and pure to the point of visibility. Of scent and touch. Alice could hear his heart beating, a fiendish smirk upon his lips. There was certainly something worthwhile. He was sure of it now. With luck, something that would challenge him. And what a fool they were to get Asmodeus Alice excited.

Soon enough he came upon a small lakefront, the aromatic fog clouding to a dense source. The culprit crouched by the shore.

It was smaller than he expected. Barely his size with thick, baggy skin that scraped the ground. Lengthy feathered (perhaps scaled?) tail swishing in the grass, iridescent blues and pearly whites creating a striking contrast to its otherwise neutral camouflage. Further inspection gives way to red tinted water, small hunks of meat bobbing on the surface that crawl up its hairy arms in the form of crimson stained fur. Peculiar demon-like hands soiled in gore. What he assumes to be carcasses of fresh caught- devi he steals himself to even look at the things- fish laid close by. Its eyes are in shadow, sunken sockets appearing empty as it mulls around the water's edge. 

He's never seen a creature like this. The coat makes him think of a Chelytimus, what with the trademark moss textured shoulders and four-eyed flat snout, and the way its skin is sagging could be a result of the growing it needs to do. Chelytimus are notoriously large, however. Even their cubs are bigger than this.

A Mimic then? It isn't unheard of for them to utilize corpses. Burrowing through flesh to take harbour in warm innards, an armour and a decoy. Territorial as all sin. A death sentence for scavengers. And known to be solitary…It's possible. Makes the most sense, in fact. Which means-

Alice sparks a blaze to his palms, a readied stance that gains its rapt attention. His bloodline sings the song of destruction as he launches his brilliant flame. It does quick to dodge and narrowly escapes the heat, but he already has two more coming their way. He simpers. This brawl has already lasted longer than his previous opponents. Alice hasn’t managed to land a hit in the first seconds. Exhilarating!

“You've raised my hopes. Your execution will be exemplary!”

Of course. Of course . This would happen to him. He's not sure why he bothered praying for good luck because somebody up there hates his guts. He should’ve known something was going to happen! Everything was going well for days now. He’s been spending all this time pretending the world wasn’t out to get him, not even waiting for the other shoe to drop. He should’ve known. Should be better. You’d think he’d learn something by now. A part of him thinks he should let himself burn for negligence, but giving up because of a reality check would be cowardly even for him. Throw away his progress just because he’s tired? He really has become complacent.

Iruma thinks he should start enforcing rules again. Assuming he doesn’t get barbecued.

He ducks, dips, dives, and dodges, the heat summoning sweat to his brow only to evaporate in the whizzing flames. Too fast for him to stand, he’s stuck bounding on all fours, squared and scampering like a rabid dog. He isn’t burning. Not yet. But he’s not sure how long it’ll stay that way. Fire launched with such precision and violent gusto that the smell of singed hair stings his eyes. Recollections of gunfire raid his mind. Metal fangs grazing his skin and catching his clothes. The shrill whistle of their near lethal bite. Learning to hone his instincts, to find what could be struck with the least damage. What he could live without. He remembers the suffocating smoke of processing plants. The burning in his lungs and the oil in his hair. The chemical bursts and caustic burns that garnered reprimand. His skin patchy and tight, marred by his mistakes. Somehow, both sickening memories intertwine today. Crisp and vibrant in a way that makes his scars itch. He’s not thinking. He’s not sure if he’s really here anymore. A husk of cold that flashes red in the threat of blazing pain. A claustrophobic panic that pulls him like a puppet. A primal need to move . He needs to live. He must survive. He hates the feeling. He wants out. Please let me go. Let me stop. 

Let me live.

“WHY?!”

The strangled shriek echoes across the water. Silence permeated by the heavy breathing of both parties. Iruma's mind fog recedes, leaving him with screaming limbs and raw lungs. They’ve managed to travel during the scuffle, both now on either side of the lake center’s island. For as awful as he feels his assailant looks twice as ragged. Not only was it a pers- a demon , but they were stunningly out of place. White thigh highs, slacks, and waistcoat that paired with their black dress shirt, topped with a red broached cravat. The type of clothes he’d only seen in high end stores, places with big-wigs and models where price tags came with their own bags. Their hair slicked to their brow, candy floss pink that brought out deep magenta eyes and pointed teeth. Even with their soot marks and scratches they still managed an air of prestige. If a vexed one. Iruma got the impression that they weren’t used to this kind of exertion, if their baffled expression was genuine. They growl with utter frustration, pulling their collar in an attempt to let off steam. Both literal and figurative. 

“Wha…why?! WHY?! WHY CAN’T I HIT YOU?!” They fume. Affronted for reasons Iruma can barely understand. They stumble forward with an accusatory air. They roll up their sleeves, another flame sprouting from their palm in a thin, tall rapier. Demented visions of being at the receiving end of a whaling harpoon make his stomach turn in remembrance. Maybe it could cauterize itself? He really shouldn't be thinking about that. 

“You…you’re just…” Two leathery black wings spread from their back, lifting them from the ground. Sword held aloft and ready to run him through, he can see the wrathful spark in their slitted eyes. 

“JUST A PEST!” 

A brief snapshot of the following events:

1. Demon shoots towards Iruma.
2. Iruma, far too accustomed to sharp objects flying his way, ducks.
3. Iruma watches the most terrifying encounter of his life uselessly plunge into the water.

Momentum can go a long way, it seems. He’s too high on adrenaline to get off the ground. So energized he can’t move. Can't laugh at the absurdity of it all. So he watches the water, bubbles and foam splashing up from where they disappeared into ripples. Occasionally spotting boiled fish float to the surface. And he watches. And waits. And…and…

Can. C-can this guy swim?

He's starting to doubt it because they've been doing…whatever that is for, well, a lot longer than someone who can swim would. They haven't breached in a while either. Can demons hold their breath really long? Do demons need air? They must, right? 

Iruma's chest tightens the longer he stares, managing to crawl over to the water's edge. His supplies are still there. Makeshift rod and hand woven nets sat close to what could've been a simple lunch. Dead-eyed fish sitting in an improvised storage box. He shouldn't still be here. He got what he wanted. He should go. He starts hurriedly packing his things. Anything he could make again or that he could come back for later was left behind. He should be halfway to camp by now. Should. He just can't undo the knot in his throat. A pit of hesitation in his gut. He keeps looking back at the water. At the bubbles that seem to get less and less frequent. 

He can't count how many times he's been on the other end. Liquid rising through your lungs, the distinct, rending horror of feeling yourself die. Taste of salt or mud on the tongue as you fight against nature itself. Trapped with no one to hear your cries. With no one who bothers to save you. Afraid.

Alone…

Iruma dives through the water, his pelt left on the shore. They're deeper than he thought, their legs and wings tangled in a net of his making, caught like the fish in his basket. Iruma pushes closer, wary of their struggle. He tries to pull at a loose end only for them to thrash faster. Their hands bubble in flashes of warmth, boiling condensed spots that Iruma tries to avoid. They're moving too much. No doubt panicking and based on their squinting he hazards a guess they can't see him well. He needs them to calm down somehow so he can get them out. They're both on borrowed time here so Iruma thinks quick. He swims behind the frantic imp, earning a few arm nicks from the points of their wings as he wraps his arms around their waist. He tries to swim up, but they wrestle to get free of his grip. He's running out of air, feeling the constricting pressure in his lungs, the lightness in his head. He needs them to stop! At this rate they may both drown! He's not sure what to do. How to help. He has to think of something. Anything . He doesn't want them to die. Don't want them to feel like this. Like he does. He won't let it happen.

Suddenly, a raging blast shoots through his arms. Immediate cascading sensations that flow through his body. It's like the beast again, but so much more. He can taste it, caramel and bonfire smoke, the smell of toasted spice or rum. The shock makes him inhale and he lets them go, the tingling burn almost enough to distract him from lack of oxygen. Almost like the stars aligned, for some reason, they've stopped. They're movements are slow, slogging, and their wings have strangely disappeared. It's enough that Iruma can safely unravel the rope of the net. He clings back to their waist and brings the two of them back to dry land, hacking up water and probably a lung as he drags their body.

He makes sure the other can breathe, helping them lean forward as they cough up water. They're fight is long gone and they all but collapse as soon as their airway is clear. Iruma gives them space, only intervening when they try to roll onto their back. 

“Uh- um h-hey you should- um shouldn't do that? Are you sure all the water is-” As if on cue, they roll back over, liquid gurgles out of their mouth. Iruma winces, awkwardly rubbing their back. In doing so, that cozy, tingling feeling crawls up his arm. It's less overwhelming this time. Tamer. Like the last sips of a mug of cocoa. ‘Do all demons have this feeling?’ In moments it ebbs away, leaving a pleasant warmth in its wake. He isn't sure for how long, but when he comes to, the demon is on their back again. Eyes hazy and unfocused. Iruma is quickly reminded of the situation, and yanks his hand away.

“Ah! S-sorry! Are, um, are you okay? Can you breathe alright?”

They blink. And their head drops.

They're unconscious. Which, while not a great sign, means Iruma doesn't have to worry about being set on fire. Their breath doesn't seem wet, and they coughed just fine on their own. Maybe they didn't run out of air? If so they should be awake, shouldn't they? He's not sure.

To be honest he isn't sure about anything right now. Does he wait for them to wake up? They did just start wailing on him the moment they made eye contact. Whether it was because they knew he was human, or for some other reason he has no clue. Either way they probably won't be very kind to him when they wake up. Does he leave them here? It would be safer, he guessed. No backstabbing needed. Just go and eat his fill back home like he planned. But…what if they get hurt? He knows he shouldn't care. That one day his bleeding heart will get him killed, but he can't help it. He hoists them up, their body limp as he figures out the most comfortable way to hold them (they're thankfully lighter than he expected despite being twice his height.)

They look awfully fancy. Their clothes feel ten times as expensive as he imagined! They even have little embroidered snakes on the lapel. Shiny gold too. He wonders if demons have a thing for gold. He's seen it almost everywh-

Snakes. 

Rose petal smell.

A regal look.

Iruma would've smacked himself if he had free hands. He'd seen a huge building near the forest outskirts! Bigger than an airport with snake hedges and chariots too! Now that he thinks about it, he'd smell smoke coming from there whenever he passed. Seen a few bright orange flashes. There weren't any screams or concerning sounds, (not that he was too eager to sprint into private property in general, much less demonic private property) so he left it alone. He'll gnaw off his leg if this guy didn't come from there. It's a bit of a walk from here, but he already started this mess. It was his fault he got stuck.

Might as well see it though.

When Alice wakes it's all at once. Bone chilling cold that shocks like a bolt, dowsing him in vertigo as he lurches forward. Blistered hands, sore muscles and by devi a splitting headache. He feels like he went tail-to-tail with a Blue Mountain Bull. He feels a hand on his shoulder, gentle and coaxing.

“Shh, shh, dear. You’re alright. Don’t strain yourself.” It’s an embarrassingly long time before he realizes where he is. He’s back home. In bed. Thick blankets layered over his silken sheets, with twice as many pillows as usual. At some point he’s been changed into pajamas. His mother sits off to his right, a comforting presence that grounds him to reality. Why? When? He racked his brain for answers trying to remember the day's events. Then it rushes back to him. The scent. The Mimic. The lake and- 

And eyes. Blue eyes.

He hears his bedroom doors open, David carting a tea table through the walkway. The light clacking of ceramic halts with the trolley's wheels. David begins to prepare a few cups, and something else with a nutty, smooth smell. Soup, he surmises. Amaryllis moves from her chair to his bedside, carding rouge nails through his (thankfully) dry hair. Her tone is wistful, an odd thing Alice picks up on.

“Oh my sweet snake. To think you could’ve gotten into such a ruckus.” She says fondly. “I’ll be honest, I didn’t believe you when you said you were going out with an ally. But now I really wish you brought them here instead. I would've loved to see you be all rowdy and mischievous!"

What.

“I’m just so proud of you! Going out and breaking that shell of yours! Oh you have to tell me what you little imps got up to-” Alice shot his mother the most confused, dubious look he could muster. Though it seemed his abrupt movement was enough to draw attention.

“ What are you talking about???” Mistaking his distress for bashfulness, Amaryllis only laughed.

“Oh Alice-chan, don’t think you could hide it from me~ Your ally dropped you off himself, there’s no need to be so shy about it.” Ally? Dropped off???

“I will say though, if you were planning to go swimming I would’ve picked something a little more…sporty than what you chose. Sometimes you really do have to put function over form, I’m afraid. Well, you wouldn’t have to if you actually had active clothes. Perhaps we shoul-”

“Mother! What. Are. You. Talking about?!”

His mother blinks. Once, twice, before some sort of recognition flashes through her eyes. “Oh my…I totally forgot about your mana deficiency. Sorry love, I suppose you have spots in your memory?” Mana deficiency? Alice sits straight, wordlessly taking the cup of Hell Grey Tea and painkiller David passes his way. Amaryllis takes it as an invitation and begins her recount. “Your ally came to the door in quite the state. He asked if you lived here and if David could make sure you were okay. Poor thing looked freezing, but he’d put a little fur blanket on you~ Carried you like a princess, the cutie! Oh, but I’m getting away from myself. He was so skittish, but so polite! When David asked what happened he said you fell into the lake, and that you hadn’t woken up yet. Now I’m not sure what you two were up to, but you my dear were completely out of mana! If he hadn’t brought you home, I doubt you could’ve made it back on your own. You really picked a good one~” Alice…didn’t know what to say to that.

Clearly there were missing parts of the story. It just didn’t make sense. He remembers being angry, getting frustrated only to make a fool of himself. He remembers getting stuck in something. He couldn’t see very well underwater (definitely not because he was scared. Not because he was in the natural habitat of those appalling aquatic menaces to the Netherworld.) Then he felt something grab him at the same time a wave of exhaustion leached at his core. He felt when he was pulled from the water, and he remembers someone...comforting him? And then…their eyes. Sparkling, deep blue. Filled with, most perplexing of all, concern . Genuine, heartfelt concern. Sympathy for a demon they didn’t know. A demon they’ve never met. Alice could barely believe his own memories. What benefit did helping him have? Wroughtmen and Hubbub were mainly isolated areas. No one strolled into demonic forests without reason, so the most believable scenario would be pure coincidence. Was it to get in his family’s good graces?

“Where are they now? What did they look like?” He asks. His voice croaky, but determined.

Amaryllis puts a finger to her lips. “My my, did you hit your head too dear? That’s no way to treat an ally.” At the sight of her son’s glare, she humours the question. “He had short blue hair, and round eyes to match. He was on the shorter side, too. No horns. No tail. At least not that I saw.” She turns to their butler.  “And David?”

“I’m afraid your health took priority, young master. I ensured your safety, and intended to invite him inside. At the very least give him dry clothes. However, when I came back he had already left. He didn’t give me time to thank him.” David explains, only puzzling Alice further.

If he knew who he was, what kind of demon wouldn’t lord that over him? The Asmodeus’ were nothing to scoff at. Miraculously gaining a life-debt bond with the heir to the Asmodeus name wasn’t an opportunity to be squandered. And yet that’s what happened. Leaving without a word, without payment. Moreover, they had checked to see if Alice lived here. They weren’t even sure he was an Asmodeus! But he still…

Still saved him.

The rest of the day passed in a blur, spent in a daze by his mother’s side. And while she went on and on about something or other, Alice couldn’t keep his thoughts straight. Compassion of any kind was practically unheard of among demons. A gem in a sea of coal. Countless times Alice met with dull demons. Any number of cur who only sought to latch on the coattails of success. Within moments, this one nameless imp had outshone them all. He’d never felt such unquenchable curiosity! What were they doing in the forest? Were they seeking to hone their skills, just as he was? Had they witnessed his fight? Had they only spotted his peril? Did they wish to aid him selflessly, or had they disposed of his foe beforehand? Every question burnt holes in his mind. That night, laying awake, Asmodeus Alice came to a decision. He vowed to find the blue-eyed demon, and give them their dues.

In the best way an Asmodeus knew how.

Chapter Text

  Clara’s over the moons! After hundreds and thousands of gruelling hours of studies and hard concentration, she will be the first Valac entered into Babyls! She really had to stretch out the ol’ brain noodle to make it through (it's suuuuper fancy, which means you have to have big smarty pants to get in) and it was the most boring time of her life. The endless grind! The showy dancy-dance magic! Waiting around for the boss manses to do the business papers! But when she opened the acceptance letter it made it all worthwhile. She'll be able to make a whole heap of allies there! People to play with, to dance and sing and- and everything! Her other schools weren't very fun. The other kids didn't really hang out with her. Well, unless she gave ‘em thingies…and she's okay with that!

She has to be…

BUT! This time it'll be different! She's been practicing a whole bunch for it, too. She'll be the best-est, most greatest-est ally anyone could, would, or should ever want in the history of ever! Her pockets could even pull vending machines now! She's all stocked up and ready. Only now, she's gotta’ wait again. Mommy says Oritantan time is still a month away, and the only kids allowed in are the ones who’ll live there. Which seems mean. Imagine how many allies you could make before school even started? So many! Either way no matter how much she wanted to, she couldn't make time move faster.

So she's been doing other stuff. Konchie and Keebow would play Imps and Angels with her, she made a few new Hellracer records with Conner and Murf, and Sin Sin and Ran Ran are old enough to play Murder House now! She's having as much fun as possible before she goes away, ‘cuz she knows school will be for the whole day when it comes around. It's been a good distraction. But it's not what had her so excited.

“Maybe it's a shuffle-fwuff.”

“Nah it's too round.”

“An oniky boy?”

“But it has wingies!”

“Nee-san? What is it ‘sposed to be?”

Clara skips over to her siblings, a proud grin on her face. “I dunno!” She says happily. 

Little figures big and small, carved out of Grabble Tree wood (if the colours were any clue.) They looked close to real animals but not quite right. Hellbears with only four legs, Bufoqets lacking horns, Strix with flat beaks. The closest one was a Sweet-Berian Tiger, but its candied whiskers weren't long enough, and it didn't have wings either. Despite being objectively wrong, they were all really cute little things! Chubby and cartoonish but just detailed enough you could make out what it was trying to be. Clara found herself smiling whenever she looked at them. Not only ‘cuz they were devi cute-

They were handmade!!!

Clara couldn't imagine how awful that would've been! Just sitting around to carve something like that. She tried to copy it- not with her pockets, with her hands- but she lost interest before it stopped looking like a hunk of wood. It made her brain hurt. And it made them that much more ultra mega special!

 She wants to know who left them around. Clearly they were made by another demon. Other demons say that Hubbub is all weird and jinky-janky, but Clara's never seen one of her neighbours that could make stuff like this. They were probably busy doing other stuff. Unless she's wrong, in which case it's definitely the Mokodokos (they spend all that time underground, what else could they be up to?) Anyways, it had to be a demon. A potential alliance waiting to happen! So now, Detective Clara was on the case!

Based on her extensive research, (research being asking her mom a hearty two questions) Clara started to piece together a timeline. Mommy said a few weeks ago- maybe two or three- she went out to make munchie-crunchies when Mr. Red-Hair came by to chat. Clara thinks it was just some adult stuff though, so she didn't ask about that (mommy can be boring sometimes.) But when Mr. Red-hair left and she came back outside, she was missing a pot!

…Okay not the biggest deal. The Valacs tended to lose a bunch’a things to the neighbours. They were so curious and had big grabbies and fast legs, so if they forgot something outside it usually got swiped if they weren’t looking. With their bloodline ability it's not like it really mattered. BUT! The funny part came later! Just a few days after that, a new bowl showed up! It wasn't hers, and because it was made outta’ wood she couldn't use it the same either, but it was in the exact same spot she left the missing one! Strange, strange stuff indeed!

Mommy even showed it to her. It was about the same size as the pot she lost, if not a bit bigger. All carved as one piece, with two flat handles that meshed into the rim. It was rough, but charming, with a smooth inside and a slightly uneven outside, clearly chipped away from a log somewhere. To top it all off, when mommy found it, she said it was filled with loads of tasty stuff! Rare ingredients, juicy fruits, and nice big veggies, all the best things you couldn't find unless you went reeeaally deep into the forest. Clara remembers the dinner they had that night, actually. One of the best meals she's ever had and she only got to eat it ‘cuz they lost a pot! Sort of bittersweet, Clara thought, ‘cuz for as great as it was, it was totally a once in a blood moon sort of thing. Until it wasn't!

The next time the carving imp showed up, it was laundry day. The whole family was outside to help; Sin Sin, Ran Ran, and mommy at the back of the house to hang up the cleanies, and Clara, Konchie and Keebow at the front with the wash baskets. It was windier than they expected, and some blankies flew away, but that's okay! They got to play bubble ram bluff ‘cuz they finished early. Clara was so busy playing that she didn't even notice when one of the wash tubs went missing. Konchie and Keebow didn't see either…but then, when they went back out to get the dry clothes, not only was the wash tub clean and back where it was, but the blown away sheets were back too! Washed, dried and folded up all nice! With a small carving sitting on top: a Kitsune with one tail.

Clara's been fascinated ever since. She's never seen it. Them. But they've come back a dozen times by now. She's baffled how she keeps missing them! She doesn't even know if it's one person anymore. Maybe it's a whole clan of tiny Krakens! With many little arms that can whittle in a snap, and speedy wiggles so they can get in and out without her seeing. Or, or! Maybe they're invisible! Maybe they're around all the time and she just actually can't see them! Maybe that's why they show up for so many little thingies.

Maybe they're just as lonely as she is.

Clara groans, rolling and flailing on the floor. She wants to know! So bad!!! She huffs and puffs some more, trying to vent out her frustration. “Uu-chan!” She whines. “You've got the big smarties, right? What would you do?”

Urara, arguably the only level-headed Valac, sat scribbling away at the dining table. Two or three books flipped open to different pages as he wrote lots of long words on complicated papers. Her brother raised an eyebrow to where she lay before returning to his work. “You narrowed down that it’s most likely a person, right? I don’t see where the problem is.”

Clara thumped her chin on the edge of the table. “Coooooommme oooon Uu-chan! Help an imp out! I’ve done everything!”

Urara gave her a deadpan stare. “You’ve traipsed around in the bushes for half an hour, spread confetti in front of the front door, and climbed a tree. I’d hardly call that ‘everything’ Nee-san.” She puffs out her cheeks with a frown, but he gives her a light smile. “I think you’re overcomplicating it.”

Not quite following, he continues. “Scavengers are almost exclusively opportunistic. You need to stop thinking of them as animals and more like proper demons. Not taking things because it’s there, but because they need it, or want it. You won’t catch a man by baiting a dog.”

“...Huh?”

Urara sighs. “If you were out in the middle of a forest and saw free supplies on the ground, what would you need that you couldn’t find yourself? It seems to me that whoever it is doesn't want valuables. If anything they seem to be prone to trade. If you show them something they want, it may pique their interest.” 

Interest? Anything that went missing was small, replaceable. Matches, soap, a worn out sheet. Things that don't grow on trees, or sprout from soil. Anything bigger was more borrowed than stolen. Disappearing for at most an hour or two before being put back where it came from. Maybe they were a new neighbour! But why wouldn't they just ask instead? Maybe they were real shy. They didn't think they were scary, did they?! No no no, she didn't want that! New ideas cha-cha into her noggin and Clara tapped her pockets for some new material. She was gonna’ say 'hi hi' to their neighbour, and she had to brainstorm just the right thing that would make them come out to play! She'd show them there was nothing to be afraid of. Operation Fly By Ally was a go!

Which is what led her here. Sitting in the brush at the very edge of her home, a plethora of knickknacks piled 100% inconspicuously where their clearing began. She herself had prepped camouflage for just such an occasion; dressed to the nines in moss, grasses and leaves to blend into her surroundings. Real fun to make too! She made extra ones for each kind of plant, even gave some to Keebow for hide and shriek. But that's not the point. The point is that her plan was working perfectly! Flawless.

Kind of.

Sort of…

…

At least seventy percent.

That is to say, it wasn't really working at all. Not the way she wanted anyway. In a matter of hours since her plan was in action, multiple offerings went missing. Replaced as early as the next morning with sculptures or gifts in return. Pretty flowers, shiny stones and lots of hard-to-find produce left in neat stacks by the treeline. They were really nice and her mommy was able to cook even tastier food these days, but Clara still had yet to actually see who was doing it. But she hadn't given up hope yet! Through her time watching and waiting, she noticed new signs that meant the mystery trader was around. 

Number one! They smelled funny. Not like a bad funny like the Hellboars or caviar, but a friendly funny. It mixed with the normal smellies Hubbub had in a fuzzy wuzzy way. Like if she could smell how a hug feels. Sweet and squishy like frost eyes or marshmarrow. Made her feel all bubbly and nice. How did she know it was them? He he, let's call it ‘Claratuition’ (the smell got stronger when she wasn't outside, and when it went away, something was gone or something new was there. Urara says it's common sense but that's ‘cuz he's a big killjoy.) 

Number two! The further from her house the better. Clara thinks she was right about them being shy. They won't take anything unless it's super close to the trees. It makes it harder to be all sneaky when she has to put it out of the way instead of somewhere more natural-looking, but she doesn't mind too much. 

Number three was the most-est important-est one! They like the dark!

Admittedly the earliest she's ever noticed missing stuff was late afternoon, but but but! Every other time it was pajama o’clock. When she was too sleepy to wait for them. But now, equipped with her camouflage, a sleeping bag and permission from mama, tonight was the night! She was gonna' catch the carver! A new ally! A playmate! She wonders what they're like. Obviously they like arts and crafts, maybe she should bring out the nom nom picture books? Or the slimeball canvas set? They never took snackies or drinks, so maybe they like classic meals? Or maybe she just didn’t have the snacks they liked. That wouldn’t do, not at all. She’d have to ask them. 

As the moons rose and Clara settled comfortably into her hiding spot, an anxiousness creepy crawled all over her. Was there a reason they never said ‘hi?’ Never wanted to visit? Urara had a theory that whoever it was lived in the same forest. After all, no one else knew their way around Hubbub like the Valacs. They’d have to live here to consistently find their home. But if that was true they could’ve met up ages ago. Was it personal? Did they just like to be by themselves? Clara knew how to read people better than she often got credit for, and she knew when people were uncomfortable. When she was unwanted. What if her trying to meet them was the last thing they wanted? She didn’t want to make them mad but…but maybe if someone lived here, lived like her, they could be more open. More accepting. She couldn’t change who she was. Couldn’t change how she grew up, what she liked, or how she had fun. But…was it too much to ask someone else?

Not to change, but maybe, loosen up? To meet her halfway. So many demons had enough of her. The way she was. She wanted to share her happy times with them, but they never stuck around to see it. Not unless they had a reason to. A free lunch. A new game. She’d give them anything if they’d just give her time. Time to show them she was a worthy ally. Convince them to take her with them. This was a perfect chance to have that. Hubbub was ‘too much’ for a normal demon. A place that invited everyone, but welcomed few. If this stranger was still here, there was a chance. A chance they would let her in. She couldn’t mess it up.

A waft of sweet delight scatter her thoughts. A figure, short and fluffy, silently making their way over. They were here!!! She sticks her face through the bush she hides behind, forced to sit on her tail so its wagging rustles don't blow her cover. She holds her breath as the sweetest of smells kiss her nose. The air perfumed with a snuggly, devi wonderful feel. How can a smell feel like something? 

They inched closer to her stash, enough for her to see them in the moonlight. It was a demon! Just a bit taller than she was, wearing a big layer of fuzz over them like a blanket ghost. A kind’a spooky looking cape with a head-shaped hood to match. Not their head, though. Something like a Chelly boy’s. The furry bits covered most of everything. If they were further away she probably wouldn’t know it was a person. They were walkin’ awful funny too. Hunched and they kept looking around all twitchy. Too bad she couldn’t see their face. If she wasn’t so excited she might’ve hesitated.

If she wasn’t so excited. Hindsight’s twenty twenty.

Clara rollin’ rollin’ rollin’ with wooshy ba-boom that’s all kabaamalam that knocks them off their feet! “HI HI HI!!! I’M CLARA! MY LEFT FOOT’S CONNOR! MY RIGHT FOOT’S MURF! DO YOU LIKE CANDY? DO YOU WANT SOME CHOMPIES? I’M SOOOO DEVI DEVI HAPPY TIME TO MEET YOU! WHAT’S YOUR FAVOURITE FOOD? YOU WANNA’ PLAY DOOT-DO-DO? IT HAS LOTS OF TINY GUYS LIKE THE ONES YOU MAKE! YOU WAN-”

By the time she realizes she’s got too much va-vroom, it’s too late. She hits a strike square in their chest and both of them tummy tumble far far and down down. Her plan quickly falling apart she latches on to their waist so she doesn’t lose them in the roll; bouncing in a faster ball than Murf or Connor were prepared for as they launch off her feeties, her leafy dress torn apart. Whether it be surprised or instinctual they hug her just as tight, fingers digging just below her wing roots.

All at once, the warm smelly smell changes. Hairs standing high on her nape as a numb, prickly-ness reaches her wings. Time feels slow. Like goopy molasses. Her whole back feels weird, like when you sit crossy crissy too long. Energy draining as the static fills her with tinglies. When did everything get so spinny? They’re not even moving anymore…the smell too. It’s loud. Can smell be loud? It sure feels it.

When they let go it’s gone. She yawns, an itchy pokey on her legs from the grass mixed with the heat of the body beneath her. Air shouldn’t be so heavy, yet it’s like a bubble. Numb and wobbly, she flaps her arms around, expecting resistance. Or a wall. Everything’s so close. Like water.

Clara’s eyes fight to focus, hearing a voice coming from somewhere so much closer than it sounds. 

Hands shake her shoulders with the softest touch. Like she was made of glass. Her ears pop, the wishy washy floating away. Their hood was out of place, the heavy fabric slumped on the back of their head (it really was big huh?) Pulled back to show their face.

Big, round eyes bore into hers. A blue bluer than any blue she’d ever seen! With more blue hair to match that was even fluffier than their hood- if that was possible- and a pointy, scythe-like ahoge at the tippy top. Spotting her attention, he scrambles away, slinking to a nearby tree, arching his back up with a wide stance. Like a cornered beast, teeth bared and all. He's shaking like a leaf.

And the last minute finally registers.

‘No no no no nonononononono!’ She scared them! She knew they were flighty! Why wasn’t she more careful?!

Clara bolts to her feet, ignoring the rushing nausea in favour of attempting a placating smile. It's stiff and forced as she stumbles through her words. “S-sorry, sorry! I d-didn’t- I won’t- ah umm-” Her ever scrolling eyes see them lean away, that owl-eyed stare unchanged. If not more spooked.

She lurches forward, watching them jump but too desperate to correct herself. “NO! N-no no wait! Don’t go yet! I- I have lots of things for you!” She slams her palms on her pockets, thinking of everything nice and fun and good and please please please just stay a little longer-

But nothing came.

“I- I swea-r I can-..!” 

Frenzied, tight breaths whistle through her faulty grin, her teeth grit in a way that makes her lip bruise. She pats and prods yet nothing happens. Her mask cracking under the pull of a frown. She tries and tries and tries again; sliding the sides at every angle, tapping with and without fingers, even reaching inside but still nothing. Frantic tears glazed her eyes with the utter betrayal of her empty pockets. Stitched yellow smiles nothing but a gloating taunt. The most she gets is a pathetic, fizzling glow.

She strains through a weak excuse of a laugh, her voice breaking. “W-we-ell I- No I st-ill h-have-”

They’re gone. Trampled grass is their only trace.

…she missed her chance.

A dull thump of pain cradles her knees as her legs give way. Fat, salty tears streaming down her face. Hiccups crawling up her throat in strangled sobs. It’s her fault, really. For getting her hopes up. It always ends up like this. If they even bother to tolerate her, they all find something better anyway. Compensation only goes so far. Demons are prone to low tolerance, after all, and the last thing anyone wants is to be stuck dealing with her.  

So why does it sting? Why does it still hurt so bad? She should be used to it by now. 

She wouldn’t have to be if she was better. If they actually wanted to stay.

Ugly, cracking wails hang in the night’s silence. She couldn’t even summon a tissue. She lost the one thing that made her useful. That evened out her annoying, grating self.

‘What a cruel joke.’

.

.

.

*tap*

*tap* *tap*

Clara pries open her watery eyes. Greeted by a feathery, white and blue tail, taping at her thigh. Slowly, she raises her head, a confused whine the only sound she can muster through the blubbering. She follows the limb until it disappears into long hanging fur. Familiar fur.

The blue boy is hovering at arm’s length. Posed in a crouch so close to the ground she wonders if his belly touches the grass. Though his hood is back on straight, it’s adjusted to sit above his eyes. He tilts his head to the side, eyes locked on hers. A beat passes, and sure of factors she isn’t privy to, he relaxes. Balancing on his ankles with his elbows on his knees. 

He came back?

They just stare at each other while her tears dry. She doesn’t know whether to be happy or perplexed. Either way the sheer puzzlement- in a funny sort of way- makes the knot in her heart loosen.

His tail flicks, the feathers catching the moonlight to reveal sparkly purples and greens. He uses its end to nudge something closer to her, but she has to scrub her eyes before she can see it properly.

Connor and Murf. He…got them? For her?

“I-” Clara startles a bit at his voice, which causes him to flinch. There’s an awkward air between them before he tries again.

“Umm. I- I’m sorry.” His voice is gentle. Almost…guilty? “I- I didn’t mean to up- to upset you. I…well there’s really no, uh, well nice way to say it- I thought you were gonna’ eat me.”

“...”

“…the more I think about it I guess you still could…b-but! Umm, well…I still didn’t mean to- to make you cry…”

“You came back.” She sniffles out. She didn’t really get why she would eat someone, but that would be a devi good reason to not say ‘hello.’

“Uhh…y-yeah?” He shuffles a little further away, clearly still wary of the whole ‘this demon may be a cannibal’ thingy.

“W-why? I-” She starts choking up. “I can’t give you a-anything…”

He furrows his brow. “Why, um, w-why would you?”

Clara's eyes widened. Why wouldn't she? It's all she's good for. On the chance he didn't know about her bloodline ability, what sort of demon doesn't want something? She already offered, he should be all over the opportunity. He…didn't want anything?

She sits straighter, turning to be face to face. “If you don't want something w-why’d you come back?” He avoids her eyes, fidgeting. “You s-said I could munch you. Why come back?”

“...y-you could be dangerous…but still…” He shrinks into himself, fighting a mental battle she couldn't hear. Body language halfway between running for the hills and heading his own words. Finally, he meets her eyes. A determined sheen that almost negates the fact he's still shaking. 

“You were crying. You could've been hurt. I- I couldn't just leave you by yourself.”

I couldn't just leave you.

Why would he care? She's given him nothing. Less than nothing! She whammed him down a hill! And not on purpose! He has no reason to be here! Not one!

She fights her hopes fruitlessly, already feeling her tail start to wag. “So you're here?”

“Umm. Yes?”

“You're staying?! Cuz’ you wanna’?!”

“Y-yeah um-”

She grabs his shoulders, her energy spiking. “DO YOU WANNA’ PLAY WITH ME?! PRETTY PLEASE?!”

She feels him freeze in her hold. Was she wrong again? He was already so nice she shouldn't have-

“S-sure?”

Sure. Sure. Sure. Sure.

SURE?!

Clara explodes all puffy puffy! This is the first time!!! The first time someone wants to play with her!!! The first time! The first time! The first time!!!

Her ally watches with a confused smile as she hoppy pops into trees all spinny spinny crash bang ! He dodges out of the way when one or two go kapow , BUT!!! He doesn't leave!!! He's gonna' play with her!!! He wants to! THE FIRST TIME!!!

“Chi-Chi!!!”

“Chi-Chi?”

She skids to a stop inches from his face, red with happiness and ecstatic excitement, arms flapping all wingy-like so she doesn’t crush him in a huggy. “Chi-Chi! What should I do?! What should we play?! OH OH! What's your name?!”

To think she was gonna' play without knowing his name! Mommy would scold her!

He blinks, but his smile gets more comfy (she's not scary anymore!) He holds his hand out. “I’m not too sure about the game, but my name’s Su- um…Iruma. Just Iruma.”

“Iruma-chi!” What a neat sounding name! It matched his odd accent too. Maybe he's really really new to the forest. Maybe papa’s been where they're from. Doesn't matter now! Clara eagerly clasps his hand, too pumped up to notice the chilliness spreading up her palm. “Okie dokie Iruma-chi! I can think of-”

“There you are Clara!”

The two of them look for where the voice came from. It was mommy! Lookin' real tired and with a sleepy time Sin Sin and Ran Ran on her back. Sleepy, huh? If she didn't have plans already, the thought of a snooze was… was pretty…nice sounding…right now…

Her mama picks her up by her armpits, her sudden drowsiness clearing a bit when she lets go of Iruma-chi’s hand.

“My dear little imp, if I knew you were going to be so noisy during bedtime, I would've said ‘no’ to your tenting scheme. I think it's time you say goodnight to your ally here.” She says, not unkindly, but with her stern boss lady voice. She didn't think she was that loud…

‘BUT WAIT!!’

Clara squirms in her mother's hold. “Mommy! I can't go to sleep now! I just met-”

“Umm, C-Clara? Right?” She pauses, seeing Iruma-chi stand up, pouting a little when he ensures he stays a healthy distance from her mama. ‘Is he fraidy of her too?’

“It's okay if you have to go, it's pretty late for games anyway.” Clara's face drops, and he must see it, because he immediately carries on. “N-not that I won't play with you! But, um, how about I come back tomorrow? Instead?”

‘He’ll come back again!? She didn't even ask him!!!’

Clara gives her brightest, most ally-friendly smile she can muster. “YEAH YEAH YEAH!!! I’D DEVI DEVI WANT THAT!!!”

They say their goodbyes, ones unfortunately sped up by both her mother wanting her nappy nap time, and cuz' she's pretty sure Iruma-chi thinks her mama might eat him. Parting ways. With her job complete and mission successful, Clara all but collapses in her mother's arms. A super mega kind of tired where she doesn't even remember closing her eyes.

She just can't wait for tomorrow!

  Lush and blossoming, the cave all but thriving in his dreamland. The water is clearer than crystal, stalactites dripping with purest drops. The shadow has changed to match. Less of a phantom and more solid than before. Fuller. Adorned with muted colour and clear, detailed clothing.

Iruma watches in silent awe as the shadow- now practically person - stands to their full height. He cranes his neck uncomfortably just to meet their face. They put their hand against the water, mirroring his action like they did what feels like years ago. The day he won his den.

“You've played your part beautifully, fledgling.” They say. Their sound like a harmonic cacophony, thousands of voices speaking as one that ring down to the drum of his ears. Somewhere between making them bleed or soothing to slumber.

Iruma feels a sharp, freezing pain envelope his hand. Coursing through his veins with a vengeance. Old scars alight and his spine feels torn asunder.

He can't move.

He can't run.

It hurts.

It hurts.

IT HURTS.

The waterfall between them shatters like glass. A relentless, pounding pressure that threatens to barge through his very soul. The sanctuary’s greenery flooding in a torrent of motion.

Iruma has no choice but to stare as the shadow’s monstrous hand dwarfs his own. A hold that feels deceptively…comforting.

“Now, I’ll do mine.”

Chapter Text

 There’s something wrong. Iruma just knows it. Understatement of the century, but it has to be said. A storm was coming. He could feel it in his gut.

It started small. After he dropped off the pink haired boy. 

The idea was to knock and leave him at the door. Sure, he wanted to see them home safe, but he wasn't about to get eaten over sympathy. He learned that the hard way. If he'd known someone was leaving, he would've propped them by the front gate…would've been safer. He could still feel the buzz on his skin when he handed them to, what he assumed, was his mother (they certainly looked similar enough.) She thanked him profusely before patting him on the head and running off. All it took was a second.

Like rum and perfume. More floral, too. A wildfire through a rose garden. The sting of ash and grit through his muscles as his head fumed with heat. His eyes glossed over, the prickle of unseen smoke burning his senses. Alarm bells in his ears, fear etched in his bones he could barely process the small talk of the older man in front of him. What did she do? Did she know what he was? Her son(?) did the same thing earlier, at the lake. Was it a mind game? A ploy to bring him to their door? Okay that was a bit of a stretch. The more he thought, he wondered if it even mattered. In a realm of demons, everything’s a potential threat to him, isn't it? The moment their back was turned he broke off sprinting.

But it lingered. A phantom pain. Not that it hurt, per se, but it was far, far too much. If the boy was a sear, she was an inferno. Iruma swore his head was going to explode. Expecting to feel a rubbery, newly blistered scalp, he spent the rest of the day in his den. The most paranoid since the casino incident.

So that was unexpected but it continued. The following days held persistent warmth. Being on a beach with bare feet; teetering on unpleasant. He found himself at ease for those days. Floaty, peaceful. He was able to admire what was around him. He even had a little flower bed near his den. How did he not notice? 

Having more energy than usual he spent time for himself. Sprucing up his home. Finding out which plants liked to be pruned, which preferred shade, which liked a scrap of meat every now and again. Iruma wonders if plants here are sentient, because they seem to genuinely appreciate what he does for them. It was nice. Like he had company. Three days and the world must've had enough.

Like the life had been drained down to his marrow. Cold, ungodly cold sitting in its place. An emptiness he hadn't noticed since leaving Japan. Hollowness that drilled into his core. Like he lost something crucial. Something that filled the void.

Iruma thought he’d gotten some of the worst of it when he killed that bear-thing but apparently not. He had enough wherewithal to deduce that whatever happened stemmed from touch, but the only evidence he had was a threat touching him. Plus the possible coincidence that it happened twice. Maybe that’s just something demons did. A built in poison of some kind. Though, he vividly remembers the learning curve of toxic animals in the human world and none of them felt like this (figuring out what muscle paralysis and convulsions were by trial and error isn’t something he’ll ever forget.) Still Iruma sought it best to keep his hands to himself from then on. Not that he had any future plans to snuggle up to a demon anytime soon.

But then came Clara.

Another fault on his part. He knew he shouldn't have gone back to the home. It was risky enough to get so close to the snake guy's mansion, let alone a place he knew for a fact had at least six people inside. But for as selfish and slimy as it made him feel, his repeated thefts helped make his life a little easier, feel more normal. If he ought to steal from someone, the family that summons whatever they want with the tap of their clothes would be the best choice. Sure, they didn't seem to care, and sure, one or two of the residents enabled the behaviour, but he still knew it was wrong.

In hindsight the perfectly pristine stack of goodies so close to his frequent spot should've been a dead giveaway. Though in the short time he's known her, Clara didn't seem to be the subtle type. He supposed it didn't really matter because within seconds of meeting her it happened again.

The burst. The taste. Her’s was completely different from the pink haired demons; fizzing bubbles, candied popcorn or sweet and sour gummies. Energetic pops like the launch of a firework. Just as bright, twice as colourful. Overwhelming amount of feeling that he had no idea what to do with. He couldn't find it in him to sleep that night, spending the extra hours exploring, climbing, and even in between.

With a start like that he should’ve been prepared for the crash next morning. He wasn't as hungry (though going from famished to plain starving wasn’t a huge improvement,) but he was exhausted . He had so much to do and no will to do it. Sluggish with every step. All he wanted was to sleep. That scared him more than the hunger. 

All his life he’s been forced he did everything under the sun. He had to prove his worth. Never asked how hard the work would be, how long it would take, nor if he was even capable, he did it all. To stop was to die. He needed to keep moving.

That dream from last night wasn’t helping either. That voice, the pressure. He could still feel it and the dread wasn’t easing his anxieties. Only adding to his Danger Sense. He can’t be dwelling on that now. 

Admittedly the first instinct wasn’t to go find Clara but that’s what’s happening now. Maybe because he promised her the day before. Maybe because she said ‘please.’ Maybe because he had no one else. It didn’t matter. Not anymore. He pushes forward, unstable as a fawn on ice as he stumbles in a vague direction.

Iruma wants to believe it’s nothing. That for once in his life he’s overreacting.

No matter how hard he tries, he can't see it being true.

  Iruma has survived a lot in his life. A lot he probably shouldn't have been through in the first place.

Frigid chill on blue skin and taught stitches. The time it takes to rid clothes of putrid grave stench. How to deglove slaughters in one piece, and the haunted yowls of cage fighter mutts. He's been everything; from drug mule to secretary. Yet, we all have our limits.

He finally found his.

Mouth dry and tacky, tongue a sickening mix of sticky and slick like a drying maggot on a humid day. Clammy sweat that seemed to broil down his spine. Cold and fiery trails of venom on his skin pouring down spasming muscle. Torturous squirming beneath flesh like infected meat, starved rats nibbling away at his very being. Prickles flashing between bloodless numb and sandpaper scraping his veins, limbs paralyzed with pain. He swore his back would split, flayed double doors that would rid his body of whatever crawled within. And his stomach. By god his stomach . He was no stranger to starvation, gone for periods so long his stomach didn't even growl, and nausea became the tang of muted acid in his throat. But this? He'd rather claw through his abdomen. Plunge frozen fingers into tissue, tear the fat and rip the lining, all to make it stop. To hold the offending organ in hand with the knowledge it could no longer hurt him. 

Anguished bleating hung hollow in the woods. Crawling out of his den, frothing with drool and dragged by his hands. His teeth found flesh through weeds and flowers, their raw taste less than a dent in the void of his belly. Splitting fingers and chipping nails while he scraped his jaws at the tenders of trees. Searching for anything that had that something . He couldn't place it, but his body could. Working on its own as morning turned to night. A whole day wasted to satisfy his hunger. 

All while it watched. That horrid ghost.

Haunting his every move. Hovering slow and still. No wider than his palm, no longer than his arm. Figure scratchy and unnatural; as if a paint blot sprung to life, static that leapt from a screen. Flat like a sheet that tapered to a string-like tail, with two-pronged points mimicking cat ears at its opposite end. A violet so dark it could be black, the only exception its slanted, pupil-less white eyes. 

 He had to be delirious. He's had his fair share of illness bred hallucinations, and seeing as he was a sneeze away from making something’s insides outsides, it wouldn't be too long a stretch. But what was he supposed to do now? Chalk it all up to food poisoning? To otherworldly variables? 

The only thing he had was that dream. The shadow could be one in the same, but what difference does it make? Connection or not, dreams are dreams. They stay in your head. Belong in your head. Should've been a red flag from the get-go. It was a red flag, rather, he just started seeing things through rose-tinted glasses. He got himself sucked into a demon world! Iruma had a few other things on the brain than his sudden rekindled ability to dream. How was he supposed to know something like this would happen?! Everything had been going so well. He should know better than to get comfortable…

And it didn’t go away. Just staring. For hours.

Time was meaningless. Rays of sun or starlight were warped and indistinguishable. Vision reduced to twisted glows; orbs of light with taunting shines, a sea of angler's lures. He's back in the garden, consumed by consumption itself. Could've been seconds. Could've been years. Following scent and promised relief. He wants it. More than the pain subsiding. More than air. More than anything .

 Dozens upon dozens of lights disappear down his throat, snuffed out like candles. He can't see the world anymore. Only the lights. He needs it. He's hollow. A husk of a human. The light makes him better. Whole. Was he always so empty? No. No he couldn't be. It was his. Yes. He needs it. Give it back. Please. Please just give it back.

Giveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitbackgiveitback-

Warm.

Something warm is on his hand.

A painless, grounding sensation.

Iruma sees the world come back to him. Slow like melting snow. The glow fades, their blinding cores hidden under the coat of their hosts. Sunk into trunks, seeping through petals, vanishing behind feathers. As if they were never there. 

His eyes meet the shadow. Its face the first he sees. Expressionless as ever, yet with a tiny, sickle-like arm curled around his hand. Gentle. Coaxing. But rather than the pale skin he expected, the spirit’s hand lay atop a rich, deep red.

Blood. Curtains of it draped like finery over the length of his arms. Down his face straight to his knees. A boar- or at least what was left of one- lay motionless, eyes glazed and grey, staring without sight. Caged between his legs, Iruma sat straddled on its back. He startles, falling back on himself, inadvertently getting a fuller view.

Its legs were snapped, unnatural, jagged angles splayed underneath its mass like broken twigs. The head caved and leaking. A brunt, colossal hole adorned in sagged, fleshy scalp strands, a busted piñata of brain matter and skull fragments. Horns that were once its own punctured through its sides, the skin pulled up and out to reveal its spine. Held in place like nails. The bones were cracked, splintered and chewed, their marrow scraped clean. Confetti of torn viscera created a mangled pulp inside the beast. Its flesh incomplete and missing hunks of muscle, separated by rough, clamped jaw marks for a hasty removal. Few organs remained and those that did sat oozing in a soup of sanguine. Held together by the hide of its owner in a vile mockery of dishware.

Iruma was met with the creeping dread of his senses. Taste returning to greet him with iron. A meaty, jelly-like substance between his teeth. Death on his breath.

He’s never vomited so hard in his life. Bile and blood intertwined as they returned from whence they came. His stomach lurching at the abrupt upheaval. Even when he had nothing left he gagged and spat, jamming his fingers down his throat to force the very essence out of his insides.

It happened again. The devolve. The craving. Why now? Why when he was finally starting to piece himself together? Why when he was coping? What was wrong with him?!

He didn’t deserve the luck he had and now it was coming to get him. The freak-show and the circus rolled into a disgusting, awful mess. Left to rot like he should’ve years ago. He deserves it after all. Nothing but a pitiful waste. Not even good enough for a demon. Maybe that’s all this is; a twisted hell. He died to a demon and got dragged here to wallow. Nothing but a monster. An abomination-  

Abruptly the pain ebbs. Thorns of his heart receding their tangled bramble. Choking cries and sour tongue easing with the clutches of his mind. Iruma blinks away the tears, overwhelmed by confusion. 

The little ghost nuzzles to his side. A calming, warm presence. Like a cat. It remains impassive, but with the faintest of downturned twinge to its eyes. It continues to stare as Iruma’s sobs dry. With his attention and no longer hyperventilating, the shadow rises, wandering a few feet away. It stops, looking back at him. Waiting.

Robotically, Iruma stands. He’s hurt. He’s scared. He’s cold. He doesn’t know what to do anymore, and sees nothing to lose in following. So he does just that. His steps come staggered and heavy, the uphill battle between his instinct to survive and his tolerance for pain the only thing keeping him awake, but the shadow takes its time for him. Winding paths pass in a watery blur. Silent monotony broken only by a brief face wash by a pond. 

In minor displays of sanity, Iruma thinks back to his dreamworld. A shadow helped him then, too. If he thinks about it. He would’ve never gotten his den if he hadn’t fought that beast-thing. And he would probably have been slaughtered if the shadow man hadn’t woken him up. Even if he was only there because of sickness-induced sleepwalking.

Come to think of it, the fever from then was similar to now…

His thoughts were interrupted when the two came to a towering fortress. Placed on a solitary island in the sky were gargantuan stone walls, extraordinary towers, and fantastical architecture. Nothing short of a castle, topped with two humongous black wings on either side of its walls. His guide effortlessly slips through the iron-topped walls, expectant eyes hovering close.

“Y-you…want me to go with you?” He doesn’t expect an answer. With how today is going, he already knows the truth.

The shadow cocks its head. Just when Iruma thought it would leave, the shadow shoves its face between two of the wall’s top bars. And bites.

In a flash the bars ignite with sparks, bright golden lightning engulfing the frame. Iruma jolts at the action before that lovely sensation surrounds him. The heavenly feeling melts away his pains, the thing he’s been chasing all day now settled. Quenched. All too fast, it's over, and in its place the fencing stands bent and battered. Pulled apart enough for him to squeeze through. He swears the shadow looks…bigger than mere moments ago.

It releases its hold, a look adjacent to pride on its limited features.  

With his wits about him, Iruma hesitates. “Is- is that…is that a good idea?” He asks. Newly conscious of, one, how much noise that must’ve made, and two, if this is private property (god he really has a track record for trespassing these days.)

Much to his surprise, the shadow replies. It laughs. A proper, wheezy hiss of a laugh, that reveals a large, smiling mouth. No malice. No ill intent. The kind of laugh you use when a friend makes an awful decision. If it weren’t for the fact he was flabbergasted Iruma might’ve been offended.

With little fanfare it begins to float away, chuckling all the while. In a surge of panic, Iruma clambers through the new gap in the fencing. “W-wait! Wait for me!”

Despite all the antics, he wasn’t in pain. He wasn’t dead. He even had enough energy to notice the smell again. The same scent that wafted from the building he now ran towards. Maybe that’s why it brought him here? So he wouldn’t fall to that craving anymore. If whatever that smell was was here and contained, he could figure out what it is to begin with. Maybe figure out what it is that’s making him ‘act up’ lately. The place looks huge anyway. Like those old Scottish ruins he ran tours for one spring. It could be abandoned…hopefully.

Maybe this shadow isn’t so bad.

And while Iruma’s judgment had yet to be confirmed, what he couldn’t possibly know was what this strange place had in store for him. More importantly, that it wouldn’t be ‘abandoned’ for long. Too bad, really. The countdown begins!

Chapter Text

“Have you seen my mug?”

“Can't say I have, but if you spot a packet of Crime Crusts let me know.”

“You shouldn't be snacking so close to lunch, Orias-san.”

“I'm not! They're for ahh…research.”

“Hey have any of you seen-”

An enormous paw slams down on Murmur before he can finish the sentence. Cerberus' snarls mirroring their owner’s prime irritation. 

Kalego sits straight-backed and stoic as he calls Cerberus back to himself, the sharp tapping of his nail against wood as he waits far less than patiently at the meeting room table. “Silence.”

Four days of this nonsense. Four. Hellish. Days. Not one of those imbeciles he calls co-workers can keep their damn head on straight. They’re teachers of Babyls, for Satan’s sake! One wouldn’t earn such a title without the skills and dedication to prove it and yet here they are.  Would it be too presumptuous to demand some professionalism?! And all over some petty mistakes. Rowdy over missing snacks and misplaced belongings. He’s seen children make less of a fuss.

“Well, nice to see you all raring to go!” Kalego feels the coming migraine just by the sound of Dali’s happy-go-lucky tone. The man in question strolled into the room, arms crossed behind his head, followed closely by Stolas, as if they weren’t two hours late. Dali smiles as he takes his place, the rest of staff filing into their own seats around the conference table. “Shall we begin?”

Information, files, letters and everything in between are passed from hand to hand. Some rubbish and disposed of, others demanding precise conversation. Their staff meeting had gone surprisingly well in the last few months. No doubt a result of that foolish oaf’s absence. With the Chair-demon’s responsibilities taken care of with succinct efficiency the brunt of the work left to the staff was sorted and cleared faster than ever before. He may not care with the width of a rat’s hair for the idiot’s personal affairs, but whatever has been keeping Sullivan away has been a gift from Lucifer. In his opinion, as it should be. Normally hectic loons squawking with their feathers plucked replaced by casual workflow. A well-oiled machine. Nary a peep of indignation that ensured this year’s classes would be the finest yet.

Until today apparently.

As the important business dwindled, Dali leaned forward to place his chin on laced hands. “And with that out of the way,” He gestures to Ifrit, one of the school’s security devils, “I believe you had something to report Eito-kun?” 

The flame demon adjusts himself, smothering a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. “Riggghht. Almost forgot again! Went around for the last stability check. Everything looked good, nothing outta’ place, nothing falling apart. I was about to wrap up when I saw it.” He pauses for a moment, childishly feeding into Dali’s lust for dramatics. “We had a breach.”

“And,”  Kalego growled, pops of static humming with electric rage. “You didn’t think to tell anyone. Until right now. Four. Days. Before ceremony?” 

A breach? In Babyls? Unheard of. A grave crime to trespass on their vault. Any death-seeking mongrel who dares even attempt such a thing would and will be torn to ribbons. His claws scraped mahogany that would soon be that moron’s jugular if he didn’t give an exemplary explanation in the next five bloody seconds. Sensing his malice, Ifrit scooted further away, as if a measly wooden chair could protect him. 

“W-woah, woah, there! I didn’t bring it up ‘cuz I already fixed it! No need to get all fussy.”

“If it wasn’t important, why mention it at all?” For once Kalego agreed with Dali. Though given that incessant sheen to his eye, he guarantees it more out of curiosity than proper workplace concern.

“After I inspected the area, I realized the barriers were down in that section of the courtyard. If this was a fluke or a gap in mana function, we need to cover it. Could end up with a fault in defenses.” He let himself relax again, unknowing of Kalego’s scorn as it turned to shock.

“Down, yis?” Stolas asked. Her attention piqued.

“We’re talkin’ bone dry. Barriers aren’t my department, though, so I wanted to wait until everyone was here to bring it up.” Flickers of fire puff from his tail as he waves it to light another cigarette. Magic on his opposite hand to open the window behind him. “It’s the north side, but the damage was close to the midpoint. We might have to refill the entire side wall.”

At this point the room devolved into a range of murmurs. Concerns and confusion spreading through staff. Kalego remained silent, surprise replaced by furrowed brow and pondering eyes. Ifrit, seemingly detached from the atmosphere, glanced around. “...am I missing something?”

Dali doesn't bother hiding his unbridled intrigue. Eyes practically glowing as he stroked his chin. “As you know, Balam-sensei usually handles barrier control. What with the means to spread his mana throughout the school and surrounding property.” He explained.

“However with him out on his research expedition that isn't exactly an option. He left emergency supplies, but nothing substantial enough to maintain school safety.”

A twitch raises to Kalego’s eyelid as he overhears some of his co-workers’ whispers. Many of which revolved around being unaware of the gargoyle’s leave. One of two Khet (8) ranked demons in this institution and they so easily brush aside his presence. A presence far preferable than any of their own. ‘Degenerates.’

“Plus the added… situation with the Chair-demon, we decided to split the workload to cover more ground.”

“A decision you were present for, Ifrit-san.” Blushenko can't help but add. The security devil’s ears curve back, admonished, but he chooses to ignore the comment. Dali continues.

“As it stands that boundary is fuelled with a mana cocktail of sorts. Combination of mine and-” Dali's smirk broadens as he tilts his chair, slinging an unwanted arm over Kalego's shoulders. “Kalego-kun's~”

Ifrit chokes on smoke, his coughing fit muffling the grumbled annoyance of the hellhound. 

Static builds on Kalego's skin once more. “Get. Off.”

Dali raises his hands in mock surrender as he resettles. A dangerous air coating his smile as Ifrit's hacking ends. “That being said, I’d be interested in you elaborating on your report. If you wouldn't mind.”

“The bars were warped down the middle, either pulled apart or snapped. Hard to tell with all the melting, though.” At least he has some sense to get right to the point. Something he should have done in the beginning. Frankly Kalego isn't sure why he expects decency from these people anymore.

Ipos perks up. “Melting?”

“Yeah. All mana burns. To get material of that grade to melt, the mana pulses must've been triggered and held for at least six seconds. Constant contact, more than enough to put a Gimmel (3) in the ground.”

“You thought the culprit was dead.”

Ifrit nods. “All I found nearby was a few feathers and dark stains, and that was all leading to the fence, not after. No other disturbance, no signs of entry in the main building, so I patched it and went on with my day.”

“Six seconds isn't enough to drain the reserves even on the highest voltage.” Kalego says, standing. “Either you should've found entrails, or something severed the power.” Cerberus sparks to life, splitting into three more compact manifestations. They trod with intent, sniffing down the halls. 

“Mere animals lack the brainpower for such things. Local ones in any case. And you have already stated the lack of remains. The chances of it being alive are not negligible.” His co-workers begin to match his aura. Unspoken suspicion becoming clear as many staff members leave to start their own search as per Babyls Security Conduct.

“Neither is the chance they got inside.” Kalego stalks down the hall, heading to the scene of the crime with determined pace. Far from the meeting room, but not far enough to miss Ifrit and Marbus’ hushed conversation.

“...so…theoretically…if this happened- I don't know, like… not recently…would I be responsible for-”

“How long.”

“...”

“...”

“...five days ago…”

It takes eight staff members to convince Kalego not to kill his co-worker.

The top-to-bottom combing of the school finishes by noon the next day and they're left with more questions than answers. 

To say the barrier reserves were spent would be an understatement. Not only were they empty- as Ifrit reported- but the storage device itself had been damaged beyond repair. Only when Furcas created a rough reconstruction could they comprehend what the pieces were. At least, from what was left to gather.

Puncture marks in explosive craters disintegrated the casing. Shards both melted together and crushed into powder. Even the reconstruction had missing pieces, resulting in an incomplete picture.

“I suppose we can take this as a learning experience.” Furcas mutters, adjusting the image to create a larger hologram for further inspection. “I'll need to reinforce the inner walls. At the time I thought it'd be unnecessary, what with the high grade and all. Then again, with this kind of damage the result would have been the same.”

“What exactly happened?” Kalego asks, uncaring for the small talk.

Furcas tuts. “Obviously it's siphoning. Something harvested the contraption’s mana, and when the barrier activated to ward them off, they resorted to force. It isn't what happened that's the hard part.”

Marbus enters as she fiddles with the image, staying quiet while she enhances the impact points of the core. She gestures to one of the many openings. “There's no evidence of an entry and the trauma signs all start from the inner surface. It would've had to have come from inside, bursting outward all at once. Handheld mana traps aren't designed to process that level of power- and even if they were- the user would have to attach the trap to the core, which would've left an exterior mark. Machines large enough to handle the rush of magic are hardly discreet. Not something one uses undetected. Hand harvesting wouldn't leave a mark, but we've covered what would happen to a demon’s body, so that isn't an option either.”

Furcas folds her arms. A puzzled yet fascinated look in her eyes. “Power was definitely pulled directly, but at that scale there's just no way to do it without the container being obliterated. It's just too much.”

Kalego grinds his fangs. “So you don't know.”

Furcas keeps her gaze firmly fixed to the hologram, clearly not paying attention. “Not a clue…”

Frustration thrums in his chest as he pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Still at square one. Amazing.’

“Tell me you have something. ” Kalego says. He can feel Marbus flinch from where he stood by the door.

“Well, yes…and no.”

Kalego drags a hand down his face, turning to walk with the torture teacher. “Spit it out.”

As they walked, he and Marbus went over what little their search had turned up. Minor indents in the courtyard that could be footprints, areas that could have been entry points, blood samples from the stains on the wall that could be from the suspect. Every potential lead turning into dead ends. To have nothing else? Nothing? An entire building’s worth of demons ranked Zayin (7) and up with the inability to find the smallest semblance of useful information. The only thing they could be certain of was that the breach was deliberate. An increasingly nonsensical factor.

“What about the devicams?”

Marbus sighs, handing over another report. “Not helpful. The ones on every other side are untouched, but the north side footage gets hazy the closer it is to the break. The best we have is a few frames of the barrier activating and then everything breaks up. Morax says it’s a short circuit or something.”

Babyls is owned, run and established by one of the Three Greats. A prestigious symbol of demonic history and pride. To attempt to infiltrate or to express malintent towards Babyls is to bare teeth to Sullivan himself. While Kalego hates the bastard with every fiber of his being, that isn't to say he's ignorant to his status. With power like his, Sullivan could decimate the countryside and, at most, suffer a slap to the wrist for his actions. To have expressed intent to enter the school without permission only to have nothing come of it? What purpose could that possibly serve? A practically certain demise in exchange for, what? A joke? Absurd.

Kalego was in no way less scornful of Ifrit’s decision making, however with the senseless nature of the incident, he began to fathom how pointless a report would seem to be.

“That’s all the official business but- well, um. I wanted to ask you about the storage hall? I just wanted to know if you, um, happened to borrow some of the mana cores without using the ledger-”

“You think I’d be so careless?”

“NO! Umm, I- I just-”

“I’d advise you to take proper responsibility for your shortcomings, Marbus. The torture room supply and subsequent contents are under your care. Your misplacement of stock is not my concern.” With that, Kalego departs. He has a few things to discuss with Stolas and the demoness has made it her goal to elude faculty. Honestly, there are days he’s convinced these fools despise order.

The days are dwindling before orientation day. Plenty of staff still have work to complete before that deadline, himself included. They can't afford to chase ghosts without concrete knowledge of a threat being present. 

Perhaps this was an isolated incident. An obscure form of mana malfunction. Perhaps concentrated energy resulted in the lack of remains due to incineration. It could very well be nothing.

For the sake of his sanity, it better be.  

It's a goddamn madhouse.

The staff had gotten used to less efficient working conditions around the start of the new school year. Without students and time consuming festivities, the Chair-demon’s already limited attention receded, caught often in his own whims as excuses to ignore responsibility. So when the anomalous happenstance of Sullivan actually fitting his job description occurred, preparations were completed earlier than expected. Inadvertently leaving extra time for staff to ponder their unresolved mystery. A siren's song for demonic curiosity.

Consumed by paranoia the teachers of Babyls are all but itching to solve the ‘barrier break,’ as it has been dubbed. The one time in his life Kalego wishes they were still swamped.

Morax and Furcas were at each other's throats, vying to discover the tactic used to steal from MagiStorage devices. Squabbling to disprove the other. Momonoki, unfortunately, was elected as a peacemaker for their shouting matches. 

Orias wasted no time starting a betting pool. Participants including Raim, Ipos, Murmur and- much to his immense disappointment yet resigned predictions- Dali. All five of which devolved into a frenzy after Orias learned his bloodline ability, for reasons unknown, was uncooperative in finding their culprit. Rather than concern for their co-worker’s magical disability (and subsequent crisis,) they were enthralled in the concept of a once-in-a-lifetime fair gamble with the luckiest demon alive. Sending them on a fruitless chase of re-inspecting evidence for all the wrong reasons.

Stolas and Marbus have become incredibly avoidant. Stolas spending vast amounts of time in the fourth year diabotany tower, closest to the incident site. Kalego and Dali have attempted to question her intentions, but both have been met with unintelligible rants about plant life. Marbus on the other hand has frantically patrolled the torture arts storage room. Far more flighty than usual, raving about missing stock with a cadence of a madman. Only Satan knows what the hell they're up to.

Blushenko and Ifrit were the only remaining demons with their concerns in the proper place. The former inspected the possibility of contaminants brought onto school grounds. Irked by the prospect of intentional ill-willed transgression that they had yet to confirm. The latter performed out of spite. Acting in tandem with his position as security devil and his desire to root out the creature he blamed for Kalego’s wrath. 

Kalego was content to have some demons with sense, even if one of them acted foolishly as a way to avoid confronting his own mistakes. That being said, even those two were far more...disorderly than usual. Unpredictability greatly affecting performance.

What pained him most was that he couldn’t advise against it. For as chaotic as these imbeciles were, a part of them- as infinitesimal as it may be- was acting in with Babyls’ best interest. Kalego couldn’t stop them from doing their jobs. He could only watch as they went about their tactics in the most ineffective, tumultuous, unruly way possible.

“The utter incompetence in this building is lowering my intelligence. I fear I will no longer be able to associate with proficient beings again.”

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as you make it out to be, Kalego-kun.” Shichiro said, his deep timbre of a voice dampened by occasional signal interference. The gargoyle was the only contact in his hellphone he’d call for pleasant conversation, and though he’d never admit it, Kalego found his ally’s chatter to be a wondrous stress reliever. “At the end of the day you all agree it’s an important issue. I’m sure they’re handling it to the best of their ability. They're teachers of Babyls after all.”

“Marbus is sleeping on the rack, Shichi! Hell’s rings, I swear a faculty evaluation is in order.” He rants. Kalego was on night watch, patrolling the south and east side while Cerberus stalked in the opposite directions. “And don’t pull the ‘teacher’ card on me, it hardly applies here! Not one of them is taking the situation seriously! Not even Orias, who, might I recount, is as useful as a fifth wing without his bloodline! It’s a nightmare!”   

Shichiro’s end of the call rustles faintly, the sound of brush and talon clicks pausing at Kalego’s exclamation. “His bloodline?”

Ah. Right. He’s on the phone. Shichi isn’t here. Hell he really is losing brain cells. “Yes, yet another development. The fool devised some in-house gambling-” 

Snickering mingled with the signal static. “Which is far from amusing, Shichiro.”

“Sorry, sorry. Go on.”

“He tried to use his bloodline ability to cheat. As the process went he used ‘Lucky Happy,’ dropped a pencil to follow the direction it would point, only for it to land where he was standing.”

“He got a losing bet? Is that possible?”

“Apparently so. Kept leading him to empty rooms or landing at his feet. Could stand to be taken down a few pegs, the cocky wretch.” Kalego explained, doubling back on his route to meet up with Cerberus. Shichiro hummed. A barely noticeable metallic tapping of his mask coming from the phone perked Kalego’s ears. 

“What is it?”

Shichiro hesitates, speaking slowly. “You said Furcas determined the cause to be siphoning?” 

Kalego supplies a curt noise of affirmation, minorly distracted. Cerberus was late.

“With absolute certainty?”

“As far as we're concerned. Not even a drop in the reservoir.”

“Has…anything gone missing lately? Anything that stores mana in some capacity? Or! Or about Orias-sensei, did he have his bloodline active the whole day?”

“What’s this about, Shi?”

“Well…it probably isn’t the case and I may be overeager on account of recent study-” The gargoyle chuckles a bit. Excitement palpable. “Alright, see, I’ve stumbled across a unique phenomena in the nature of mana systems! My theory stems from my previous hypothesis that humans lack the ability to create their own-”

“That’s,” He interrupts. “Lovely, Shichi. But the point?”

“Oh! Ahem, yes. To sum it up; subjects undergoing mana deprived environments have developed their mana systems in a warped state. They never learn how to utilize their mana, so they live in reckless, near-constant mana fatigue to keep vital functions ali-” 

Kalego didn’t like what this conversation implied, more so that Cerberus had yet to return. His hound was far past its rebellious stage, obedience drilled into its bones by Kalego himself. To resort to recall commands would be ludicrous. Already lost in place, he tries to keep an ear to Shichiro’s words. Keen eyes open.

“-sentially living on fumes. They will do anything in their power to find and consume mana to fix the damage to their system. It’s a vicious cycle consisting of-”

At this point Kalego was actively beckoning Cerberus. A mental whistle of sorts Naberius dogs all respond to. Perhaps it was the nature of their school’s safety, perhaps he had let the stress of the week get to him, but the lingering dread in the pit of his stomach had him more concerned than he’d like to admit. 

Clearly Shi was going on about his human research again. As much as Kalego liked to indulge the bird, right now seemed a poor choice. Admittedly he let his attentiveness slip in favor of detecting Cerberus.

“-ind of coaxing technique! Drawing in the ambient mana of other lifeforms. Orias-sensei’s bloodline only works when he’s producing mana to fortify his luck, so if he had it on all day like he usually does there’s a chance he could’ve been leached off of without even knowing! And if that’s true than-”

Kalego spots Cerberus, freezing in his tracks. “Shichiro.”

“Oh, was I rambling again? Sorry, I simply find it all so inter-”

“Shichiro. I’ll call you back.” With little fanfare Kalego hangs up.

Cerberus lays before him, fur ruffled with twigs and leaves. There's slobber on its muzzle and a giant branch in one of its three heads. All of which were snoring in delightful bliss. It's smaller than he remembers manifesting, but he's far too distracted to deem it important. His eyes are drawn particularly to three things:

1. There are crumbs in its fur.
2. Its tail is wagging, even in slumber.
3. It's laying on its side, belly exposed, with the fur on said stomach brushed down.

Cerberus. His Cerberus. Naberius Kalego’s Cerberus. Was late on patrol and indisposed…

From playing?!

Before he can register the full extent of his bad decision, his hellphone is back in his hand, ringing.

“My, my. Does my kohai miss me so much you're willing to interrupt my Lord’s dinner?”

“There's been a breach in security. I-I require your assistance.”

“Good morning, Stolas-sensei.”

“Mhmm? Oh! Yis, why hello Opera-san!” The short demoness greets cheerfully.

Opera lets their eyes wander, admiring the diabotany tower’s flourishing interior. They rarely visited the place. Never really had a reason to. Though now that they see it, an amendment is in order.

Large blossoming vines fluttered with a dancer’s grace. Their splendor soaking in the sun's rays. Swatches of the rainbow fanned across each and every surface, plants and their winding limbs of growth overtaking plain tower walls. Beneath the skylight, coated in sunbeam, was the tower’s centerpiece; a batch of Crown-Coils. Brilliant widespread petals with tapered, wavy ends reminiscent of fire. Glorious, white-blue that bled into a rich, deep indigo. With a tilt of their head the hues shimmered, changing the hues to an iridescent violet.

Breathtaking.

“I can see why you spend so much time here, Stolas-sensei.” They say. Eyes trained on the blossoms. “Crown-Coils are notoriously difficult to manage. Their numbers speak to your dedication.”

Stolas hums in agreement, shuffling over to Opera’s side. “You're too kind. Though I didn't plant these younglings, yis.”

“Really?”

“Yis. One sprouted out of nowhere. Then another, and another. Just kept popping up, yis. I've never gotten the opportunity to see them up close, much less to witness the full growth process. So I let them grow. Beautiful, yis?”

“Indeed. I may have to inquire about a seedling or two for my Lord.”

“Oh yis, yis. If I can find a way to retrieve a few without disrupting the rest, I'll be happy to arrange a price, yis.”

“If you lot are done gardening, can we get back to the task at hand?” 

Their tail flicks with a playful swish. “What a dreadful tone to take with your beloved senpai. Shall I reintroduce proper manners to you, Kalego-kun?” They ask sweetly, expression stiff despite their mischievous intent.

Their temperamental lacky, Kalego, scowls hard. Openly adapting a defensive stance while jumping towards the exit. “Y-you damn cat! I didn't ask for your help to be toyed with!”

Opera’s ears bob with excitement. “Ahh yes. You did ask for me, dear kohai. Took you long enough to cozy up.” They tease, surprised they couldn't hear cracking enamel from how hard their kohai grit his teeth.

“ARE YOU INCAPABLE OF NORMALCY?!”

“Help, Opera-san? Yis?”

Opera straightens their posture, no longer pushing into Kalego’s personal space. “Why yes. As part of my acting Chair-demon position, it is my responsibility to investigate any and all subjects regarding Babyls. Especially the recent-” They make eye contact with Kalego. “ Endeavour. ”

Kalego avoids their stare. If he had a tail, it'd be between his legs.

“To that end, I would like to inquire about your choices in time management. What, pray tell, have you been preoccupied with these past few days? Denying assistance to your fellow staff is rather suspicious, sensei.”

Stolas’ ever-closed eyelids peek open a crack. “I assure you I have no involvement in the breach, if that is what you're implying. I am, first and foremost, a protector of Babyls. I always will be. Yis.” Her tone is firm, but not unkind. She closes her eyes again.

“But I understand there's been a miscommunication, I do apologize for that, yis.”

Opera’s ears twitch in approval. “I see. Care to elaborate?”

“Certainly, yis. My dear sprouts in this tower are the closest to the incident site. The fourth year diabotany classes are held above the ground floor due to the size and danger level of these specimens, which is why the second floor is glass, yis. All classroom supplies are also stored up there. An intruder wouldn't know that, and could possibly mistake the tower for a greenhouse. Yis.”

“You inspected the tower as a possible hiding spot. Wouldn't you put that in a report?”

“We began with solidarity investigations, yis. Cover more ground, yis. I used the telepathic link to cover immediate observations, but with an area this dense, finding all the possible hiding spots would be time consuming. I decided to wait until I finished the full tower to hand in my report. Yis. But-”

The demoness turns a bit sheepish. “Then I found the Crown-Coils. Its rarity need not be said, the last place they were seen growing was in the king's gardens! Their sparseness is related to the fact a demon can only care for an already seeded plant. There's no actual documentation on how to plant one! But there are suspicions that their growth is tied to-”

An exasperated (and rather rude) huff came from Kalego. ‘Honestly. He's impatient as ever.’ They think. 

“Please continue, Stolas-sensei.”

“Yis, yis. All that aside, I determined the Crown-Coils had to have been brought in from outside Babyls. Although my own search turned up empty it was clear enough that, at some point, the tower had been visited. So I started my own experiment; I’ll treat the flower as if it isn't there, and see if anything changes, yis. They're heavily tied to demonic activity, so if they continued to grow without my involvement, it would confirm someone else was interfering. Yis.

She gestures to the plants. “As you can see, my hypothesis worked wonders. I haven't tended to any of these plants since the break in, yis. I've tried to catch the critter myself, but it's like the plants give me away. Favouring whatever is feeding them. I should be able to overrule its influence with my bloodline ability, but I've had no luck.”

Stolas turns to Kalego, unfolding a parchment from her dress pocket. “That's no excuse for my fault, however. I've been so focused on this tower that I never handed in my form. Slipped my mind, I'm afraid.” He takes the paper, skimming the lengthy notes as she fondly gazes at the countless flowers. “I’m a little jealous in truth. Seeing my babies flourish without me, yis. I still can't touch them for the sake of the intruder, but they're simply wonderful! I want to talk to them, hold them, see what makes them grow so differently! It's terribly fascinating, yis, yis!”

Opera thanks her, encouraging her ambushing prospects before moving on. The last day of the countdown was spent like this. Re-evaluating reports, asking for more in-depth analysis, catering to the more… distraught members of faculty (Marbus’ got a bit too close to an evil cycle in his retelling of his missing mana core batteries. Kalego looked particularly disgruntled at the news himself.) By the end of it, they were still lacking a suspect, but we're armed with far more information than hours prior. As tedious as this ‘intruder’ had turned out to be, they weren't causing active harm to the building or its staff. If anything, the trouble it caused has had a peculiar, invested reaction in the staff. 

There will be no need to stall opening day. After all, Sullivan will be returning to work. Kicking and screaming if necessary. Any harmful intentions will be crushed beneath their boot, should such a thing come to pass. Opera can't recall a time Babyls has felt so lively without destruction through its halls.

The outlier being, of course, Kalego.

His social constipation and dedication to Babyls had always been a rough combination. While the guard dog is perfectly capable of patience and careful planning, it would seem his frustrations with his co-workers have gnawed away at his common sense. Prideful dog has probably been letting his anxiety run him ragged. They understood to some extent. Babyls has stood for thousands of years without breach, even during the time they spent in its walls. To be the first Babyls guard dog in history to fail their master must dig a bit deeper than they could understand. Even if it lead to Kalego behaving thoughtlessly.

They would never let him live this down.

And as the last day drew to a close, a certain blue-haired boy carefully sneaks back into the fourth year diabotany tower. Giving special attention to each of his new plant companions as they move and adjust to create a small, cozy nest in their hold. A little cocoon of vines he gratefully snuggled into.

He felt so much more comfortable in the big castle, even if he got spooked by one or two strangers in the halls. He never saw the same demon twice…maybe they're caretakers? Like in historical sites or something. They did all have the same outfits on. Who knows. He was doing just fine on his own, it's not like any of them paid him any mind. It was nice and quiet here too. Just like his den.

He hoped it would stay this nice forever.

Chapter Text

Swarms of black wings cast shade over the morning sky. Dozens of demons flying through clear winds, uniforms and quaint conversation fluttering just as fluid as themselves. Many land in short succession, puffs of dust behind furling tails as they stroll into Babyls walls. Excitement buzzing through the masses as loud as the student council’s greetings.

“You must be Asmodeus Alice. As the student representative, you'll be able to enter the assembly hall early to prepare for your introduction speech. Papers, props, anything you need. That alright?”

Alice stands tall in his newly tailored uniform. His aristocratic air a striking contrast to the less than adequate student body. Many demons stop to whisper of his nobility, some showing envy, some blushing fools. Asmodeus ignores them all. “That will be fine.”

“Great. I'll show ya’ where to go, but orientation will be at least twenty-six minutes. Plenty of time for you.”

He follows the blonde demon through the halls. Though casual, the black and red uniform indicated a member of the student council. A naturally higher ranked student. They were worth associating with. Though, he'd prefer the student council president to ensure proper status. Azazel must be occupied.

His mind wandered as they passed the halls. He should be using this time to acquaint himself with the area. Committing the building layout to memory was bare minimum of expectation, yet Alice found himself increasingly distracted. Looking through the horde of demons. Looking- hoping for something. Someone.

Those blue eyes.

Blue wasn't a rare colour among demons. More uncommon, sure, but nothing to gawk at. He’d already spotted a handful of blues amongst his peers. Mostly Merdemons with obvious fins or aquatic characteristics that he could immediately cross off the list. None of them were right. Too bright, too dark. Too purple, too green. None had that same, brilliant blue.

Realistically he shouldn't expect them to be here. Alice has no doubt they would qualify for Babyls’ standards (though he himself has no concept of their capabilities.) However, that didn't automatically mean they would show up. Even if attending an academy run by one of the Three Greats would be any demon’s pride. Even if Lord Sullivan had the highest ranked professors and successful students. Even if Alice has no proper reason to want to meet them again. With all those factors on his mind, he still couldn't shake his disappointment.

Is that what he felt? Disappointment?

Why was he so hung up about them anyway?! He met them once for Hell's sake! Quite an unusual and… memorable event. One he's been cursed to dwell upon, that has infected his waking and unconscious mind alike. Once nonetheless. His mother must be rubbing off on him. Becoming sentimental for things he never experienced. What a wretched thing. Just one interaction and his entire world has strayed off course. A caring gaze that burrowed into his head. 

Intrusive little bugger, much like the ram-horned demoness who blazed passed his side. Raving on about an ‘Irichi?’ Some nonsense to that effect. Probably chasing after an ally. With how this morning was going, he must've succumbed to the common folk's brain capacity. He shuddered at the thought of ending up like that. Alice could practically feel her excitement even as she careened down the courtyard.

And excited she was, because Clara was on a mission!

All bubbles and fuzz! Like all kaboomy in her heart! She hasn't been this happy since her very first playdate! Cuz' she was sure of it, one-thousand-billion-jillion percent sure that Iruma-chi was here! In Babyls!!!

His smelly smell was here! Kinda’ hard to tell, muffled from the magic-y air of so many rando demons. But it was unmistakable. She’d bet her pockets on it! It had to be Iruma-chi! 

At first, she was super worried about him. The last few times they played together he looked real pale, and kinda’ wobbly. He had big sleepy spots under his eyes, too. He even ate some of her snackies! He always tried so hard not to take her gifts, and even if he did, he'd always make sure she got twice as much as she gave. She's pretty sure it's ‘cuz he felt bad for making her cry when they met (which she's been trying to tell him it's oki-croaky, but insists anyway,) but he especially never ate stuff in front of her. She's pretty sure he's shy about it. Like he's shy about everything.

But the very last time they played, he looked really bad. Devi sick. She tried to give him medicine and get-better stuff but he wouldn't take anything. Said he was alright even though he was totally lying. He really didn't want to go in her house (Clara thinks he's still scared of cannibals) and kept saying he was fine, probably to make sure they could still play together. And it was really hard, but she convinced Iruma-chi to go home until he was better.

That was almost two weeks ago now…

Clara wanted to wait for him to come back. She never actually asked him where she lived. Never saw him with anyone else either, so she couldn't go to his place. She tried once or twice to find him herself, but she kept running into really mean planty-boys. Danger-pokies and grab-tabs that were too grouchy for her to get past. Her mommy said he must live in the deeper parts of the forest, which was a huge bummer cuz' it meant she wasn't allowed to go very far. More than anything it meant that, until he was better, she wouldn't be able to see him at all.

It was hard to concentrate on the school year starting when she missed Iruma-chi. Konchie and Keebow were fun and all, but it was nice to talk with someone other than family. Play with someone who wasn't obligated to stick around. She could see herself maybe making allies now that she was at Babyls, but she doesn't think any of them would be like Iruma-chi. And then, as if he could tell she was getting the sads, she could feel it! The fluffy wuffy! 

A scent so warm and cozy. Like he was right there to make her feel better! She ran off so fast the mans in black couldn't even stop her. She didn't know where she was going, but wherever it was, Iruma-chi was there!

“Hey! Kid, really! Orientation is that way!” 

Clara turned just enough to see the purple dressy man calling to her. He had black hair that slicked back like bird wingies, with a beak-like nose and a more strained face compared to the other teachers that tried to catch her. She started to run backwards to chat with him. Didn't wanna' be rude after all.

“Gotta' find Iruma-chi! Then we can go together and it'll be devi devi fun times!!!” Just thinking about all the new games they can play now that he's feeling better made her super-duper-devi-ultra happy! There's no way she could just sit around now!

“What's a- nevermind. Wait! Valac! No students passed this point! Stop!”

Clara couldn't hear beak-man anymore, she was too busy planning their next playdate! She never thought to ask him if he’d be going to Babyls too, so she’s gonna’ give him the surprise of his life! She couldn't wait to find Iruma-chi, and Connor and Murf agreed. Kicking up waves of dust while she hurled into overdrive. Plumes flowing up around nearby windows.

The unexpected dirt bellows into a storage room, grime resting on the ledge like chimney soot. Iruma hardly noticed. Furrowing his brow, air tense with concentration.

“Kurai?”

“...”

“...lucky?”

“...”

"...how...about……Neko?”

The shadow squints at him.

“Cuz’ you're kind of like a cat?"

It makes a sort of raspy huff, electing to route around the dark room. Tail flicking dismissively. 

"No?"

They've- well okay- he's been at this for a while now. Trying to figure out a name for his floaty…friend? Pet? Demonic possession? Iruma hasn't quite worked out their relationship yet, but the point is it isn't going anywhere. Not that he wants it to go. Just. Well it's surprising they've stuck around. That they choose to be here. If that makes sense. He hopes he's been decent company. 

Either way, with how long they've hung around, Iruma figured he should start referring to it by name. Unfortunately, leaving Iruma with the task wasn't going as smoothly as he'd thought. They don't have much interest in anything but eating, getting Iruma into odd places, and wrapping around him like a living scarf. They seem capable enough to communicate, using signals or making almost-human-but-not-quite noises. Even with their limited features they can look pretty emotional too. So either it doesn’t know what a name is, or it understands naming convention and chooses not to care. Iruma leans towards the ‘doesn’t care’ theory. 

The only indication of their opinion he got was indifference or disapproval, shown by a twinge in their whitened eyes or a curve of their ears (respectively.) He felt a bit out of his depth in the matter. Having pets or even a toy to keep him company weren’t things he was privy to back home. He tended and worked with animals before, but far from the kind of positions where you’d want to get attached to them. Where they were alive long enough to get attached to, rather. The closest he could think of would be his bosses or co-workers. People who had workplace pets he was sometimes paid to take care of, trusted enough that they could let him loiter in their homes in exchange for a free shower or a quick nap. The occasional stray came to mind as well. He would share scraps with the thinner ones on a lucky day. 

Maybe they have more in common with cats than he thought.

Iruma stretches out, laying on the cool tile. The shadow lay just a bit away underneath one of the many crowded tables. Munching happily on a small glass(?) orb that rolled from his pocket. Iruma reaches to sift through his stash and fishes one out. A marble-like ball filled with- what he now knows to be- pure deliciousness. Though the outside feels firm and smooth, it cracks like thin ice with the lightest of pressure. An explosion of flavour inside. He’s not sure what it is exactly- and that still doesn’t sit well with him to be honest- but since he’s found them, he hasn’t had one of those freaky episodes. The whole smell thing still happens too, but now he isn't drooling over it or losing his mind. On the whole everything is far more bearable. He won't look a gift horse in the mouth.

Especially not when the owner is in the room.

 At least he thinks they belong to them. They seemed pretty insistent on staying close by after Iruma found their stock. Laying on a flat wooden machine was the demon in question. Mid-length black hair and pale skin, with two simple cones on their head that perfectly matched their hair. He assumes they were horns of some kind but it was hard to tell. Other than that, they looked human. Which was to say ‘normal.’ And they were sleeping.

An odd place for it. Maybe demons didn't mind dungeon-esque scenery. Big medieval-style contraptions and what could only be described as torture equipment stood in place of furniture. Almost cartoonishly dangerous. Like an evil lab movie set. Shelves stocked with sharp blades, drill bits, bottles and tools, the larger of which hung plainly on the walls. Some he recognized. Few he didn’t. Iruma has enough common sense to know this wasn't a place for kids. For anyone, really. It doesn't take a genius to steer clear of shady places. The only reason he kept coming back here was because of the sweet-smelling marbles. That and the sleeping person was the only one Iruma’s ever seen come in here. It was always quiet otherwise. The ghost seemed to like the solitude as well.

Speaking of the ghost, it was up to no good. In the short time he wasn't watching, the shadow made its way over to the black haired demon, and was currently nibbling at their fingers.

“H-hey! What are you doing?!” He whispered. The hushed shout caught the spirit’s attention, cocking its head like a confused puppy. As if it didn't have a person's hand in its mouth.

Iruma weighed his options, looking between the door and the demon’s hand. He didn't think anyone was coming, and the person was still asleep. He rushed over as quietly as possible. “You- please stop! We don't do that! We don't eat people, please get off!”

He grabs the shadow in hopes it would get the message. Rather than cooperate it wraps its tiny hands around its prize. Adding to its refusal it continues to chew the man’s wrist, the strange, pleasant feeling trickling into Iruma's core negated by overwhelming panic. 

“Opposite of helpful!!!” He ground out, still trying to whisper.

He began to pull, trying to wrench it off of the demon’s arm. The shadow held firm, stubbornly moving its jaws from their hand to their forearm for better grip. The demon grimaced in their sleep but, miraculously, stayed unconscious. Probably not for long.

Iruma tightened his hold. Yanking as hard as he could. Leaning back on his heels to utilize his full body weight, as little as it was. Full on tug of war with the equivalent of a living sheet. 

“Please. Let. Go!”

Tugging harder with each word, Iruma bumps into one of the many cluttered shelves. The unit rocks and wobbles, a single bottle falling from the top rung. It lands with a smash like a shotgun through a meadow, the clatter sending glass and its contents over the floor. The demon bolts awake, groggy and harshly rubbing the sleep from their eyes. Their movement startles Iruma's ghost. 

Who lets go.

Iruma falls back from the abrupt release of tension, the shadow slingshotting into Iruma's chest. Rubber band effect adding to the boy’s momentum. In an effort to balance Iruma slips backwards on the spill, trying to catch himself on the window’s edge only to slide on the frame’s dirt. 

He's flung out the window before Marbus can clear his eyes. Left only with empty cabinets and a single blue feather.

Buer Blushenko was not having the best time. Opening day was always one of the busiest times of the school year, contested only by the End of Terminus and the Thirteenth Month. Students new and old flocking through the gates and into the assembly hall. As Babyls’ head of infirmary staff, Buer is one of many group conduct teachers who patrol the more active portions of school grounds. In case of misdirection, to break up rowdy students, or in his case, to heal foolish accidents. An inevitability for young, partially unsupervised demons. It was far from his favourite part of the job, but it was nice to have a predictable routine after the incident. A part of him was still on edge about the breach. Many of the staff shared in his concerns, but delaying the start of the semester would definitely cause more harm than good. Still, there was work to be done. 

Starting his shift sprinting after the most undeniably energetic demon in the Nether wasn’t on his planner today. He’d been present for the Babyls practical exams as medical aid, but seeing Valac unrestrained to the room-wide demonstration space was a bit unnerving to be honest. He’s not certain if she runs on sugar or if it's in her nature to be hyperactive. All he knows now is that he can put ‘catching a Valac’ on his ‘never again’ list. Took him ages to get her into the orientation hall; half his time divided by carrying out his scheduled duties while keeping her in sight, and the other half spent actively running after her. He had to resort to asking Miss Valac to leave the auditorium and help him convince her to join her fellow students. 

To top it all off, he went back out to the courtyard to herd in any stragglers when a large, double-headed axe nearly chopped him a new one. “What is the meaning of this?!”

He recognized his assailant. Sabnock Sabro. One of the more anticipated student files the teachers covered. Supposedly, the boy wrote his own application letter as well. If it weren't for his lower scoring on the magical exam, the blonde could've been a contender for the top-scorer speech. Begs the question as to why he’d choose violence not ten minutes into school property.

“I'm testing out my skills before the entrance ceremony!” Sabro proclaims. “If I defeat a teacher, my name will be known far and wide! Strength is everything!”

Buer doesn’t even blink. “I see. You’re a complete idiot.” Shame.

 No more words were exchanged as a prompt battle began. One he’s sure he’ll never live down.

Something to be said about the Buer family line; with ‘Healing Factor’ as their bloodline ability, demons in this clan can heal themselves and others in a matter of seconds. Clan members of greater strength such as himself have enough mana to fully reconstruct a missing limb, should the need arise. In essence, as long as he has mana, Blushenko will be perfectly fine. A minor side effect, however, should be mentioned. A fatal flaw so to speak. With the unconscious ability to heal wounds the moment they are inflicted, it also means he’s had zero opportunities to build pain tolerance. To summarize:

It still fucking hurts.

If he were to keep a level of professionalism, he’d admit that the sheer strength of this first year student is an aspect the staff will be happy to hone. If Sabnock gets his head out of his ass he could definitely put his skills to use. Though as much as Buer prides himself on his stoic attitude and calm demeanor, he can’t overstate the bubbling rage he currently feels. So there’s no need to give this egotistical numbskull a compliment he’s undeserving of. Exhausted and throbbing in agony, Buer lays on the ground, his will to keep faculty appearance swirling down the drain. In the war of attrition his infantile pain tolerance loses to a weaponized brute. This is not how he wanted today to go.

Buer feels a slice of muscle stitch itself back together. Blood crawling back into his insides. Satan. He’ll have to ask Suzy for some of her Sapspring Tea later. He’s going to be sore all day. Sabnock raises his axe high above his head, ready to swing. A devicam snaps a picture just to his side, undoubtedly from the broadcaster battler. Great.  

On the upside he supposes being beaten unconscious on school time means he gets to sleep off some of the worse pa-

*FWUMP*

…

…Oh.

A beat passes before Blushinko realizes that Sabnock has not, in fact, disappeared. Instead he lays flat on his face, arms splayed at his sides like a snow devil. Shiny steel of his weapon catching the sun where it’s lodged in the ground. A fluffy mound of fur sits on the behemoth’s back, scampering to get off the wide expanse of the demon it landed on. Perhaps he’s becoming spiteful, but he can’t help the chuckle that worms its way out his mouth. He’ll give himself a pass for the ludicrous scene before him.

“I-I’M S-SO SO-SORRY!” The furball squeaks, shaking like a leaf as if it didn’t just incapacitate a demon four times its size. Something he doubts could’ve been done by force alone given his own standoff with the blonde. Shamefully, hearing their meek voice is what tells Buer it’s another student and not a fly-by animal. Though the latter would be far more entertaining.

As he dusts himself off he gets a better look at the well-timed drop in. Much like Sabro they lack a proper student’s uniform. What he’d assumed was their actual fur upon further inspection was an oversized pelt, the head of which concealed their face. All he could make out of their actual form was their hands. Stubby claws and scabs. ‘How unusual.’

What was more unusual was that they were helping. Though small they had managed to roll Sabnock’s mountainous body onto his back and had their ear up to his chest. Checking a pulse and muttering incoherent apologies. Concern lacing the words he could make out. Such a unique trait for a demon. Kindness comes few and far between, just seeing their reaction almost made Buer feel bad. Not for Sabnock, of course.

“You needn’t worry, he’ll be fine.” The kid nearly jumps out of their skin upon hearing his voice. Spinning around so fast Buer was impressed they didn't have whiplash. Standing stiff as a board he can faintly see their shadowed eyes. Wide and fearful. Buer has met his fair share of timid students, but none he would consider afraid of him. If this is the look Kalego gets all the time he can understand why the man is so gloomy.

They start to back away, slow but deliberate. Eyes trained on Buer. He can just make out their stammering. “Sor-ry I-I di-didn’t- I mea-mean I-”

“Hey, hey. I’m not mad at you.” He tries to placate, hopefully masking a wince. Strangely, his Healing Factor is working rather slowly all of a sudden. Aches in his muscles straining at their freshly healed surfaces. In the back of his mind, he wonders where that peculiar smell is coming from. He pulls more mana to his healing cuts, hoping to speed up his dulling pain. He feels his mana direction, but not the healing. If anything he can feel bruises starting to form. It's going somewhere, but not to him. 

To keep himself focused, he tries to calm down the kid who’s clearly about to hyperventilate. “You can relax. You're not in trouble.” At this point he isn't sure if the kid can hear him. He takes a step forward, trying humour instead.

“You look like I'm going to bite your head off-” A sharp jolt shoots through his leg before he can finish. A spot Sabro struck opening back up, making him stumble forward. He hisses from the sting, kneeling to stabilize himself. Just as fast as it came, it vanishes, all his nicks and cuts smoothing over. Just like Healing Factor is supposed to.

By the time he's recovered from his disorientation, the kid is gone. A feather in their wake. Poor thing’s probably stressed out of their mind. At least they're heading in the right direction.

Blushinko huffs, straightens up, and turns back to Sabro. The demon remained unmoved. A face full of dirt. As much as he'd personally like to leave him there, his job comes before his biases. Unfortunately.

With a flick of a ‘fractal’ spell, Sabnock’s body floats just above the ground. Briefly checking for serious injury. ‘Mana fatigue? He seemed fine during the scuffle. Oh well. At least he's co-operative now.’ Buer grabs the idiot’s tail before making his way to the infirmary. The brat pulled along like the air-head he is.

Looks like he'll be missing the assembly.

“I hope we're in the same class!”

“Ya’ think Ix is around here?”

“Where'd my necklace go?!”

“Hey, doesn’t somethin’ smell really good?” Asks a massive, tusked demon just steps behind him. Dog adjacent, coated in yellow fur with down turned horns, sporting a nose ring that reminds him of a Minotaur. Their question spurs another demon, mohawked with chili-red skin to sniff the air. Both dwarf his stature and from his height he gets a perfect eye-full of their rows upon rows of piercing teeth. Iruma swallows hard and changes direction for the umpteenth time, sprinting away.

Demons. Demons everywhere.

He thought it was risky enough that he ran into one of those purple uniform people. An angry-looking one too. Covered in blood stains! That demon had to know something’s up with him, because he was baring his teeth and everything. He almost completely shut down, fight or flight stuck in limbo. All he heard was ‘bite’ before he lunged right at him! He booked it so fast he barrelled straight into the thick of the crowd. 

It feels like Shibuya Crossing. Everywhere he looks there's someone terrifying. Hoards of fangs, horns, and claws in all manner of shapes and sizes. There's even a few he remembers from the market, no less heart racing than the first encounter. He feels tiny. A bug whipped through the rain. The walls are too close, the people too loud. Bright colours and boisterous sounds blasting like cannons. Matched only by the thump of his heartbeat and the buzz on his skin. Every brief touch, every accidental graze sending waves of energy through his body. One second he's smelling saltwater, the next a hurricane. The castle’s maze of corridors spin him in circles, unable to find an exit or entry that doesn't have a billion people flooding through the doors.

How did he not hear them all? Was this what that loud roar was in the morning? The chime always came from the top of the fortress’ towers. At the same time every day since he's been here. He never knew what it was for. But if that was true, wouldn't there be hundreds of demons here all the time? What happened days ago, when the place was practically empty? And what the hell was his plan anyway?! How stupid could he possibly be?! Oh yeah! A big ol’ demonic castle in the sky! Seems perfectly safe! God, how's he been alive this long?! Swayed by what? Food? A good smell?

Lured in like an animal. Fitting, really.

Iruma runs for so long the world becomes a blur. The breeze flowing past his pelt is the only indication he's still here. That this is real. That he needs to get out. He slides down the millionth corner and swings open the nearest door, this one leading to a darker but blissfully empty room. Iruma slams the door shut and stows away next to a stack of boxes, curling so far into himself that his knees brush against his ears. Wrapping his tail tight around his waist.

Everything's too close. Clenching down like a vice. At the same time, it's horribly distant. Like he's a grain of sand. Even the slightest glance could crush him into paste. The building itself stretching into the atmosphere as if sucked into a black hole. He can feel them all on his skin. In his ears. In his eyes. Ringing, whistles, snarls, clicks. Flashy, dull, blinding, sparkles. Everything everywhere caving in at the same time it's spilling out. Conglomerations of sense that explode on every inch of his being. He feels them squirming. Hairy legs and scratchy fingers. His spine pulses, bones writhing under meat. Plump with venom and tangled knots. Kaleidoscope of emotions that aren't his to feel. It's too close. He's too small. They'll find him. They'll hurt him. He doesn't want this anymore. Why can't he be fine? Why can't he be safe?

Through ragged breath he hears a creak. Footsteps soon after. Iruma forces his eyes open, peeking out from where he hid. People walk through the door and into the room, most wearing the same purple robes. He recognized a few; a lady with light blue hair pulled up in a long ponytail, a man in a striped purple suit, and a short lady in a green version of the others’ uniforms. Most he'd never seen before, but one looked proper scary. 

Sharp-eyed and posture-perfect, with cropped dark hair that curves around the back, pointing up into two short horns. Face fixed in a scowl to match his fierce, slitted pupils. His uniform has minute changes. Heavy spiked cuffs and belt, metal thorns that dot down to sturdy combat boots. The demon’s steps halt a foot away from Iruma, his frown deepening. Iruma stops breathing all together. Violet eyes scan the room and he swears he sees their pointed ears perk. 

“Something wrong, Kalego-sensei?” The ponytailed woman asks. 

‘Kalego-sensei’ doesn't respond for what feels like hours. Iruma's lungs squeeze in his chest, desperate for air. 

“No.” His answer is curt and cold as he strides into place. Carrying on as if he never stopped to begin with.

The demons line up next to each other. Four on each side (excluding the scary one) with a sizeable gap in between. A grand, grey podium and microphone filling the space. Suddenly, the room opens up, closed not by walls but by curtains. Illuminating a colosseum of demons sitting in an assembly-like fashion. Benches as far as the eye can see. The revelation hits Iruma like a truck.

This wasn't a room. It was a stage.

A man with brown hair followed closely by a younger demon in a blue uniform steps to the forefront of the stage, off to the side. Kalego also steps forward, grabbing the mic.

“Silence.”

What Iruma suspects now to be an auditorium does as requested. A low murmur he hadn't noticed before slowing to a stop. The brown haired man speaks up.

“It is 6:06 AM. We will now formally begin the entrance ceremony for the demon school Babyls.”

‘Oh you've got to be kidding me.’

The blue uniformed boy stands straighter. “All rise!” He shouts, to which the students follow. Lighthearted piano kicks in from somewhere as a hauntingly joyful tune fills the air. A familiar one.

“Humans only exist to be our food~ Suck them dry, soul, blood, flesh, and all~”

‘Oh come on! Really?!’

A demon school. Perfect. Great. Spectacular, even. He can't even be mad. He's the reason he's in this mess. Waltzed right into it. Might as well seasoned himself. He's going to be mauled to death by hundreds of demons as a nice little snack before class. He's never been more ecstatic. Murphy's law must've been invented for this moment. Iruma couldn't even go back into his panic attack, why would you need to when you're staring down the barrel of imminent demise? So much had gone wrong in the day and it's only six in the morning. If he wasn't thinking about his own funeral he would've laughed at the hysterics. Has to be a new record for him. Never thought he'd see the day when ‘trafficking angry tigers leading to partial paralysis and then getting stuck halfway across the world in a plane crash with no passport’ would be dethroned as the worst near-death experience of his life.

Time makes fools of us all, he supposed.

He shakes his head. ‘Get a grip, Iri! We're not dead yet!’ He thinks, forcing his brain back into working order. ‘We can get out of this, we always have!’

If this is a demon school (didn't know demons even had school, but then again he didn't think they existed until a few months ago) and this is the entrance ceremony, theoretically, that means everyone's here. Following that logic it means the rest of the building is pretty much empty. Ergo, if he can make it off the stage, he'll be able to find an exit. Home free! Iruma takes a deep, steadying breath. If he can sneak in, he can sneak out. Simple as that. He will be okay. He will survive this.

Careful and quiet, Iruma starts to move. Shuffling out from behind the stage props and further into the shadows. As awful as the song is, it goes on longer than when he first heard it. Giving him the time he needs to make it that much closer to the door. Some of the staff shift their eyes in his direction, but make no move to stop him. At the moment it doesn't matter. As long as he can leave, they can watch him run for all he cares.

Suddenly, the hairs on his neck shock straight, a frigid chill that stiffens his spine. Something is-

“Good morning.” Behind him. “You're a tad early, aren't you?”

Iruma robotically shifts his head, eyes locked open so wide he can already feel them drying out. 

“We've all been there. Must be anxious, hmm? Better to be early than late I say, though next time perhaps wait for your cue. Backstage is staff only I'm afraid.”

Iruma doesn't process the words. Stuck staring at the demon. He's tall. Towering monolith of a man, who has to be pushing over eight feet. Wearing a clean purple suit that tapers into a tailcoat. Thick white-grey feathers adorned his collar, held together by a brooch in the shape of a bird skull. Ivory horns curve inward on the crown of his head, starkly contrasting on his bald top. His nose matches that of his collar, long and beak-like in shape, extending down to a point that hovers above a well-groomed handlebar mustache. Though the glasses he wears barely met the size of his eyes, Iruma can't see past them. Blocking his gaze despite the bone chilling sensation of eyes drilling into his soul.

The man leans forward, placing a hand on his shoulder. He says something. Iruma doesn't hear it. The lava pouring down his back makes it hard to process anything.

Mass of limbs and tendrils spur to mind. Inky void opening a rift beneath his feet, his stomach lurching from the plummet he hasn't felt. Reality dripping away like melted wax. The suffocating pressure. The fetid scent. Tar bubbling up his lungs. He hears his own screams echo in his ears. Unheard by anyone. Anyone but the thing in front of him.

Iruma knows. Iruma isn't sure how he knows, but he knows. This is him. 

This is what- who he summoned. 

“And now, a message from our director.” Rapturous cheers for the ‘demon king’ come muffled through his ears. Spoken through gurgling water.

By now the demon stopped talking. Body language expectant. Blood cold and skin twitching, Iruma nods. He's not sure what to, but the demon seems to appreciate the answer. Supplying a smile. Turns out to be the wrong move though, as he moves his hand over Iruma's back, guiding him towards the center stage. A soldier crossing no-man’s land. He doesn't want to tempt fate by going against the man, having seen what he can really look like. If he's lucky, he may just have a heart attack before he gets devoured.

The staff give him odd looks as he's positioned in their line up. Left as a statue next to the scowling demon, who looks like he wants to tear his face off. Both his and the apparent director’s. He swears he can hear crackling pops coming off their arms. Iruma cements himself in a thousand yard stare. Unable to look anywhere but forward. Not daring to catch the stare of stray demons. Any words spoken go in one ear and right out the other. The most he gathers is that the director’s name is Sullivan. To be completely honest, Iruma didn’t have any desire to pay attention to principal ramble. He’s not a student after all. More like an entrée. He does catch other things, though. From the crowd.

“A new teacher?”

“They’re kinda’ scary, doncha’ think? Can’t see their face…”

“They came in with the Chair-demon…”

“Is that the grandson he’s talking about? He on his wicked phase or somethin’?”

“But the director said he wasn’t enrolled yet-”

“Think he transferred from the Four Corners?”

“Beastfolk there are wild!”

Iruma can’t make heads or tails of it, his brain fried from panic. A deer in the headlights. A rat in a cage. Until those abyssal claws rake him into the spotlight. Pressed to the slim side of the eccentric demon.

“With all that out of the way, I’m sure you’d all like to hear someone your age talk for a while! Student rep!” In an instant he’s pulled from Sullivan’s side and poised to speak before the podium. Of all the things he could’ve prepared himself for, this was not one of them. Before he departs, Sullivan places what could be a reassuring(?) squeeze to his shoulder. Whispering low. 

“Break a leg~”

...

...shit.

Chapter Text

  Iruma had to learn a lot of things on his own. Reading. Hunting. Taxes. Bittersweet memories of accomplishing the basics of human function all on his own. Doing math homework on a construction site, or sketching Kanji in the sand of his tent. Doing what he could to cram knowledge into the ever shrinking gaps of spare time. He was no scholar, but he could get by.

  So how is he supposed to learn demon language in five seconds?!

  Bewildered at the forefront of a sea of his ‘peers,’  Iruma stands stiffer than a marble slab. Brain frying beneath the heat of stage lights as he tries to make sense of the jumbled strokes that made up this world’s alphabet. The only thing prolonging his crucifixion were the teachers behind him, bickering out of earshot of the microphone.

“What the hell does that old coot think he's doing?!”

“Must've been a mix up. They're here now, might as well go with it.”

“You think it's a good idea to let a random student shirk the top-scorer? The introduction is supposed to set expectations…”

“Are they even qualified to outplace Asmodeus?”

“Do they even have a speech ready?”

“Asmodeus left his write up on the podium if they didn't, yis.”

“If they're just going to steal another student’s work, why don't we get them off the stage and call the real representative?!”

  Their argument aligns with the confusion in the audience. Though the student conflict swiftly changes to a far more invested tune. Far more concerning on his end.

“They're the top-scorer?!”

“Really? They beat Asmodeus’ ranking?!”

“There's no way!”

“They got an escort from Sullivan-sama! They must be insane!”

‘You’re wrong!!! So very painfully wrong!!!’

  He wants to scream.

‘This is a mistake! I’m not meant to be here! I’m air! Just air! Please stop talking!!!’

  What does he do?! He doesn't know what to say! Should he say anything? If he doesn't, what happens then? If they think he's a student they won't try to eat him (theoretically) so does he keep pretending? He's being kept afloat by sheer coincidence and piss poor timing, but if he messes up, will they find out? Is him tricking them going to make everything worse? It's not like he wants to! 

  He could try and make a run for it. Bolting off stage with hundreds of demons as witnesses can't be very convincing. Would his humanity come to light? He didn't enroll, he doesn't have a uniform. He's not sure if he remembers the school name! They'll know he's not a student, so does that automatically mean they know he's human? Is he willing to take that risk? That isn't even considering the headmaster.

  Does Sullivan know?

  Did he set him up?

  This school belongs to him, he could have eyes everywhere. Thinking back on the ritual, that could be figurative or literal. But if he did know, why not end it already? Iruma's probably been a thorn in his side for months. Basically fell into his hands by showing up here. So why play it up? Why give him a chance? And if he doesn't know, if by some miracle Iruma has slipped his mind, how long will it take for him to find out? 

  Iruma's brain runs a mile a minute. Every escape he can think of circles back to his unavoidable human nature.

  He runs, they catch him, they find out, he's dead.

  He stays, makes a mistake, they find out, he's dead.

  He escapes the hoard, he gets out, they track him, he's dead.

  Keeps repeating. Every opportunity, every factor and direction leading to failure. Indecision morphing into encumbrance. His ribs constrict the mad pounding of his heart. Lungs stuffed with straw. Trepidation building by the second. Deep underneath the dread in the respite of his soul, he can't help but feel something else. The smallest fraction of feeling that stirs somewhere long forgotten.

  Frustration.

  He's survived so long. Undergoing the unthinkable. A living hell in the most herculean way imaginable. An awful life. A hellish existence. But his. The one thing he could call his own. Imperfect, starving and scarred, but his. Built from the rubble he raised himself on.

  And he's going to die. After all that trouble.

  Blood, sweat and tears slipping passed his fingers like the finest, silken sand. Prepped to watch the pathetic replay of fourteen years of strife flash before his eyes. A film reel crusted, burnt and spotty.

  Suzuki Iruma is going to die.

  Because he.

  Can't.

  Read. 

  All the violence. The fear. The sickness, and this is what graces his tombstone. His life is in uncertain peril. Because he. Can't. Read.

  Iruma stares so hard at the page as if it were choosing to be unreadable. Weight of no more than two paragraphs slung on his chest like a boulder. Condensed ball of knives he's forcing himself to hold. Text the one wall between an awkward greeting and being gut like a fish. 

‘If I could just read them…’

  He's dealt with so much.

‘If I could just…’

  He's gone for so long.

‘I don't want this to be it…’

  The truth is sour on his tongue, miserable and selfish. He doesn't see a way out. There are plenty more people who've seen half as many years as he has. He should be grateful for the time he got. Accept the life he had.

  But he can't.

  He just can't. He doesn't deserve it, but he wants it. He'll go unanswered. Like every day that came before. Left to stew in the mess he created. It's fruitless to try, but he can't stop the words. The bitter yearning he chokes down like bile.

“I…I want to live.” Iruma whispers.

  Barely a breath to the murmuring mob, a piece so soft-spoken he's unsure if he said it aloud.

  At least that's what he thought.

  A shift so subtle he almost missed it. Weight and form in a small, grounding presence. Iruma finally finds the will to move more than his eyes.

  Ghost peeks out from the fringe of fur he wears, their shadowy ear tips straighter than an arrow. Their phantom-like form sporting a newer, physical heft. They were more there than before. Opaque. Expressive.

  He stares unabashedly at what he’d hope to call a comrade. Choking on relief. Though them being here didn't alleviate his burden, he could cry at the sight.

They came back.

  His eyes hold more than a thousand words. Pleading. Begging. For anything. For some miracle that this tiny thing can give him. They match his stare for no more than a second, showing bulk to their hollow eyes. Like they could hear his desperation. 

  In one sleek motion they slink around his arm, coiled like a snake. They travel to his palm and hover by his fingers. Seemingly scanning the foreign paper. It crawls close enough that its slender appendages can reach the words, and gently presses themselves to the ink.

  Threads of weaving twine slice and sever on their path to his face, swirling vision and spinning eyes. It's parasitic. Resinous poison in coursing roots, leeching– stealing– from somewhere he can’t describe. Sliding mucus under skin. An empty, carious chasm left in its wake.

  The shadow seems unaffected by the sudden vertigo. By the horrors reaving his body, by the belligerent symphony trampling across his senses. It traces its limbs in odd patterns over the paper, engulfing them both in a redolence.

  He can see stars. Taste them. Aromas thick and penetrative. Ravenous instinct builds by the second. Faced by a sea of heavenly promise, gorging awaiting fruition. Worlds collide within his skull, sonorous cacophony that rage against his head. Fallout threatens to snap him in two. Longing etched into his teeth as anguish swells to its apex. Dulled by sight through teary eyes.

  And then, release.

  Nose raw, crimson dripping down his upper lip. Rusted copper assaulting his taste buds and white knuckles braced on the podium’s surface. His fear, ironically, is what keeps his knees from buckling. Stomach knots grinding like gears on his insides. Dissected pile of mush he used to call a brain forced to rewire and sensitize new meaning while he stares awestruck at the paper in front of him. The shadow retreats into the confines of his cloak, a transparent waif of its former shape.

  What remains on the stand is far from unharmed. Fresh-pressed paragraphs turned into a mangled estimation of paper. Lines and pen strokes slithered into new configurations. Ghost's solidity bled out in swathes of murky violet that besmear pristine white. The mottled, ink covered scrap– to Iruma's astonishment– is legible. Bold demonic letters now transformed into Japanese. The beautiful, delightful sight of Hiragana.

  Strange words. Ones he's never seen, and doesn't understand, but Japanese nonetheless.

‘ Am…Am I supposed to read this?’

  And not a moment too soon as the room fades to silence. What felt like eons in reality closer to a minute of deliberation. The brown haired demon grabs his mic from its stand, still addressing his faculty members.

“Chair-demon’s orders, I guess.” He shrugs, before leaning up to the microphone properly. He gestures in Iruma's direction. 

“If you would give your greeting now.”

  Seeds of doubt sew deeper than any scar. Dubious in the aftermath of fresh laid pain, flared like a peeled scab. Proactively grieving a death that looms in his future.

  He's used to a lack of alternatives. His typical acquiescence leading to a free-fall. Tied to the whirlwind of fate, chips down and hand dealt. Realist and survivalist gambling over the best worst options.

  Trust is not given. It's forced. Manipulated to strip him of meager reward, disingenuous and cruel. A disguise strangers dawn in the face of opportunity. But here the choice shines once again. Not from his father, with sly smile and firm hand. Nor his mother, with faux joy and crocodile tears. But from…this. A literal ghost. With nothing to gain.

  Iruma steals one final glance at the shadow, chewing his cheek. Its eyes held firm despite their reduced size. Withered and frail, but somehow, confident.

  In a way, this makes death his decision, right?

  ...he could be okay with that.

  Iruma takes a steadying breath. Clearing his throat.

“Aberuhauke…” 

  Words come twisted on his tongue. Sticky with residue.

“Tarutoudari…”

  Dramatic shift in mood. Thunder in the walls that press against concrete.

“Iusabebe…”

“Risutouru, Aburuze…”

  Pressure pops his ears. He can feel the heavy weight of the teachers at his side, their faces unseen but their aura burning.

“Sutoumanu…”

Each demon shares expression, a rising anticipation along eyes afeard.

“Aberuge…”

"Uru..."

  He can't bring himself to stop. A threat unknown more vile than the one he speaks. Hundreds dare not make a peep. A pin drop deafening.

“Mahoraba…”

“Tsurezaza.”

  Green hue shines in Iruma's bloodshot eyes, settling like dust in the wind.

  The crowd erupts.

“NO WAY!!”

“HOLY CRAP!!!”

“SERIOUSLY?!”

“HE DID IT!!!”

  Through ardent applause and rhapsodic cheer Iruma stands in abject confusion. Disregarded in favor of the stern countenance of the surrounding staff.

“What the hell man?! You can’t go around chanting forbidden spells like that!”

  The audible ‘crack’ of Iruma’s neck does not go unheard as he whips his attention to the brown haired man. Temporarily startled out of his lecturing tone, yet recovering swiftly.

“It’s taboo.” He says matter-of-factly. “One mispronunciation or stutter and you would have blown your limbs off! It's common knowledge.”

‘WHAT?!’

  Iruma has no doubt the danger was real because, one, this stranger has no reason to berate him otherwise, and two, because he could hear ghost. Gravelly, croaking cackle that trembled from the back of its throat. Penchant for trouble thriving and well. He could envision the shadow doubled over in the folds of his coat. Based on the rustling he was probably right.

‘Why do I trust things like you?!’

“Totally risky–" The man shoots him a thumbs up, his colleagues a mixture of reservation or bemusement.

"–and awesome! You've really impressed me~”

At this rate whiplash will kill him before anyone else. The man gives him a congratulatory pat on the shoulder, fangs gleaming. Just knowing the scent is so close makes Iruma’s eye twitch.

“Only a complete moron would do something like that. Or a lunatic who doesn't know any better, or someone who doesn't fear death. Regardless of which one you are, good work!” The demon proclaims.

  Iruma isn’t sure if the satirization of his near demise is intentional. He can certainly guess the answer. Sputtering, he finds the will to question. Less curiosity, more for personal safety.

“A-and, what does that spell do? Exactly?” He asks.

The demon brightens, all too happy to indulge. “Well if it works, you won't trip or fall the entire day.”

‘THAT’S IT?!’

  A precarious incantation recited and zero recompense? A part of him wonders if it's considered forbidden because of inconvenience, and not odious maiming. Praise of the demons around him makes hearing instruction strenuous, but through the noise he makes out that he’s allowed to leave. Iruma won't skimp on an escape, and promptly rushes off stage once given the cue. Rather than rejoin the students, he weasels his way out backstage and into the halls once more. Opting for routes with as little resistance as possible. 

  The suffering smell shrouds his concentration. Pangs of hunger curdling blood, lodged chunks that squeeze in his veins. With a fevered intent he scrounges through his pockets. Shovelling handfuls of stashed marbles down his gullet. They dissolve like cotton candy, disappearing in brief tangs of flavour. Relief twice as fleeting. It isn’t long before his pockets run empty, knuckles scratching cloth. 

  Why? Why now of all times?! It never takes this much! He can't go get some now, this may be his only chance to bolt! But–

  But what if…if that happens again? How safe can he really be if he can't trust himself?

  Control torn between his head and his stomach makes his steps falter just enough to hear a loud sizzling fly past his head. Happenstance to be dodged as he skids to a stop. A swatch of pink hair to match an angry demonic face. A familiar one to boot.

  And he'll be damned if this insect tries to flee twice.

  Alice has never felt such indignation. His position, his spotlight sullied by the dregs of the demon race. Would be an insult enough. Transgression deserving of rightful execution. But to see the culprit. To see them.

  That fiendish beast.

  Wrath boils blood, fuelling his potent, magnificent flame. Pesky vermin with the audacity to show their face to him. To besmirch the Asmodeus name not once, but twice. Schadenfreude couldn't begin to describe the righteous euphoria he felt upon hurling dozens of his family's honed destruction at the pest before him. Singed hair wafting in rings of fire. 

  Their scuffle migrated into the courtyard, classmates already gathered to watch his handiwork. Blocking his adversary from escape. Fluid motions and swerving footwork preserve their life, though, much like before, they refuse to adapt an offensive stance. A tactic he has yet to unravel, though he suspects has distinct meaning.

  The discovery of their sentience had him unfazed. Of course a simple animal wouldn't hold a candle to the splendour and finesse of Asmodeus Alice. Perchance false identification subconsciously brought him to suppress his greater fire. A mistake he will correct.

“You insufferable cur.” He spits, malice lacing through his words. “The nerve you possess must be insurmountable.”

“Y-you're alright? I, umm, I hope you didn't get sick or anything since we last mET!”

  Insincerity drips from its foul tongue even as their pitch shifts to dodge his attacks. Alice snarls.

“You're the reason I was in that mess to begin with!”

  The gall of this demon! To lord victory over him in these prestigious halls! How crude to resort to humiliation in a losing battle.

“Spare me your mindless games and hear me well; I, Asmodeus Alice, hereby challenge you to a duel!”

  Arching blaze strikes, serpentine ruination wrought by his ancestors. Fangs poised to heed his command. “Prove to me you're deserving of my stage, with your body!”

“I didn't want to fight you! I still don't! There's no need for–”

  Alice doesn't entertain their falsehoods, fireballs focused on their soon-to-be crispy skin.

“May Lucifer preserve your sins.”

  After their first confrontation, he dedicated himself to rigorous training. Doubling down on laborious preparations. Determined to prevail over any future encounter. His sparring partners, acclaimed and renowned courtesy of his mother, fell to his strength. Constructing stones of triumph he trod to reaffirm his mastery. He often returned to the scene of the crime to renew his ambitions. The lakeside pristine upon each visit. Void of intrusion, fostering accursed knowledge of his defeat. 

  Alice wished to find them again. To crush their snivelling face in the dirt it belonged in. Animal or otherwise. Hatred and resentment welling up and frothing over. And if he were to fail– which he would not– there was a...separate chance…to perhaps…reunite. A lakeside bond. A security that someone would aid him…

B-BUT! That never occurred, and such an event would be greatly implausible and anyone with the belief that an Asmodeus was harbouring a desire for reconnection toward a particular blue eyed demon, would be equally deserving of punishment!

  Yet as the battle rages Alice sees neither hide nor hair of their inner workings. Unable to suss out their next steps or machinations. Actions erratic and unpredictable in spite of the lengthy duel. Their steps are just as scattered as he remembers. Every throw and ember honed on his target, only to be wasted on an afterimage. He dare not let his doubts claim him. Dare not fall to the grasp of uncertainty. Not for a minute. 

  Not for...a few minutes.

  Not f-for– for–

“That's Asmodeus for ya'. No rookie can hold fire like that.”

"Crazy! He's gotta' be Vav when ranks come around.” 

"He's crazy strong, for sure...but..."

"...Yeah..."

"He hasn't hit em' once..."

  Alice's words fail him. Unable to articulate the sheer rage that consumes him.

  It's happened again. He's– Asmodeus is–

  Losing?!

  He's ten times the demon he was those months ago! He has his tutors’ medical bills to prove it! So why?! How is this happening?! How?!

“YOU– You little–!”

  This– this whelp! This bug! Forced to grovel, bent to his knees in panting stress. Through the trammel of his hasty mana usage, he knows his magic wanes. As if drawn to the demon he faces. His opponent shares in laboured breath, winded huffs that curl Alice's throat. Just hearing it makes his fangs grind. Their defensive stratagem outmatched Alice's pace by a wide margin. Alice, with projectile assaults, given the upper hand of limited excessive movement. For all his advantage, up to now the strain they exhibit is still less than his own. Wary, but prominent.

  The sound tells him they could keep going.

  They could still fight.

  Grass smears his tailored clothes. Image tainted by imperfection, on display for his peers. Another lead turned against him. Their whispers dig at his damaged pride.

“He's not even touching him…”

“Amazing…and they haven't fought back at all.”

“W-wait. Do they think–”

“–Asmodeus isn't worth their time?!”

  Whatever shred of composure he has shatters.

‘Not worth the time??’

'NOT. WORTH..?!'

  He grits, pushing back onto unsteady legs. “Is that true? You think me unworthy? Unfit even to entertain?!” 

  They deny him a response, lifting themselves from the ground. In lieu of speech, a resonant, teeth-rattling growl is supplied. Deterrent signs of warring clans, same caliber of formal greetings and ancient traditions. Rare trait among younger demons.

‘Perhaps they hail from high rankers after all.’

  Another growl. No longer warning. The hairs of his nape rise. His uniform pressing uncomfortably on his back as his wings wish to emerge. The guttural urge to flee that becomes palpable within onlookers. A grave shift in demeanor that envelops their once peaceable aura. He's unsure if martial arts is a viable option. Certainly not with the state of his reserves. Scarce are his options as renewed fight springs to his opponent.

  Déjà vu transforms into spectacle. From avoidance to an animalistic fever. As if a switch flipped they turn on the offence, lunging with no magic in sight. They remain quadrupedal, unbothered by the feral display. Primal, sharpened maneuvers that spur excitement in the audience, but more importantly, grants them more evasion. If such a feat is possible. Alice has no time to dodge, summoning the last of his flame to his palm. Sprinting forward to joust the demon head on. Their fur pulled back by propulsion allowing a first glimpse of their features.

  Blue eyes.

  In those brief moments the jeering of the gathered crowd is mute through his ears. As if he’s been pushed through a bubble. Pinpricks through his nerves. His senses are useless, simultaneously overblown and diminished. Even without, he can't find the will to act. Stupefied.

  It's unmistakable. The one who went out of his way to ensure his safety without the barest hint of purpose.

  The creature, cunning and swift who triumphed over his unwarranted attack.

  All along one in the same. A person who holds considerable strength, yet refrains from using it. Not harmless, but peaceful. Even now he was given every opportunity to walk away and, ignoring their offer, still remains unpunished. A choice to be kind.

  An anomaly.

  Entranced, the demon side-steps his strike with ease. Sliding past with a hypnotic grace. Missing completely (though Alice is sure they would've evaded him regardless.) Much to his– and another's– misfortune, as he's hurled by increasing momentum into the array of bystanders. Aimed to slice through a blonde, fear-frozen demoness.

  Very unfortunate. If she survives he’ll be sure to–

“IIIIIRRUUUUUMA-CHIIIII!!!”

  An obnoxious ball of green plows into his midsection, the irritant ricocheted from the force. Trajectory altered so intensely that his ears pop. 

  Alice feels a cold yet comfortable embrace press to his spine, arms tucked around his torso. He doesn't process he's moving until his skull connects with soil. Bellowing dust that encases the courtyard.

  For the second time Alice tastes defeat. The click of a shutter marking his blackout.

  As the blue haired demon carries the real student rep to the infirmary, the broadcaster batra’s devicam flies through the halls. Dispersing Babyls news to any student with a love for gossip. A fresh print is slipped into red-manicured claws. Keen eyes grazing the headline.

“That broadcaster batra certainly acts fast.” Opera says.

Sullivan hums. Leaning back in his office chair. “They're nothing if not diligent.”

 “’Mystery Student Chants Forbidden Spell, Top-Scorer Gets Concussion.’” Opera reads aloud, ears twitching with amusement. “This is why you check the staff schedules, my Lord.”

  Opera’s tail sways, folding the paper neatly to their side. The careful clatter of porcelain and shuffling tea leaves filling the room. Their master squints at the text he's absorbed in, books a-plenty levitating over his horns.

“Right, right.” Sullivan mutters. “What can I say? I've been busy.”

“Ideally, personal affairs do not usurp professional ones, Sullivan-sama.” They chastised, though with less heat than usual.

  They knew Sullivan's ‘research’ had been taking strides in recent days. Something about human connections being traceable with the right implements. Their Lord has gone so far as to borrow from Border Control files, risking an increase of suspicion. Not to say Lord Henri wasn't already on their tail. 

Oh, yes. That reminds them.

“Azazel-sama’s visitation letter arrived this morning. The fact he has yet to stop by is a miracle within itself.”

  Sullivan hums again before closing the book in his hand. The others raise closer to the ceiling, pages flipping shut as they're moved out of the way.

“Henri-kun can come by whenever he'd prefer. We have nothing to hide~”

Opera crushes the urge to roll their eyes. “Certainly, Sullivan-sama.”

They set the tea tray on his desk, preparing the perfect cup. They're sure to place the newspaper next to their master’s tea, hopefully to goad him into acknowledging his poor decision making. Sullivan reaches for it after his first sip, freezing.

“...’mystery student,’ you say?” He mumbles.

  Golden eyes bore into the front article’s picture. As they return the teapot and other dishware to their tray, they catch a glimpse of emotion flash in their Lord's face. Brow pinched slightly.

“My Lord?”

  Sullivan stays quiet. Expression unreadable. He reclines once more, swapping levitation to his cup so he could hold the paper with his hands.

“You know, Opera, I think you're right yet again.” He says finally, fingers twirling at the tips of his mustache. “I am the Chair-demon, after all.”

Their Lord looks at the clock. Musing more to himself than the hellcat. “Though orientation is only a half-day. They could be gone by now..."

  A smile creases the corners of his eyes.

“Tomorrow, then. Make sure we can have a little chat with the youngling, won't you?”

  Opera could recognize that inflection anywhere. Their ears bob at the thought of a challenge.

“Of course, Sullivan-sama.”

Chapter Text

   Kalego had been awake for less than three hours and everywhere he looked, some bad omen had made itself known:

  Despite his proclivity to be still as the dead when sleeping, he found himself waking on the floor. A fallen cactus spine gave a splinter through his sock. Said splinter belonged to his fourth favourite cactus which had developed Devimites. Broke the handle of his coffee mug and had to clean a wasted mug’s worth of caffeine from his floor. His bathroom mirror split in half, his boot strap on both sides snapped. A black hellcat crossed his path, not once, not twice, but six times before he took to the sky. And his wings were stiff from sleeping on the floor which led his schedule to shift a whole ten minutes. Getting him caught in a spot of rain that was not in the forecast, and inexplicably cleared up once he reached the public wind currents. 

  It was going to be a shitshow. He could feel it in his gut. He just hopes he has enough migraine medication to get through it all. At the very least until his break. By now his uniform had air dried, the morning sun just beginning to scrape the sky. A brief respite of contented quiet to ebb his earlier strife. So naturally it was interrupted. By the worst thing he could imagine.

  A sharp, particular ringtone broke through the flowing wind. He didn't have to look at the screen to know it was them calling. Hellphone buzzing away in the confines of his pocket.

‘ Satan, if you bear any love for me, strike me from the sky.’

  He entertains the thought of forwarding their call. Pretending he didn't hear it. Or dropping the device into the forest. The cost of replacing the thing would be a thousand times more preferable than anything they had to say. Unfortunately, he knows they wouldn't believe his coincidental mishap. No matter which option he tried. Kalego slows his wing beat, fishing the hellphone from his uniform and, with great hesitation, answers.

“Good morning, Kalego-kun. To think it only took you a few hundred years before you learned to pick up in a timely fashion. It makes me so proud of my beloved kohai.”

  His senpai’s voice grated on his nerves, the veins in his forehead already taught. He could hear their tail wagging.

“What do you want?”

“Hmm? I apologize, Kalego-kun, I do not believe I heard that correctly.”

Kalego grits his fangs. “Morning–”

“I apologize once again my dear kohai. The signal must be off. Was there something you said?”

  Oh for fu–

“Good. Morning. Senpai. Now what. Do. You. Want?”

“Ahh, yes, you're coming through now. How nice it is to have such a polite kohai.”

  Kalego manages a grumble in response, unsure if he can successfully hold his tongue. For as terrible as this day is turning out there are plenty less gruesome ways to die than to insult the security devil.

“Now then, to business. Did you happen to see the…honour student after orientation?”

  Honour student? Babyls didn't–

  Oh.

“If you're referring to the hellion who could've blown up in front of almost seven hundred students, you could've read the school paper instead of bothering me.”

  Just thinking about that audacious fool had a headache forming. Brat had the impudence to sneak backstage, going as far as to hide from staff, and then tried to leave the auditorium during the school anthem. Fatuous endeavour to begin with. Kalego could smell the anxiety radiating off their fur. If that oaf of a Chair-demon hadn't dragged them into the spotlight Kalego wonders what exactly they were trying to accomplish.

  Any imp with functional brain cells would have spoken up about the mistake. Especially if it meant embarrassing the head of Babyls. Optimally, they could've simply declined. They had no right to spout a bogus spell in advantage of the situation. What really had his attention was their attitude. Kid looked two seconds from an evil cycle before they got to the podium. Their claws broke through its surface and they didn't even notice. He was ready to call in a Wicked Phase Watch had he not been blindsided by the chanting.

  The spell in and of itself was an oddity as well. Babyls doesn't carry authentic ones anymore, demonstrative examples laden with misspellings and improper instruction to ward off would-be morons who would seek to cause trouble (impracticality proves a fine deterrent.) Only the necessary instructors know the proper pronunciations, moreover, it takes years of meticulous practice to learn how to recite the pieces without bodily harm in the first place. They are forbidden for a reason. Remnants of a darker time. For any demon that age to recite one of the scripts with nary a stutter is both an appalling and suspicious factoid. Not to mention the state of the paper. Looked like an attempt at transmogrification gone wrong; slimy and charred, covered in some strange oily residue. The words alien and unreadable.

  Such a colossal ruckus, and they go and fight Asmodeus mere minutes later! Demonic law dictates both parties spar until satisfaction, especially pertaining to a formal duel, however going as far as to inflict mana fatigue on another student is far too reckless a feat. That's not even considering the other students they wrapped into their mischief. Apparently Buer brought a different demon to the infirmary of the same illness earlier in the day, and Momonoki brought over a few half-drained students from the courtyard. All witnesses to their duel that took the front page headline.

  Essentially, anything he knew, Opera could– no, should– have known themselves. Kalego had enough personal reservations about the student in the first moment of meeting them, and now, his notoriously ill-meaning senpai is interested in their whereabouts. 

  Kalego did not appreciate the implications.

“The headline doesn't tell me what happened after the fight, Kalego-kun. I'm not interested in drama.” 

‘Lair.'

“I wasn't present for the brawl, nor do I have a tendency to stalk students. A better question, is why are their actions important to you?”

“You make me sound so nefarious. I assure you I have no idea where your wild accusations stem from. I am merely acting in accordance with my Lord.”

Kalego’s brow furrows. “Unless he's suddenly gone senile, surely the Chair-demon can find a student in his own academy.”

  Babyls has an entire room for student files and enrollment papers. One could find any necessary information in those documents. The old coot knew how to read, and on the slim chance he suddenly forgot, Opera would be more than capable of doing so themselves.

“Sullivan’s laziness is not in my pay grade so if that is all–”

Opera sighs on the line. “I had hoped you would pick up on the nuance of my conversation. What a shame.”

  Kalego's eye twitches at the interruption. Spider cracks spreading along his phone's case. They continue.

“My Lord cannot research without a lead, Kalego-kun. If you don't know where they went, would you happen to know their name?”

  Their name? They gave the speech of co–

  Wait.

  Kalego flight slows the longer he thinks about yesterday's events. Kid's on stage. Teachers take their places. Kid tries to leave...

“I. I don't believe they announced it.” He says finally.

Opera hums, clearly amused. Which is not optimal. “How intriguing. It would seem you're of no use to me.” 

Kalego sputters, almost flapping into a Shoebill. “WHA– YOU LITTLE–”

“Thank you for your cooperation my dear kohai.” They say before the line goes dead.

  With a snarl Kalego surges forward, now a good sixteen minutes behind schedule. Spewing profanity all the while. The treeline sways as he passes. Leaves and petals kicked up with the gust. A few of the scattered pieces fall back to the forest floor, crinkling under the weight of a swishing blue tail.

  Iruma walks in idle contemplation, his best attempt at relaxing proving fruitless. Thoughts consumed by yesterday's debacle...

Carrying Asmodeus (if he recalled their name correctly) to the nurse’s office as fast as he could muster. Hands aflame with that tingling, soothing presence. It fills the hole that speech had carved into his chest, though he was too concerned at the moment to dwell on the feeling. Anxieties overriding any mental healing it could've provided. Even so, letting go and laying the demon on the medical bed took a bit more effort than he'd like to admit. 

  He scans the room he assumed to be the infirmary. Decor akin to their human counterpart; simple beds, dividing curtains, medical supplies organized across countertops, cabinets and wheeled carts. If the school nurse was present, Iruma didn't see them. Room empty spare for one other, soundly sleeping student.

  A little odd to think that both patients were here because of him.

  Iruma bounces from foot to foot. Torn awkwardly between staying to help, or getting out while he could. He could've given them a concussion! That's one of those things you have to deal with right away, isn't it? But– but now would be the best time to leave. There's a window, and the other demons have all scattered. There's nothing stopping him. 

  He looks around. He checks Asmodeus' breathing.

  But guiltily, settles on leaving. Wrapping a rag around a cold compress to lay on the pink demon's head before heading on his way. Asmodeus is in the office, someone will take care of him. Probably.

  He'll have to forget about it now. All he has to do is reach the treeline and he'll be just fin–  

  His back arches for the second time, feet unmoved as his assailant lands firmly fixed on their back. Hands intertwined with his own.

“Caught you, Iruma-chi!!! When’d ya’ get all bendy?” 

He'd recognize that face anywhere! “Cl-Clara?!”

  Clara flips herself forward, clinging to his torso as he shoots right back into standing position. On instinct he makes sure he has her legs in a stable hold. Rolled up in a blur of green with a candy-sweet, sparkling flavour.

“Hi hi!!! Iruma-chi, you never told me you were going to Babyls! I was devi worried about you!”

  She hugs him tight. Encased in sugar and an infectious smile, he hugs back. Unsure of what to say. Clara chats about the weeks up until now; the new games she’s invented, how cool she thought he was at the opening ceremony, how she was so excited for the school year now that she knew he was there. It was both gut-wrenching, and…something else he didn't know how to describe. Like how sunshine feels on a cold day. Or a lemon tea when your throat is sore. Even if it was entirely disingenuous, even if she's a species known for devouring the souls of humankind, it was a welcome reprieve.  A balm that eased the ache.

  Iruma had almost tuned out her explosion of words, overwhelmed by the almost normalcy of their conversation, and the fuzzy, warm feeling in his core. He manages to catch the last bits of her raving.

“I’m devi ready for the circle summy dance tomorrow! Are you Iruma-chi?!”

“W-well I–”

“Ooooooh!!! I can't wait! You know, mama and papa both have Falfals! But if I don't get one, that means it's a suri-pri-prize!” Clara exclaimed, striking a pose.

“Umm, well– w-whatever you, uhh, ‘summy’ I’m sure will be wonderful, Clara.”

  She laughs, full and giddy. Appreciating the sentiment. But suddenly, she gasps, practically sitting in his lap as she grips his shoulders. 

“Iruma-chi! The summy parties are all split up! I dunno’ if we're in the same one…” 

  Her momentary saddened tone immediately uplifts. A spark in her eyes that– as Iruma has discovered– means she has an idea.

“Ho ho ho! BUT! I live super closies to here! I can wait by the summy spot and then we would have to be in the same group!!!”

Her smile falters a bit as she stares into his eyes. A rare, bashful expression on her face. “S-so, you'll go with me right? Pretty please?”

Please.

Please.

Please.

  Iruma supplies a light smile. Though he didn't really understand all the details, it was nice to see her so happy. 

  Not that he had a choice anymore. 

  “That sounds good?”

  Thinking back on it, Iruma really wished he could've said no. He had no intention of returning after his possibly once-in-a-lifetime escape. Spending precious time on playing wasn't on the agenda either, but he couldn't help it. She's the only demon so far he doesn't think will purposefully kill him (emphasis on 'purposefully,') and she just seemed so happy about him being there. He couldn't say no even if he didn't have a history with the word.

  Still, going back to a building which amassed countless opportunities for him to lose his head stuck in his stomach like a ton of bricks. Trudging up the long winding path like a walk of shame. Fighting the urge to turn back with every step, stopping to second guess himself every few minutes.

  Chatting with his shadow hadn't proved much of a distraction, either. Not that the ghost had many things to say. Before they at least humoured him, but ever since the auditorium they've been extremely quiet. The whole trip he tried to liven them up a bit to no avail. They didn't even react to his name suggestions. Even the bad ones! Sure, talking to them was basically talking to himself, but it at least felt like someone else was there.

  He hoped they were okay…

  As the grand castle of Babyls dominated the horizon, Iruma wrenched himself from his musings. He'd left long before sunrise– unable to sleep and procrastinating hard– and yet finds himself one of the first ‘students’ to arrive. Seems like no matter how much he dragged his feet he probably still would have been early.

  Dread settled like hot iron in his stomach, sloshing around as he scurried through the gates as if the bars themselves would bite him. The sooner he could find Clara, the sooner the play ‘summy' or whatever it was, and the sooner he could think of an elaborate way to say he could never, ever, ever come back to the school. Before all of that though, he had to find a safe space to stowaway. 

  Aimlessly bobbing about was just a fast track to unwanted attention. Whispers of ‘the kid who beat the top-scorer’ were already drifting. His cover was a time-bomb waiting to blow, ill-aligned circumstances that would fall apart on closer inspection. He lacked a good cover story, knew nothing about demon society, and only knew one or two ways around the school itself because he temporarily squatted here. Iruma knows his best bet is to keep his head down, and pretend he doesn't exist. Completely doable. If he can spend almost two full weeks in this place undetected, surely an hour would be a piece of cake.

  The people in red and black seemed too busy to notice as Iruma sneaked into the main courtyard. The biggest section of the school was through this way, so he figured it would also lead to the greenhouse. Normally he'd just go around the outside of the building, alas, the demon standing by the walkway made that plan difficult.

  Asmodeus stood with a militaristic posture. A beacon against the darkened walls in his stark white uniform. Staring at the steadily growing flock of demons that flew towards the school. A part of Iruma wanted to check how he was doing. Though he didn't want to fight either of the times they met, this recent one wasn't unfounded. As unintentional as it may have been, he did steal his spot on stage. He remembers Asmodeus’ face very well. The way he spoke with such stately air while hurling fireballs. He doesn't remember much after that, but that speech must've meant a lot to him. He wanted to apologize.

  But not at the expense of his life. For all the well meaning in the world, his feelings didn't change the fact that he was a human in a demon school. Sympathy can squeeze the air from your lungs from now until your final goodbye, but it isn't going to hurt you the same way a person can. There's only so much of a body you can live without. He imagines Asmodeus would want nothing more than his head on a pike. With how well his placating worked yesterday, he doubts Asmodeus is in the mood for an apology. Iruma just hopes he didn't hurt him too badly. The scenic route would shave off some extra time anyway. With the pink boy in his peripheral, he makes a beeline for the nearest entrance.

  But before he knows it, Asmodeus is swerving back into view. Burnt grass creating skid trails at his feet. Iruma freezes up at the realization that he's definitely blocking his way on purpose.

“A-Asmodeus-san! H-how- how are you?”

  Does he run? Does he fight? He's not sure if he could handle another fight with him! Now people are looking at them! He'll never make it to the doors in time! Should he turn around, go home? No, no! He needs to apologize! Asmodeus raises his hand, ready to strike, when–

  He…he pushes back Iruma's hood? Caught off guard at pain's lack thereof, Iruma stays absolutely still as the pelt falls from his head. He admits that in recent days his cloak has become something of a security blanket for him. He shudders at the eyes he feels rake along his skull, suddenly exposed to any wandering demon. Asmodeus himself appears to spot something in his face, magenta eyes shifting from slits to circles. Immediately, the demon plunges to a kneel. 

“I am at your service, my Lord!”

  …Eh?

He hangs his head low, hand over heart. “There is nothing I can say. I completely and utterly lost our duel the other day. On top of that, I was informed that you carried me to the infirmary. I, Asmodeus, was moved beyond words.”

“Huh? Uh, I…”

“To recall our first meeting, I attacked you unprovoked. Allowing my foolish pride to shirk my better judgement. Back then, despite every reason not to, you extended kindness to me. You show me benevolence to which I am wholly undeserving.”

“I-I wouldn't s-say–”

“I should have done this on that day. However unofficial that bout had been. Demon law dictates that the loser must serve the victor. Therefore…”

  The serious expression Iruma has come to identify the boy with melts away. A shining, beautiful smile in its place. Cheeks dusted with pink.

“I give my all to you, and will aid you in ruling over this school!”

  WHAT?! 

Asmodeus stands in one swift motion, his free hand balled in determination. “First, let's make the entire student body your servants.”

  WHAT?!

“Who shall I say first, master? Please give me your orders.”

  This– this had to be a trick, right? Had to be some sort of elaborate scheme to catch him unaware? There was no way this guy’s for real. But, just a few hours ago, this same demon would've scorched first, asked questions later. Supposedly if he's still alive that should be evidence enough...not that that's a comfort. Finally, Iruma's voice returns to him.

“Wa-wait! Wait a second Asmodeus-san, what are you–”

“Please, call me ‘Azz.’ I insist.”

“O-okay, um, Azz-kun. There's really no need to– enslave anyone! I really don't want to give you orders!”

“Ah. I see.” Asmo- Azz murmurs, clearly disheartened at the statement. 

Just as suddenly as he deflates, he soon shoots ram-rod straight, eyes blown wide. “M-Master! F-forgive my brazen actions, for I am ashamed to admit this truth...”

  Azz looks as if he's going to cry. With a sniffle he avoids Iruma's gaze, staring hard into the soil.

"I-I never– that is to ask–" He takes a breath to organize himself. "May I know your name, master?”

  Oh. Well. Is. Is that a good idea? It's not like Iruma was withholding his name from anyone. Not intentionally, anyway. He couldn't think of why it would be a bad thing to tell Azz…

“Umm. I-Iruma.”

Azz lights up like a kid on Christmas morning launching back onto his feet. “Iruma-sama! Thank you dearly for entrusting me with this information!”

“Ye-yeah, it's, uh, nice to meet you too.”

“What a brilliant gift! In honour of this day I promise that tomorrow I will wait ten hours for your arrival!”

“T-TEN HOURS?!”

“That's correct. For today I merely waited six! In the pitch black of the witching hour.”

“There's– there's really no need for that!”

  Iruma's not sure if coming back was a good idea after all.

  Marbus stiffly slammed his hands on Dali's desk. By his standards, an admirable attempt to display exasperation. The man rarely expressed more than true neutral or relative discomfort. Opera’s ears twitched from where they stood by the door frame. Gathering classroom attendance sheets for Sullivan's stamp of approval.

“No! No, I'm telling you it was there! I know it was!” Marbus insists.

  The demon shuffles through his uniform pockets until finally pulling out a large blue feather, of which he shoves in Dali's regaled face. Dali looks unconvinced. Taking the offered 'evidence' and idly twirling the rachis betwixt his forefingers.

“I’m not saying you're lying March. There's no need to get so defensive~”

“S-so you agree, then? That we should do another full scou–”

“What I am saying,” Dali intervenes, “is that you're being a bit hasty.”

“Wha– bu–! Hasty?! We're talking about dozens of mana cores! Just gone! Most of those were filled by Balam-sensei! A Khet ranked demon's mana is missing and you don't think we should be concerned about this?!”

“Not at all. It’s very upsetting news. That breach has become quite the development.”

“Then why–”

  Dali holds up a finger.

 “Let’s phrase this differently. You think the little bugger who's been snooping around campus is not only still here, but is actively harvesting mana. From you. Specifically.”

At his co-worker’s vehement nodding, Dali quarks his lips. “As a supervisor, I think you could re-examine your report for possible inconsistencies. As an ally,”

Dali puts the feather into his pen holder, resting his chin on his hand. “I need you to think about how batshit that sounds. Everyone on staff already knows you've been snoozin’ in the torture storage room, and lemme’ say, you certainly look like it. We're talkin’ wicked phase buddy.”

  Marbus, for his part, takes a second to recompose himself. Bashfully smoothing out his dishevelled hair. Dali continues.

“Those facts alone make your claim look a bit sketch. Yes, your mana batteries were stolen. Yes, on multiple occasions now, you've found these feathers that match the ones from the break in site. But we can't go and issue a top down search again when there haven't been any repercussions.”

The torture arts professor didn’t seem to appreciate the idea. “You just want us to wait until something bad actually happens?” 

“Blowing things out of proportion will only make it worse. Especially with students coming through our doors. It's a wonder word hasn't gotten out about it already. What with the broadcaster batra. You know how those imps are. I understand it's frustrating– we all have an interest in the rascal– but it's the Chair-demon's orders.”

Dali stands, leading Marbus down the hall. “Besides, now that the boss is back, there's nothing a few magic charges can do to our vault. So how's about we get you looking a little more lively before your class, hmm? You're the torturer, not the victim.”

  Opera lets their banter grow quiet in the corridor before slinking around the staff cubicles. Their tail swaying as they pluck the vibrant feather from the pen cup. Though it wasn't their main mission today, discovering the intruder was still on the to-do list. Efficiency comes with countless opportunities.

  They turn it in their claws, allowing themselves time to adjust to the scent. The peculiar tang of exotic mana, quality herbs and something they've never sensed before. Something that made the very depths of their being twist. Akin to the smell of a fond memory.  No matter how long they lingered, the aroma simply refused to stick. Morphing, changing with every passing second. Unified by an uncannily pleasant undertone. What had them truly confounded was so miniscule they almost overlooked it entirely. 

  Sullivan. This feather– by proxy, its owner– carried their Lord's mana signature. Opera’s eyes glinted at the discovery. This excursion was turning out to be quite the treasure hunt indeed.

‘I believe I now understand your investment, Sullivan-sama.’

  Tucking the pinion in their breast pocket, they make their way back to the Chair-demon's office. Postponing the hunt until they know for certain that their Lord will finish the work he needs to. In the few minutes they had it with them, the scent put an unexpected pep in their step. Perhaps they had time for a little visit with their favourite hellhound.

  It would appear they had to put a pin in that idea, however, as they round the corner to meet a rather enthusiastic demoness. Said imp crashing into their side with a commendable amount of strength. She looks up from where she clings to them and presents a beaming smile.

“Hi! Hello hello Ear-sensei! My name's Clara! My left foot’s Connor, and my right foot’s Murf! Have you seen Iruma-chi?! Do you want some candy? You have his smelly smell and the circle summy dance is happening soon and we're gonna’ have loads of fun with Eggie-sensei! And–”

“Valac! For Hell's sake cease your yammering!” Another student yelled. A level of aristocracy in their tone that told them his identity. 

  Asmodeus Alice comes running down towards Opera and the amusing noisemaker attached to them. Steps faltering at the sight before him. They hold his stare as they scruff the back of the girl's uniform, dangling her in the air to which Valac seemed unbothered.

“I presume this belongs to you?” They ask, watching as the son of a Thirteenth Crown pales to match his clothing. For the boy’s credit he retains decorum.

“I apologize for Valac’s disrespect. As Lord Sullivan’s noble security devil, you should not have been subjected to such things.” He says with a bow. “I was assigned by my master to fetch the lady. We are in no way acquainted.”

Valac pipes in, tail swinging happily as Opera sets her back on her feet. “Iruma-chi gets lost pretty easy, so he asked Azu-Azu to bring me to him! Iruma-chi doesn't really like new people so I’m devi excited to hang out with Azu-Azu. Oh oh! We havta’ play hide and shriek together! Iruma-chi’s great at that game. You wanna play with us Ear-sensei?”

  That name. ‘Iruma.’ For reasons they cannot place, the name sounds familiar to Opera. Had Sullivan mentioned an ‘Iruma’ before? 

“We are not playing, Valac, and stop calling me that! The only reason I am tolerating your egregious behaviour is because your familiar group is with my master! Do not go about spreading your nonsense in the presence of those in high standing!”

  Opera keeps to themselves as the two begin to bicker. More accurately, Asmodeus scolds Valac for her social ineptitude while Valac describes how good this ‘Iruma-chi’ is at hiding. The interaction had them reminiscent. A certain fondness they recall whilst teasing their kohai. What unlikely allies these two may come to be. Though as entertaining as they were, Opera had errands to run. Coincidentally their timing seemed to be spot on.

  Rather abruptly the Valac girl goes still. Her ear tips and tail standing tall. Within a beat, she turns on a dime, excitement flowing off her in waves.

“IRUMA-CHIIIII!!!”

  Off she goes. Careening toward the Familiars’ Ritual Hall. Much to the provocation of Asmodeus.

“Oh for Satan's– Please excuse me. Valac!” He bows once more before chasing after the other, leaving Opera to their tasks.

  Clara could hear Azu-Azu behind her, which was great! She didn't have to waste time if he was already following her. Though for a big fancy mans he really was a loud guy. She was worried that he'd be too loud for Iruma-chi. He was still all jumpy around her, and he hung out with her lots already. Will Pinky spook him if he keeps being so noisy? Clara didn't want that! But she'd find Iruma-chi first anyway, so she could just ask him.

  Clara thought for sure Ear-sensei would know where he was. They smelled just like him! Kinda’. Okay so they smelled like they were around Iruma-chi, and that's not the same thing, but it was the best she got so far! But Ear-sensei didn't talk too much about it. Between her and Azu-Azu, she doesn't think Ear-sensei knew they smelled at all. Azu-Azu didn't hear her though. He really was really loud. Buncha’ wordies just flying out his mouth. Even she couldn't keep up with all of it. He's a little boring too. She doesn't think he wants to be her ally at all…

  But that doesn't matter! Cuz’ she could totally smell Iruma-chi nearby! It was kinda’ crazy nobody else points it out cuz’ Iruma-chi smells devi weird. And the smellies were super strong too, so she knew he was close!

 “Valac! Valac! You stupid– COME BACK HERE!” 

  Azu-Azu grabs Clara the same way Ear-sensei did but not nearly as nicely. Connor could've whooshied away! Then he started yapping about something Clara didn't think was fun, based on his tone. Kept using words that Urara does but without the smart descriptions. If Azu-Azu wanted her to know something, he should tell her in a nice way. So clearly it wasn't very important.

  Azu-Azu huffs, dropping her to pull out a fancy tiny cloth from his coat. He uses it to wipe the hand that had been holding her. She didn't have paint in her hair again did she? She thought she washed it all out after slimeball-canvas-blast. He levels her with a cranky face.

“You aren't even listening are you?! Why Iruma-sama has any reason to associate with you is–”

  Aaaaannnnnd he's back at it. Poor Azu-Azu. He's a little dumb. What wasn't he getting? If Iruma-chi’s feathers were around, Iruma-chi couldn't be far away. Doesn't he realize that they're right on his tail? With all these lectures they may not be anymore. Clara feels herself zoning out cuz’ of all his boooorrrring words! At this rate Iruma-chi's gonna’ think she ditched him! She can't have that! She tries her best to listen but Azu-Azu makes it so hard to concentrate. Her eyes trail around, from watching the birds in the window to guessing the bloodlines of passing people.

  How many words can one demon have?

“There you are! Thank you for finding her, Azz-kun.”

  No sooner does she hear Iruma-chi’s voice does Connor and Murf rev up and blast off! Clara rollin' rollin' rollin' until– BANG! The demons all go kablooie! Dodging out of her way. The best part? Even with noisy Azu-Azu behind her she could hear a startled voice muffled by her shoulder.

“H-hello Clara–”

  Iruma stumbles back from the impact of Clara's crash. Spinning as she laughs herself silly. Though her chaos brought attention to them both, Iruma felt a wave of relief at the sight of her lime green locks.

  Searching for Clara took much, much longer than he'd hoped. He didn't account for the extra time he'd be spending by using routes with the least amount of people possible. Getting Azz to leave took a little time as well. Not that Iruma had anything against the guy, but Azz got a little antsy at the places Iruma was trying to get to. Found out pretty quick that either, A, he'd have to traverse densely packed halls of students, or B, go through quieter halls at the increased risk of him running into one of the staff. Iruma had managed to dodge most of them up until now, but the teachers had more questions than he wanted to answer. Mainly because– as it turns out– quiet corridors typically mean ‘off limits’ to students. The stress alone must've taken years off his life. Suffice to say it was comforting to see a friendly face.

  That, and he didn't actually know where Clara wanted to meet up. She…may have forgotten to tell him.

  The demoness wastes no time crushing him in a hug. Her jubilant energy mixing with her tell-tale sugary sweetness. He's gotten surprisingly used to the sensation. The sparkling buzz of her touch like condensed rays of sunlight. Iruma was still kind of paranoid about the whole thing. About why demons had this sort of inexplicable feeling around him. But right now, he’ll allow himself the reassurance Clara didn't know she provided. A feeling Azz didn't know she had either.

“Stupid Valac! How dare you clamber over Iruma-sama!”

  Clara blows raspberries in Azz’s face, watching as he struggles with the want to burn her to a crisp or pry her off Iruma. Iruma manages to calm him down before he settles on both. With unintentional antics out of the way, Iruma soon realizes that they've made it to their destination. 

  Similar to the auditorium, the room is a vast expanse surrounded by pillars. Towering above their heads in a fashion that is reminiscent of older buildings he'd seen in Rome. Grandiose architecture that melded with the running Gothic theme. Candles and sconces dotting the area with a lavender glow. At the forefront of the room was a circle. Sitting layer higher than the rest of the floor, protecting a candle stand in its middle. Upon closer inspection, Iruma could see the area inside the circle had symbols carved into the tile. Purple paint accentuating the lines. They looked…eerily similar to the ones he drew that day.

  He tries not to think about it.

  More students trickle into the hall chatting amongst themselves. Iruma pulls his hood back on and leans a little closer to Clara. Their scents overwhelmed his nostrils, luckily, not with the same vigour as the day before. Asmodeus, too, eyes the room, seemingly impressed by what he sees.

“Babyls truly does deserve its reputation. For as rowdy as these summonings can be, this Familiars' Hall holds nary a scratch.”

  That particular word sets off alarms in Iruma's head. The last time he heard ‘summoning’ he ended up falling out of the sky. And no, he still isn't over that.

“W-what exactly are we doing today?”

Ever the help, Asmodeus enlightens him. “It's a tradition here at Babyls. Upon entering the school, each student summons a magical beast to make their subordinate.”

“Yeah yeah yeah! The summy dance gives you a little ally to play with! Hey hey, who do ya’ think you're gonna’ summy dance with?” Clara jumps in, looping their arms together.

“I, uh, I’m not sure.” He half-heartedly chuckles. “Do you know w-why we're– um– summoning?”

  Iruma vividly remembers the first creature he summoned. A creature he knows is in fact running this academy. If there's an option not to participate, he'll sure as hell be taking it. Safer that way.

“This process is part of the ranking test.” Azz answers. Scowling at Clara's unbridled enthusiasm. “A student’s rank will be determined by the magical beast they are able to summon. Climbing those ranks leads to academic success at Babyls.”

  That. That sounds important. Mandatory kind of important. Wonder if familiars eat humans too...

“I see.” Iruma manages to say. “Sort of nerve-wracking, then.”

Clara gives his arm a squeeze. “It’s okay Iruma-chi! Summy dance also tells the purple mans what class to put you in, so if we pull the same summy guy, we'll be in the same class!” 

Iruma forces a smile for her. “R-right. So how do wE-IAAAH!”

  Sudden change in gravity disrupts his sentence as he's pulled into the air. Electric jolts rolling down his neck. He dangles by both fur and his actual clothes as whatever holds him scoops him up by the scruff. Clara laughs and tries to grab Iruma's tail, batting at the air like a kitten. Asmodeus on the other hand looks like he desperately wants to help, yet is restraining himself from doing so. 

“I-Iruma-sama! Do not be alarmed! I'm certain the beast has apt reason to be so blatantly offensive to you!”

  BEAST?!

  Iruma whips his head around only to meet a very large and very wet nose that presses up against his cheek. A shiny, golden muzzle that sparks with static. His opposite side gets similar treatment, slobbering drool causing his hair to stick on end as it licks his face. Two canine heads on either side of him, a third holding him aloft in its mouth.

  Wait a second! He's seen a three-headed dog! Iruma reaches up to pet the puppy (puppies?) on their snoot, giggling at the electric pops that tickle his hands.

“Hello again, big guy!” He says, giving the one on the left ear scritches.

  He can hear the rapid thumping of its tail against the tile. Unfortunately, he also hears that everyone else has something to say about it.

“You gotta' be kidding…”

“He has a Cerberus?!”

“Devi, he really made the top-scorer his servant…”

“Hey, isn't that–”

  The rapturous slam of the main doors makes the chatter mute. Breeze coming from sheer force. A man strides through the entrance, sturdy ‘clack’ of thick-soled boots echoing against the walls. The dog (Cerberus, apparently) promptly finds their way to the side of the room, Iruma in tow despite the distraught expression of Asmodeus. He's sat between their paws to the left of the painted circle. Providing a front row seat to the menacing man who just walked in. The same teacher that looked ready to snap his neck on stage.

“Silence.”

  Based on the lack of noise already, Iruma guesses the command is more to drive a point then to be heeded. The demon storms to the front of the hall before addressing the class.

“I am Naberius Kalego, your adviser. I am always in charge of this ritual. Why? Because I am dignified at all times.” His cold stare penetrates the crowd, strict and frightening. “I will determine whether you lot are useless trash, or useful trash. But trash either way.”

  Naberius scowls impossibly harder, squinting at the students. Searching for something. After a second, he continues, though his stare stays locked on Clara and Azz.

“For example…if an imbecile decided to cause an upstaged brawl on the first day, or if a piece of trash had the nerve to assault a teacher before the entrance ceremony, that would be an immediate grounds to get rid of you.”

  Iruma curls back into Cerberus’ chest. Thankful that he wasn't facing the demon head on. The 'teacher' doesn't bother to hide his intentions as he seethes the next words.

“Also, if a piece of trash were to chant a vulgar spell and then inflict notoriously detrimental damage on multiple students, that too, would be an immediate cause for dismissal.”

  Ah. Iruma's beginning to think that violent glare the other day wasn’t just for show. Naberius drags his gaze away from the two, once again speaking to the class.

“I will expel any failures, so be warned. Now…”

  With far more aggression than necessary, the scariest man on earth slams down a large, heavily contrasting screen. Clearly disgruntled. The guide sparkles with the brightest of pinks, decorated with fluffy, plush shapes and stuffed animals.

“Silence.” And the screen flashes to life.

  From where he's sitting, Iruma can't see the demonstration properly, but he can hear a high-pitched, jittery voice describing the details of this ritual.

“Super easy! Familiar summoning course!!!”

“Step One! Draw a circle in blood on some parchment!”

“Step Two! Head to the magic circle with said parchment!”

“Step Three! Hold the parchment right above the candle in the middle of the circle!”

“Step Four! The smoke will take form, and your familiar will appear!”

“Okie dokie, now let's all–”

  Naberius stomps down on the screen, a deafening ‘crunch’ clattering on the ground. The screen itself makes a few wounded sounds.

“That's enough explanation.”

“He smacked it down..?”

“He must really hate how cute the lesson guide is…”

  Iruma shrinks further. If other demons are just as scared, what would he do to a human? One of Cerberus' heads nuzzles to his side. That tingling warmth calming his nerves. So at least there's that. He returns the favour and gently rubs in between their ears. Perhaps it's because of the commotion, but they seem smaller than just a bit ago. He shakes his head, returning his attention to the lesson.

“Make sure you use the parchment with my seal on it. I can immediately tell if it's a fake.”

A green, dragon-esque demoness timidly raises her hand. “U-umm, is this going to be dangerous?”

 “What a foolish question.” His answer is as cold as his stare.

“You are summoning a subordinate and making it serve you. That's what familiars are.”

Naberius pulls the demonstration screen off the floor. Nails cracking the edge of the glass. “And should a familiar disobey its master…”

  Violet light erupts from his fingers, his grip tightening with an ear-scraping ‘crunch.’ When the smoke clears, a smouldering hole is left in its wake.

“There will be punishment. That's how deep the blood pact is. Now, make sure you are prepared.” He turns on his heel, stomping over to the summoning pad. “Line up in an orderly fashion!”

‘Blood pact, huh.’ Iruma thinks.

  Maybe this ritual was different from the one he did. If a ‘blood pact’ had been made between him and Lord Sullivan, would he even be here right now? Maybe the pact stopped him from being eaten, so Sullivan tried to kill him in a different way. But wouldn't he have known Iruma was alive? And if they weren't bound by blood, there would be nothing stopping him from being devoured. He's not sure he'll get any answers, but he really doesn't want to try his luck by summoning something else. Maybe Clara will be happy enough with him just watching.

  As the rest of the class does as instructed, Azz and Clara elect to make their way over to him instead. The three of them watching the first few familiars fill the room. Azz keeps a healthy distance from Cerberus, who for some reason, seems rather protective of Iruma. Not that he minds, the electrical buzz from their fur is doing wonders on his back. Feels like a heating pad.

“That man isn't even trying to hide his animosity. At least his Cerberus recognizes the true power in the room!”

“Yeah– wait what?!”

  This was–?! This is?!

  Suddenly the comfort of this colossal canine is extinguished. Iruma caught between getting out of this not-so-safe space, or staying to keep the camouflage. It's too late to make a decision himself, as the commotion draws the attention of the dark-haired demon. Without even looking, Naberius whistles to his three-headed companion.

  Both Clara and Azz are swept away by enormous paws, Iruma still held safely at the beast's front. Asmodeus manages to shield the blow at the expense of being tossed halfway across the hall. Clara, ever the unaffected by grave danger, takes it as a challenge. Jumping to the top of the line.

“You watch, Iruma-chi! Imma’ get a famidami twice as fun as Eggie-sensei’s!”

  True to her word she nabs a seal parchment from Naberius’ hand. A borderline cause for concern as she chews into her thumb, bleeding a smiley face onto the paper. Though clearly aggrieved, Naberius does nothing to stop her as she thrusts the parchment into the candle.

  She dances around the candle singing ‘s-s-s-uuuummmooon’ over and over as the smoke builds. A step Iruma's sure was of her own design. In a flash of colours and what looked to be confetti (not sure where that came from,) the smoke dissipates to reveal an odd gremlin-like creature. One that bore striking resemblance to her slippers. Upon witnessing her new familiar Clara wastes no time starting to play with it. Bounding around the room like a pair of beach balls to which Cerberus almost immediately restrains.

  Clara beams up from underneath Cerberus’ paw. Pinned but unchanged.

“Didja’ see it?! Didja' didja' didja'?!?”

Iruma smiles, helping her get back on her feet. “I did! It really matches you perfectly Clara. I can't imagine a better fit.”

  She smiles wider at the praise, happily rolling in his lap. Cerberus doesn't stop her. Perhaps Naberius' familiar is more friendly than it's owner.

“A Falfal. Unsurprising.” Naberius mutters. Floating pen scribbling a few lines before he calls for the next student. “Asmodeus Alice. Since you were so adamant before, it's your turn now.”

  Azz dusts invisible dirt from his uniform, yet still complies. Propriety sewn into his movement. The swish of his fangs slicing cleanly through his finger, the mark of his blood equally swift. With little fanfare he holds the seal over the fire.

  His smoke, rather than expanding like Clara's, begins to stretch. Thin wisps that give way to two blazing crimson eyes. The fog continues to grow, its lengthy form surrounding Azz in a serpentine coil. A fitting description as the translucent grey steadily transforms into smooth, white-pink scales. The end result exudes power. An imposing snake adorned with deep violet horns and wings. A blaze to match its master's alight on its tail. Many students ‘ooh’ and ‘aww’ at Azz and his summon. Both uncaring of the admiration. But as the two move off the circle, Azz beelines to Iruma, an almost childish glow in his eyes.

“Iruma-sama! I pray a Gorgon Snake meets your expectations!”

  His familiar bows its head, leaning close. Iruma takes it as an invitation and places a hand on their delicate scales. Despite its earlier attitude, it now appreciates the attention.

“What a wonderful companion for you, Azz-kun! You two look great together.”

Asmodeus’ eyes sparkle, his Gorgon Snake puffing up with pride. “You humble us with your kindness! Surely this is nothing compared to what you're going to summon! I'm certain even Cerberus will tremble at your feet!”

  A booming growl rumbles in Cerberus’ throat. All three heads bore teeth at Asmodeus and his snake. It doesn't seem to appreciate the remark. Iruma tries to laugh through the tension.

“I’m…not so sure about that…” 

“Oi! You lot stop disturbing Cerb–” 

  Kalego's words die on his tongue. Staring incredulously at the scene before him. The two troublemakers of this session crowd around Cerberus, far closer than the hound typically tolerates. Apparently this year's students are brimming with audacity. However that isn't what has him flummoxed.

  That brat is here. Following their track record of not announcing their presence. Sitting without a care in the world in Cerberus’– his Cerberus' paws. Giving them pets!? Like some common house mutt?! A vein presses to the skin of his neck as he marches toward the fiend.

“What do you think you're doing?”

The fool leans further back into Cerberus. As if his own mana would fight against him. Stranger still, Cerberus does nothing to stop it. He stutters at Kalego's enmity.

“C-Cerberus came up and–”

“If you’re going to lie,” Kalego snarls, “You’d do well to create something believable.”

  He was in no mood to entertain such witless capers. Certainly not today, and not with some halfwit schlemiel. He yanks his summoning report out of his pocket, double, then triple checking the list of students for each of the familiar groups. None matched their description. 

  Good enough for him.

“Get out of my ritual hall.”

“Does your pettiness exceed etiquette?! With all due respect, Kalego-sensei, personal gripes stemming from your Cerberus’ bond with Iruma-sama should not interfere with your conduct as a teacher! This is outrageous!”

  The scandalized stubbornness he expects, just not from Asmodeus. Valac he wouldn’t bother trying to predict, and yet she joins the fray. The other one, though, Iruma, acts indifferent to his command. If anything he seems to relax to the threat. Fully willing to abide as he rises from Cerberus’ lap.

“No, no, it’s okay Azz-kun, Clara. I’m, uh, not supposed to be here. I should go!”

  His keen acceptance rubs Kalego in all the wrong ways. He gets the impression Cerberus shares the feeling if their actions are any indication, tugging at his clothing and shifting their paws to keep him close. Babyls accepts only six-hundred-sixty-six students a year. It is a world renown academy many would and have begged to be a part of.

  And this wretch is openly accepting the concept of being expelled before Kalego has the pleasure to say it to his face. Kalego keeps his scowl levelled on the odd demon as he attempts to assuage both Asmodeus and Valac of Kalego’s decision. It’s far too convincing to be bluff, and far too stupid to be reverse psychology. What the hell is this demon planning?

“My, my. Aren’t you testy today, Kalego-kun.”

  Kalego’s blood runs cold. 

“O-Opera-senpai?!” His voice cracks, drawing the attention of students formerly distracted by their familiars.

  Curse him for all he’s worth.

  His hellish senpai– for some deeply suspicious reason– chooses to ignore the prime teasing opportunity his own vocal cords provided. Instead choosing to lay a manicured hand on the shoulder of the brat he was just reprimanding. Iruma flinches so hard Kalego could feel it.

“This youngling hasn’t even summoned a familiar yet. You have no grounds to expel them.”

  Though acting as defence, Opera’s actions have Iruma’s body language screaming. Kid looks like he’d rather be Cerberus’ chew toy than go along with their wiles. It sets something troubling off in Kalego’s head. He knew today would be awful, but becoming suspicious of his senpai was not the direction he thought he’d go. At his silence Opera pulls Iruma back toward the circle. The runt frozen stiff.

“Familiars are an integral part of every demon’s academic experience. They at least deserve to summon, don’t you agree, Kalego-kun?” Opera says.

  Not entirely wrong, as unfortunate as it is. Kalego studies his senpai and the student. Both with a drastically opposed look in their eyes. Opera intent, Iruma panic-stricken. He decides he’s not paid enough to deal with Opera today.

“You will cease this loathsome umbrage, and summon a familiar. Based on your competency I will decide if your presence is remotely welcomed at this institution.”  

The brat recoils, staring at him as if he tore his wings off. The bad feeling from before creeping up his spine. “B-but I–”

“At what point did you glean you were given a choice? You are the last student to summon in this group. You will cooperate or you will be removed. Hurry. Up.”

  Kalego practically shoves the parchment into the punk’s hand just to get that expression out of his sight. Opera coaxing the boy to the candle with a swish of their tail. An action that settled unease in his gut. With no other option Iruma bites a gash into his finger, tracing a circle around the seal. With great hesitation he lets the paper burn. 

  And hell breaks loose.

Chapter Text

Demonic Fundamentals and Sacrificial Conduct - Section 13 - Subsection 6

 A familiar’s species, body configuration, mass and other such features- contrary to popular belief- are not created by way of manifestation. 

 By initiating the sacrificial offering of one’s blood, the demon provides an example of their own strengths. Similar to that of a resume. This phantom call is broadcasted on an ethereal level that synchronizes with the wavelengths of Netherworld beasts. This allows beasts to connect with multiple possible demon hosts, becoming ‘familiar’ in order to decide which ‘master’ will best suit their needs. A symbiotic relationship in which the demon acquires a subordinate and the beast obtains protection.

This is why many demonic clans have developed reputations for a particular kind of magical companion. For a similar phenomenon, one demon can also summon multiple beasts at once. This occurs in demons with high levels of mana, able to push their signal to a wider audience and thereby attract the attention of numerous familiars. This chance is increased with beasts of similar species (see Articles 23-24 for Snow King Foxes and Blizzard Wolves.) However, while a trait of a promising demon, it is far from prime circumstance.

When multiple beasts have intent towards the same summoner, familiars will often display violent and destructive behaviour toward one another. Due to the fact familiars will heed the call they find the most appealing, they often see beasts that share their criteria to be competition. For this reason it is recommended that the Familiar Summoning Ritual is performed with fledglings, whose mana have not yet reached maturity. 

Note that familiars will react with extreme sensitivity to their master's emotional state upon successful summonings. Please ensure any participants are of sound mind, health, and body before commencing the ritual.

The smoke that should have created the foundation of a familiar evaporates in a hailstorm of fire. Candle spewing a fountain of flames, igniting the symbols etched into the floor. Shrouding the hall in light. Fumes engulf the ritual pad, blustering from the circle’s seal. Several vague bodies begin to form. Writhing smoke resembling dozens of magical beasts that separate from the cloud and pour into the chamber. 

Familiar after familiar break into existence; Valley Guardians, Chimera, Damselwings, Scorpius, ranging from borderline useless to rare, high blood staples. Cracks of pressured air whistling through the seal like a kettle. No sooner do the beasts emerge do they sense their master’s fear. They hiss and yowl at one another. Clashing of the hoards, by hoof, by mandibles, all manner of bodies raised to defend their place.

Cerberus springs into action, roaring thunder scattering the smaller creatures. Those who don't cower test their mettle against the guard dog. In the classic demonic way, the students go wild at the sight. Nothing gets the blood pumping like a spar. Some pulled out phones, others tossed their familiars into the mix. Living it up. Not that it makes anything better.

Iruma's senses skyrocket. The noise, the smells, the crowd. Barrage of stimuli that shake him to his core. Fractured ribs in a stampede. Tornado sirens herding cattle. Rock slide cave ins. Memories unearthed by the creatures before him. Inadvertently adding fuel to the fire. He feels drained, nauseous even. Vertigo sways the room like a ship's hull. Were the sconces always so bright? 

He should go. Now, in the eye of the storm. But his eyes are glued to the center. To the furious man in the floor.

“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!” Naberius roars. “WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?!”

Off to the side, just a few steps away from the cat-eared demon stands the unmistakable form of his ‘sensei’s’ lower half. Upper body bisected and sticking out from the center of the ritual circle. Unlike familiars, Naberius doesn't come from the smoke. In its place he's separated by a large, glowing set of symbols. The same seal on the parchment Iruma burned.

Naberius himself looked…different.

Monstrous visage twists into Kalego's. About a third of his head, across his chest and down his left side looked like raw energy. The areas closest to his normal body had a metallic, viscous sheen reminiscent of liquid mercury. From the liquid sprouted jagged currents for approximate limbs. Solid electricity with the fluidity of flame. He looked like reality itself was on fire, contorting his shape into something entirely new. Chromatic aberration in real time.

 Though unattached, a second head sat above his shoulder. Resembling Cerberus’, yet with rich, violet fur to match Kalego's hair. Wispy in a way that toys with the shadows. The affected side of his head had an extra eye just above his normal one, and taller horns that perked up like wolf ears. Most of his features were sharper. Animalistic.

 Naberius didn't seem affected by the change. Just angry that it happened.

“Still so fiesty, Kalego-kun. The boy only did what you asked.” The cat-eared demon said. Clearly mocking even though their face was hauntingly flat. “Just look around. How could you expel a student as promising as this?” They ask, gesturing to the fleet of roughhousing magical beasts.

Naberius slammed a fist on the ground, an enraged bark coming from his second head. “Shut it you damned hellcat! You're behind all this aren't you?!”

“I have no clue what you're insinuating. I merely came by to watch the summonings.”

“Like hell you were!”

Iruma tries backing up, only to be snagged by a fly-by Clara.

“Iruma-chi! So many famidamies!!! Eggie-sensei can't be grouchy with so many allies!” She chuckles. Revving up with her Falfal to ‘play’ with the selection. Azz seems just as impressed, tears streaming down his face.

“I am moved beyond words, Iruma-sama!” He sniffles a bit before dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief. “To think Kalego-sensei was so foolish as to try and expel you! I just knew you were secretly engaged by his attitude towards you, but you've truly outdone yourself! Summoning so many familiars and a demon to boot!”

The waterworks start up again as he gazes across the many beasts filling the hall. “Yet again I am slain, Iruma-sama!”

Of the handful of demons he can hear over the multitude of animal noises, they seem to agree, muttering awestruck compliments at the variety he brought to the building. Most enraptured by their professor sticking out of the floor.

But they were all just lights to him.

 Naberius, fed up with the ruthless comments of the cat-like demon, whips in Iruma's direction. Sparks flying from his body. “Don't just stand there you idiot! END THE SUMMONING!”

Iruma manages a squeak in reply. Frantically shifting between sprinting to Kalego's upper or lower half. Given the options of all out animal riot v.s. half-normal demon teacher, he chooses the latter. Spluttering apologies as he grabs Kalego's arm to pull.

Upon contact Iruma's assaulted by piercing energy. Electric shocks that shred through his muscles. His hair stands on end, his skin goes cold. Hands blue to unsettle his rapid heartbeat. His head spins as reality forcefully corrects. Any and all overwhelming sensations ceasing in synchrony. The rush of normalcy is somehow twice as disruptive. Falling back, he swears he can smell fireworks.

“NOT THAT WAY! YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO PUSH!” Naberius screams, rousing a snicker from the person in red. 

Iruma ignores his aches and does as instructed. Attentive to the not-so underlying threat in the demon’s words. In his haste, his bare palm brushes against the floor’s markings. They ignite with a vengeance. The scar from months ago tearing anew. He feels as the glow, like a worm through soil, burrows into his flesh. 

Iruma can feel the world turn inside out. Bile creeping up his throat. The brief moment of orientation pummelled by a new onset of torment. Electrifying prickles are stripped from his skin, replaced by that overbearing weight. Godforsaken numbness that wriggles in his blood. He whimpers from the pain, shying away from the man in the floor. Holding his hand tight to his chest. In a never-ending spiral of his own creation he sees the seal burn brighter. Symbols that once hugged Naberius’ sides now expanding. Contorted and bent out of shape, dividing to assemble new form.

 He could place the seal anywhere. 

He's back in the basement. Staring at chalk. 

Cruel past intertwines with present. Tendrils of goopy limbs hoisting from the summoning pad. Air turns thick. Syrupy. As the demon crawls up from the seal it's lodged in, it's stopped, much like Naberius, halfway through. But it's more than enough for Iruma.

Kalego thrashes and scrapes at the floor beneath him. Trying to break the summoning seal of this extraordinarily botched ritual to no avail. He slams his arms, demanding the attention of this absolute buffoon who managed to fail the simplest ritual spell in demon history. 

“Are you deaf?! I said end the-” Kalego quells his rage at the sight of the boy. 

Whatever he did to the ritual circle had him shaking. His odd coat fallen away to reveal the most undeniably petrified expression Kalego's witnessed in all his years of work. Nevermind the excessive- and more alarmingly tantalizing- trail of crimson spreading down from his arm. Eyes trained on the thing coming out of the floor.

A spindly, tall shape. Black as night with viscous fluid seeping through hollowed bones, curtains of ooze draping over clusters of yellowed eyes. A skeletal head mimicking a crow. And it's no familiar.

Wary of the unknown factor, Opera- with the aid of a few other staff and student council- finally escort the rest of the students out of the ritual hall. Regardless of how many wanted to stay. Cerberus forcing the retreat of any lingering beasts. Kalego tries to regain the attention of the student in front of him, all strategies futile. Iruma's expression pale and motionless. He could call over Cerberus to help. He definitely doesn't trust any co-workers with the task, and student council is still ushering students away from the ritual hall. The sooner he gets out the-

“Iruma…kun?”

Its voice carries further than the room itself, distorted and duplicated in a way that clings to his very eardrums. An eerily threatening timber. Yet there was no mistaking it. That haughty, pompous, obnoxious-

  “Oh! Is that you Kalego-kun? My, my, even reduced to pure mana you have that signature frown.”

“WHY ARE YOU HERE SULLIVAN?!” Dear sweet mother of Derkila what fresh hell has he been transported to. Does that bastard not comprehend the severity of the situation?! Would it kill him to apply even a modicum of seriousness?!

The Chair-demon rolls his dozens of eyes, tar dripping from…well frankly, everywhere. “There’s no need to shout Kalego-kun. Besides, it doesn't concern you. ” 

“Doesn’t concern me?! DOESN'T CONCERN ME?! ” Kalego feels a blood vessel pop as Sullivan shoves him to the side. As much as their conjoined summoning seals will allow.

“You are him, aren't you? Iruma-kun?”

Pipsqueak says nothing, straining his eyes ever wider. As if to pop them out of his skull. Iruma flinches when Kalego snaps back at the elder demon.

“Do not ignore me, you intolerable louse! If this summoning is even remotely related to you or your heinous butler so help me-!”

 The wastrel leans forward with outstretched hand.

The kid books it. Any faster the brat would've unfurled his wings.

 Not even a foot away from the door, a Grand Cocoon snares the imp. Its golden shell a reflection of condensed power. Iruma scratches and pants like a caged animal. Blood smearing on the cocoon's walls as a desperation that should never come from a fledgling suffocates the room. 

Uncertainty crosses the faces of many of the present staff, himself included. However, demon hierarchy demands they take no action against the Crown. And though Iruma was far from his likes list at this point, that level of terror wasn't something he wanted to see. Much less from the hands of the Chair-demon.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“Opera?” Sullivan interjects, still completely ignoring the Khet. As if the tension he spawned didn't exist. “Would you be so kind as to lend your assistance?”

He gestures towards the floor where their marks meshed together. “As wonderful as it may be, I haven't the time to be a familiar.”

Opera’s ears bob, their tail wagging. “Right away, Sullivan-sama.”

Ritual failsafes flash in Kalego’s mind as his senpai secures a firm hold on his calf. “W-WAIT DON'T YOU DA-”

With a yelp Kalego flies through the summoning circle, his seal and Sullivan's shining like the sun. “YOU BASTAR-”

*POOF*

Smoke blankets the chamber, members of student council waving away the plumes. With enhanced sight Opera notes their successful assistance through the fog. The looming figure of their master sinking into the floor from whence he came. Now that a familiar had been chosen and the mass-summon clamour had been resolved, Opera waited patiently for Sullivan to return. If everything went smooth, with more decorum and less eldritch horror. Giving them ample time to appreciate their kohai’s form.

Fluffy. He was very fluffy.

Gone was the intimidating silhouette of electrical fire. Spiked mana and snarling teeth replaced by a plush, dainty little visage. Soft downy fluff covered his chick-like body. Puffy lilac feathers that faded into an ever so subtly darker shade at the tips. Their subordinate fluttered at least a foot off the ground, supported by four tiny, feathered wings. The wings themselves, on further inspection, weren't actually attached to the demon’s back, making them look adorably decorative. His horns too, had been changed. Small jet-black nubs to match his claws and talons. A simple strand of his normal hair popping out from in between, falling just beside his- now much less fearsome- scowl. His face reduced to black eyes and beak.

Opera has never seen anything cuter.

And Kalego must share their views, for just moments after inspecting his own shape, he fell quite dramatically from the air. His tiny, rounded body bouncing slightly upon impact. Opera snaps a few hundred shots with their devicam. Cherishing this timeless moment while their kohai recovers from- presumably- outrage and disarray.

“You look so cute when you're angry. Like a little puffball.”

Kalego doesn't say a word. Perhaps shell-shocked by the events of the day. They make sure to snap a few photos of his charming Cerberus, the puppy nudging their master like their favourite toy rolled under the couch.

Scarcely two minutes since he left, Sullivan rams passed the chamber doors. Picking up the golden bubble that contained his summoner. Nary a care in the world. “Opera~ We're leaving~” 

With a few more clicks of the shudder, Opera swiftly returns to their Lord's side. Thanking the faculty and council as they go. Choosing to disregard any questioning gazes. Though their mission of ‘collection’ has taken an unprecedented turn, they were content with the work they had done. They could hear the resentful cries of their fluffy kohai as they took flight. His nettled shrills dampened by the rushing wind.

 It is at times like these that Opera is truly grateful for their position.

“OOOOOOOPPPRREAAAA!!! I WANNA' SEE MY GRANDSON!!!” 

“I needn't reiterate that Lord Azazel takes priority, Sullivan-sama.”

The elder demon whines some more, attempting to pry open the doors to the room his ‘grandson’ currently resides in. An egg-like form rolling around on tear soaked carpet. “Buuuttttt Oppppeeerrrraaaaaa!”

Opera plucks their employer from the ground as the mansion doorbell rings out for the third time. Striding to the foyer. Lord Azazel’s visit had been anticipated, planned even, however today was less than optimal timing. Especially with a technically captive human in their estate. Sneaking in through their own back gate couldn’t have instilled much confidence either.

“You may be one of the Three Greats, but not even you reserve the right to refuse Demon Border Control.” They lecture. “Lord Azazel will enter as he sees fit. Keeping up appearances and entertaining guests will be crucial in allaying concerns.”

They place Sullivan by the front door, cleaning up his distraught face and smoothing out his coat. “Unless, of course, you would prefer to forfeit your reputation. Smuggling a human over the border will certainly achieve scrutiny.”

Sullivan pouts in snivelling defeat. “Alright…” He leans to invite their guest, gripping the handle. “You'll make sure he's happy with everything, right? Make sure he loves the gifts? And that he-”

Opera pulls on Sullivan's arm, forcing the door open. “It will be done.”

With that they retreat into the manor. Sullivan may be daft, but he knows how to conceal a lie. They had no doubt the Crown would leave with less evidence than he came with. All they had to do was treat their other guest. They were sure to pick up a first-aid kit before reaching the second floor, unsure if humans react positively to spell healing. By the time they reached the suite, an ambrosiac aroma had seeped into the hall. One ushering comforts and promising opulence. They had never smelled such a thing before. They could only assume it was human blood.

Placing a few high level sealing spells around the area to trap the scent, they continued onward. The smell will die down faster once they've treated their new ward. They could deal with it then. With a light knock, they make their presence known and step across the threshold.

Sizeable red stains mar the carpet. Streaks and splotches in hurried swipes that spread across the room. Markedly around the windows and doors. The human, upon hearing them enter, backed flat into a corner. Poised on all fours with his back arched in warning. His right hand furled into a fist, knuckles holding the brunt of his weight. Where he was bleeding, they presume.

 As far as they were informed, the bleed stemmed likely from a reopened wound. The offering point from their first contact with Sullivan that reacted to the ritual. If Sullivan's theory proved true. Opera wasn't privy to the functions of human rituals, nor their abnormalities or complications, however offering marks should normally have stopped bleeding by now. Perhaps they sustained further injury? Though, they hardly look receptive to treatment. At this juncture anyway.

His actions were…unusual as well. They would admit that their studies on mythological creatures were average compared to other demons. Just above if they were to be generous. They never pursued the subject into greater academics- not like their kohai- and were never particularly drawn to the topic. Leading them to neglect acquisition of further knowledge. However, up until this interaction they had assumed what every demon had; that the human realm was peaceful. A safe haven compared to the treacherous wilds to the Netherworld. But now, their certainty wavers.

This child- this human- stared at them with strife in his eyes. A hardened, analytical leer. Where something irreplaceable had been lost. Opera remembers a time their eyes held the same luster. Their life before Sullivan. It was something that stretched further than the body could feel. Deeper than any could see. Decades spent around demons of Origin, indistinguishable from petty animals. Fighting the urge to join the bedlam, to succumb to what made them a demon. Holding naught but their ambitions to their name. Forced to adapt or die. To see that look again was heart wrenching. To see it in a child boiled their blood.

To see it in a human child?

They're unsure what to think. Humanity possessed unfathomable depths of greed. A demon would pray to hold a candle to the creatures. Up to this point they had assumed their sins were similar. To benefit themselves or those they hold dear. Perhaps they were wrong. Perhaps humanity holds no bias to the innocent. Perhaps this world isn't so different to his…But now was not the time for such thoughts.

They gingerly placed the aid kit on the nearby desk, hands raised in a (hopefully) universal sign of peace. The boy doesn't change position, growling at their momentary closeness. A rather demonic sound. Once it is placed, they pace backwards towards the door. And wait.

The human- Iruma they recall- keeps his eyes trained on their movement. It's a few minutes of tense silence before he even tried to look at the box. A few more before he processes what it is. Seeming to dislike their offer, he scoots further into the corner. Within their expectations. The boy had no reason to trust them.

They change tact. “Iruma-sama?”

“...”

“I am led to believe that is your name. Is that correct?”

Slowly, hesitant, he supplies the barest hint of a nod. It was a start.

They bow, proper, but steady. Ensuring he has ample time to process their actions. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Iruma-sama. My name is Opera.”

“...”

“I work under Lord Sullivan. We both know you are human.”

At the mention of the Crown, the boy stiffens. They notice his grip tighten on his wound, crimson pooling below his knuckles.

“I will admit, I was sent to prepare you for a meeting with Sullivan-sama. He has a topic he wishes to discuss with you. However,” Opera adjusts themselves to sit seiza style in front of the door. “I can see that would not be appropriate. Given your current state.”

Iruma's stance remains defensive, but relaxes ever so slightly. Based on his expression, they hazard a guess it's due to confusion.

“I am not so blind as to ignore your fear. We are strangers to you, who have brought you against your will to an unknown location. Being demons wouldn't instill any more safety to that turn of events. We do not, however, have any intention of harming you.”

“...?”

“You may not believe me. I do not expect you to. Regardless, as it stands you will be in my- and Lord Sullivan's- care during your stay in this mansion. My master is frivolous, loud, imprudent, carefree, walks only to the beat of his own drum-”

They could go on for days listing their Lord's poorer traits. Iruma seemed to have loosened up a bit by the barrage of criticism. But that wasn't the point. “But, I would trust him with my life. And I can assure you, promise you, that we will not hurt you. That extends to your level of comfort.”

For the first time since entering the room, Iruma blinks. Scanning Opera’s body language in an attempt to route out falsehoods. After an excruciating amount of time, Iruma lowers himself into a crouch. As the hands of the Hellraiser clock tick along, he lowers further into a cross-legged seat. Not relaxed, not exactly, but receptive.

Opera bows again. Allowing full view of their back and neck. Hopeful that the position translates to human sincerity as well as it does to demons. “Thank you.”

Iruma still remains mute, but doesn't shy away from their gaze. With panic reduced, Opera gestures to the first-aid kit. 

“If you find it agreeable, I would like to dress your wound. However, given your…” They pause to think of a quaint way to phrase their analysis. “Freeform sanitary appearance, I would recommend you wash up first.”

The boy takes a second to process their meaning before a light scarlet hue powders his face. His features curling in embarrassment.

Opera’s ears perk up a bit at the sight. A step towards normal interaction. They dust off their dress pants as they rise from the floor, careful to stay exactly where they started. “The door to the left is your bathroom. It has any and all commodities you may require. I can fetch a fresh set of nightwear for you to change into, should you desire a cleanse.”

His eyes linger on the bathroom door as he rubs the gruff textured grime of his clothing. With the option in his mind, they turn to leave.

“I will provide you with your privacy. I will return with a set, should you change your mind later.”

As they take their leave, their heightened hearing picks up the softest mutter. Just a whisper, nearly muffled by the creak of the door.

“...t-thank you, Op-Opera-san.”

If their ears bob to the sound, that's their business.

Chapter Text

 Two of the Thirteen Crowns sit opposite one another. The head of border control, Azazel Henri, sat straight-backed and stern. An untouched cup of Hell Grey Tea resting on the coffee table. One of the Three Greats, the demon Lord Sullivan, lounges in his chair. Sipping his respective refreshment as if the drink took priority. Despite their opposing energy, they shared a tension that thickened the air.

Sullivan places his cup on its saucer. “I apologize for the wait. Had somewhat of a mishap at Babyls.”

“Of course. No need to worry. How's my Ameri?”

“The president is well. Top of her classes, as usual. I’m surprised you haven't already visited her.” He smiles.

Henri’s glasses glint in the light as he pushes them up the bridge of his nose. “She'll be staying later than the other students, she always does. I look forward to seeing her after our meeting.”

Sullivan’s eyes crinkle by the edges, folding his hands in his lap. Gaze not unlike a looming storm.

“Well then, I won't keep you~”

Henri’s ear twitched at the tone. He'd known the man long enough to suss out what lay beneath his cheerful words. The deception of a Crown was not to be taken lightly, and it was clear that Sullivan had something else on his mind. He was hiding something. Henri just needed to figure out what. Azazel clears his throat.

“I would like to begin by thanking you for taking the time to meet with me. We're both busybodies, so I will make this as streamlined as possible.”

He fishes the notepad from his jacket pocket.

“The DBC noted sizeable mana fluctuations about three months ago. The contact site was investigated as per protocol with no signs of disturbance. However, we have reason to believe there is more to the situation than previously analyzed.” He explained. More formality than necessity.

“Following routines, it's my job to interview any and all individuals who may have been in the area at the time. This includes you.”

“Is that so? How interesting.” Sullivan remarks non-committedly. “Must’ve been quite the pulse.”

‘A big enough signal for a local Crown to sense.’ Henri thought.

There was no feasible way Sullivan wouldn't have felt the disturbance. Though invisible to the average demon, rifts of energy could be felt for miles by high ranking ones. A phenomenon that reacts directly to other mana sources. It is something he couldn't have ignored.

“Indeed it was.” Henri readies his pen. “With that said, I'd like your account. Anything unusual or out of the ordinary you may have experienced around that time?”

Sullivan fiddles with the tip of his mustache, humming to himself. “If such a thing were so important, why not contact me sooner?”

‘Avoiding the question…’

“You’re an important man. We needed to ensure your involvement was required. Standard practice, I assure you.”

“Really? Pray tell, what made me ‘required,’ Henri-kun?”

At the question, Sullivan allowed some of his mana to sink into the air. Though not explicit, the action was certainly threatening. Henri sweat-dropped.

“The rift point was roughly above Hubbub Forest. As such, it falls under your jurisdiction. There are only so many inhabitants of that area aside from yourself. All resources of which we exhausted.” Henri leans his head forward in respect. “As one of the Three Greats, the DBC would not have requested your cooperation had it not been deemed necessary.”

A beat passes and Henri feels the pressure from the Crown release. Prickling the hair of his arms.

“Oh how considerate. You and I go back a while! If you needed something I would've been happy to oblige.”

Henri masks his relief (and subsequent suspicions) with a nod. “Your generosity will be noted, Sullivan-sama.”

“Three months though…Bit of a gap, isn't it? I’m not too sure how much help an old imp like me can be.” He says. Mock sadness lacing his voice.

Azazel levels the man in a stare. Skepticism hidden behind the glaze of his glasses. “Whatever you can supply will be sufficient.”

As Sullivan begins a fantastical recount of his time, Opera leans away from the lounge door. Satisfied at their master's ability to maintain composure despite his urge to babble about his new ‘grandson.’ A feat they're sure is taking an immense amount of self-control. With their worries assuaged they briskly venture back to their ward. 

The clothing options their lord had chosen were innumerable. Manner of styles, fittings, season and colours fit to bursting in storage. Sullivan’s want for the finest selections had been so inexorable that orgainizing the supply had chewed through more time than they desired. Opera had faith in Iruma to stay put, however they weren’t certain if his anxieties would quell or intensify when left to his own devices. The last thing they wanted would be to stumble into an escape attempt, or worse, find him at the foot of Lord Azazel. They pick up the pace when Iruma’s room is in sight.

Opera lays out the clothing options they brought on the bed. Prepping, sorting, and folding the wares into their respective places. With the closet and wardrobe filled, Opera selects one of the simpler choices of bedwear to give their young master. Plain purple silks, adorned with a small matching bow tie (at Sullivan’s request.) Despite the lapse in time, it appeared Iruma was still in the washroom. With a firm knock, they receive the startled sounds of splashing water. They wait for it to settle before announcing themselves.

“Iruma-sama, I have returned. May I enter?”

For a few moments all they hear is the steady streaming of water. The response is quiet, barely above a whisper. Opera can hear a dry rasp in his voice. Tea will have to be prepared.

“...is– is that– d-do you have to?”

“Not at all. Should you wish it, I can leave your attire on the bed. However,” They finish their nitpicking of invisible lint and smooth the soft fabric in their hands.

“I do wish to dress your wound. The rate you were bleeding leads me to suspect you have further injury. I would like to ensure your physical health is adequate before any more developments.”

Another stretch of silence. They idly unfold and refold the set of pajamas. Twice. Thrice. Then six times before the scratchy voice comes through the door.

“I–I’m fine. N-no need, thank you.”

Their ears tilt downward. They may not be from the Balam clan, but sniffing out that lie wouldn't warrant the connection. They understood the vulnerability, but walking away when a child is possibly bleeding out in their bathroom was inexcusable.

“Forgive me, young master, but I don't believe you're being truthful.”

They expect the next silence, but not the reply. “It's al-alright…you don't h-have to worry.”

‘Don’t have to worry.’

The phrasing doesn't instill confidence. However, they said they wouldn't overstep. His decision was his own. Still, they're nothing if not persistent.

“I will respect your wishes, but may I please see your injury first? I would like to have assurance if possible.”

“...”

Resolute, they supposed. They wouldn't push the matter. They turn around. 

“I will collect you for din–”

“It’s…like a check up, r-right? You won’t…you won’t do anything else?”

Agreement was certainly unexpected. Especially from one with such. Primal instinct, as they were introduced to. Surely he didn't cave to a ‘please?’ 

“I will not do anything you do not permit.”

Iruma stays quiet for a while longer. They hazard he’ll reconsider, though he mumbles through the door.

“...You c-can come in…”

His acquiescent tone makes them feel something…undesirable, but they allow themselves inside. Their Lord had been very specific about the care of this human. They would carry out their orders.

As previously constructed to be a guest suite for Lord Bellial and Lady Leviathan, the ‘guest room’ was another master bedroom in everything but name. Equipped with all trappings and amenities a high rank demon could summon for. Personal bathroom included. Of course, when you're tending to a Yodh demoness with a penchant for water, certain features had to be put in place. Grand, lavish basin of marble, stone, and ceramics being one such example.

Water pouring from statuesque fountains. The grandeur of a bath house combined with the eccentricity of the rich. Almost as large as the main bedroom it was attached to. Iruma sticks out like a sore thumb. Tucked away at the edge of the large bath. The sight of blue locks removed of mire, cleanliness undermined and scruffy wrapped in those dirt-ridden furs. The rest of his muddied rags lay close by discarded on the tile. Aged and ragged, caked with stains. Majority were red. It makes their ears curve back.

If nothing else they could rest knowing he was clean underneath. They must've let their dissatisfaction be known because Iruma shrivels under their gaze. He takes their silence as prompting, and hugs the foul coat tighter.

 “I-I didn't wanna’ t-touch anything, umm, important…” He glances everywhere but in their direction. “N-not because it's bad or anything! You– you have a very lovely home! It's just–"

He winces. “Everything looks so…expensive.”

Their tail flicks. The thought of regarding towels as something too appealing for him to touch. Wordlessly they place his nightwear on the vanity, acquiring a housecoat from the linen closet across the room. Thankfully Lord Bellial’s size is comparable to the boy's. Opera got close enough that Iruma could reach them while maintaining an acceptable distance. Spying his skittish reactions to their movement.

“While your concern is admirable, it is unfounded. Wearing unclean clothing after a wash is counterproductive.” They extend the robe to him.

He murmured a soft ‘oh’ before hesitantly grabbing the fabric. “...th-thank you.”

They nod, averting their eyes for sake of privacy. While they wait they take the time to collect the poor excuses for clothing off the floor. Impassive expression masking their bitterness. A feeling that only grew at the realization that his coat was in fact not clothing at all, but a pelt. Tanned animal skin. Worn like some cave beast. Anyone wearing these things left a bad taste in their mouth. What was worse was that they couldn't be rid of them. They may be fit only to burn, but they were also the sole belongings of a human far from home. In his vulnerable state there's a chance the boy would be more comfortable with something from his homeland. So to the wash it will go.

Begrudgingly.

With the filth in a laundry basket, Opera sets aside the vanity chair for Iruma to sit on.

“When you're ready, please give me your hand.” They instruct, still facing away.

They hear Iruma shuffle around, cloaking himself in the given robe. Catching him whisper a charming little comment at how nice the material feels. At the subtle shift of the chair, they slide the first-aid kit closer to themselves. The package is already opened and missing components. When they saw his hand, they understood why. The boy had already bandaged himself. Skin wrapped neatly in a thin layer of gauze. Surprisingly well done for his age.

“You've done rather well, Iruma-sama, but I'll be inspecting your work. Demonic injury may not be discernible to human eyes.” 

“De-demonic…?"

He flinches as Opera unravels the dressings. They try to be concise.

"There's a non-negligible chance that your anatomy will have a more reactive outburst to foreign bodies..”

His face blanched. “O-oh…”

At least he understands the concept. It's true that some of their insistence stemmed from a lack of knowledge. What could be a scratch to a demon might very well be deleterious to a human. Different worlds would naturally develop different immunities, and given the unique circumstances, they wouldn't be able to take him to a professional should his health decline. Never hurts to be cautious nonetheless. 

Contact with the boy’s hand sent a chill down their palm. A deathly cold that sunk its teeth in deep. In the same instant it was gone, replaced by soothing warmth. That smell rearing its head, a captivating haze that spun spirals through their vision. Like a shroud of pleasantries. It was tenuous. Barely noticeable. Opera chalks it up to be what all demons feel when in contact with human blood. There's a first for everything, they surmise. They rotate his hand in their own, inspecting any minute abnormalities that may be present. 

It seems to be well cleaned. The gash lining perfectly with the second crease of his palm, curving against the muscles of his thumb. A violet border of mana encases its edges; slash tinted with the mark of Lord Sullivan. So they were correct to believe this was where the blood sacrifice was taken. No wonder it hadn’t closed despite being relatively shallow. Given they could see the actual cut and not a mess of red, they’d consider it an improvement. Nothing particularly concerning spare for a curious glimmer in the deeper muscles. If they squint, they swore his blood was. Changing colour? Must be a trick of the light. Opera re-wraps his hand with the utmost care.

“Everything seems to be in order.”

Iruma traces the bandage with his other hand. Mumbling. “Even with the– the purple stuff?”

“It’s nothing to be concerned about. The staining is merely the remnant left over by Sullivan-sama. While it is halting the healing process, his lordship can remove it without hassle.” They explain, handing over his garments.

The boy makes a soft noise of understanding as he dresses underneath the privacy of the housecoat. Despite being the smallest size they had available, he was still swimming in the fabric. Staying seated did little to help his circumstance.

“Now that I have inspected your hand, I would like to dot he same for your other injury. If you would allow it.”

He freezes, paused with his arms in the sleeves of his shirt. Shoulders piked back up to his ears. Opera sighs lightly.

“The marks you trailed could not have come from your hand alone, Iruma-sama. It is unwise to let yourself ail. May I please see it?”

Rather tentatively, Iruma lowers his arms. Obliging to their aid albeit reluctantly.

“...I-It’s…it’s on my back…” He stumbles a bit over his words. Searching for a description that likely lessened the extent of his plight. “I moved a bit too– too fast, I guess? An old scar, umm, opened up again. Like my hand. It’s fine, r-really! It just doesn’t like when I stretch too much.” 

“You seem to have a lot of those.” Opera states mildly. Moving to his flank.

An awkward laugh. “Y-yeah…I suppose so…but what can you do? Ha ha…”

They hum, not quite agreeing with the sentiment. They could understand his hesitancy a little better from this angle. Exposing one’s back to another can be a vulnerable position. Still, even through partial coercion, they were glad Iruma was willing to let them help. Opera waits for Iruma to remove the robe himself. Overstepping contact would be undesirable considering the placement. They're relieved they did, unsure if they would be able to hold decorum otherwise. Shrugged free from his shoulders the coat lay nestled around his waist. His bare back exposed from the hip up. A chilling sight that puffed the fur of their tail.

There wasn’t an inch untouched by misfortune. A labyrinthian map of overlapping scars that contorted the boy’s flesh. Thin, thick, holes, burns, raised, gouged, Opera’s never seen such a variety. A myriad of pain that healed, broke, and healed again. Spots of untouched skin rarer than a blue moon. Each with a story. Each with suspicions more horrible than the last. But the line of his spine held the limelight. 

Ropey, festered score sunk in the meat. Nearly black from torn scabs. Crusted with ill-mended tissue that dipped his muscle in a gruesome, unnatural purple. From what they could see the laceration spanned the length of his spine; starting from the base of his neck and disappearing past the bundle of house coat. They would estimate it ended somewhere around the tailbone, if they could see it. The butchering had aged like milk. What once was perhaps a clean slice now twisted and warped with splits. Stretched, angry and tight. As if the skin had given up trying to heal properly. Thickest span was between his shoulder blades. About the width of their palm. In the spot that had torn open, the cleft bore likeness to rare sirloin. Still warm in the middle. It wasn’t as well handled as his hand undoubtedly due to the placement. It churned something vile in their guts.

It looked so much like grounding…

When Sullivan first explained his journey through the human realm, the length of his visit was a passing fact. A detail they held mild cynicism toward, thinking it likely he found distraction more alluring than return. Their master wasn’t known for timely performance. Now, however, they are faced with indisputable truth. The questions that come with it.

How much time, they wonder, was spent actively searching? How far has this youngling travelled? Why was such a frail waif left to the elements? Someone so small already so painfully aware of the insidious underbelly of the world. Sullivan expressed his distaste for the parents of the child, but they didn’t think to ask for elaboration. Assuming it was the byproduct of their inadequate summoning. Piecing together the events in their head, they could hypothesize his reasoning.

“I-is…is something wrong O-Opera-san?”

That inhale through their nose, hoping to dampen their tempestuous feelings with that all-consuming scent. They were only half successful.

“I apologize. As Lord Sullivan’s security devil, It brings me great shame that you were harmed in the halls of Babyls.”

Iruma seems puzzled, his face scrunching at the comment. Something clicks in his head and he straightens his posture. Waving his arms around as if to ward off their words. Watching the scar wriggle to the movement makes their wings shutter. Sympathy pains squirming in their roots.

“N-no, no! It wasn't anyone's fault!” He spouts countless misplaced apologies. “Like I said, it's nothing! That– well that one is just…it's in a tricky spot is all. It splits sometimes.”

Opera’s bangs skirt their eyelids, pushed down from the flattening of their ears. “How often does this occur?”

Iruma scratches his cheek. “Umm…every now and again…back home I never really had access to– uh– to medical stuff. So while I was working it broke open a lot.”

He gives a half-hearted chuckle. Trying and woefully failing to break up the tension. “It isn't infected or anything though, so i-it’s fine!”

If their ears pressed down any further, they'd meld back into their skull. Iruma guiltily lowers his head. He didn’t need to make them more uncomfortable than they already were. They continue in silence, the slight sting of what he imagines to be the demon equivalent of isopropyl alcohol prickling at his back. Opera didn’t seem to be very expressive, but Iruma didn’t need to see their face to know what they were thinking. He’d seen it plenty of times before.

Iruma tended to find less reputable places for work. Places that didn’t ask questions or didn’t care about their employees to begin with. Taking those types of jobs– bartering with those kinds of people– Iruma got his fair share of bumps and scrapes. They never bothered him personally. It was just skin, after all. He could lose an eye, an ear, a limb, whatever. As long as he could make use of himself he could care less about how he looked. Not that he took the time to see the damage in the first place. But not everyone shared his outlook.

Many a time he can remember when co-workers, passersby or sometimes even his bosses would give him free clothes or bedding if it meant him covering up. Repugnance as they toss the very coat from their back to shield their eyes of his disgusting body. Over the years, that mindset hadn't changed and his body racked up the scuffs to prove it. More people stared. More co-workers grimace. His mangled and mangey self. Iruma had a rough picture of all his scars, but never an actual image to work off of. Anything past his arms was relatively unaccounted for in his eyes. Out of all his tales and roving he knew his back would probably be the worst. When you run away from everything, your back is the best target.

Iruma had asked someone about how bad it was once. One of the old dock workers who would give him free chum to compensate for less than minimum wage. She never told him. She just gave him that look. The same one they all did.

He didn't bother asking after that. 

Iruma had to admit though, discovering that demons think the same way was a little disheartening. Not that it matters anymore. He’s probably going to die tonight.

Because that’s the next logical step, right? Even with their repeated assurances, Iruma couldn’t fathom another reason he was brought to Sullivan’s manor. They were demons and he was human. In the little time he had to experience demons up close they only hammered home that fact. Seriously, who makes ‘suck them dry, soul, blood, flesh, and all’ for a school anthem?! Maybe he was facing a real ‘Hansel and Gretel' scenario; they wanted him all fattened up before the slaughter. He couldn't blame them, really. He isn’t exactly perfect health's spitting image. They must’ve been disappointed. But then, if they really were going to eat him, why bother with his scrapes? Opera even said please before touching him. He could count on one hand how many times that's happened. It isn't very ‘I can’t wait to devour you’ energy either. Maybe it was all an elaborate trick. Give him false hope. Demon stories he remembers back on earth did talk about how they were malicious tricksters. Maybe they just like to play with their food…he honestly doesn't know.

“Your dressings are finished, Iruma-sama.”

Oh. Guess he zoned out a bit there. Hurriedly, he finishes getting dressed. The lavish purple silk sitting comfortably on his skin. He takes a minute to appreciate the feeling, tucking his tail into his pant leg. Long sleeved button up looked freshly pressed, and felt toasty warm. With a hint of almost human smelling detergent. He was so engrossed he didn’t register Opera taking the housecoat away.

 “It appears I’ve miscalculated your measurements. If anything is not to your liking, we have other options to provide.” 

Iruma snaps up. “N-no! No this is– this is wonderful really! I-it’s more than enough!”

He fiddles with the cuffs of the shirt. Only now noticing that they were just a bit baggy on him. “I’ve never had pajamas before…”

The cat ears on their head tilt down, their face as expressionless as ever. “I see. Then please follow me.”

At the instruction they turn on a dime, striding with a purposeful gait. He really hopes he didn’t upset them. Truly he didn’t mind the extra room in his clothes! More space for his tail. And more usage in the long haul. With how lovely these were, he wouldn’t mind at all if they were the only things he had. Assuming he has life left to live after today. Still wasn’t too sure about that one.

Iruma has to speed-walk a little to catch up but the two of them make decent time down the long winding corridors. Within minutes, Opera stops at a set of double doors. The dull muffling of voices heard from the other side. Iruma had heard that kind of tone before. You tend to hear a lot of things as the unassuming child labour.

It was curt, professional. An air of secrecy that stifles breath. Whatever they were saying held dangerous weight. And he was going in there next. Iruma bites his lip.

“Sullivan-sama will be finishing up a previous engagement. His visitor is of considerable importance to the Netherworld and may have a negative reaction to your presence.” They stare him down with blank slits. Hands resting on the door handles. “To that end, I recommend you wait for Sullivan’s instruction before entering the room. Please stay put until then.”

Iruma can only nod. Hidden implication in their tone that removed his hope for choice, even before he heard the ‘p’ word. Not that he had one to begin with. They return their attention forward. Splaying the doors open with a flourish. 

“My lord, the preparations are complete.”

Dry conversation switches to jovial tenor near instantaneously. On sound alone Iruma could guess that someone jumped out of their seat. 

“Splendid! Opera, what would I do without you?” Lord Sullivan’s voice cooed. “Sorry ol’ chap but I’m afraid our time is up!”

Whoever's in the room doesn't argue, the creek of a chair their response. “If that's your full account, then I suppose I'll take my leave. DBC will be in touch.”

Sullivan chuckles. “Of course, of course Henri-kun! I wish you luck with your predicament~”

The other supplies a hum. Footsteps nearing the door. On instinct, Iruma backs away, shielding himself with one of the doors. The ginger man that Opera leads away looks awfully familiar. He swears he's seen him before, but where?

He watches the two figures fade down the hall, wracking his brain for where he'd seen that fox-eared man. Before he's beckoned by the Lord of the manor.

“Join me, won't you? Opera will be back by the time we're done.”

Iruma swallows the lump in his throat, doing as instructed.

In theme with the upscale nature of the estate, the living room's size was more comparable to a full ground floor than a singular room. Large elegant furniture all matching in shades of violet and black that made up a very vampiric-looking space. The walls, while sparkly, shared the colour scheme. Painted in either muted purple, red, grey, or black. Decor that resembled thorn vines and wings. Must be a popular choice for demons. Between bookshelves and ottomans, from arched windows, to polished candelabras, everything in space fit together with the sophistication of a painting. At the center of the ceiling hangs a pristine chandelier, light casting shadows across the horned man below.

Sullivan sits with his hands laced, a leg crossed over the other. Aristocracy swaddled in every nook and cranny. In a different way then his speech at Babyls. Expectant. Still.

“Please, have a seat.”

Iruma obliges stiffly. Settling on the armchair across from the heightened demon. The chair is deceptively soft, yet barely sinks under his weight. His legs just scraping the carpet. He can't bring himself to look at the demon. Head bowed while his eyes drilled holes into the floor.

“Now then,”

Iruma spies his shoes change position. Unable to stop a shutter as Sullivan rises from his seat.

“To business.”

Iruma screws his eyes shut. Anticipating the worst. He feels Sullivan get closer. Closing the distance in less than a step. His skin crawls, clammy with fear. Clawed, slender fingers wrap around his own. That tar-thick, strangling feeling flooding through his bones.

“Won’t you be my grandson!?”

…

…

…Eh?

Iruma pries open an eye to see the same intimidating demon Lord on his knees. Genuine, messy tears streaming down his face.

“You see, I've always been a bachelor, never once felt the need to take a partner. But that means I've been on my lonesome for generations! And it’s always been my dream to have a grandchild!” He dramatically pouts, a solemn, depressive expression. Rolling around on the carpet like a toddler. 

“Bel and Levy both have grandkids of their own!” He whines. Collapsing in an egg-shaped heap of wallowing on Iruma's lap. Unsure of what else to do, Iruma awkwardly pats the man on the back.

“So many pictures and cute clothes and they both look so smug and stupidly happy! It’s just not fair!”

“I…I’m sorry to h-hear that…”

“So please?!  Please?!” Sullivan slams back down on his knees. “I’ll buy you anything you want! I’ll spoil you to death! Please won’t you be my grandson?!”

Fighting the inner groomed urge to immediately accept, Iruma manages to slip his hands out of the elder’s grip. “W-wait, wait a second!”

For his part, Sullivan does quiet down. Iruma stammers to keep his confidence.

“D-do I even– Do I have the right to decline?” Sullivan seems puzzled by the line of questioning.

“We-well I mean– Opera-san said–” He shakes his head, willing his words to come out right. “You– you know. You know I’m human. If the alternative is– is being eaten…why ask at all?”

There’s a brief delay in his response. The demon furrowing his brow and cocking his head. Finally, with a slight ‘ah’ he seems to remember a large factoid of their relationship.

“Right. I suppose I should’ve started there. Apologies.” Sullivan stands, brushing himself off before returning to his chair.

“That is indeed something we must discuss.”

With Sullivan back in a professional mode, he snaps his fingers. A scroll of sorts poofs into existence. Its parchment yellowed with age and printed with demonic lettering. At the demon’s guidance, it flutters to land on the coffee table between them. Angled for Iruma to see. With another snap, a golden glow surrounds Iruma's head, making his vision all fuzzy. Pins and needles carding on his scalp. Before he can ask, Sullivan supplies an answer.

“I figured you couldn’t read demonic language. The spell is to help with that. This particular information would be best for you to process at your own pace.”

Iruma mumbles a ‘thank you’ to the man. Grateful that whatever he went through with his shadow he never had to do again. When his eyes refocus, he begins to read the paper.

It’s a bill. A bill of sale. With his name on it.

“Funny thing about soul contracts,” Sullivan starts. Convivial tone replaced with one more fitting the situation. “Very fickle things. With enough decent knowledge it becomes trivial to skew a deal in one’s favour. Easy to manipulate. To find loopholes. But there is one firm, unbreakable feature; one cannot sell another’s soul.”

Iruma’s eyes drag across the words. Each a new stone in his chest. A new dread to consume him. Sullivan’s words come slow and sticky. Clogging up his ears.

“Power oft holds the steepest price. There are many who’d like to have their cake and eat it too, and therein lies our conundrum. Because you, young man, did not sell your soul to me.”

‘My parents did.’

He doesn’t need to say it. Doesn’t need to hear it. He’s staring at their signatures. His flippant father’s. The handwriting he’d seen every day for the past fourteen years that scrawled on every one of his checks. It's right next to the eccentric swoops of his mother’s. That which she’d written countless sob stories and tall tales to get him into ceaseless mountains of work. Pitying gazes to fuel both their sham smiles. Their branding pen ship, the very lines that sealed his career time and time again.

He thought back to that basement. The book and the candles. How poorly everything was done, even with the simplest instructions. He redrew so much of their handiwork. Re-positioned so many details. Gave his own blood. They worked between the lines. They didn't lift a finger.

And he sold his own soul.

He could laugh. Really he could. The driest, most hollow bubbles rising through his throat. But there was nothing left of him to do so. All that time spent at their beck and call. He shouldn't be surprised. To be fair, he isn't. They sold him off plenty of times before. Why wouldn't they try one of the big shots? A demon really is as low as you can go. High risk, high reward and all that. But–

“But I did everything? The candles, the blood…I did sell myself away.”

He wasn't happy about the fact. He certainly made that known. But if he was going to be forfeit to a devil’s whims, he at least wants to take away some of the wrath that came with it. A demon Lord wouldn't be very impressed if something was wrong with the contract.

“Technically, yes. You performed a ritual binding contract, offering your soul to the Aether by way of blood. I, a demon and thereby client, answered your call. By crossing your gateway into the human realm, your soul became my property. By definition, you certainly sold your soul to me.”

“T-then– Then w-wh–”

“I’m afraid technicalities don't cut it in the soul selling business. Your parents really ought to read the fine print.” Sullivan continues, cleaning his spectacles.

“When I crossed into your world to hear your boon, they haggled with me and struck a bargain. Using your payment as their own. Your parents' interception made for a defective transaction. I was given only partial possession of your soul.”

He places his glasses back in their spot, adjusting as they perch on his nose. “In layman's terms, you sold your soul but reaped no reward. Earning yourself a ritual shackle. As the sole benefactor of an unsound contract, I too was given this punishment. So now we’re both in quite the bind.”

Iruma didn't like where this was going. “I-is that…bad?”

“Ritual shackles are reality’s way of balancing itself. The longer it is held, the more costly the experience. Even now– though we may not feel it– our binds are attempting to make an even trade. Right the wrongs so to speak. Swapping something of equal value between us, or rather, they're working together to replace your soul. Which is impossible, seeing as demons don't have souls to offer. They'll get nothing out of me spare for mana. But mana in a human system is. Well there's really no polite way of saying it– lethal.”

“Mana is active demonic power. A supplement for a soul. Magic if you will. It is exclusively tailored to the demon it comes from and is hostile to anything else. Putting any mana in a human would be like pumping your marrow with lead. Very uncomfortable. Essentially, the longer we keep them on, the more mana I will lose and the more likely you are to expire.”

“...oh.”

Very intelligent. Ten out of ten.

“And…mana is like demon soul…so you could–”

“Die? Perhaps. It's more like a lifeblood of sorts. Something everyone has in varying amounts. My magic exceeds a great deal of demons, meaning you're far more likely to perish before I feel a dent in my system. Though it would still be mightily unpleasant.”

“...oh.” Again, truly a poet, Iruma. But what else is he supposed to say?!

He just learned that a choice (albeit a really, really bad one) he made months ago would've killed him then and can still very much kill him now. Wonderful. Why'd he have to learn how to read? How to draw? He could be in his rickety old tent, fighting off starvation right now. Not the best way to be, but he'd be alive. More importantly he'd have higher chances to keep it that way!

The two of them sit in silence while Iruma stares down the scroll in his hands. Letting the weight of the topic settle. The paper feels heavier than any amount of labour. Any job, any scar. It feels like the crescendo of an abominable life. A pathetic whimper in place of a bang. A part of him feels as if it would always end like this. Stretched and wrung for all he’s worth until finally tossed aside. Pushed onto someone else. Whoever would put up with him. What else could he expect? It’ll always come back to being his fault. Something he could avoid. Yet he didn’t. Let himself be a doormat. Let himself walk into that basement. A part of him thinks he deserves this…for letting it go this far. 

He gently slides the parchment back into the table. Egyptian blues meeting golden slits. He falters, but holds the contact. If weakly. There’s nothing for him to do now. Nowhere for him to run.

“S-so what n-now?”

Sullivan smiles. “Well we have two options; first, I could sever our connection.”

“And…that means?”

“I would kill you.”

“...”

“The tether becomes null if there’s only one participant. It works both ways though. You could kill me. But then Opera would kill you. They're my security devil, you see. Vengeance is in the job description.”

“A-and o-opt-option t-wo?” He squeaks.

“We finish what we started. We strike a deal.”

Iruma blinks. A deal? He did summon Sullivan. Given what he now knows, he technically should get access to…to something he wants. But…

“You said my soul was already sold. Does it matter what I want?”

“There are plenty of things you could request of me. Anything at all.”

“But I can’t go home…can I?” 

Iruma understood that well enough. Sullivan made the conscious choice to barter with his parents. He never said anything about whether or not he believed their sales pitch, nor when he discovered his mishandled goods. Clearly he sought some form of value in owning Iruma’s soul. Sure, that ‘value’ may be the jealous want for a grandkid, but how long would that last? People always want more. It’s in their nature to be greedy. And now, he’s in a world where sin defines the people. How long before he finds a proper kid to take care of? A demon kid, even. Then he’s left with a bag of meat, leeching off his property and causing him nothing but trouble. Iruma isn’t one to put faith into unstable ground. If Sullivan is a fraction as impetuous as his parents, he’ll be at the mercy of the demon realm by this time next week.

“No. No, you can’t. Not now, anyway.” Something crosses Sullivan’s eyes. Something Iruma can’t describe. It’s almost...somber. He leans forward in the armchair.

“In legal terms, I can barely leave this mansion without drawing the eyes of Demon Border Control. My first crossing was spontaneous and in a relatively unpopulated area. It’s frankly a miracle I haven’t been arrested. Even with my status, any kind of portal I may be able to open would be closed in seconds based on suspicions alone. I am unsure of a human’s fate should I be indisposed. On a more personal level though…” Sullivan draws a deep breath before meeting his eyes again.

“In the time since you summoned me, a great deal of it was spent searching for you. There were…several reasons to do so. I learned about you in that time. Where you’ve been. How you lived. What your–” His eyes glint sharp in the light. A glow of malice that makes his pupils contract. “Parents have done to you. Hellacious fops…”

Despite himself, Iruma huffed out a laugh. It wasn’t often people discovered the way his parents really were. Those that did either didn’t care, or couldn’t do anything about it. It was a little surreal to see a demon be in the sympathetic minority. Sullivan doesn’t share in the irony. His expression still hardened.

“Suzuki Iruma. I cannot in good conscience return you to their care. What you’ve experienced– what you’ve suffered– is more deplorable than mere words can express. For anyone, much less a child. I implore you to consider the options you have.”

…

Iruma didn’t know what– what to say to that. If anything at all.

Does…

Does it really matter?

He has enough self-awareness to know that the way he’d been living wasn’t great. That normal families don’t expect their five-year-old to be a breadwinner. That normal families don’t make their son’s pay for the house they’re renting, even though he’s not allowed inside. That kids shouldn’t be left alone in the forest for months on end, or told to dress a certain way for the money in people's pockets. But did it really matter now?

It’s in the past. Water under the bridge. Focusing on despair will only drag you down into it. There’s…no. No, there’s nothing to think about. Nothing to discuss. It’s in the past. All in the past.

But. If he had to. If he had to stay here. In the demon world. Would it be. Would it be much different? He’s been around for months now. Doing pretty okay, all things considered. Sullivan patiently waits for his answer. A gesture he so frequently was denied.

What would he ask for, if given the opportunity?

What could he want?

What does he want?

…

“...I– I’d like to– to make a contract with you. S-Sullivan-sama.”

Sullivan straightened significantly. Practically vibrating in his chair. “Very well.”

With the third snap of the night, the rug beneath their feet illuminates. Sullivan’s sigil glowing in a circle that surrounds them both. Sullivan’s eyes burn bright as flame, his pupils unseen in the blinding light. He stands tall and extends his hand.

“I, Sullivan of the Three Greats, head of the Thirteen Crowns, stand before my summoner.”

Sullivan bellows. His voice even and strong.

“You relinquish your soul, Suzuki Iruma. What do you desire?”

Iruma swallows hard. Every fiber of his being begging him to run from the demon in front of him. Ghost, for the first time all day, crawls  up to his collar. Its shadowy presence helps to ease his thumping heart. With them at his side, he forces his hand to meet Sullivan’s. Unyielding sensation wrapping through his body now with a name; mana.

“I-I, Suzuki Iruma, want…assurance.”

He stumbles, voice cracking.

“I want safety from you. From now until the foreseeable future, you cannot hurt me. I-in any way, shape or form. P-please.”

“As you wish.”

The circle envelops the two of them in light. That strange, popping feeling from his hand ebbing away. Through the shine he can make out the ecstatic face of Lord Sullivan. After a moment, the glow fades. The bursting flow of magic now swapped with a tight, demonic embrace.

“OPERA!!! I HAVE A GRANDSON!!!”

“How very fortunate for you, my lord.”

Chapter Text

  Iruma had woken early. Again. Cold sweat beading from his forehead, and scatterbrained panic through his veins. A nightmare he'd already forgotten. Only this time, not in a grass stained den. The quality bedding momentarily adds to his paranoia before last night's events come flooding back into his mind.

  The familiars. The bill. The contract. All of it pokes and prods at his will, a reminder of uncertainties quelled by sleep.

  Panic attack and it wasn't even five in the morning. New record. So it was that he threw on his newly washed pelt and roamed through the mansion's halls.

  See, Iruma never had an issue falling asleep. It was staying asleep that was the problem. Out like a light and quick to slumber, but the second he's snoring, it's like a blink before he's up again. Even unconscious, his body and mind screamed at the prospect of being so vulnerable for so long.

  Not that it made a difference. Between long commutes, early shifts or simply uncomfortable sleeping conditions, his days usually began before anyone else's. By now he would normally be at work. Or at least on the way. On more relaxed days he would do maintenance or scavenge. Either way, he was moving. Once he is awake it's only a waste of time to go back to bed.

  Only now, he's not doing anything. Unoccupied for the first time since God knows when. It was. Odd. It wasn't unpleasant, but it didn't really feel right. Anxieties abuzz over the new unknown that surrounds him. Within the minute of leaving bed, he'd begun exploring the corridors.

  Fine, palatial decor flanked every corner. Beauty etched into every nook and cranny. The panes and edges, the walls and carpet, everything spoke to great extravagance. Detailed to perfection befitting the status Lord Sullivan described during dinner last night. Opera and Sullivan made sure to tell him that their mansion was his own. That this was his home now as much as it was theirs. Theoretically, that means they won't be too mad if they catch him outside his room. Unless they just expected him to stay and he already messed up…he hoped he wasn't overstepping.

  Then again he wouldn't be surprised if he was. He's never been somewhere this nice before. He knew it would be upscale based on what he saw on the outside, and after seeing two humongous rooms shown off like they were commonplace. He'd been in fancy places before. Rich people tended to be more susceptible to dubious workers, after all. Almost made minimum wage on some of those jobs. But this? This was just so much space! Ghost seemed to think so too. Pawing at everything their sickle hands could touch. The two of them aimlessly venturing through the man-made jungle of a building. 

“I didn't think demons needed money. Do you think they have taxes too? How would you even convince a demon to pay?” The spirit only blinks. Floating down the hall no doubt in search of food.

  Another question left unanswered by Sullivan. That dinner had been both illuminating and startlingly unhelpful. Last night filled with amazing food, some disconcerting facts about the demon world, and a strangely chipper demon Lord. When Iruma mustered up the courage to ask some of his questions, the first thing he wanted to know about was his little shadow. The answer was…well it wasn't an answer, really. Sullivan knew about as much as he did on the front. Apparently ‘random apparitions’ aren't discussed in any of the scripts he borrowed from Demon Border Control. Something about faulty rituals usually ending in death and poor documentation. All he said with certainty was that, if it was a side effect of the ritual, it would disappear when they completed the contract. So there was nothing to worry about.

  Seeing as he's following a ghost around the house, Iruma guessed something else was afoot. The boy sighs, stopping at another the shadow seemed interested in. 

“You gonna’ eat all the marbles in this room too?” He mumbled playfully.

  Not many rooms had them. Tiny, glowing orb thingies scattered here and there. Marked by nothing but a subtle sweetness in the air. Ghost had a knack for sniffing them out. The harder part was making sure it didn't eat too many. At the end of the day, they still didn't know what they were. The smartest thing would be to not eat them at all, but to be fair, they were still mighty tasty.

  The shadow snickered and scratched open the door. Low and behold it was another library. Ghost lets out a huff, thoroughly unsatisfied with the reveal. Knowing that (from their tally so far) libraries and tea rooms were the two kinds of areas that never had marbles in them. No longer invested, it sneaks back up to perch on Iruma's shoulder. Ears flicking as if to say ‘let's skip this one.’

  Iruma giggled at their dismissal. Allowing the spirit to bat at the more unruly tufts of his hair. Their morning went on like this for a while. Eyeing the manor's craftsmanship as he pokes his head into each room they pass. Left to muse, and feeling increasingly out of place. 

  What a twisted kind of luck to be adopted by the rough equivalent of demon royalty. With the expectation of said adopter becoming an actual king. Even Opera held a stately appearance. Of sound and exquisite demeanor even as they busied themselves with housework. Nary a bead of strain or wear. The two of them fit seamlessly with the house. High brow, influential prestige.

  Then there was Iruma. Stuck out worse than a sore thumb. Just being in their space made that fact ever the more inescapable. Like a scratch on a mirror. A blemish on a once sparkling picture. In a sense he was. Someone could spot the difference between them a mile away. How is he supposed to survive as this guy's grandson? Never leave the house? Wear contacts and horns? 

  Well…he supposed he did have something kind of demonic…

  His tail wraps tight to his leg. A nervous twitch he had yet to outgrow. No matter how it made his back spasm, or left a sharp twinge in his tailbone. He was used to hiding it. So often that– on longer shifts or more taxing jobs– he'd forget he had one himself. A limb he'd grown accustomed to being the line between a bad day, and hell on earth if someone were to see it. And now it's tallied up yet another reason for his inner conflict. On one hand, a tail could be what saves him from being immediately outed as lunch meat. As far as he's been told the Netherworld also finds cannibals distasteful. But then, there's Iruma's…buyer.  

  He truly couldn't fathom what Sullivan saw in his soul. Perhaps it had innate value because they didn't have one themselves. Not sure what you would do with it anyway other than eating it he guessed. Regardless, it seems to be worth something to a demon. So what if seeing his ‘product’ has damaged goods makes Sullivan upset? 

  Humans don't normally have tails. Iruma knew that much. But there's been other unique cases in human history. Conjoined twins, Polymelia, Hyperdontia. People aren't made to be cookie-cutter perfect. Iruma just happened to fall into that group of people. At least, that's how he rationalizes it. But what if Sullivan didn't see it that way?

  What if demons don't have syndromes or abnormalities like that? Would he be disappointed? Would he see this ‘grandson’ as a waste of cash? Thanks to the contract, Sullivan couldn't do much to him in the traditional sense but that's only one demon. One man out of a whole world’s worth of devils. Even then he went on about loopholes yesterday. For all Iruma knows, the safety he bargained for is as frail as wet paper. With the knowledge that humans are basically a myth here, and that those who know the truth aren't your everyday joe, his chances of simply being tossed out are much slimmer than being repurposed.

  A grimace pulls on Iruma's features, shoulders shuttered by his growing uncertainty. What does he do? Be safer among the masses? Or appeal to the man who owns him? Would he be more mad if he hides it? Is there some sort of special demon way tails are supposed to look, and he'll be outed anyway? Does it matter if Sullivan is who determines his fate? A full, well kept home with a rat in its walls. Just how long would he tolerate that? Opera didn't seem to like him either. He doubts their opinions of favour would sway the Lord anyway, even if they did like having him around. Not sure why they would. He just seems to be adding more to their workload by living here. Seriously, they do everything in the house by themselves! This place has to be acres wide! There's nothing he could do by way of labour that could even hope to appeal to their standards. 

  He curls his tail tighter. Trying to ease his woes. The pinpricks of bent feather stems prodding through his clothes. At this rate he's going to worry himself to death so no one can get to him first…

  Suddenly Iruma all but lurches out of his skin. Flipping around and landing like a startled cat at the presence he felt sneaking behind him. Nails pressed into the floor. Hackles raised.

  Opera stands impassively as always. Ears turned backward. They stare at his posture– particularly his hands– for a beat, and then back up to his face.

“Good morning, Iruma-sama.”

  Flush redder than tomato pulp floods Iruma's face as he recognizes the butler. Frantically, he tries to pry himself from the carpet. His nails lodged surprisingly deep into the material.

“G-good mo-morning O-Opera-san!”

  He struggles against his own entrapment for an uncomfortable amount of time. Overly aware of Opera’s all-seeing eyes. They stay quiet as he eventually pulls his hands free.

"W-what are you doing up?" He asks. Vainly attempting discretion while he picks stray fluff out from his nail beds.

Opera blinks. "My household duties begin at five sharp. It is my responsibility to wake before Lord Sullivan to ensure his day is as streamlined as possible."

"Ah...right."

  God, of all the icebreakers Iruma. Truly a social wizard.

“Might I ask you the same? The sun hasn't risen. Was there something you required?”

“No, no! Everything’s great really! Um, I just– I just have a habit of waking up early…I guess. W-what time is it, actually?”

“Ten past five, young master.”

 “Oh. Time flies, huh? Ha ha…” He scratches at the back of his neck.

  Five already? He must've wandered more than he thought. Unless clocks read differently in the Netherworld, and he didn't actually wake up at 3:50. Given that he could see the beginnings of the sunrise, he supposed not.

  They hum, eyes shifting just below his own. He hoped his eye bags weren't too noticeable. He hasn't bothered to look at them in a while, but he knows from experience that he has to have them. Whatever they see makes their ear twitch. 

“In that case, should you desire arrangements regarding your sleeping habits, you need only to ask. I will provide.”

  Guilt twisted in his stomach. Barely a full day in their care and he's making them do extra work. He tries to smooth over the frayed carpet marks he left with his foot. Avoiding eye contact.

“Thank you, but you really don't have to, Opera-san.”

"...hm. Very well. This way then, Iruma-sama.” They say, breezing past. 

  Iruma stammers before following suit. Were they mad? He can't imagine why they wouldn't be, of course they'd be mad! Did he interrupt their routine? Was he in the way? He should've just stayed in his room. He'd have less of a chance to mess with anything if he was still cooped up in–

“Sullivan-sama will be pleased. He had concerns over missing his first breakfast with you.”

  …what?

“B-breakfast?”

Opera keeps walking. “Yes. Sullivan-sama has a meeting scheduled with Babyls staff this morning. It must be done before the official school day begins, so he was prepared to leave before you woke. Seeing as you're already up, his worries are now unfounded.”

“Y-you’re…you're not angry?”

  At that Opera does glance back. Their expression is still muted, yet their ears arch backwards again. Tail flicking. 

“I am unsure as to why I would be.”

“I– I was– I mean– I didn't ask if I could leave t-the room a-and you were probably–”

“Iruma-sama.”

  Iruma shrinks into himself, hoping to suddenly be able to hide within his own shadow. They choose to ignore the stance.

“You cannot offend me by merely existing. Now, come.”

Iruma decides to shut up after that. Their pace slowed for him to keep up. Their words weren't unkind so to speak. Matter of fact, maybe. He didn't want to risk them getting fed up with his stuttering attempts to communicate.

  In his experience, any time he wasn't proving he was serviceable, he was basically a living paper weight. He wasn't the best person to hang out with. People always got mad at him for lazing around when he could've been doing. Well, anything. To know that Opera was not only not upset, but maybe even confused that he was apologizing in the first place was. Different. Unexpected. Gave him a weird, fluttery kind of feeling in his belly.

  He didn't want to think about what that meant.

  In no time the two of them reached the dining room. Opera guiding him to a seat. There was a single silver cloche at the head of the table. Presumably where Sullivan's spot was if last night and the throne-like chair were any indication. It must've been placed recently. The smell was divine. Excusing the irony of the word.

“Your meal will be served momentarily. Lord Sullivan should join you by then.”

“Ah, r-really? I– I mean, t-thank you, Opera-san.”

  They bow, retreating into the kitchen. Scarcely a clock's tick sounds before an egg of an old man hurtles down the stairs. Slowing just enough so that Iruma didn't get the wind knocked out of him when they collided. The first of Sullivan's rush of words are jumbled and over-excited to the point of indiscernibility. Which is kind of a good thing, seeing as the overflow of sensation had his brain a bit checked out at the moment.

  Now with the clarity and context of the night before, he could theorize that sludgy pressure as Sullivan's magic. Mana, he thinks it was called. Once he got past the stifling intimation, he caught a pleasant scent hidden within. Like old books and sage. It helped with the whole ‘this man isn't going to eat me’ thought process Iruma was trying to believe.

“G-good morning, Sullivan-sama.”

Sullivan separates from their impromptu hug. Saddling into his chair with a frown. “So formal! There's no need for all that, Iruma-kun!”

“O-oh, um. Right…s-sorry Sull– um, grandpa.”

  Sullivan offers a light smile, gushing over how nice ‘grandpa’ sounds as Opera wheels over a serving cart of dishes. Placing a feast at his part of the table. They remove Sullivan's cloche so he can begin his meal as well. Serving up some ominous looking tea for both him and Iruma before standing off to the side.

“I'm surprised you're an early riser! I always thought you youngins enjoyed more shut eye.” The demon lord says. His plate shows evidence of him already starting his share and yet Iruma swears he hasn't seen him move. “But you won't see me complaining~ I get more bonding time with my lovely grandson! Oh, I was so worried that mean ol’ Opera would've dragged me away before I got to see you. To think you were already up and about!"

He gasps, dramatically slapping his hands to his cheeks. “Could it be?! You weren't sleepless were you?! If there's anything you don't like in your room, I’ll be rid of it immediately!”

‘Helicopter parent!’ Not what he expected from a demon Lord but he’ll take it over the alternative. 

“No! N-no, I slept fine! This is the first time I've had my own bed. I was out like a light. You've given me so much already anyway, t-there’s truly no need!"

Sullivan’s eyelid twitches at the fact, but he smiles all the same. “Lovely then!”

Noting that Iruma hadn't touched the food, he gestures to the generous spread. “No need to hold back. Eat as much as you like. You're still a growing boy.”

“Okay…”

  Having snacked on the less glamorous sustenance of the world, Iruma took to Netherworld cuisine faster than most. It took a bit of courage when he first got here. Almost everything looked like it could bite you back when he was out routing for munchies. Some lived up to their appearance. But for the taste? Worth every scrape. Now that he has the opportunity to try properly cooked food it was just a bonus. Sublime, heavenly bonus, that was unquestionably bolstered by Opera’s talent in the kitchen. Pure bliss in Opera’s cooking, and he was more than sure to give compliments to the chef. 

  During his fever to shovel more delights into his gob, he discreetly offers shares to the shadow. The ghost sinks its teeth into, then promptly out of all the dishes. Returning them to Iruma with subtle punctures and a lack of…something. A flavour that lay beneath each bite and chew suddenly absent. Didn't change the enjoyment, though. Everything still tasted delicious.

‘I finally have the chance to enjoy a meal. Might be the first time ever.’ He thinks. Every plate left spotless in his wake. ‘I have to eat now. While I still can.’

  Maybe he could sneak a rucksack upstairs. Stash some food for emergencies. Always smart to keep food stores, after all. He didn't know when he would be disposed of, and the more prepared he was the better. Bit of a bummer. He'll miss this glorious food when the time comes. Right now though, he could let himself dream. 

Opera comes forward with a tray, an ornate teapot resting on top. “More Hell Grey Tea?”

“Oh, thank you very much.” After refilling his cup, Sullivan pipes in.

“Classes are being sorted tomorrow. Make sure to enjoy these last few half-days~”

  Tea goes down the wrong way causing Iruma to sputter. He continues to hack into his elbow while his eyes water.

  He knew it. Sullivan wouldn't have to lift a finger. He wouldn't break the contract. He wouldn't be the one tearing him limb from limb! Feeding him just to fatten him up! Probably announced his humanity to the whole school! Make a whole day out of it, teach those kids how to maim. Gladiator style and guts and gore and he'll be strewn across the–

“I'm not sending you there to die, Iruma-kun.” Sullivan interrupts his thoughts. His aloof air dying down. “I understand that going back to Babyls might feel. Inadvisable, however it stands as the best option for us right now. Please hear me out first.”

  Guess he needed to work on his poker face again. Opera too looks to be reading his mind as they slip a napkin and glass of water his way. Sullivan crosses his hands together on the table as Iruma wipes the mess off his mouth.

“Your entry into this realm was unplanned to say the least. How you crossed the border is still a mystery to us both. It shouldn't have been possible, and now, it's led to a considerable gap of time in which neither of us have an alibi. As far as we know, there could be a separate party who planned your crossing. Humans are particularly valuable resources to those who know of their existence. A spontaneous rift between realms would be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. It isn't an impossibility.”

  Goosebumps scatter on Iruma's skin. He uncoils his tail from his leg to move it up around his waist. Suddenly feeling nauseous.

“Even if my decision to cross was plain curiosity, my part in answering your call would garner its own form of scorn. To indispose me– or Opera– would be both an extraordinary headache, and leave you all the more vulnerable. This solution does fit my desires for a grandchild, so your skepticism is expected, however this is what we have. We need something to work with, and a Crown discovering a lost grandchild could be that something.”

Iruma has his doubts. “Wouldn't…wouldn't your status– s-someone as important as you, make a sudden grandson more suspicious?”

  His question makes Sullivan brighten a smidge. Happy that Iruma wasn't immediately shutting him down. Though Iruma can't tell if it's genuine or if he's a good actor. That being said, if he could get more information on what he's about to get into, he will. And Sullivan obliges.

“Demons are very close knit in regards to clans. As one of the Three Greats, my clan is one of the oldest in the Nether. There are only a handful of demons in this world who have access to knowledge of my family tree, and I have enough dirt on them to incentivize their silence. Adoption– should the fact come to light– would also be disguisable. It would only be natural for a powerful clan to want an heir. For our purposes, it's a brilliant cover. Family business is a personal endeavour. One I would not be required to voice or account for to the DBC. Or at least, it wouldn't be important enough to others to warrant an in depth explanation for that missing time.”

“…so…you mean they just…won't bother asking?” That isn't the kind of safety Iruma wanted to hear.

“There will be questions, naturally. Nothing a misleading answer wouldn’t suffice. Though unorthodox, I did accept you into my family. By all technicalities you are my grandson. I wouldn't be lying at all. Besides, I've done far more outlandish things in my time.” He says with a smile. 

That same smile turns sharp, matching a fiendish light in the man's eyes. “Plus, if there is indeed someone who had involvement in your crossing into this realm, they would be heavily discouraged to see a Yodh as your ally.”

  Somehow, that wasn't the comfort he wanted either. Iruma mulls over the new information. Chewing his lip and picking at the tablecloth.

  This was quickly turning into a rock and a hard place situation. Both options– staying in Sullivan's house and risking the man seeing him as a wasteful investment, versus masquerading as a demon at the expense of his life– weren't optimal. Though denying the more reputable offer (who hasn't lied to him thus far) was the lesser of two evils. Despite the frankly shoddy security, Iruma could make out some truth to the plan. The upper class can get away with anything in the human world, so with the addition of physical power to that social power, Sullivan may very well be untouchable. It was a coincidence that Sullivan is already renowned for his eccentricity, but that could work in their favour like he said. Really, on impulse alone he bought a person. If he's half as avant-garde all the time as he is in the day Iruma's known him, the idea that people would simply accept his wiles wouldn't be so hard to believe. It supplies breathing room, if nothing else.

  Of course he didn't have a choice. He's in no position to deny Sullivan if properly enrolling in Babyls is what he wants. The man is putting his credibility, and integrity as a demon in jeopardy all because he wanted a grandchild. Iruma can understand that side more than the demon politics. Spending perhaps thousands of years by yourself, and then out of nowhere you get the chance to solve your problems at the cost of your kid being a different species.

  If his begging and desperation were to be believed. Even if it was a lie, even if he's being played like a fiddle, Iruma couldn't stop the need to help the demon. Shady circumstance and trust issues aside Iruma knew one thing: He hasn't been eaten. 

  He's alive despite the fact that, without him in the picture, Sullivan could be scot-free. The demon could leave it at ‘a human summoned him and plans fell through.’ There would be no evidence to the contrary because Iruma would be digesting. Chalk it up to ‘wrong place, wrong time' and be on his way. Easy fix. In and out.

  Instead, Iruma's here. He's been clothed, fed, and sheltered. He's been taking from Sullivan since they met and he even had the audacity to demand a contract-bound clause to force Sullivan to keep him safe. He's making the man bend backwards to ensure neither of them get into trouble. Sullivan is just as burdened as he is in this scenario. And it clutches something foul in Iruma's chest.

  The least he could do is help him out.

  Hugging his tail ever closer. Blood from his lip tainting the remnants of a good meal on his tongue.

“Do– do I need anything? For. F-for school. I mean...I’ve never really gone before…”

  Sullivan lights up like a kid on Christmas. His egg shape returning as he happily bounces around the table. The tension in the room all but an afterthought.

“Yes! Yes, yes, dear boy! I can't believe I nearly forgot!” He claps his hands together. “OPERA!”

  In an instant the butler reveals countless wrapped boxes, trinkets, clothes and accessories seemingly from thin air. Dazzling array of inexcusable high quality goods. Sullivan spins around in glee. Presenting the objects like a game show host. 

“I splurged a bit for my precious grandson! Since I missed your first day of school, your first walk to school, and your first day in the Netherworld, I figured I'd just roll all the gifts into one pile for you!”

Iruma nearly falls out of his chair. “Wha– all of this? For me?” He looks at the mound of presents, each more expensive than the last. “B-but y-you gave– I already– you gave me so m-much yesterday?”

  Sullivan waves off the comment, changing out Iruma's pelt for a long blue cloak. Thankfully, his tail was coiled underneath his shirt already.

“Gave you what? Yesterday was barely a hotel’s stay with how I treated you! I wasn't able to get you anything! This blue looks so nice on you by the way~ We should get a few more.”

“Bu– I–” Iruma's interrupted again by an unexpected ‘poof.’ His pajamas replaced by a uniform that shared the cloak’s colour. Blue long sleeve and matching pants with white hemming. A red eye-ball broach on the collar paired with a short red ribbon that makes it resemble a bow-tie. It fits better than his pajamas, surprisingly retaining the silk-like soft comfort. He has to move his tail so it doesn't bunch up the fabric.

“Oh! Did you mean your room? Iruma-kun, I prepped that thing months ago! Everything in there was me celebrating the concept of getting a grandchild. Practically a gift to myself! No, no, that doesn't count at all!”

“M-MONTHS?!”

“Oh Derkila, look at the time. Awww, I don't wanna’ leave! I didn't even get pictures with his gifts yet! Can't we reschedule, Opera?”

“Need I remind you that this meeting is to assure staff you didn't kidnap a fledgling?”

“...so, I can't do it another time?”

“It would be inadvisable, Sullivan-sama.”

“Awwwww…buuuuttt Oooooppperrraaaa!”

  Iruma struggles to keep his brain from rewiring. The bombardment of expenses filling his mind. Could he even get work in the Netherworld? There's zeros on some of these price tags that Iruma didn't even know prices could reach! How's he going to get enough money to pay him back?! Careful not to touch too much, lest he damage the materials, Iruma slowly shrugs off the cape and returns it to its mannequin. Turning to Sullivan as the demon whines to Opera about weaselling his way out of business.

“Sulli–”

“Grandpa.”

"Grandpa, isn't this–”

  Sullivan squeals like a schoolgirl, picking Iruma up like a sack of rice for another hug. Mana clogging Iruma's head.

“I just love the way that sounds!” He exclaims.

Then, as if a light bulb popped into his head, he snaps back to Opera. “Ooooooh! We should bring Iruma-kun!”

Opera squints at their superior. “Bring him, as in, to the meeting? What purpose would that serve?”

Sullivan giggles all too overjoyed. Petting Iruma's fluffy hair like a purse chihuahua. “Not for the whole thing! I wouldn't make him sit through something so boring! Just, you know, have him say hello! Show them that he's in tip top shape!”

  Opera’s ear twitches again. Their numb expression somehow looked even more blank with disdain.

“You want an excuse to parade around your grandson.”

  It wasn't a question.

 Not a beat later Sullivan, Opera, and Iruma were flying out the door. The blue haired boy was the first student on campus.

Chapter Text

“Your grandson?”

“Yep!” Sullivan confirms, adding extra pop to the ‘p.’

“And…you're certain?” 

“On my very wing root.”

  Faculty shared in their expressions. Most confused. More blatantly unbelieving. All with apprehension. Sullivan's elucidation of what happened in the Familiar Hall was far-fetched to say the least. Much less that it hinged on their student– on Iruma as they now knew– being related to the Great in order for it to be in the realm of believability. Something that was suspect in its own right. Really, the imp looked nothing like Babyls’ head honcho. Shorter build, no horns in sight. A timid tint in wide blue eyes. More importantly, the Chair-demon didn't have kids! How can you have grand kids if you don't have kid kids?! It's not like you can just skip a step. 

  Sullivan for his part takes their skepticism in stride. Jubilant as ever. Whether he has nothing to hide and is therefore unbothered by their judgement, or he simply chooses not to care is unknown. Based on his typical behaviour they'd guess the latter. Dali leans forward in his chair.

"Quite the claim there, boss."

"Not just a claim, Dali-kun~ A recount."  His stache curls high with his smile.

Dali matches the grin. "Of course." 

  He keeps high spirits while side-eyeing Murmur. Attempting nonchalance for the professor in question standing behind Sullivan's seat. His thumb and forefinger curved, making a ‘c’ shape around his left eye. Bloodline ability triggered for the extent of their conversation. They're certain the principal knows he's there, but no one could speak for if it was a comfort or concern.

  Without Balam around, it wasn't as simple as conducting an interview. Normally, with the gargoyle's Buzzer ability, any suspicions they have would be confirmed or denied in an instant. The avian working as a walking lie detector. As it stands though, he wasn't available. As far as Kalego informed them Balam wouldn't return to Babyls until sometime around end of terminus. The first half of the school year, and far too long for their purposes. Especially if Sullivan did turn out to be an enemy. Kalego too, was out on sick leave after...well really you could pick anything from yesterday as his reason. Which also made things prickly. He in particular has a greater understanding of Sullivan's and Opera's mannerisms, and if he were here, had the best chance of sussing out anything unusual with their retelling.

  Tsumuru was their next best option. With ‘Mood Ring’ as his bloodline, he could see the emotional state of the Chair-demon through colours. Paired with Murmur’s expertise in psychiatry, he would be able to determine any falsehoods based on what emotions are typically felt while lying. 

  It wasn't as foolproof a technique, and relied heavily on Murmur's deduction, but it was what they had to work with. Dali scratches at the base of his horns.

“So, just to re-cap; you lost touch with your family years ago. Randomly, Iruma-kun’s parents– your then estranged family– contact you out of the blue and say they’re letting him stay with you. For reasons you aren't privy. Iruma comes to Babyls but doesn't know you– a world renowned Crown– is his grandfather."

  Sullivan nods along, unfazed by the already outlandish tale. Whatever Murmur sees he doesn't appear to like, though he makes no gesture to stop the story. Dali continues.

"You have a rough idea of what your supposed grandson looks like, but before yesterday, you've never met. Moreover you were unaware he was even enrolled. What happened was just you getting over-excited at meeting your grandson for the first time. That, paired with your elation over his talent of summoning."

"And who wouldn't be outdone? My, my, I wish I could've counted how many familiars he brought out!"

"...right. So excited that you flew home to welcome him. Out a window. In a bubble."

"We all forget ourselves at times~ I figured he would be tuckered out from all those beasties."

Dali's cheeks hurt from the plastic smile. One he stretched a tad too wide. He keeps it up for what he needs to say.

"Truly a Chekhov's gun, hm? So many things just happening to fall into place."

"I should say so! What a start to the year, wouldn't you agree?"

“Indeed. It's surely something we can all look back on and laugh at. Why, some may not think it's true."

  The older demon chuckles. Eyes creased beneath his glasses.

"Oh, absolutely. People can be so skeptical these days. I, of course, would be more than willing to defend it. My telling, I mean."

"To anyone? Perhaps even DBC?”

“Exactly. Anyone could find the mirit in a good story." Sullivan's eyes sharpen as he tilts his head. "Isn't that just a hoot?”

  Dali glanced back to Murmur, who subtly turned off his bloodline ability. They shrug.

  ...hm.

“It's certainly something!” Dali laughs, a stilted sound that doesn't exactly match his tone.

“Well if that's settled, I suppose we have no more questions for you. Thank you for your cooperation, Sullivan-sama.”

Sullivan nods. “Not at all, not at all! I know it's just big wig protocol. Handling fledglings and whatnot. I’m happy that my staff aren't so intimidated as to avoid questioning authority. I imagine your perspectives of yesterday’s events were rather concerning.”

“Ha ha, yes, I would be lying if we weren't a bit…conflicted on the matter.”

  'Conflicted' is one word for it. Any crimes involving minors were not to be taken lightly. Children were the promise of new generations. Continued bloodlines. In an environment like the Netherworld, extinction was an ever looming threat. There were countless ways to meet your end. Even with the more civilized society they lived in nowadays. The possibility that a Crown could be threatening their treasure could not be overlooked. No matter the reservations, nor biases. Not to mention the calamitous effects it would have should the accusation be true. Both for Babyls as an institution and the Netherworld as a whole. 

  So yeah, they were troubled about the ordeal.

“I'm sure I must've given some of you quite the scare! Nonetheless we can move on with ourselves now that it's all been done and dusted. Seeing we're all here, shall we get on with other business?”

“I see no reason why not.” 

  Dali stands. Fighting the urge to snicker at the other faculty in the meeting room. Practically all of which scrambling away from the office divider in vain attempts to disguise their eavesdropping. As Sullivan and Opera make their way to their usual places, Dali and Tsumuru hang back. 

“Iruma-kun?”

  The boy jumps at being addressed. Startled enough to squeak. The Crown doesn't seem to care about his interviewers talking to his grandson. If anything, he looks happier to be reminded of his presence. Bodes well for Sullivan's recount. If nothing else.

“More students should be arriving soon, so feel free to get your bearings around the place before classes start. You're free to go.”

Iruma stammers a bit before bowing. “Y-yes sir. Thank you sir.”

“Old-fashioned aren't you?” He says jokingly.

  A strange politeness he carried that was greatly out of place for typical demons his age. Out of place for demons in general, really. Could stand to loosen up though. Kid’s been stiff as a board since he walked in. Wouldn't even sit down.  

“Dali-sensei is fine. We're probably gonna' see more of each other this year! If not in mythological studies, then definitely over the weekly broadcasts.”

“R-right then. Dali-sensei.”

Just then, Dali remembers. “Oh! Before you head out, you'll need these.”

  Dali plucks a small bundle of books wrapped in brown parchment from one of the spare supply boxes. Curious to the anxious gaze he feels from the student behind him. Is this what it feels to be Balam?

“Your textbooks. Since you went home early yesterday, you missed out.”

  Iruma gingerly grabs the parcel, thanking him as Murmur guides him out the door. Stopping for a second as the Chair-demon says his goodbyes with a bone-crushing hug like he was going off to war. As the professors watch him walk away, Dali and Murmur loiter in the hall. 

“What’s the verdict?” Dali asks.

  Murmur flexes his fingers. Palm cramping from holding his bloodline for so long. 

“Lots of orange and yellows. Warmer colours tend to be positive. Satisfaction, happiness, pride, that sorta’ thing. When people lie, those tones show up muddied. An imitation of real emotion. But as far as I could tell, Sullivan-sama was telling the truth. The man was brighter than hellfire.”

Dali lets out a breath. The two of them heading back into the staff room. “I suppose that's good. Wild story though. Can't say I believe all of it.”

“Frankly I don't either. Seems a bit too coincidental.” Murmur puts his hand to his chin as they settle in their respective chairs. Whispering as staff mull over their own duties.

“Nothing much we can do now. He's clearly not an immediate threat. If we have to, we can afford to wait until Balam-sensei returns.”

  Dali leans back in his chair. Thinking about their session. About Iruma's response to their investigation. How he shrunk under their glances, not just Sullivan's. How he kept within arm's length of the door, eyes darting to the windows. How he flinched away from a textbook. 

“What about Iruma-kun? You happen to get a peek at him?”

“Not really. How much my ability shows is dependent on how much mana I feed into it. Scanning Sullivan-sama takes a lot of concentration.” Murmur eyes the door, furrowing his brow. “Maybe I should've. Poor thing looked ready to hurl himself out the window. He could know something we don't?”

  Dali hums. Only two days into the school year and Iruma has been at the center of some seriously questionable circumstances. If he was biologically related to the Chair-demon, it could explain some things. Chaotic blood in that line. But he didn't exactly scream ‘Three Greats’ to Dali. Hella’ skittish. And how isolated does a demon have to be to not recognize Sullivan? Related or not.

  Curious.

“I'll ask student council to keep their eyes on him.”

  At his comment, a chilling breeze seeps into his wings. Lightheaded twinge swirling Dali's brain at the same moment Murmur's nose begins to bleed. Buer rolls over in his chair when Dali's headrush knocks his face against the table, a purplish shadow slithering out the door.

  The wisp creeps around each bend and turn. Haunting hunger that takes from any devil they pass. Mana drawn to its will like moths to flame. It returns to the side of its master. Feeding the youngling with its harvest of spoils. Warmth unnoticed by a busied mind.

‘Literature…Cosmetology…Torture Arts?! Gods, I hope that one's not mandatory…’ 

  Iruma scanned over the textbooks Dali provided. Skimming over covers and a few pages. They almost looked like human ones, even had that sleek laminated feeling he remembered from so long ago. Although it was a little jarring to see an iron maiden in children's textbooks. He neatly tucks the supplies into his shoulder bag. The only thing he could grab before being launched into the air. Kind of exhilarating, in a weird sort of way. Not that he's in a hurry to do it again. His untimely death prevented by the arms of an old man. He almost tore Sullivan's coat forcing himself to let go when they landed.

  Good thing he had nowhere to be. Sul- grandpa told him that there wasn't much to do for today and tomorrow. Basically just trial running the school schedule. Students could visit homerooms, specialized classrooms, the cafeteria, essentially anywhere they wanted so they would generally know their way around when actual class starts. The way Opera phrased it though, it was more like making sure students didn't have an excuse to be tardy. For the teachers it was more productive. Kind of like taking inventory. Preparing physically and mentally for the six hundred and sixty six demon teens that would be their responsibility for the coming year. As someone who's experienced large scale faculty work, Iruma could see the merit in these half-days from both sides. It was comforting to know that not all the students were around right now.

  Still it was a little odd seeing such a regal-looking place be scattered with teenagers. He could count his school days on his fingers and was still able to see how destructive normal kids could be. Boggled him to imagine what demon kids would do to such a nice building. As if on cue, he and the ghost pass a stairway. A group of demons chatting it up and tossing trash on the steps. 

  A cliche he's seen before in the human world. Apathetic enough to skip class, but will complain about getting caught. The type to carry cigarettes, but only to play with the lighter. Three boys by the looks of things. One with tan skin and a red mohawk. A green-skinned devil to his right. The last almost looks normal; dirty blonde with pierced ears. If it weren't for the horns and fangs they all shared, Iruma could picture them at a shopping center somewhere on earth. They pay him no mind as he passes. Loud enough for their own enjoyment. Or perhaps too noisy to notice. Iruma can't confidently say he was eavesdropping when they're echoing down the hall.

“What a lucky break! She didn't ask to play or nothin’. You do somethin’ Yocchan?” Green boy asks.

Mohawk guzzles down what looks to be a soda, crushing the can and letting it tumble down the steps. “What, she get new owners? I don't wanna' pay for that cafeteria junk again. Alef meals are downright criminal.”

‘Yocchan’ snickers. “Maybe if you weren't stuck at the bottom, you wouldn't have to eat Alef food.”

Greenie laughs at the jab, earning himself an elbow to the side. “But nah, she just handed it over! Didn't even have to throw a stick this time.”

“Woah, really? I thought her whole thing was, like, babysitting kink.”

“Not anymore. Clarin says she has an ‘Irichi’ or some shit now. Prep's followin’ her around too. Asmodeus guy.”

  Iruma didn't realize he was lingering until he leaned his back to the wall. Asmodeus? Thought people liked him. Doesn't seem like it with how they're talking. But who was Clarin? Did they mean Clara?

“Don't matter to me if she's still convenient. Gon’ have us coastin’ til graduation.”

  Convenient?

“You're so right, Yocchan! Better this way. Cheers to gettin’ rid a one helluva' nuisance!”

  Nuisance?

 “He he, sure ya' weren't just too scared to deal with Asmo?”

“O-of course not! I ain't scared a some snake! Right freaks the both of them.”

  Freaks?

  Something about those words made his chest burn. Tight and searing. He'd heard them so often before. He could see why with humans. He wasn't like any of them. But what was wrong with Azz and Clara? What made them lesser? Freaks? His tail flicks beneath his shirt.

  The burning sensation spreads the longer he thinks about it. Set in his jaw. Through his teeth. Down his arms. He can't place it. It's stingy, pointed. He doesn't like it. Not at all. He can't even react when someone bumps his shoulder.

“Oi, watch where–”

  The blonde chokes on his tongue. Smothered by scent. Pleasant air that completely surrounds his own. They freeze in place. A deep, static umbra caging them in. Surrounded little rats. There's something in those eyes. Like he's not really there.

  A blue haired boy peeks through the shadow. 

“You shouldn't talk about people like that.” 

  It's a statement. An observation. Not threatening in the slightest. And the kid is long gone.

  Yet the three are shaken. Hellscapes of blue that pierce his skull. The world itself feels strangling. That sweet smell morphing into something else, growing like the shadow in their skins. Something beyond words. Mohawk’s eyes water. Greenie’s hair is turning white. Yocchan swears he's rotting.

  They crumple to the floor, a dull ring in their ears.

  Iruma doesn't hear a thing. Dead set on a new sense of drive. Azz and Clara deserve better than how he's been treated. He may not have anything fancy, but he can think of something to give his thanks. Iruma strides towards the tall tower in the courtyard. Ghost scampers close behind, finding something very amusing. They seemed to be rather chipper all morning.

“Hopefully the door is still unlocked.”

“Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh gavrooooo!”

  Why in Satan's name was he here?

“If it's for mommy I skip to my lou! If it's for daddy I paddy cake paddy cake!”

  What horrid turn has he made that this is what his life has come to?

“Hey, hey, Azz-Azz, what kinda’ chompies do ya’ think Iruma-chi wants?”

“FOR THE LOVE OF THE CROWN BE SILENT VALAC!”

  Being stuck with Valac Clara of all demons! What could he have possibly done wrong in his life? What colossal mistakes must he have made to end up here? Asmodeus could barely stand the antics of the substandard devils in this school, but Valac? The lady brings it to an entirely new level. He'd known she was someone to avoid since the first day, and spending this time has only confirmed his previous precaution. So why? Why?! 

  Why was she the only demon who knew about Iruma-sama?!

  Much to his dismay, his wondrous master was terribly elusive! Shrouded in mystery and allure! Alice didn't know a thing about him outside of their meetings and the previous day’s spectacular familiar summoning. Of course his Lord had been plastered all over the school paper, alas the top stories and headlines spared nary a clue of his status. Broadcaster batra didn't even put in his name! A man of such intrigue and somehow there isn't a demon in campus spare for this loud, egregious woman who knows of his splendor. Simply deplorable. Both for the ignorance of the masses and the misfortune that now befalls himself. Because unfortunately this means the best chance he has of reuniting with his Iruma-sama is dealing with Valac. He couldn't disobey his master's wishes by waiting at the gates again, after all.

  It has been a long day.

The obnoxious lime of a demoness cranes her head over his shoulders. “That's a loooooong name Azu-Azu. Is it some kinda’ fancy snackies?” 

  Though he'd previously believed she was serious, the mocking tone and devilish smirk tells him otherwise. Throughout the course of the day Alice had witnessed that look quite a few times.

“No, stupid Valac, it was an instruction. And you know it.” 

  Alice groans in frustration. Running his hands through his ribbon ridden hair. Finally managing to pull some of them out.

“Could you stand to be still for more than a moment?!”

Valac pouts, tying another bow into Alice's hair before he can pull it out. “Doesn't sound very fun.”

“It isn't about fun, it's about decency. How foolish of me to assume you know the meaning." He bats her hands away, yanking out the new accessory.

“It could be about fun! But yoooouuu don't do nothin’!” She says. Rolling off to grab whatever new monstrosity dwells in that pile of ‘games’ she poured out of her pockets.

  He grumbles at the remark. Though Valac hasn't a care in the world, their interactions had grown sour once he explicitly stated he was only entertaining her wiles for Iruma-sama’s sake. ‘Entertaining’ meaning he was present while she attempted to goad him into her whims.

“I will not stoop so low as to ‘play’ your senseless games. I'll be lucky if I make it out of Babyls without catching your crazy.”

  Valac huffs, aimlessly rummaging through her pile of trinkets. The two stew in relative quiet. Both muttering about the other’s poor taste. By the time he has all the ribbons untangled from his hair, his ears burn. The faintest snide comment from the girl.

“...drive Iruma-chi away…”

Alice stands prompt and straight. “I beg your pardon?!”

Valac retorts, spinning around with her hands on her hips. “I said you're gonna’ drive Iruma-chi away! Azu-Azu has a glummy chummy vibe! Sour as a Jabbidoko! You'll make Iruma-chi all uncomfy!”

An indignant array of noises spill from his mouth. “W-what- why you-”

“Iruma-chi is waaaaaaay more fun than you. He's not gonna' stick around like this! You're too grumpy!”

He scoffs at her sheer effrontery. “I wouldn't dream of boring him! I'll have you know I am immeasurably fun!”

“Fun people don't say ‘i-messy-bly’ Azu-Azu.”

“It's ‘immeasurably’ and they do, because I just said it and I am fun.”

“Fun demons don't beat up allies on the first day of school!”

“Fun demons don't parade around with grimoires that chase you around the courtyard!”

“Iruma-chi liked playing munch-munch-bookie-crunch!”

“WHAT WERE ANY OF THOSE WORDS?!”

"AS IF YOU'D KNOW, AZZ-FACE!"

  Decorum be damned.

  Within the second he and Valac were exchanging blows. Hurling fire and launching objects. Despite his frustrations he tried his best not to hit her too hard. Iruma-sama held some sort of fondness for her, and he would be remiss if he were to upset his benevolence. Valac on the other hand didn't care in the slightest. Vending machines, paintballs, maces, stuffed animals, it seemed as though she didn't care what she was throwing as long as she aimed at Alice. Much to his chagrin he admits that Valac was proving to be competent in battle. Between soot marks and dye stains the two of them managed to roughhouse a fair amount of school property. Trees and fence line crooked or felled. Both unwilling to let up (however based on her wild grin, he'd hazard a guess that Valac was no longer irritated but immensely enjoying what she must think is a game.) Their brawl had reached a fever pitch and Alice wasn't about to let–

“Clara? Azz-kun?”

  Time stops. Alice's flame burns his coat cuff. A glob of slime slides off Valac's horn.

“...umm…I– I can come back when you're done playing–”

“IRUMA-SAMA!”    “IRUMA-CHI!!!”

  As if a switch flipped, their tense battle melts into bright smiles. Valac tosses a rather hefty steel trap with a clatter, latching onto Iruma-sama's waist. Alice nervously smooths his uniform. To think she had gotten under his skin! Hells, he must look wretched! He fixes his hair and buffs out the more unseemly soot marks before rushing to his master’s side.

“G-good day to you, Iruma-sama!” Oh curse his stuttering!

Iruma-sama blinds him with his shimmering eyes. His ever-present aroma bolstered by the action. “H-hi Azz-kun! I didn't know you and Clara got along. You must've been having fun!”

‘Derkila, he barely heard his words. Truly a force to be reckoned with!’

“Y-yes, of– of course Iruma-sama!” 

“Iruma-chi went poof yesterday! Did Eggie-sensei try to eat ya’?! Oh hey, hey! Iruma-chi, where's your fluffy fluffy? And your feathers?”

“Ye-yeah, sorry about that. Something came up. Sull– I just, um, got taken home early. I guess I left my pelt there too, ha ha.”

  Iruma-sama gracefully tolerates stupid Valac as she bombards him with questions. It is only then that Alice fully processed his Lord's appearance. His…well Iruma-sama seemed to be much...much smaller than he anticipated.

  Shed was his mantle of fur and lacking the fabric, Iruma-sama's actual frame was visible. Just a tad taller than Valac. Perhaps by a lesser margin than his ahoge would let on. His hair was also shorter than he first thought, blue locks ending just before his shoulders in bouncy, fluffy tufts. Falsely presumed lengthy from being pressed flat to his face. A visage of pleasingly soft features, mellow edges and long lashes. He would be lying if his first impressions of Iruma-sama weren't painted in a different light. One more. Rugged, perhaps. Befitting his astounding fighting style and powerful mana manipulation. Alice spied a few nicks and cuts around his face as well, but elsewise his initial assessment was entirely wrong. How incredibly interesting his master was!

“–kun? Azz-kun?”

  Alice shakes himself back to reality as a light chill runs through his arm. Iruma-sama’s hand rests on the limb, puzzling concern in his eyes.

“Are you okay, Azz-kun? You kinda' spaced out there…”

  That blanket of scent clouds his brain. Like an inviting embrace, or a comforting fire. A sudden drowsiness that relaxes his muscles. Such peculiar magic! Iruma-sama must be testing him!

“I am perfectly fine, Iruma-sama! Thank you for your concerns.”

  Valac then takes this opportunity to ruin their moment by attaching herself to Alice's back. 

“It's okie dokie Iruma-chi! Azu-Azu is a lil’ loopy is all!” She says with a grin.

She leans forward in an attempt to whisper, though only gets louder as she practically speaks into Alice's ear. “Azu-Azu is all prissy prissy, so watch out. His weirdness might infect you!”

To his dismay Iruma-sama indulges her antics. Whispering back while stifling a giggle. “O-oh, I see…”

“She is nigh but a deceitful menace! Do not believe her lies!”

Stupid Valac gasps in mock dramatics, jumping from Alice's back to Iruma-sama’s. “Iruma-chi look out! He's got the ‘deecy-ful’! Wez’ gotta' tail it!”

  With a manic laugh and a roll she scampers off to her pile of toys, Alice and Iruma-sama left standing by.

“Let us flee.”

There's a subtle shift in Iruma-sama's eye. Blue that Alice swears becomes iridescent. The next moment it's gone, and Iruma-sama slowly distances himself from Asmodeus' side. Shuffling towards– towards Valac?

"That isn't a nice suggestion, Asmodeus."

  Asmo–?! Had he upset his benevolence?! 

"I– My p-pardons, Iruma-sama! I–"

Valac belly laughs at Alice's horror as Iruma-sama shuffles further to where she was standing. "Azu-Azu needs to be nice nice if ya' wanna' play with us!"

“I-Iruma-sama?! She's– Valac is–”

“She's brilliant.” Iruma-sama says. Clara completely freezing at the compliment with a dumbfounded, blank stare. But then he takes it a step further. A real, heartfelt smile on his face.

“Just like you, Azz-kun. The two of you are one of a kind.”

  Good lord he thinks his heart just gave out. Staring at the barest hint of fang tips peek out from his lips. Upon the following silence, his brightness falters. If a little.

“S-so, uh, I think it would be fun. To– to play together. Right?”

  And who would Alice be to deny that request?

  He only wishes it wasn't at the expense of a paintball to the face. Thankfully it seems that this kind of game wasn't what Iruma-sama had imagined either. Breaking through Iruma-sama’s shocking level of kindness that no demon has ever beheld with the devilish chuckles of Valac. The demoness jittering with excitement.

“Play, play, play! Iruma-chi and Azu-Azu gonna' play with me!” She screeches. Iruma-sama smiles fondly at her actions, but graciously helps Alice off the ground. Wiping the paint from his hair.

“You get to be my canvas Azz-Azz, cuz’ you're all dressed in white!” The fiend reaches into a bucket and produces another glob, offering it to Iruma-sama. “Have some slime paint, Iruma-chi! You can have blue!”

“Oh, I couldn't, I have a terrible throw…” Despite the bashfulness Iruma-sama does take the ball.

“IRUMA-SAMA!?”

Valac hurls another slime, chasing after both him and Iruma-sama. “If ya' loose, ya' owe me a drink!”

  And so sparked yet another two hours of playtime. A two hours that– though Alice would never entertain the idea– he may have ever so slightly enjoyed.

  Two hours overlooked by the empty eyes of a shadow. Perched and nibbling on Babyls fruits. 

  It preferred more substantial sustenance. Derived from more direct sources. As the tree’s limbs blacken and wilt, it entertains the thought of feeding that desire. Watching green and pink dance around. Flaunting mana their master so craved. It could take some. They wouldn't miss it. And they both so liked the taste. Lasting longer than even Miss Amaryllis. Anything to repair what has been broken...

  But he would be unhappy…

  They leap from the branches onto the ground, stopping only to nudge the 'gifts' master made back into the safe confines of his bag. They thought about the crafting. How pleased their master looked when weaving the present. Truly he had too soft a heart for this realm. They worry that such generosity will only breed sorrows. Demons rarely pass on advantage. They could tear him to shreds. But these ones...they would hold their judgement. For now.

  Ghost huffs. They could wait. Another time would suffice. Until then, they simply watch. Like they always have. They have real stomping grounds now. An ample supply for their master. They no longer have to sit by. Powerless as the fledgling grows weak.

  They will not let him go hungry again.

Chapter Text

 The Netherworld is a realm of abstract beauty. A magnificence swathed in tones of brutality that shaped its residents into the pugnacious demons of today. Each life was an ambition. A spiteful pride that spat in the face of creation and bloomed into a life hard won. Their existence balanced on determination and desire. 

Shichiro adored the majesty of all living things. How creatures great and small could stand the test of Netherworld life. Minute details and traits synchronized in such a way that– no matter how grim, nor how weary– they found a way to survive. In his eyes, there was nothing as exhilarating. This interest drove him to conventions, lectures, exploration, why, even his career. Opportunities to unravel all walks of life were never ones to be missed. A philosophy that brought him to his current research excursion, as a matter of fact. What with all the on-hand experiences and new material to decipher, the gargoyle was enjoying himself indeed. Trip all but paid for itself. His newest specimen, however, put it into question. 

After all, if something like this came from back home he could've saved his vacation days.

Holed up in his field tent, Shichiro hunches over his travel desk. Gloves hands cradling the delicate glass container. Utterly engrossed. He'd received it just this morning. The date stamp marking its voyage at least two weeks ago. Surprisingly fast given where his research took him. The middle of nowhere might as well be his new address, and if he were to be honest, he often got rather behind in checking the post. Not that he knew many demons who'd sent him postage to begin with. Shichiro had a habit of getting very well wrapped in his work, so if it weren't for the sender he might have forgotten about the mail altogether (alongside a few other things.) After opening the box, he's glad he didn't. 

As if to summon them, Shichiro’s hellphone buzzed from where it lay on the table. Nearly falling off after the sound made him jump from his concentration. He only had a handful of contacts, so he already knew who’d be calling even before he saw the contact number. He picks up to hear the light clatter of kitchen ambience.

“Greetings my kohai. Surprised you can get reception out there. Is Hekate as promising as you’d hoped?” 

“Hello, Opera-senpai. My discoveries have been fruitful, thank you for asking. It is quite a sight to behold. I’ll be sure to send over a souvenir or two. You’d enjoy this atmosphere. How are things back there?”

Opera checks the finishing touches on each platter, scooching some of the smaller bowls around to fit the buffet of breakfast onto the serving cart. If luck is on their side, they should be able to pick up the deluxe luncheon cart today to avoid all this shuffling. When everything is in place, they guide the cart with their tail to hold their hellphone properly.

“Same as ever. Perhaps more so now that Kalego-kun is off sick leave.”

“I thought he was bedridden? Is he okay to go back after one day?”

“Merely dramatics. Shell-shock, one could say. He’s more than capable, and insists upon returning.”

“Sounds like him. I mean, I’m sure anyone would be shocked to become a familiar, but only he would still come to work the next day.” 

“As I said; merely dramatics. He’s better off now that he’s humbled. Regardless, that isn’t the reason I called. Did you happen to receive my parcel?”

“Oh, yes! Yes it just came in today! Courier must've broken some speed limits on the flight. Getting here from Babyls so quickly. Though I must admit I didn't expect you to have new specimens for me. I mean no disrespect of course, but I fail to see how my studies have suddenly claimed your interest.” 

Opera could faintly hear the scratching of Balam's talons as he paced around his tent. The clinking of glass and cupboard latches as they picture him rustling through his supplies. Arranging what they sent him. 

“And the need for my analysis in particular. There are other biologists who are closer than Hekate. Much closer. You could have contacted them to process your findings.”

They hand their phone to their tail, busying their hands with setting the morning meal. “You give yourself too little credit. Mythical zoology may be niche in some aspects, but none of which make it any less informative. I find your insight on the matter to be valuable”

“Valuable enough to go out of your way to send it to me rather than wait for my return?”

“In some fashion, yes.”

“Enough that you sent by GhoulGust Courier? A company known for uninterrupted deliveries?”

“A coincidence, surely.”

“...enough that Sullivan-sama signed for it?”

Signal fuzz pads out the silence between the former schoolmates. A breath of hesitation that tells Shichiro all he needs to know. And Opera that they shouldn't have led him on with his bloodline ability. They resume their daily tasks as Sullivan parks himself at his seat. They pass the phone back to their hand.

“It is nothing concerning Babyls, if that's where your concern lies.”

Balam breathed a sigh of relief he didn't know he had been holding. With the whole intruder scare Kalego told him about, it was something on his mind. Shichiro knows that's not the full story, but outside of school safety, it was far from his place to pry. At the end of the day, he has new specimens to analyze. More research to conduct, more mystery to prod. He places the container back on his desk.

“I see. I apologize for overstepping.”

“Inquiry is a demon’s nature. Though I will say there is little I can provide you past the fact that it involves personal affairs. My Lord would rather keep this to ourselves.”

“Very well. In that case, I’ll be sure to give them a once over. Is there a time frame you would like me to work in?”

“There's no need for that. It is of no high importance. All I ask is that you keep it in mind during your time. If you do happen to make any discoveries, you know where to find me.”

“Of course. Give the Chair-demon my regards.”

“Certainly. Then I reckon I've eaten away at enough of your time. Good day, Balam-kun.”

Shichiro says his goodbyes shortly followed by the sharp ‘click’ of their closing phone. They provide for Sullivan in their typical fashion, the demon Lord skimming over class assignment forms for today's sortings. He's unimpressed and palpably bored, folding a few of the papers into origami like the child he is. No doubt due to the fact Iruma won't be placed in a ‘conventional’ class and therefore isn't present in those papers. How mature.

“Shichiro gives his greetings.” They say, sensing his eyes on their back.

“Lovely. He sure sounds like he's having a good time out there. Hekate is wonderful this time of year.”

“He assured me of such.”

Sullivan hums. Dry voice switching to genial tone. “That's good. And what of my darling grandson?”

“Awake. Iruma-sama has taken a liking to the garden. He's been there since I started my rounds.” Their ears dip. “He claims to have slept well. I am not inclined to believe him.”

Lens glass shines like a muzzle flash. The rims of Sullivan's aura cloaking spectacles threatening to crack. Sullivan had seen more than he would ever have wanted in the human realm. Enough unsavoury types who were willing to spill far too much on a minor for the promise of pocket change. Intolerable heathens needing visceral persuasion. Imagining stark veins and skin stuck to bone. Fragility consumed by calloused hands and hard labour. Living like a flea ridden dog. 

His wrath simmered, clenching around his blackened heart. Sullivan ground his fangs to think about what other monstrosities were sewn into his mind, about what the boy had been put through. The dreadful inkling that he had only scratched the surface. Nightmares wouldn't surprise him in the slightest with a history like that. 

“Page Stolas-sensei today. See if she has any remedies for restless sleepers.”

“It will be done, Sullivan-sama.”

He nods in thanks. An odd thing. That look in their empty eyes. To see them so willing to accept a new addition to the household. It was rare Opera grew attached to anything. Much less a person. Even their kohai were seen as entertainment, as utility, long before they were considered anything close to allies. How telling a development. Knowing that– perhaps not as deep down as they led on– Opera had already grown a soft spot for their new charge. The revelation sits with Sullivan. An issue he'd been debating. 

Should he tell them? 

They were only given bare instruction to work with. To transport with discretion. But they clearly know there's more to his actions. He had no doubt that they'd already sensed something else afoot when he requested Balam specifically. There's only so long he can hide from a trained security devil. Especially on a ‘family’ matter. A discovery like this…he can't leave it alone. But if what he believes is true; the less others know, the better. And if Opera prioritizes their instincts they could choose poorly. On the other hand, they've been amicable. Willing to aid, and patient with Iruma's needs. He can see the cracks in their stoic wall when they speak of the boy. The worry.

 He only told them the minimum of Iruma's plight. It was not his to share, so he was sure to be vague. From the way they were acting, he couldn't overlook the chance they were enlightened on the subject since Iruma has been in the house. Sullivan would hope their cordial attitude wasn't due to pity. Iruma needs more than that. Deserves more. If sympathy is where their care ends, they will not be much of an asset. He needs to know that their ward is more than ‘grandson to lord Sullivan.’ That they offer of their own volition. Something only time will tell.

Hmm.

Now with the table laden with food, Opera heads off with a bow to fetch the youngling. Before they go, he makes up his mind.

“Opera.”

Sullivan places down his cup, spectacles slipping. Enough to dispel the cloaking effect. He can see the hairs of Opera’s nape stand up while he stares at the back of their skull. Mana breathing down their neck.

“Inform me when next Balam-sensei calls. If I am right, there is something we must discuss.” 

They do not respond. Their tail swishing as a silent answer as they disappear down the hall. Sullivan is sure to put his glasses on properly before his grandson arrives. Tensions to the wind as tufts of blue enter the room.

Something so simple as a meal. He couldn't remember when he stopped having proper dishes. Doesn't really need to when he has the extra mana to supplement nutrition. Dining table all but reserved for special occasions. Now it's the highlight of his day. It seemed as though everything was brighter with his grandson around. Why, because he had a grandson! A grandson!!!

Iruma was, as usual, oblivious to his grandfather's joyous attitude. Accepting it as the demon’s typical energy. That wasn't to say he didn't like the mornings with them. It was just. Jarring. Conversation was still kind of stilted, and Iruma didn't quite know how casual talk worked, but Sullivan seemed not to mind. Content with his presence for one reason or another. It was strange being allowed to eat at a table. Much less with the family.

The family.

Were they… family?

“IIIIIRRRRUUUMMAAAA-CHIIIIIII!!! ARE YA' THERE!? IIIIIRRR-”  

 If he had a dollar every time he got jumpscared by that nickname, he would have enough cash to pay Sullivan back for the gifts. His tea at risk of soaking the tablecloth.

“Stupid Valac! Don't go shouting in other demons’ windows!”

Iruma politely but urgently excuses himself from the table. Sprinting over to the front window. Low and behold, Clara was rattling the bars of Sullivan's front gate, nearly climbing onto the property upon seeing Iruma's face. Azz was doing his best to hold her back, but he too seemed to light up at Iruma's presence.

“Iruma-chi! We're here to pick you up!!! Azu-Azu owes us Scream Cream!”

“Good morning, Iruma-sama! And I said I was not entertaining your gamble, Valac!”

“I knew Iruma-chi lived here! You didn't believe me!”

“You didn't ‘know’ anything! He told us he lived with the Chair-demon!”

The two begin to bicker in what is rapidly becoming classic fashion. Sullivan clasps his hands together, cooing.

“Aww, how lovely Iruma-kun! Seems you've made quite the impression.”

“I g-guess so?”

‘What impression is this, exactly? I feel like there's something I'm missing…’

Before he could fully question it, Sull- grandpa (he really needs to get that right) was carrying him to the door. Opera in tow with his bag. 

“It's about time we head off anyway. Walking does take longer than flight but I wouldn't deprive my precious grandson time with his new friends! Oh! But do make sure to be careful on the pathways!”

“T-thank you Su- grandpa. I'll be car– WAIT!”

By the time his grandpa’s words hit his brain, a fluttering bloomed inside his stomach. Butterflies. Butterflies? That's what he was feeling right? He didn't get another stomach bug, did he? With sudden excitement and nervousness he searches the faces of the two demons by the door.

“F-friends? Did– did they say– I mean a-are they?”

He couldn't get his mouth to work. Friends. He's never had those before. Is this just how it happened? Or did he miss a social cue? Did he have to ask them? Is it an agreement? Seeing his distress (and potent confliction) Sullivan tilts his head. 

“I would assume so. ‘Friends’ is a human term to denote companionship, is it not?” He takes the last sip from his floating tea cup, handing Opera the empty glass and saucer. “Unless I’ve been misinformed.”

 “B-but how– how would I– did they say they were f-friends with me?” 

Iruma jumbled out. Though it doesn't look like S- grandpa heard him. Grandpa starts to skip away, saying his goodbyes and something about a meeting. Iruma’s left by the door. Befuddled.

His insides were flipping. A squishy hodgepodge just thinking about it! Could demons and humans even be friends? Was that a cultural thing he didn't know about? Was he even allowed to be friends with them?!

“What they are to you isn't for someone else to decide.” Opera breaks in. An assessment disturbingly close to his inner monologue that made him consider the concept of demonic telepathy. They hand him his bag and nudge him towards Azz and Clara. “Have a good day, Iruma-sama.”

He lets their hand linger on his back. The scent of black tea and citrus wafting from their mana. Unwinding his pent up worries, if only the smallest bit. Enough to give his farewells as he's tackled by Clara. The three of them trek off to Babyls, Azz scolding Clara, Clara having the time of her life, and Iruma still pretty well lodged in his own head.

“There are no set plans for today, so shall we head to the cafeteria?”

“AH- umm, y-yeah! Sure!”

Friends…he's never been in a situation where he could make friends before.

 He's always been on his own. But he's seen what it was like. Working on Golden Week when he'd cater to families. Watching people give on Valentine's Day, and reciprocate on White Day. Fireworks, decorations, setting up stalls, janitorial service, security work, any public jobs really. More than any couples, more than any families, he saw the friends. From classmates to reunions. Iruma couldn't fathom having that for himself. Much like everything else, for Iruma it was entirely unrealistic. Friendships– relationships took time. A resource that was always running thin. There wasn't a single moment he spent when he wasn't moving. Doing. When he wasn't working, he was fixing. Or scrounging. Or job hunting. Or actual hunting. Anyone he did get to know wouldn't stay for long. Always gave up. Not that he blamed them. Why try to know someone who's never there?

But now he… can?

In a full fourteen years he’s never done nothing. And now he just kind of is? Grandpa doesn't ask him for anything. Doesn't want money. Opera doesn't tell him to do housework. He's going to school and has been for almost a full week of attendance. He's– he's doing nothing. He's being normal. He has time. Time for whatever. Time for friends. And great friends too!

Clara was energetic, charming. In the short time he's known her she's been nothing but kind to him. Maybe she could overdo it, but as someone who'd never had the opportunity to play before it was just right. There was never a dull moment. But she could also be patient. When he didn't understand a game, or needed her to explain what certain things were in the forest, Clara didn't get mad at him. Sometimes even changing the game so he could play along. She showed that- while games were her favourite- she was more than happy to have someone around in general. To talk to. To simply be. Even sitting in silence, she revelled in every second. No one's ever waited for him. Looking back on it, he wishes he could've had the courage to come by more often. Look past saw-tooth jaws to see the smile that could light up a room. She would've liked that. 

Now Asmodeus was nothing like Clara. 

 Their introduction was definitely memorable. Trying to kill him on both of their unofficial first impressions was certainly one way to do it. Though, he did nothing but apologize the entire time they were together on the same day he declared his servitude. And when he wasn't grieving, he was showering Iruma with compliments. Songbird praises that flushed Iruma's cheeks. Passionate and courteous. His time with Azz was shorter than Clara, but he already discovered so much about him. How hard he worked to use ‘non-verbal magic’ with his flame, and how happy he was to use it. How, if Iruma looked really close, tiny white scales would catch the light of his face. How he admitted (as if it were a crime) that he's never needed to ‘chat’ with demons his age, and that he liked Iruma treating him as ‘an equal’ as he put it.

 He liked them. He always did have a bad habit of getting too attached too soon. Too clingy. It was dangerous enough in the human realm to be so trusting. The same heart on his sleeve that got him into far more trouble than it was ever worth. With the looming threat of being devoured, Iruma’s more than disappointed that he hasn't changed a bit. Old habits die hard. But he just couldn't help it. He liked them. He liked them a lot.

 The more he thought, the more nervous he felt. He didn't know how they felt about him at all. If they were just humouring him or if they were waiting to pounce. If Iruma wasn't deciphering ulterior motives, then he had basically no clue what he was doing. It's not like he can apply any of his meager social skills to friendship. Not when he's specialized in only finding the worst intentions. Even with Sullivan and Opera. Their relationship was based on contract. If they wanted him gone, they'd have to take the scenic route to get there. With Azz and Clara there wasn't that unspoken agreement. That binding factor.  Would they even want to be friends with him???

He was boring. To be frank, he was pretty painfully average. Maybe below. On top of lackluster, he was human. He couldn't pull vending machines out of his pockets. He couldn't make swords out of magical hand fire. And if they knew about his humanity, how long would you hang out with something so expendable? A miracle they haven't left already. He only met Clara because he was essentially stealing from her…only met Alice after knocking him out and ruining his speech…

Why would they stay?

“Ooooooh! Iruma-chi! Lookie lookie! Lotsa’ fud! Imma' get a Peekaboo lunch!”

Clara snags onto his arm, wrenching him from the muck of his thoughts. She pulls him toward a luncheon poster long enough to scrape the ceiling. A menu, if he properly remembered the names of the foods Opera made. Taking stock of the rest of the room, he found that he was in fact in a room. The cafeteria, he surmised. A much nicer one than any he'd been in. Bigger too. Even outpacing the military dining facility he washed dishes for in America. He wonders if there's a sergeant in this kitchen too. He scans the plaques Clara points to. Lists upon lists of lunch options and promising dishes. Netherworld food may not look appetizing, but it's some of the most delicious stuff he's ever had. He wonders if the chefs here cook as well as Opera can. Just the smell in the room had his mouth watering. Iruma's eyes trail across the board. Eventually landing on a large black symbol. He thinks he's seen the one at the top before at grandpa’s place. 

 “What's that?”

“That's a ranking crest.” Alice gestures to the board, pointing from top to bottom. “Babyls ranks each student’s performance, and the food you can order depends on rank.”

His finger stops at a line of bold red text labelled ‘unranked’ that sits almost as an afterthought at the base of the menu. The options are listed in scribbles, their titles few. 

“We haven't been ranked yet, so we can only order from this section.” 

‘It’s so tiny!!!’

Alice is unbothered, still with a smile as he guides Iruma into the service line up. Offering him a tray while Clara bounds ahead. As they move, Azz explains some more.

“Also, school lunches are free, but you can purchase other items from the school store. The vendor tends to have more sweets and snacks, if that is your interest.”

 Iruma hums. Looking around the platters of food. Mindful of how the shadow- who of course only woke up when there's food involved- was sampling bites of waiting trays. He'd be more panicked at the sight, but for some reason no one seemed to notice. Though, watching them enjoying themselves only made his indecisiveness flourish. At this rate, he'd just grab a fork and take bites from the line. Hoping not to sour the mood or disrespect the staff, he bumps Azz’s shoulder.

“I-I’m not too sure what to get…would you mind picking some things out for me?”

Where he expects rejection Alice gleams. “Of course. I'll put together a random selection and bring it over to you. If there's anything you don't like, we can share it.”

That fluttery feeling comes bubbling up in his stomach once more. “Th-thanks!”

He has to stop his tail from wagging as he parks himself at one of the empty tables. Ghost gives him a knowing look, but opts not to bully him about it. Munching away on a stolen leg roast of some kind underneath the table. Frankly, they could think whatever they wanted.

‘Sharing…it really sounds like something friends do~’

“Apologies for the wait.” Azz says, a well stocked variety sitting on his tray. “I'm afraid I couldn't decide on what you should try, so I grabbed a bit of everyth–”

Plates, bowls, trays and serving dishes pour onto the table. So much food that the staff were piling it over. Azz really doesn't disappoint!

An affronted Alice slams his hand on what was left of the visible table. “What is the meaning of this?!” 

“Uhh, didn't you order fifty servings?”

“Fifty?”  Alice couldn't believe what he was hearing. What demon could finish this much food?! Everyone knows Babyls has an ‘eat what you order’ policy! They'll be stuck here for days! He grits his teeth, palm itching to burn when he hears snickering degenerates nearby. 

“Such a lowbrow prank, pathetic fiends! Iruma-sama, allow meeeEH?!”

The blue imp flashes the sweetest of smiles his way. Humming before he swallows the last of the enormous amount of food. Asmodeus must have a grim expression, because Iruma-sama’s pink cheeks fall. 

“Is something wrong? W-was I not supposed to eat this? S-should– I can spit it out!”

“No! Um, n-no. I- I simply- I didn't know you had such an appetite, Iruma-sama.” 

Perhaps ‘appetite’ put it too lightly, but oh how he hated that distress on his master's face! He knew he chose well when he felt Iruma-sama’s mana brighten. Like a cloud parting for summer’s rays. By hell his mother would say he was swooning, but it truly was a divine sensation. 

Iruma-sama pulls three more serving dishes closer to his utensils. “O-oh, you think so? Well I'm more than happy to share, Azz-kun!”

He's pretty sure his heart skipped a beat. B-because of his power! And nothing else!

“By all means, you go ahead. I would hate to deprive you, Iruma-sama.”

 Blinded by another fangless grin, he mentally tallies the number of plates Iruma-sama devours. If for nothing else curiosity. He wasn't particularly hungry when he got here (suggesting the cafeteria as the only facility he had yet to visit) but that doesn't stop him from leaning in to try a few meals at his master's behest. Soon enough, his tally reaches triple digits, his ally’s unrelenting hunger wearing hard on the chefs. Plates would only be cleaner had they not been served at all. And then as if to reach crescendo, the sound of metal hitting tile; a Babyls brand ladle clattering to the floor. A body soon after.

“Chef down!”

“What the hell's that kid made of?!”

“Devi, he's delirious…his eyes are spinning.”

“Medic! Someone get Buer-sensei!!!”

“How magnificent, Iruma-sama!”

Iruma sheepishly puts his fork down, stacking what would now be his last plate. Looking at the record-worthy dishes he just made. Why did no one tell him he ate this much?! Why did no one stop him?! Ghost convulses under the bench. Laughing their ass off by the looks of things. Worst part is that Iruma has to drag himself away from the table. Barely satiated for one, needing to pry himself from what could be his last meal for another. 

Gods. What a beacon of optimism.

“Oi. Blue child.”

 Iruma doesn't need to turn before Clara is waved in his face, dangled on– on a bamboo spear? 

“Take with you.” Says a short demon. 

He couldn't make out any features. Just a pair of perfectly circular, pure yellow eyes in the shade of their hood. Based on the voice though, they weren't happy. Not that Clara minds. She flaps around on the skewer as if she isn't at risk of being impaled. 

“He played with me! Whenever I come to the school store, he plays with me!”

“Not play. Threaten.” 

He shakes her off his spear, flipping open a handbook from his pocket. There's headshots of students inside accompanied by dot points of (presumably) offences. Sure enough, Clara's picture is there, next to a boy with gold rings on his hands who looked oddly familiar.

“She drives away business. She duplicates merchandise. Practically stealing! Not welcome!” He holds his weaponry high. “Any ne'er-do-wells will be run through! I stab shoplifters with bamboo spear!” He shouts, stabbing the air with a vigour while Clara hisses.

“Silence.”

Oh. 

“Honestly. I finally come back to work–"

Oh no. 

“–and some fool has the nerve to cause a commotion. What is–”

The smell of sparklers and cactus fruit floats through the air. A static rising on his neck. Naberius– Naberius-sensei stands stark. Face contorted in a scowl he must never leave home without. Not a contorted mass of mana. Not an angry chick. But himself. His scrutinizing, disgusted self. He glares into Iruma's soul. Demonic traits accentuating the man's distaste. Even witnessing Iruma, Naberius seems pained. Recognition besmirching his eyes. A million things he could say curl around his fangs, but all he can make out is a growl.

Iruma isn’t much better. Instinctively shuffling toward Azz. He isn’t sure what happened after grandpa took him away. Not sure how long the effects of being his familiar would’ve ailed him. What he did know was that students were scared of him. That he was scary during the summoning, and that he one hundred percent despises Iruma. No question. Knowing what hatred looks on different people’s faces got him pretty damn far in life, and Naberius is the poster definition of the word. Iruma already misstepped in the demonic hierarchy when he met Asmodeus, are there rules he’s unaware of between staff and students? Could a teacher duel him too? He’d be shred to ribbons! Is that why everyone was so spooked around him? He struggles to keep his feet planted. Fight or flight itching in his legs.

‘No, no. I'm part of Babyls now. They have no reason to hurt me. Sullivan said Babyls was safe.’

 Naberius is a teacher. As far as he knows, teachers lose their jobs when they kill students. That should follow into the Netherworld. Iruma futility attempts to relax his muscles. Dawning his best underpaid receptionist smile. Maybe an olive branch could work?

 “H-hi Naberius-sensei. Are you feeling okay?”

“You are the last demon I want to hear from.” Not a great start. Naberius regains his tongue and jabs an uncomfortably long violet nail to Iruma’s forehead.

“Listen brat, I am not your familiar. I never will be. If you even think of restraining me with that hellforsaken summon,” His pupils narrow. Needle-thin stripes that highlight his fury. 

“I. Will. Tear. Your. Throat. Out. Chair-demon be damned.”

Very bad start. Guess he does know about the whole ‘grandson’ thing. “N-noted, sir.”

He grumbles. “What’s with the ruckus, anyway?”

His eyes lock on Clara. A deadpan rivalling Opera’s plastered over his frown. Clara, always the opportunist, jumps on the chance to chat with a demon who isn't ignoring her. Any other day he’d find it endearing but as she excitedly explains going ‘kablow’ and getting in trouble at the school store, Naberius’ face gets increasingly despondent. He doesn't think his eyelid has stopped twitching since he got here. He looks as if he's about to say something, when he's toppled by a large yellow blur.

The gathered crowd is left speechless as the three-headed beast beelines for Iruma. Slack-jawed while three heavy heads bump noses and rub cheeks against Iruma. Jittery pops that puff up his hair and run electricity through his skin. Somehow in a way that wasn't torturous despite the description. More ticklish, really. Iruma can't stop the startled laugh that flies out his mouth, even if Naberius sees it as a targeted attack.

“Cerby-buss! Eggie-sensei, you let Cerby play inside?!” Clara squeals.

Iruma can feel the sparks flying off Naberius. The sensation of burning eyes still drilling into him despite the truck-sized head that was blocking his view. Kalego bares teeth at the dog and snaps his fingers twice. Cerberus turns around, but not before hoisting Iruma onto its middle muzzle. Lurching him into the air with a yelp. It must not be what Naberius wants because he swears his eyes go red.

“Cebereon. Down.”

Whatever command he expects it to follow, Cerberus ignores. Two of its heads preoccupied with Iruma. One staring with a head tilt he subconsciously copies, and the other playfully nipping at Iruma's side (or trying to.) Ferocity unhindered by the action as it gives an open mouth smile. Teeth half his body size glimmering gold. He shakily scratches behind their ears, hoping to keep himself in good standing when staring at his doom. No one ever answered if familiars eat humans too. Better to stay on the safe side.

“You see that?!”

“So it's true!”

“Wait, he's the guy in the paper? Didn't they say he can summon anything?!”

“You mean Kalego-sensei lost his familiar to the honour student?!”

What the hell do these people think he is?! Steal from that guy?! What kind of gossip goes on here?! Azz is crying again! He didn't do any of that! Well. He– okay he kind of did the first bit. By accident though! He didn't know what he was doing! He still doesn't!

…That doesn't make it better, does it?

He'd really like to leave now, and tries to clamber down the titan, but Cerberus catches him by the scruff instead. Cerberus adamant on keeping him close. Not helping things, he’ll be honest.

“Hey, hey, Eggie-sensei, what happens to Cerby when you're a familiar?” Clara asks excitedly. Iruma prays to whatever higher being can listen that Naberius doesn't hear her remark. The professor looks about two seconds away from killing everyone in the room. Or just himself. Maybe both. 

“Silence you obnoxious cretin! Cerbereon! I said ‘ down!’ Drop it! ”

“Is it like a vacation? Or a playdate?”

Clara. Clara please.

“Does he still havta’ listen to you? Is he Iruma-chi’s then?”

Fuming from the lack of canine respect, the growing onlookers with lots of opinions and Clara’s possibly insensitive questioning, Naberius turns to leave. Would’ve been storming off to stop himself from killing everyone if Clara hadn’t started waving a sticker in front where Iruma was dangling.

“I wanna’ see! Iruma-chi, put this on your hand!”

‘Want to see what?’

Iruma does as instructed. Pressing the strange sticker to his hand. His attempts to fathom her goal blindsiding the obvious struggle Naberius was putting up. 

“L-like this?”

“Okie, now raise your hands up!”

“OI DON'T JUST–”

A cloud of purple sounds with a ‘poof,’ Iruma falling from Cerberus’ grip as the beast dissipates into crackling light. Alice manges to catch him before he faceplants, though a part of him wishes he didn't. He could've hit his head. Knock himself out so he didn't have to deal with the fallout of a very angry, very fluffy professor. Said sensei flapping his tiny wings to avoid the chasing hands of Clara. Students marvel at the chaos that seems to have followed him into the demon realm. Gossiping whispers about ‘the demon who summoned a demon’ and ‘the rumours being true.’ Iruma knows better than to be less terrified just because Naberius could fit in his hands.

“You mangey brat! Clap your hands!”

“C-clap a rhythm?” 

“No, fool! It ends the summoning!”

“Oh! R-right, sir!!”

His efforts to reach the floor safely are denied again as a bamboo spear damn near jabs out his eye. Alice is quick on his feet and dodges the assault, Camu-Camu swathed in rage.

“You dare attack Iruma-sama?!”

“Thieves! Shoplifting! Punishment by death!!!”

The pieces click in Iruma's head. “O-oh! The sticker is merchandise! I'm sorrEEEHH!”

Alice adjusts his hold to keep Iruma out of harm’s way while Come-Come springs a volley of spear thrusts their way. Demanding to be paid. Preferring their insides intact, Alice turns tail and books it down the hall. Clara happily clinging to his back as he takes off. The faint demands of their professor fading away.

When Azz stops running, the fortress halls change into courtyard gardens. Stowing away where they played the day before. Far from the murderous intents of staff, Iruma allows himself a breath, even though he wasn’t the one running. No sweat off Azz, though. His gripes reserved for Clara and her unwelcome piggyback ride. If he has comments about holding Iruma bridal style, he keeps it to himself. Which Iruma is thankful for. He’s probably being a bother, but Azz is awfully toasty. It’s nice, and that smell is back again. Azz’s mana, he thinks. Watching snow fall back home, steam rising off his small fire. Like…yaki imo. Rich and sweet.

Dear god he’s a creep. Iruma flushes hard, shaking his head to dispel the notion. What’s wrong with him?! How’s a freak like him supposed to earn friends? Alice raises an eyebrow over his abrupt fluster, but is soon caught up with Clara. Managing to shake her without dropping Iruma. Ghost on the other hand keeps eye contact. He can't tell if it's judgement in its eyes but he'd rather not have anyone look at him right now. 

It dismounts from Azz’s shoulder to watch Clara sprint off excess zoomies. Rolling cartwheels in the grass that tear up the sod. How she flops over without a single grass stain is beyond him. Iruma finds his footing too, joining Clara on the grass where Azz soon follows.

“T-that was scary…”

“At least there was a decoy.”

“Should we have left him there?”

“Lookie lookie! Found these on the floor!”

“F-from the store? Umm, well, just remember we have to go back and pay for these later, okay?”

“Umm hmm! Now, cheers everybody! Let's hope that all of us are in the same class!” 

The three of them toast, raising the Netherworld equivalent to ice cream together. They each look coincidentally like their holders. Iruma only just remembers what Sullivan had been talking about the other day.

“They're announcing classes tomorrow?”

“Hmph. It is unthinkable that Iruma-sama and I will be in separate classes.”

“Me too! Me too!”

“Y-yeah. That would be nice…I hope we're in the same class too.”

“Indeed! To learn by your side will be a blessed experience, Iruma-sama!”

“It'll be lotsa' fun! Right, Iruma-chi?”

They smile. It's genuine, and casual. Not a lie between their teeth. Shadow curls by his thigh with a cat-like loaf as if to give them their moment. Nudging Iruma. To speak up. To say what he wants to say. He can now, after all. Literal years spent wanting and now the opportunity is brushing against his knees.

“So I can call you two…”

My friends?

“My c-classmates? Cuz' you know, it's– it's practically set already. Ha ha.”

“Indeed, Iruma-sama! Why bother acting as if we will be apart? I cannot wait to see your climb to conquer Babyls and beyond!”

“Classmates, classmates! Playmates and allies! It's gonna' be great!”

 Iruma doesn't understand. They're here. They're happy. This is when he should say it. While he still has time, while he isn't afraid. But the words stick in his ribs. Rusted and dry. Two perfect, wonderful people. Moments away. And he can't say it. He has so much more than he could ever want. Ever need. Like he's throwing them away. Are they not good enough for him? Leading them on. Putting on a show. How disgusting is that? He can’t let them down. He won’t. They deserve better. It’s what he can do for them. What he needs to do for them. Then he can say it. Some day.

He just needs to earn it.

The thought springs memory, ghost leaping out of the way while he rummages for his bag. Unintentionally rousing a jump from Azz and (although he thought it impossible) Clara.

“Is something wrong, Iruma-sama?”

“Iruma-chi, you're all sparkly in the eyeballs!”

“Ah, n-no no it’s just– I have–” He takes a second to calm, anxiety making his tail flick. “I wanted to, um, to give you guys s-something.”

Wobbly and unsure, Iruma inches forward. “I…I don't really know– my life has c-changed a lot recently. Like. A lot a lot. There's plenty I still don't– I don't know. A-and you two have kinda’ h-helped that. I t-think. And I…I–”

“Iwantedtomakeyousomethingbecauseyou'rebothreallyniceandthat'sneverreallyhappenedbeforeIguessandI'msorrybecausethismustbelikereallyweirdandtheyaren'tmuchbutIhopeyoulikethemanditwouldbereallyniceifyoucouldstillhangoutwithmepleaseokaythankyouI’msorryagain.”

He musters up the gall mid-sentence, stomping down the urge to retreat as he places his gifts on their heads. Jumbling fountain of words that even he barely processes. He screws his eyes shut. Waiting to hear bad or good news. A gift they can throw away. A gift they can hate. That's the way it is; not to expect something in return. But that doesn't mean he wants them not to like it. Hopefully they'll let him down easy. The silence stretches for eternity. Iruma already planning his apology and subsequent escape. Maybe he misread the room? It felt like kind of the best time? Kind of close moment or something? When he was working on First Love Memories, scenes like this happened in the midst of heartfelt chatter. Or is that reserved only for romantic gestures? Is it different in the demon world? Wait, do demons give gifts?!

“I-Iruma-sama…are these…?”

Iruma cracks open an eye. Forcing himself to see rejection or acceptance.

A wreath of flowers sit on the demons’ crowns. Healthy blooms Iruma wove from the diabotany tower. Blue petals vibrant and lively despite being tucked into a bag. He's glad– albeit surprised– that they hadn't wilted after he forgot to give them yesterday. He didn't have time to carve something, and he wasn't about to bother Sullivan with his childish desires. So it was the best he could think of. They weren't much, but they were pretty. Hopefully enough to get his thanks across.

“Is– are you okay, Azz-kun? I’m sorry if–”

“Iruma-sama. Did…did you… make these?”

“Y-yes? I know flower crowns aren't, you know, amazing but I really wanted to–”

Aaaaannd Azz is crying again. Clara is gone, a lime blur that speeds across the courtyard. Her tail a fan of red. Surprisingly careful with the flower crown that sits on her horns. Through sniffles and waterworks, Azz gingerly taps the blossoms of his crown. As if they would wither to the slightest touch.

“I AM HUMBLED BY YOUR GENEROSITY, IRUMA-SAMA!”

Alice daps his eyes with a handkerchief, visibly struggling not to touch his head. “A handmade gesture! I can only imagine the strength it took you! And– and Crown-Coils no less! They must've cost a fortune!”

“T-the flowers? Oh, I didn't buy them. They grew super fast really, I’m glad they were fully bloomed so I could do this.”

“G-g-grew– dear Derkila…”

“IRUMA-CHI!!! Pretty pretty! Hug time!!!”

As Alice tries to pry Clara from her affections, Iruma can't help the smile that overtakes his face. That fizzy feeling growing through his chest. Friends. He'd love friends like these two. He doesn't like to hope. Doesn't like to fantasize or reminisce on what he could've done. But, maybe, this time it can be different. He will get to say it. And he can't wait.

The trio soon spiral into what's becoming routine. Enjoying each other's company in the courtyard gardens. Seeing the smile on his grandson’s face will never get old for Sullivan. Even from where he gazes from the staff conference room. Regardless if he was the cause, it's like seeing sunlight in a shadow sunk cave. Watching a frail wisp of candlelight burn brighter by the day.

“Quite the sight, Sullivan-sama.”

“Hmm. I’m glad you agree.”

Opera lowers their devicam. A sense of apprise in their keen eyes. “Those flowers. They add to the scene. Crown-Coils don’t normally take too kindly to uprooting.”

‘Unless it’s done by the same mana signature.’  

“Fancy that.” 

No further words are said. No more are needed. Sullivan had an inkling to Opera’s insight the day he brought Iruma home. To finally voice their thoughts in spite of the ludicrous suspicions tells of their self restraint. Such an outlandish question must have been gnawing at them. Rid him of the tense conversation he could have forced them into. Lucky him.

“Chair-demon? There’s only one class remaining. Shall we still wait for Kalego-sensei?”

Sullivan spins his chair back to the table. Staff seated and waited. Well, spare for one. He snaps his fingers, two student files sliding up to his front. Unstamped. If he slips in a faulty file with an unusually high quality photo to join them, that’s his own business. “No need. I’m sure Kalego-kun wouldn’t mind taking up the mantle anyway~”

Majority of staff know the backlash of his decision, but make no fuss. Teaching homeroom in a class of troublemakers isn’t something they’d fight over. Sullivan pushes his seal into ink, raising it above the student files.

“If none are opposed to the judgement, then all classes are sorted!” He stamps down on each of the three files. Ensure the red mark doesn’t overlap his grandson’s face. 

“Asmodeus, Valac, and Iruma-kun shall be placed in the misfit class.”

Chapter Text

 You know, if Iruma had known he'd be taken in by Sullivan, he wouldn't have unravelled his tail. He had spoiled himself in those months alone. Not having it tucked or tied, even getting to use it like back when he was younger. Waking up with a splitting cramp up his back was just a great dose of reality. Turns out, limbs don't hurt as much when you don't have them coiled up twenty-four seven. Who would've guessed. Didn't help that those feathers were popping up again. They always get so itchy and irritated. Bent to pointy angles when he had his tail around his waist. Like when a cat kneads your legs. They didn't break skin, but it was still uncomfortable. Didn't know why they chose to grow so fast now. His body just loves to be inconvenient.

“Maybe bandages would work? Opera-san left an aid kit around here somewhere.” Iruma says to himself. “Hmm. Actually, maybe not…don't wanna' waste it.”

Ghost grumbles. Unimpressed as always. Particularly lacking in response this morning while they essentially stand guard near the door. For whatever reason, disagreeing with the way he treats his tail. Been giving him the cold shoulder since he woke up. Might have something to do with the whole scissor debacle, but what else was he going to do? Plucking wasn't the greatest solution. His only practice being yanking handfuls of fluff out of bird carcasses. People don't pay to have slow pluck jobs, and the bird was already dead, so if some of the stems snap, or if you pull some of the skin away, it doesn't matter. He was usually the fastest on those lines, too. Unfortunately that experience did contribute to his own lack of knowledge. It's not like he knew how to do it any other way. You just rip and the feathers come out. Course, when you're alive and they're your own feathers it's a different story. Wanting to avoid the agonizingly slow (and most definitely painful) process of plucking his own feathers, he figured scissors would do the trick. Feathers are basically hair anyway, right?

The shadow didn't like that.

However unprecedented, ghost went berserk. Nipping at his heels and fingers. Not the playful bats they normally have either, actually trying to draw blood. When that didn't work, they turned to the furniture. Tried breaking plant pots on the windows, expensive-looking bottles in the bathroom. He had to play tug-of-war with the silk sheets! Iruma's lucky nothing got too roughed up before he realized the problem. Sullivan would've killed him! So by decree of a spirit blob, Iruma was now banned from using craft supplies.

Cut to now, about an hour into their compromise on the floor of his bedroom. Quelling their temper with those marble things he scrounged up, and doing without his normal tail ties. Initially he didn’t want to do it in his room after the original outburst, though it was the only room he felt like he wouldn’t be dirtying the place. Most of the rooms he got the marbles from looked…well to be honest, they looked like he shouldn't be in them. Sullivan said nothing was off limits, but heavy machinery and dozens of industrial sized materials made him think otherwise. If Opera didn’t start their rounds outside, that would’ve been his first choice. He did debate the library since he wanted to pick a few more books from there anyway, but everything looked way too expensive to set up there. That and Sullivan frequents the place. Iruma didn’t want to intrude. So with ghost treats in hand the two of them settled on returning to the bedroom with only relative tensions. Sure to pick up the books he wanted before heading back. Reading was a good way to distract from the plucking anyway.

Because yes, after all that mess he was still trying to get rid of the feathers. Not all of them, if he could get away with it, just the larger ones. Originally his pelt was supposed to be the answer to his predicament. He wore it before and it worked wonders. If anyone saw it he could say it was attached to the fur and not himself. The only one he could think of that wouldn't believe that story was Clara, and only because she saw him use it to climb up a tree when they were playing hide and shriek once. Though when he started wrapping it again, she didn't ask anything about it. So she might be fine too. Plus it made him feel…better. Safer. 

Unfortunately, that plan didn't last long. Opera tipping him off to the taboo of wearing real animal flesh that mimics other demon species. A sensible rule, honestly. He didn't think of it like that until they mentioned it. Though Sullivan offered to make an exception to the Babyls dress code just for him. Not wanting to be a bother or pull the nepotism card, Iruma was still preemptively plucking. It's better to get rid of them now before he has to hide it again. Even without using proper ties, he could still knot his tail to itself to keep it in place. Ghost still didn't seem happy with the choice but apparently deemed it better than the scissors. Iruma didn't disagree with them, really. If he didn't have to, he'd happily leave his tail be. If shelter, food and protection weren't on the line. Too bad.

Iruma flips another page of the book he grabbed. Making idle, one-sided conversation with the spirit.

“So…familiar contracts can be cancelled…but you have to wait a year.” He winces at both the thought and as another feather was pulled free. “I don't think I’m going to make a full year if he's already that mad with me.”

That was the other item on the list today. He hoped to try and smooth things over with Naberius-sensei. Iruma didn't know what class he taught, but double checking that a teacher doesn't kill him was a must. It was his fault, of course. Just because he didn't know what he was doing doesn't mean he gets to shirk the blame. If he could find a way to cancel the familiar contract, Naberius probably won't be mad at him anymore. Probably. Iruma can't help the feeling that he's the grudge-holding type.

“But if I summoned him because I'm human, I could ask Sullivan-sama how to end a human-demon contract. It's about finding something both people want, right? That shouldn't be too hard.”

“I’m afraid it doesn't work that way, Iruma-sama.”

Iruma lets out a reedy sound as a particularly stubborn plume is ripped out. Opera stands at the threshold of his room. Hopefully far enough away that they didn't see what he was doing. That being said, if they did see, they don't act like it. His blankets are thick enough to cover the discarded feathers and tail, but he can only pray that he didn't ruin the book in his rush.  Iruma shifts around in an attempt to keep face while he shoves the evidence underneath his pillow.

“G-good morning, Opera-san. How, umm, how long have you–”

“Only a minute. I did knock.”

“…sorry.”

“Not at all. If you would come with me, breakfast is ready.”

“Oh, okay!”

 Ghost tucks itself into the collar of his uniform while he and Opera make their way down to the dining room. Iruma harshly ties his tail to his waist, ignoring the multiple ‘pop’ sounds he hears from the action. The sound alone has him debating Sullivan's dress code offer.

“May I ask why you were interested in familiar summonings, Iruma-sama?” Opera asks after a while.

“Well…O-Opera-san, do you know Naberius-sensei?”

“Oh yes. We're close allies, in fact.”

“Really?”

Their tail swishes, ears bobbing up and down. “Indeed. Back when I attended Babyls, I'd make him buy my bread, carry my things, do my bidding. What fond memories.”

“Ah. I see.” Iruma has an idea of why Naberius didn't take their intrusion too kindly on ritual day.

“Why do you ask?”

“Right, well…I ran into him yesterday and– and he doesn't like me.”

“Is that so? How very impolite.”

“How could anyone not like my precious grandson!? That Kalego-kun has always been such a stick in the mud!” Sullivan interjects. Though he only just made it to the table.

Iruma rubs the back of his neck. “It’s alright. I mean, he isn't paid to like every student that walks through the door. It's not his fault. It's just. If he's upset with me, I figured it'd be safer– I mean, he'd feel better if I could figure out how to cancel the whole. You know. Familiar. Thing.”

Opera and Sullivan eye eachother, Sullivan pouting while Opera’s ears dip. As they serve breakfast, they're sure to give their two cents.

“While your graciousness is appreciated, you need not cater to the man. It'll only boost his prerogative sense. His demeanor may be irascible, however he wouldn't push further than strict teachings.”

“Opera’s right, you know. Kalego-kun’s always been that way. Wearing that frown since what day he was born, I recon. Big ol’ crabapple to everyone he meets. I'm certain whatever he did you shouldn't take personally, dear boy.”

‘Even tearing out my throat?’ 

He lets his doubts simmer. Breakfast seeming to pass faster than usual as plate after plate are emptied and stacked. Muddied thoughts tainting the meal. Best efforts be damned, his incredulity roots deep. Iruma's seen plenty of people with the same look as Naberius. He's never met one that didn't make good on their rancour. Actively seeking for the excuse to tirade, or berate. He has no reason to believe Naberius would go that far. He also has no reason against it. If he can't appese then he must avoid, but is that a viable solution in school? Babyls was a big enough place. It could work. Or perhaps he's overreacting again. Perhaps being inherently threatening is just a demon thing. Iruma pokes at the crumbs of his plate, chewing his cheek.

“Oh! That reminds me! You know how these few days I've been mentioning assigned classes? Well, grandpa made sure to put you in a special class!”

“Special?”

“I remembered you saying you wanted to blend in, so I made your wish come true!”

“You went through that trouble for me? I didn't mean to sound demanding, you didn't have to…”

Sullivan smiles. “Nonsense! But a trivial few papers and stamps. Anything for my grandson!”

Iruma squeezes the edge of his seat, fighting the urge to kick his feet like a toddler.

“Thank you, Sul– grandpa!”

“Aww I just love to hear that!”

The thought is enough to lift his spirits. Raising evermore as he hears the good morning greetings of Azz and Clara outside. While he gathers his things for the day, Sullivan walks with him to the door.

“I was sure to put Valac and Asmodeus in the same class as well. You'll be in the Misfit Class.”

“Misfit class?”

“Students that need more tailored environments to aid their learning. That, and they’re all troublemakers. They'll stand out far more than you, so you'll be invisible by comparison.”

‘Misfits? What do misbehaving demons act like?’

“Now off you pop! Remember that grandpa loves you! And have a good day, Iruma-kun!”

With goodbyes said and a trek ahead of them, the trio make their way down the winding path to Babyls. The roads empty of the dozens of demons that fly overhead. Clara wanders further from him and Azz, Ghost pawing at Connor and Murf while she sings some sort of walking song. At some point, it latches onto the heart-shaped tip of her tail, using it as leverage to reach her head. All that work to readjust the flower crown she still had balanced on her horns. Based on previous reactions– and how Clara is none the wiser– he's almost certain that he's the only one who sees ghost. Which is…he'll be honest, concerning. He'll have to look and see if ‘shadow spirits’ are somewhere in that book on familiars. Nevertheless, Iruma raises his voice in hopes that she can hear what he and Alice are talking about. 

“I’m in the same class as you, Iruma-sama? Outstanding! Your intuition to deem us ‘classmates’ was spot on. I couldn't be happier.”

“The only problem is that it's called the ‘Misfit Class' and is made for all the troublemakers of the school.” Iruma explains. It's great that they were still together, but he did feel sorry that the two of them got lumped in with school outcasts just for him.

Azz lays a hand over his heart (if human anatomy is the same as a demon's) with a smile. “Iruma-sama, as long as I'm by your side, there's nothing more I could ask for. It'll be the best class.”

 “R-really? Well t-that's good to hear.” 

Honestly, between Clara still wearing his gift and Azz being so sweet his tail will wag out of his shirt before they even get to school. Iruma does his best to act casual while he presses it into his side, letting a feather he missed get blown away by the wingbeat of passing demons. Azz peers up at the sky as they fly.

“Come to think of it, why do you walk to school, Iruma-sama?”

‘Why wouldn't he?...oh…wait…’

“Well, umm…so both you and Clara can fly?”

“But of course! All demons can fly.”

Real smooth, Iruma. Definitely a demonic thing to ask. They filter into the main courtyard following the students gathering around a large plaque that resembled the one from the cafeteria. Presumably where the assigned classes are posted. They’re behind enough people that they can't see the board yet, but as if a lightbulb blinks on in his head, Azz suddenly leans in close.

“Iruma-sama, could it be…that you are training your legs? Very admirable, Iruma-sama!”

The bell demon roars over them. He doesn't think he could've given a proper response otherwise. He laughs it off while Alice shifts his attention to the class assignment board. Iruma was ready to bolt before he could finish the question. Stiffly scooting back to Alice’s side.

It feels like every conversation teeters between outing himself and unusual normalcy. He's out of practice in both, and it does nothing to soothe his nerves. There were a lot of things he needed to keep in mind. Things he's dealt with for years that simply don't apply anymore. Sure, this was a dangerous situation. No denying that. But not the kind he was used to handling. Risk of being a human among demons versus the reward of, possibly, getting to live life instead of surviving it. Sullivan and Opera have taken him in, not to use him or take advantage of him so far. He has water and food without needing to fight for it, shelter and clothes without needing to cadge. He's going to school. He can't remember the last time he was in a school, much less to learn in one. He's even found Azz and Clara. Two maybe-possibly-I-really-hope-they-are friends for the first time in his life. This week alone was the best and worst situation he's ever been in. If he could let himself settle, let himself believe that things are fine, maybe they actually could be. Iruma decides that, even just for today, he could try and not think the worst. He's just a person. Going to school. With– with his friends. That wouldn't be so bad.

 A good squeeze from Clara has him back to reality, her palpable joy over being in the same class offset by Azz reprimanding her for her lack of listening skills. Ghost makes their reappearance in time to catch a ride as well.

“Iruma-chi’s got all foggy eyes again! Wakey wakey!”

She climbs onto his back to pop her head on his own. Iruma instinctively secures her weight as she urges him forward. “Let’s truck it, Iruma-chi! You're gonna’ get all topsy turvy if you're stuck in your noggin!”

“Unhand Iruma-sama! And the first year tower is this way, Valac! Valac! I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME, TURN AROUND!”

 Antics aside, the tree of them managed to make it into the first year's tower. Students passing through the halls and into classrooms. Bright floating arrows guiding the way. Some of the devils loitered in the halls, or chatted with classmates. Others complained over homeroom teachers, or being in a class of unfamiliar faces. Iruma often stopped to steal a peek into open doors, watching teachers give magical demonstrations. Startlingly tame. Across all their features and extraordinary traits there was something deeply human about the way everyone went about. This was the first time since kindergarten he's been allowed to go to school. He was actually looking forward to it. 

“This spot is where all homeroom classes take place. Our class should be around here somewhere.” Azz mentions.

Clara takes a wide stance, sliding off his back. “Looking left! Looking right! Looking left again!”

Just as she turns, a glowing arrow buzzes by. Making a loop-de-loop before gliding down the further corridor. She laughs, hands outstretched to catch the little sign.

“Looks like it's this way! Mush, mush!”

“A directory spell. All the other arrows stop here, so that one must lead down the right path. Let us follow.”

Iruma hears the gist of what he says. Distracted by the robes he spots in the corner of his eye. He wrings his hands on the hem of his sleeve. 

“Er, a-actually you go on with Clara, Azz-kun. I’ll catch up with you.”

“Is there something wrong?”

“Hmm? Oh, no. No, I just have something I have to do really quick. It won't take long, but maybe try and slow Clara down a bit for me, please?”

Azz, happy enough to be given an order, bows with a grin. “Of course, Iruma-sama! We shall await your return!”

“Uh, yeah. Thank you, Azz-kun!”

With Asmodeus on a goose chase, Iruma tries to maintain some level of calmness as he sets off in the direction of the purple robes. He'd like if he could clear up the incident with Naberius-sensei as soon as possible. The last thing he wants is to inconvenience the man further so it was better for both of them if he ripped off the bandaid. That being said, though he genuinely wanted to apologize, he also held out hope that it wasn't Naberius he saw. Facing the man alone wasn't doing the best for his imagination, and he didn't want to test if humans ran faster than demons. Too late to turn back, Iruma rounds the corner before he even has his story straight.

“E-excuse me!”

Good news: it wasn't Naberius.

Bad news: he isn't sure of the alternative.

The teacher’s uniform led up to a blue-haired demoness he didn't recognize. She finished retrieving papers of some kind from a second demon, giving a small ‘hello’ before checking her watch and rushing away. He was left with the other demon. A ginger-haired woman with tall horns on her head that resembled fox ears. She looked kind of like the man Sullivan had over the other day. Standing at least as tall as the door frames with muscle to boot. Her uniform was uniquely tailored in orange and blacks, and her eyes were hard, calculating. Perhaps not a teacher, but not a plain student. He thinks he’s seen her before…that's right! At the ritual hall.

She was beating the snot out of the monsters he summoned.

Forget the mental pep talk he gave himself, because his brain immediately regressed back into paranoid flight mode. It's something about the way she stared. As if she knew. Not in the same way as the staff during Sullivan's ‘I didn't kidnap anyone’ interrogation. Like she could tell he wasn't ‘right.’

“You're the honour student, correct? The Chair-demon's grandson?”

Iruma shrinks, but nods affirmatively. Her eyes narrow while she gives him a once over. She turns to properly face him.

“We haven't met formally, but I am Azazel Ameri. Student council president. Memorable introduction you made.”

“N-nice to meet you. I’m sorry for the trouble I caused.”

“Comes with the territory. Though I would wager your grandfather had some involvement in the matter.” She pins him with her eyes. “Rather out of character for him to fly out a window, much less with a student. I wasn't aware he had a grandchild.”

‘She definitely knows something.’ Ghost seems to share his worry, as it crawls up from the cuff of his sleeve to watch the interaction. He can’t tell if it’s for their comfort or his own.

“Ha ha, yeah. I was– I only recently started staying with him. Some… family stuff happened. He probably wouldn't have talked about me much.”

Whether she believes him or not, her only response is a hum. “I see. Now, is there something you need?”

“Oh! Um, no. Not really, not from you– well, I don't mean in– in a bad way, just– I was looking for Naberius-sensei. I didn't mean to interrupt you.”

“Kalego-sensei? I believe I saw him in the courtyard. His homeroom is further from the first year tower. Though I don't recommend bothering him unless it's necessary. He isn't the most sociable demon.”

“I…gathered that. Thank you anyway, Ameri-san.”

Iruma wastes no time making an exit, orange eyes lingering on his skull. It isn’t until he’s outside that he feels he can breathe properly again. The conversation leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Convincing himself that he isn't going to die at any given moment may take more time than he wanted to admit. More time than he may even have to allocate.

What a beacon of optimism…

Finding Clara and Azz doesn't take too long. Their rather distinctive noise made for an easy path for Iruma to follow, squabbling (and a few scorch marks) led to quite the scene. Azz has Clara by the waist, stopping her from enthusiastically attempting to capture the floating arrow in a butterfly net. She kicks her legs and swings the tool with reckless abandon, unburdened by Azz and his hold despite his loud proclamations over ‘waiting for Iruma-sama.’ The arrow looping around their heads all the while. The absurdity of it all cracks a smile over Iruma's face and he quickly rejoins the two.

“Sorry I made you guys wait!”

Alice's mood does a rapid one-eighty at the sound of his voice. The pink of his cheeks highlighting tiny scales. “Iruma-sama! It was no trouble at all as you can see!”

Iruma has to muffle a chuckle at that, Azz clearly out of breath. Finally able to let go of the lime of endless energy known as Clara. The trio watch as the arrow takes off once more, careening down a shady, dark cave on the side of Babyls’ floating island. Clara is the first to reach it, and waves back to the boys.

“Iruma-chi! Azu-Azu! Down this way! Come ooooonnn!!!”

He and Azz are more trepidatious, but press on. Staring down into the tunnel, stone steps disappearing into the dark. The sounds of Clara’s slippers echoing against the walls.

“It's underground? A classroom, in a place like this? I wonder how far down we need to go.”

“Can't be worse than the last time I walked blindly into a cave. Unless demons have catacombs too.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing. Come on, Clara's already down there.”

They descend ever deeper. Walking through cave openings that dip out over the edge of Babyls’ ground. Stalagmites and stalactites shaping rock maws against the open sky. Even passing a more open section that appears to be a mock gymnasium. Eventually the rock closes up again, back into the form of sinuous, brick corridors. When they come to another set of stairs, the stale cavern air gives way to squalid rot. A scent that curls his lip. He identifies the source before they come across what must be the school dump site. If there's one thing that's always consistent, it's trash. Waste isn't special just because it was made by demons, and unfortunately garbage heaps are a very familiar scent to Iruma. All things considered, it isn't the worst he's ever smelled, but that doesn't stop him from picking up the pace.

“Wowie, it just keeps going!”

“Reminds me of the London underground strangely enough. Never liked trains…”

“What’s a London, Iruma-chi?”

He really needs to remember there's other people around him. Talking to yourself has a different energy when other people hear you. 

“Hey, it looks like the arrow stops here.”

 And so it did, puffing into a cloud of luminous dust. Just behind the sparkles, stands a grand, old door. The wood warped and hinges rusted. A crooked class marker on its peak that hasn’t seen use in ages. Half covered by a pasted, newer sticker that read ‘danger’ in black ink. Everything about it had haunted house levels of eerie, almost laughably so. From the lack of available lighting to the snake headed handles. Could this really be a classroom? Iruma feels the hair on his neck rise the closer he gets to the door. That years old niggling whisper rising up like a rash. He grabs the handle and gives it a light push. With little fanfare, it opens. Nothing else. 

Huh.

“It opened? I guess this really is our–”

“CHARGE!”

Falling on his face soon becomes the least of his worries as his crisis evasion kicks in. Shoved into the fire of dozens of blades, maces and even plain sharpened sticks. Pile driving into the floor and wedging into the chalkboard while they fail to meet flesh. By the time it's over his nails dig splinters into wood, tail lashing where he crouches on one of the desks. The room is too high up to make a safe exit through the windows, but the doors are still open. He could still make it out if he can–

“Well done!”

“Devi ya’ move fast!”

“I'd love to see that again!”

“Hardship makes a man.”

“You're amazing, Iruma-chi!”

Whiplash is enough to stall his retreat. Staring dumbfounded at the group of demons who just tried to dice him while they clapped and sung his praise. The Misfit Class. His new classmates. Demons he'll be around every day for the foreseeable future. The hammered beating of Iruma's heart muffled their voices while he pried his nails from the table. Re-securing his tail knot.

 “But I was wrong! There goes my allowance…” 

“Win some, lose some ma’ man. Now fork it over.”

“Everyone line up for the winnings!”

Azz is the first to regain his sense. Aiding Iruma back onto his feet and fuming at the nerve of the demons before him. Iruma could already smell the ash on his palms.

“What in devil’s name is going on here?!” 

A raven haired boy puts his hands up, showing off the rings Iruma remembers from Camu Camu’s notepad. “Hey now hothead, don't getcha’ tail in a twist! It's just a bit of fun.”

“We've been betting on everyone.” A blonde boy adds. He thinks he recognized this demon too, but just doesn't know from where. “We wanted to see how many would hit him. But hey! You're the first one to dodge em’ all.”

Ring man snickers. “You shoulda’ seen Camui’s run.” 

“Any gentleman would forfeit his pride to protect a lady!”

“Is getting frozen solid protection?”

While the boys bicker, a demoness with a very personalized girl’s uniform continues where they left off. Waving as if she didn’t participate in his near skewering.

“The bets have been pretty even. All of us got hit by at least two. Though we did have someone who caught them all~”

Azz raises a brow. “Caught them?”

“Indeed!”

A hulking mass of muscle stomps up to the front of class. The rumble kicking up dust that accentuates his entrance. For each weapon sticking into the floor, there was one piercing through his skin. Swords and axes carried around like burs to cloth. Sticking out further than his quill-like blonde hair.

‘Oh he caught them alright.’

Though he wasn't bleeding (somehow,) a red, torn capelet drapes on his shirtless back. Acting as the only spot of colour against his black boots, jeans and spear-head tail. Effortlessly, he flexes his muscles, each weapon shooting off to lodge itself somewhere else in the room. He catches a sword by the blade and jabs a clawed thumb to his chest.

“I, Sabnock Sabro, would never do something so cowardly as dodge! I am the only one in this school suited to become demon king!”

“Demon…king?” 

Suppose he should've guessed that demons had a ruler of some sort. Everywhere he's been so far as had a medieval vibe to it, why not have a monarchy to match? But if there's a king, what are the Thirteen Crowns for? Sullivan phrases it like they were really important people, and everyone treats him way better than just a headmaster. Is it like a democracy? Why would you need a king then? Unless they're the same thing. He never learned much about politics. Wait, does that mean there are thirteen kings? Is Sullivan a king? Maybe he should take another look into Sullivan's library.

…He's distracted again, isn't he? With luck, Sabnock was too invested in his king speech to notice Iruma's head in the clouds. 

“–and the demon king is the most powerful of all demons! Their ruler!”

Clara leans over Iruma's shoulder, seemingly just as preoccupied as he was. “He's huge. Like a mountain! How tall do you think he is, Iruma-chi?”

“And the next demon king shall be me!”

“...has to be over six feet, right?”

“In order to accomplish my ambition, I must climb the ranks!”

“Oooh cuz’ his hair’s all pointy-pokey, yeah. Wanna’ find out?”

The shattering of steel redirects his attention, Sabnock reducing the sword in his hand to pieces purely for show. “Therefore, I despise anyone who might rank higher than me!”

“That's why you picked a fight with a teacher and ended up in this class.” Tail guy says. 

“Yeah, you even made the school paper.” 

Rings holds up the paper in question to which Sabnock gives a boisterous laugh. It shows an article with a little picture of Sabnock on top. He's holding an axe high over his head, with a teacher Iruma barely recognized laying on the ground. There's also an unfocused blur above Sabnock. A fluffy blur with blue hair. 

Oh.

“I figured defeating a teacher was the quickest way to climb the ranks. Strength is everything! Which is why…” The hand big enough to crush his head now points inches from his nose. “I demand a proper duel! Thou shalt kneel before the future Yodh once it is through!”

Iruma draws back, looking from Azz to Clara. Sabnock kept his gaze locked.

“M-me?”

“Of course! Buer-sensei was all too happy to tell me what happened after our fight. To think thou took me unaware!”

“I didn't– okay, no, technically I did…I swear I didn't do it on purpose–” 

“I admit, honour student, your stature is far from my presumptions. To take me down, nay, to have me confined to the infirmary–”

“What?!”

“–I had envisioned a foe of greater proportion. But! Now having felt the nature of your strength, I have no intention of holding back!”

“S-Sabnock-san I d-don't want to fight!”

“Huh?! Why not?!” Genuine confusion contorted his face. “All demons strive for higher rank! What kind of demon are you?!”

‘I’m not!!!’

It seems like nothing he said could persuade the devil. Even silence stoked his flames as his vexation morphs into a wicked grin. “Oh…I see!”

“Your mind games are admirable! Playing meek to bend the wills of battle!”

‘What the fuck is wrong with this guy?! Why can't anyone just believe what I'm saying?!’

He stands to full height, biting down on a metal tag from around his neck. “Cunning tactics, but I will not be swayed!”

The war axe from the newspaper sparks into his hand from thin air, the rest of class already placing bets on their soon-to-be brawl. Before Iruma could dig his grave deeper, he’s shielded by Azz.

“That's enough disrespect out of you, Sabnock.”

“Ah, Asmodeus. Top of the class. I heard you summoned a Gorgon Snake as your familiar.”

“Indeed I did.”

“Well, I summoned a Kelbie! It has more legs than yours, so it wins!” Sabro chuckles.

“And just what absurd kind of reasoning is that?!”

“Of course, the moment you became the honour student’s slave, you were no longer qualified to be my rival. Perhaps if you summoned a menagerie like your master, you would still have a fighting chance. Sorry about that.”

Azz couldn't be more slighted if he tried. His expression edging on when he and Iruma first met. “Who even wants a title like that?! And I am not Iruma-sama’s slave, I am his ally!”

“Oh? Just how hard did he hit your head with that suplex? Demons don't make comrades out of their lessers.”

“Is that so? Would a ‘lesser demon' be worthy of this?!”

With all the pride and flare one can muster, Alice pulls back his sleeve. Sitting beneath is a band of blue blossoms. Iruma's flower crown snuggly hugging Azz’s wrist. He wondered what Azz had done with it. The flowers themselves being smaller, the crown still intact. It didn’t look like he’d modified it. More like he shrunk it down to size. While everyone else in class is either confused or unimpressed, it seems to have the desired effect on Sabnock and another demon with a lion head. Sabro's axe fading into sparks as his tag falls from his mouth.

“T-those are–?!”

“What’s the matter, Sabnock? Cat got your tongue? Or are you simply incapable of pronouncing ‘Crown-Coils?’” Alice mocks.

“Where– where in–?!”

“Was I not clear enough for you, ignorant cur? Only the magnificent Iruma-sama could bestow such a gift upon me!”

“Ooooh, ooh, I have pretty flowers too!”

“....and stupid Valac.” 

Iruma stands with his head in his hands, immobilized by embarrassment as the class descends into madness. Between Sabnock’s and Azz’s war of attrition, the Misfits bringing up their own commotion over the maybe not just normal flowers (which is doing a number on his mental state already,) and ghost gnawing on every person into the room, he’s fighting every neuron in his body that wants to run. Throttled by noise and scents and sharp objects, holed up underground where his body could be added to the trash heap down the hall. So when the door trap launches again, he's already across the room.

“Silence!”

The door bashes against the stone wall. Its opposite clanging with weaponry deflected by a barrier. Naberius (because of course it was Naberius) standing irked as ever in the doorway.

“I can hear you from across the hall, you imbeciles. Can’t you be quiet?”

“Eggie-sensei! You teach this class?”

“Thanks to you lot, yes.” He grumbles. “I was indisposed by a certain someone and in my absence was appointed to this pathetic class.”

Iruma can’t make eye contact. Glued to the floor while everyone makes their way to a seat. Their new teacher all but shoves passed Azz and Sabnock, summoning a black binder to his hand. “I'm taking roll. Speak only when spoken to.”

“Agares Picero.”

The demon resting on a cloud(?) yawns in response. 

“Asmodeus Alice.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Allocer Schneider.”

“I am a thinking reed.”

“Andro M. Jazz.”

“Howdy.”

“Ix Elizabetta.”

“Here.”

“Valac Clara.”

Clara stands on her seat, arms high and flailing. “I’m here, Eggie-sensei!”

“Stop calling me that. Caim Camui...”

Naberius sneers at the owl demon, the boy making a remarkably discomforting face at Elizabetta. “Are you not here, Caim Camui?”

“H-here!”

“...Gaap Goemon.”

“I am here.”

“Crocell Kerori.”

“Here…”

“Shax Lied.”

“Here. Here, here!”

The blatantly gaming student deepens the crease of Nabeerius’ brow, but he continues without remark.

“Sabnock Sabro.”

“Indeed!”

“Purson Soi.”

He looks in the direction of a lavender haired boy Iruma hadn’t noticed. He looks out the window without a word, and while Naberius narrows his eyes, he does make a tick mark on the roll form.

“And Iruma.”

“He–”   “Now, let us begin class.”

The binder slams hard against the podium as Naberius instructs them all. “All of you, outside. You idiotic fools will be determining your ranks.”

Not one to wait and more than likely fed up, Naberius storms out. All of them make their way back through the tunnels, entering an open side cave with a colourful, circus-like pair of tents at the back. Misfits forced to speed walk in order to not be left behind. The sliding doors to the tents clipping Goemon’s silver hair in his haste.  

“The first lesson is to race to the flag at the end of a valley. Your ranks will be determined by the familiar summoning exam conducted previously, along with the results of this race.” Naberius explains.

The tent doesn’t change, but Iruma feels his stomach drop. As if flung high into the air. With a light shake, the feeling stops, and the doors open to reveal a different cliffside entirely. The platform was just a little smaller than Babyls’ garden. Floating miles above sharp, mountainous rocks that stretch into the mist. Flanked by jagged peaks at all sides, the horizon blocked by their canyon walls. There was nothing but colourless, barren massif and the distant calls of demon birds.

Their professor steps out onto the rocks and stands attentive by a slim, iron fence and gate. Iruma kept a wide berth between himself and the edge, knowing well not to trust a railing that had been against the elements for God knows how long. He shifts around while the rest of his classmates gander at the scenery, unfazed by potential dangers. Just being up this high brought back some uncomfortable memories. Days in Annapurna and the Dolomites. Climbing equipment no cheaper than a pack of cigarettes and bottled water. Iruma shudders, brushing against Clara.

How are they supposed to race here?

“The goal is the flag that sits atop a summit far beyond this valley. I will now explain the course. Do not interrupt.”

In a plume of smoke, another bedazzled guide screen like the one from the familiar hall pops in with a jingle. High, squeaky voice reciting their assignment in depth.

“Welcome to your ranking test! I’ll explain the routes!”

“This one is a longer trek, but students can take a chill, relaxing trip through Saezuri Valley!”

“And then, for those who’d like the rough and tumble, there’s the Kanakiri Valley course! There are lots of dangers and traps along the way! So beware of countless mountains and demon birds that are trying to protect their nests!”

At this rate, Iruma kind of wants to turn off the screen himself. Not because he was bothered by it– he was never one to turn down important context– but because the face Naberius was making made him feel twice as unsafe as usual. He tugs on Clara's pocket to guide her toward Azz, standing between the two. She didn't seem to mind.

“Kanakiri Valley is shorter, but perilous, and Saezuri Valley is simple, but time consuming. Essentially, this practice is about risk and reward.“

Iruma nods, coaxing ghost away from where it was munching on Azz’s hand. “Y-yeah. Looks like it.”

“Okie dokie! If everyone’s ready, let’s g–!” 

Yet again the screen is crushed by the professor. Boots sure to grind their heels into the machine before traipsing over to the precipice of their little island. He addresses the class himself once more, looking at least a modicum less irritated. “That’s all for your explanation.”

“Ha ha ha! It’s obvious that Kanakiri Valley is the way to go! Surefire way to reach the goal in style and speed–”

“Saezuri Valley will be the only option this year.”

Sabnock turns sour immediately, sputtering at the mere notion he should take a safer route. “Hold it! Why?!”

“For some reason, the Guardian of Kanakiri Valley has been moody in recent days.”

“Guardian?”

“An enormous magical beast that rules over Kanakiri Valley and has deemed the area its territory.” Naberius shoots them all a glare. “That’s why no one may enter. We cannot guarantee your safety if you were to come across it. Babyls has dubbed the route off limits until its behaviour subsides.”

“Ridiculous! I’m going through Kanakiri! Otherwise there’s no point!”

“Who cares?!” With a growl and snap, the gates on the platform swing open. A sheer drop filled with foreboding.

Wait.

“All of you, get ready.”

Wait a minute.

Sabnock goes first, unfurling two massive black wings from his back. Alice is next. The rest follow suit. Iruma looks around for anything. A set of stairs. A ladder. 

There's no way down.

“We will now begin the flying race.”

Flying race.

A flying race.

“And…begin!”

Chapter Text

 The Misfits take off, hurtling into the sky like a bat out of hell. Dust bellows off the rocks, the force of their departure sliding the ground beneath Iruma's shoes. Try as he might, he gets pushed with the current. The precipice nearing through squinted eyes. 

Too fast to stop the momentum, he aims for the gate. Hooking his arm through one of the doors with an accompanying ‘pop’ through his elbow. Old foundations loudly protest to the weight. A resounding clangour of metal against stone as one of the rusted hinges is lurched free of its binds. The door bends forward, creaking the rusted bars as he sways with aftershocks. Ghost scampers up the bars and coils itself around where the hinge once connected. Groans of metal assuring him of their faulty support. Now he just needs it to hold. Slowly, Iruma starts to climb. The immediate want for solid ground screams at him to go faster, to hurry up before he goes crashing down, but the ache in his arm says otherwise. A tenderness spreading from the crook of his elbow up to the shoulder. Hovering over each movement he makes. He makes a pitiful shuffle’s worth of progress when the gate seems to pull itself back into position. His relief is short lived, dissolving under a gruff tone.

“What the hell are you still doing here?”

Kalego quirks an eyebrow at the blue brat. Much slower start than the rest of the idiots, and based on the warp in the iron, the cause of the now broken fence. He taps his foot on the ground and waits for him to hurry up and fly, however it seems the kid would be faster to recite Balam's theory of mythology. On expression alone, the message Sullivan sent must be true. Staring at his petrified eyes and rereading the note in his head, the words’ previous farcical gain a fraction of truth.

‘I have a special request, Kalego-kun! See, my precious grandson has a horrible fear of heights. Shocking I know! It’s quite the sensitive subject, and I trust you can keep it on the down low (no, that's not a request.) That said, I worry about him! Do be a dear and make sure he's alright during the flying race, okay? Let him sit this one out! Thank you! Signed, Sullivan~’

A demon afraid of heights? Ridiculous. When Dali mentioned Iruma was actually Sullivan's grandson after his sick leave, he was far from believing. For both obvious biological reasons, and the blatant paper-thin story the old codger put together. Now that he sees it though, it makes sense. The only demon virtually capable of sheltering another so terribly that they develop a fear of heights with the ability to fly, had to be the Chair-demon. Kalego thinks that has to be some kind of abuse. It's flying for Satan's sake! Even aquatic and ground-dwelling demons could manage a basic glide, fledglings releasing their wings before they’re capable of first steps. It was a necessity. Imperative to all demons. It is why Babyls includes the flying race as a mandatory exam. As a teacher, it would be the greatest shame to allow a student to skip an integral part of the Rank Owl’s deductions. Especially over something as baseless as fear.

On a less professional level, Kalego also just doesn't have the patience for this.

“Get going.”

“I CAN'T FLY!” The words all but spill over his lips. His eyes wide and shaking. “I-I can't– I physically can't fly! I don't–”

Kalego rubs his temple, choosing to cast ‘fractal’ on the fence rather than hold it himself due to the clearly overactive imp before him. Just how stunted has Sullivan made him?

“The Chair-demon has made me aware of your… condition.”

“He– he did?”

“Yes. And it changes nothing.”

“Wa-wait, wha– Naberius-sensei I–”

“You will not be coddled at this institution, fool.” He stands where rock meets sky, blocking the boy from solid ground. “The Netherworld is a dangerous place, it won't wait for you to catch your breath. You must overcome it. Now get going.”

Dry static ripples on his skin as he weaves magic into the rickety rails, mending the warped hinge. Stupidly, despite the obvious gestures and warnings, the brat holds firm. His choice. 

Buzzing mana frizzles along the bars, reforming their shape. A few cracks and a singed scent later, the kid drops like a stone into the mist. Admittedly, a satisfying outcome. With the gate fixed and the Misfits on route, Kalego makes his way back to the transfer tent. One warp later and he stands at the finish line. Cerberus yapping all the way.

“Now, then…”

He snaps his claws, a devimonitor and chair prepped for his evaluations. Kalego takes his seat and receives complimentary Hell Grey Tea, preparing for disappointment as he flicks on the transmission screen. 

‘Yaaaaaaaaawwwn… the finish is so far…at least it’s quiet.” 

And there’s the disappointment now. 

The devicams reveal the true apathy of the idiots he’s cursed with teaching. The speed of their take off clearly for show. Each one bumbling through the motions as if they weren't wasting both his and their own time with lamentable performance. Such a pitiful display that they might as well have been walking. The first group on the cameras consisted of Lied, Camui, and Agares, the three of which were gliding at the back of the pack. Ix and Kerori are also within view, though fly at a slightly more sensible pace ahead. Purson’s detection warding conceals the bulk of his appearance, though he too is captured on screen in one or two frames.

Agares lay unconscious on his makeshift bedding, letting its inherent levitation ability do the heavy lifting while he mainly utilizes his wings for steering. Waking in brief moments to adjust his eye cover or wipe drool from his lip. Lied lounges to his side. ‘Flying’ in only the strictest definition as he toys with a handheld video game. Kalego is almost surprised as Shax shows his ability to go at a reasonable– if not acceptable– racing pace when his precious device goes into free fall. Inadvertently proving to Kalego that this palaver of weak flight concerns sloth and not capability. Much to his immense chagrin, Lied catches it before it shatters on the stones. Pity.

 As he writes critiques, Camui swoops towards a bed of wild Ainedrags, gathering a bouquet and demonstrating that he too can competently fly when driven. Kalego grades down his performance on lethargy and the nauseating attempt at wooing his female classmates. He at least gets a sense of schadenfreude from the bird’s subsequent kick to the teeth by Elizabetta. Kerori and Ix present their own negligence on the task at hand as they chat over the scenery and newest Dem-dol trends, though for the assault on Kamui he’s tempted to give them lighter judgement. Only tempted, mind you. Providing entertainment doesn’t make them deserving of praise. Last on the camera lens is Purson. He leads the pack of others mentioned, though still finds himself at the quarter-way point with a dismal time check. However, given his clan’s genetic predisposition for short wingspans, he marks down his placement with a less austere. It may have something to do with the headphones Kalego confiscated before the test, but out of the first batch, he appears to be trying the most. Not that it’s difficult to pull off. 

‘Six of thirteen that far behind…it’ll be a miracle if we leave before sundown.’

With a tsk and a grumble, he scribbles useless notes on their progress. Not that any of them will strive for self-betterment. Tapping on his clipboard, he flicks to cam two.

Positioned near the halfway mark of Saezuri Valley, the devimonitor changes to the figures of Allocer, Goemon, and Andro. This bunch sticks together, taking after the demonesses by making conversation as if they weren’t in the middle of a bloody exam. Forbearance waned during their useless talk. Voices of nonchalance droning on and on through the devicams. He loses it when Jazz snatches a Saezuri’s egg from its nest. Watching with twitching eye as the namesake of the valley swarms the three nuisances in retaliation. Tiny brown birds seeking recompense.

“I’m surrounded by idiots.”

He grabs the screen. “Every single one of you! No one is taking this seriously!”

Resignation was his preferred method of coping in circumstances such as these. Being informed he was not only to instruct the most intolerable students of the school, but to be designated as their homeroom teacher– in essence, to be landed teaching them almost exclusively– was grating away at his very being. They reeked of recalcitrance, temerity and a demonstrative level of ignorance. A full classroom of the people he hated most. Only the first lesson with these dunderheads and the resignation that got him through horrors the likes of that infernal hellcat was dipping dangerously into exasperation. The more he thought, the more he considered the exact amount of time he had to spend associating with these dolts, the more despondent he became.

Cerberus must share his frustrations because the hound hasn't piped down since the race’s start. His loyal companion howling through the confines of his mind. Perhaps their ire is increasing his own. They’ve never been this loud.

“One of you, at least one, has to be decent!”

After releasing the shaken devimonitor, the camera flips to the third station. Sitting three-quarters to the finish, it scans the empty air.

“This is devimonitor three. No one has reached th–”

The devicam interrupts itself with a screech as it's pushed aside by a fast flying, pink object. The trail leads to Asmodeus Alice, breezing through the valley with ease and indifference. He comes to a field of Needlenaive Cacti, their buds blossoming in his presence. Pins of steel-sharp prickles launching at his wings. Alice dodges with a single flap and hovers in their midst.

“I suppose I can't just avoid them.” He mutters. His flight begins anew as a familiar seal glows pink across his palm. “Gorgon Snake! Burn them to the ground!”

His Gorgon Snake forms from the blaze and heeds the word of its master. An orange light spreads up through the scales of its stomach. With a breath, the serpent spews flame across the valley, burnt cacti lining the path for Asmodeus to fly uninterrupted. He smiles at the carnage as his familiar’s fire dies down. The remaining plants closing back up in the face of a more destructive foe. Alice gently pats the snake on the muzzle.

“Well done. Such a shame Iruma-sama wasn't here to see us…” 

With every beat of his wings, Alice can't help but steal a glance behind himself. Each time he expects to see another, or perhaps even his Iruma-sama, but each time he's left alone. The valley walls further and further away.

“I didn't see Iruma-sama take off…to think I missed his wings!” He mopes, toying with the flowers on his cuff. “He was at the back of the line. Perhaps he got a late start.”

He sighs, swerving through the merger obstacles in his way. Saezuri Valley truly was turning out to be the tame choice. And yet no one has caught up to him…if he was fast enough, he could turn around to fetch him…would he even want that? Would he be offended by his worry, mistake his concerns for pity? That wouldn't do…oh, but what he would give to race with Iruma-sama.

“You're such a worry-wort Azu-Azu, Iruma-chi’s fiiiiine! It's Iruma-chi, remember? He'll get through it.”

“Hmm. You're right. Iruma-sama is more than capable. How foolish of me.”

“...”

“...”

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING, VALAC?!”

Stupid Valac thinks for a moment. One hand to her chin and the other keeping her flower crown on her head. “I hitched a ride! I guess it would beeeeeee…at the start! I was already on your back! And then…”

“...”

“...”

“Azu-Azu, how'd your flowers get so small?”

“Don't get bored of your own story!”

About to throw the mooch off his back, a burst of wind has him reorienting his flight path. A streak of purple and yellow tearing across the sky. Clara, ever the careless, just about lets the gust do away with Iruma-sama’s gift! In a show of fealty to his ally’s hard work, Alice reluctantly casts ‘transmogrify’ on the band, enlarging it to circle Valac’s horn and then shrinking it tight to the base of the bone. She won’t be able to lose it now, though he wishes she would ensure that herself. Iruma-sama would be quite hurt should she mistreat it.

He stares back at the receding glow, eyes narrowing on a classmate with sharp, blonde hair.  

“Sabnock? That direction is –GAHK”

He fumes at the pest with a death grip on his coat, having to loosen his collar to prevent choking on his own clothes. Clara no longer sits on his back, but instead is wrapped up in a jungle’s worth of vines.

“Hey Azu-Azu! It's all tangley back here!”

“That's your problem! Unhand me Valac! And while you're at it, go fly with your own wings!”

Trapped by the claws of a needy demoness, the bolt of gold trails further into the distance. Ruin and wreckage left in its wake.

Sabnock bombs through Kanakiri like Derkila himself lay on his tail. Smashing through rock, plant and beast alike on his route. Wind whips past his face, the cold shredding thin slices across his bare skin. His eyes sting, his wings twinge, yet his fangs flash in a wide (some may say deranged) grin.

‘Just as I thought, my way is the best way! Kanakiri is the hardest path. One trod by only the greatest of demons and devils! Just as it should be!’

A tumbling landslide bounds his way, boulders the size of gargoyles plummeting to the earth. One veers from the rest, sending Sabro into its course of destruction. He rears back, and with a swift kick, the boulder crumbles into thousands. Plain rubble scattering like hail against his wings.

‘I’m making record time! I’ll surely finish first! And this is only the beginning.’

Sabnock pushes more power to his wings, launching himself deeper into the fray as a knight is to battle. Piercing through root and stem as the force of his flight shreds into the aged, worn wilds of Kanakiri.

‘I’ll win this race and raise my rank. I’ll place twice as high as the others by proving my strength in this valley. ‘Kanakiri Guardian?’ ‘Leader of the Valley?’ They can piss right off!’

He latches onto a cliff face, his wings tiring from the strain. Still, he presses onward, climbing the mountain wall until its twig dusted peak. If he were to stop, he may just think this looked like a nest.

‘Crossing this valley…is the first step towards the king!’

Haughty bellows of laughter reach far and wide across the valley as Sabro plunges ever further into danger. Laughter almost as shrieking as the devimonitor alarm, which screams and squeals at the finish line.

“Danger! Danger! Intruder detected! There’s a trespasser in Kanakiri Valley!!!”

“Sabnock…I should’ve known.”  Kalego shuts down the alarm, its squeaky pitch ringing in his ears. Really, why does he bother?

He slumps back into his seat, a migraine threatening to wring out what’s left of his tolerance. “Even compared to the rest, he’s in an idiot class of his own. And here I thought there'd be two semi-competent demons in this class. Who am I kidding? They're all useless fops...”

Despite what many may (correctly) think about him plotting student downfall, they are only half right. Kalego gives every student and staff member the same amount of hell he receives. His judgement, while extraordinarily petty, is not based on sole malice. At least, not always. He may wish for their downfall, but not at the expense of their lives. Though times may have improved since the Origins, the percentage of minors lost to Netherworld dangers is still a very real statistic. Even in the Saezuri Valley, the possibility of injury or fatality is not negligible. As such, he has particular instructions. It is far from desired, but should the situation arise, his job is to protect the ones in direct vicinity. He is to stay in place until a majority is secured, from there he can either, A, leave, or B, wait for the missing demon to reappear. It operates under the concept that, if they haven’t reached you, they’re already gone. That is why there are restrictions in place. That is why he announced the warnings.

 In this case, he has tabs on the other Misfits. Knows where they are on the route, and how long it will take them to reach the finish. If he were to go and search for Sabnock, that would leave twelve of the thirteen children on their own. In his absence, he could lose more or perhaps all of his students in exchange for the chance of saving one. Given the situation with the Guardian, leaving is inadvisable.

“There’s one of you every year. Prideful fool.”

 He can’t interfere with the race rankings, so he can’t tell the students to hurry up, but if Sabnock is lucky the rest of his classmates will reach the end in time for Kalego to search for him. He may just make it with a few broken bones. If he survives, maybe it will provide a lasting lesson on how to heed warnings. With a wave of his hand, the name ‘Sabnock Sabro’ is removed from his paper.

“On the bright side, I have one less moron to babysit. Now where’s that other one…”

Kalego flicks to each devimonitor on route. A spot of blue hair absent from each one. He even checks the footage from Kanakiri. Still he sees nothing. Hm. He sends a devicam back to the starting platform. It weaves and winds its way down Saezuri Valley, scouring rock faces and plant mouths all the way along. Through the mist and smog, there isn’t a brat in sight. However, they do find something else. 

Carcasses. Fresh ones at that. Demon crows bled of life with unseeing eyes lay still on ledges and ground. Some, still twitching, merely stare into nothingness. Drained. 

It’s unnatural, to say the least, each body posed with no injury or wound spare the bruises from a long fall. Free of claw marks, bites, or even missing feathers. It’s as if they simply. Stopped. Fell from the sky. It isn’t long before the camera is following a trail. A dotted line of the dead leading right back to the start of the race. The closer to the platform, the more closely placed the bodies are found until a pile of crows come across the screen. Just below the beginning platform. They’re worse than the others. Feathers dropped or unkempt, eyelids swollen shut. They’re smaller too, from behemoths that dwarf Shichiro’s bulk, to just shy of Kalego’s own height. It is only with this revelation that Kalego realizes they’ve been getting smaller the longer they followed the trail. Eerie scene aside, the devicam picks up nothing more. No ahoge. No blue. No demon. 

“Guess the monitors lost sight of him…”

He forcefully shakes the phenomenon from his psyche, recalling the devicam and switching the feed back to the other racers.

 Given the wrath of a certain butler, he does admit that not seeing a mangled demon amongst the avians is a weight off his shoulders. Suppose the runt can fly through his fear. At least, given the fact he had yet to see him, that's the conclusion he draws. Though a traitorous part of him does wonder if a familiar would feel the severed connection between their summoner. A thought that he rightfully and swiftly denies. Cerberus on the other hand, seems to grow in unease. Manifesting itself to scrape and paw at the rocks. With their caterwaul quieted, Kalego lets them mull about. Thinking that, maybe, some fresh air will help calm whatever is making them so irritable. Besides, there’s no harm in it. Cerberus can’t go far without Kalego anyhow. However, it didn't answer his question. Just where was the Chair-demon’s grandson? 

Not a blotch of mush on the rocks, to Iruma's surprise. Though dangling hundreds of feet above ground by the beak of a gigantic demon crow leaves something to be desired. But let's back up a bit.

Iruma, quite literally shocked, plummets off the edge of the gate. Shadow follows soon after though in the face of certain doom it does little to calm his nerves. For as fast as he falls, birds surround him faster. A flock of the feathered things that croak and cry from across the gorge, swooping down to catch a tasty morsel. The first beak connects with a yank, his sore arm pulled into a study lock. He yelps as a twisting pressure squeezes the joint. Another bites down on his leg, a hard dent on his calf soon followed by a third crow’s own who snags the end of his tail out from the hem of his shirt. The two pulling away from each other and the first. Iruma thrashes against their might, thankful that their priorities are set on selfishness and not splitting him open. He manages to get a handhold on the mouth that holds his arm, cutting his fingertips to try and pry himself free.

But, suddenly, it doesn't seem to matter.

There isn't a taste, exactly. Like drinking water. But the feeling is there. He's surprised at its return. The flood of energy sinking down into his core. A memory of a memory that fills his want and hunger. It's enough to make time still, to grace him with a pause that he knows isn't truly there. Iruma watches as their feathers dull. Their voices silence. Shadow drinking from their limbs and eyes. One by one the crows release. Cracking, ripping, and all manner of squelchy sounds erupting from their mouths. Though there's more than enough in the flock to take their place, the sight of these monsters– these demons– contorted and bent, smushed down into a body far smaller than themselves left shivers down his spine. Even as their taste lines his stomach. The now average-sized birds fall from the sky, feathers floating in their afterimage. 

A new set wrangles in their place only to follow those before. An almost…serene disconnect. The difference between watching a movie and acting in one. Trapped in what had to be a farce nothingness. A true neutral. Plastic, and artificial. Bundled in the light that should be comforting– that was always comforting before– was instead just there. No sugary sweet, no citrus or spice. Not even warm. Just happening. Pleasant in the same way a hospital waiting room can be; a comfort that you can be helped, but in a disturbing, sterile space. Nebulous. Unsatisfying. 

To be honest, that was scarier than being eaten. Why wasn't it the same? Was it something else? He wanted to act. He wanted to struggle. Hell, he's still airborne! He should be doing something. Instead there's nothing. Just a presence.

 By the time the feeling fades one crow remains. The victor, he supposed, carrying him across the valley along the blowing winds. Iruma caught yet again by the scruff. Reality crawling back.

Which brings us up to now. For as deeply wrong as whatever that was, it did have a leg up to his current options. If he were to fall now, or even make that floaty magic feeling come back, there's no other birds in sight. And a long. Long way down. So getting dropped isn't the best for him. At the same time, being eaten isn't on his bucket list, and frankly there's only so many reasons why a bird would fly off with something in its gob. Maybe the crows did have a hand in what made him all tingly. A cruel choice to numb the pain and relax their prey before returning normalcy through missing limbs and digestion. Maybe Naberius’ just zapped his brain in the wrong way and he's all mush up there. 

At least ghost is having a good time.

The little– well, less little now– spirit swings happily back and forth. A makeshift hammock that hangs from Iruma’s now unwound tail made of its own. Shadowed mass now pooled and expanded, their scampering size filled out. Scratchy hand-drawn form substantiated into one that Iruma could physically touch rather than the ominous aura of their normal weight. A weird texture of something between hedgehog spines, lizard belly scales, and human hair. Since its lunch (if you can call what he saw ‘eating’) it’s been nothing but contented croons and clicks. Juxtapose to when this whole journey started; ears back and snarling, sinking teeth before asking questions. He must have missed something crucial, some imperative information, because they gave no signs of stopping with the crow he hangs from now. One look around the valley and it’s like a switch flipped. Not an ounce of malice in them as they happily went back to resting. Whether it’s his or the fowl’s lucky day is still up in the air (he mentally slaps himself. He shouldn’t be thinking about puns right now.) Without his brain fog, and with a vast expanse of nothing to keep him occupied, it’s a detail he keeps going back to. On replay in his brain.

Is there something special about this valley? Did ghost know where the bird was taking them? Or is it simpler than that, like a sort of ‘I can’t be bothered’ mentality? He leans toward the former, trying to be unbiased despite his reservations on blind trust. Animals don’t do turnarounds like that, switching off defences in the blink of an eye. Unless they’re certain they’re safe. At least that’s what he’s learned. But how would they know when he doesn’t? He’s never been here before, and they’ve been attached at the hip for weeks now. Was it before they met, then? He swears he only saw them appear after that night in his den. He could be wrong. Maybe they are a random forest dweller, and Iruma was just lucky to stumble into them. Though, while he may not know why, he has a feeling that isn’t right either. Guess he sort of put discovering the reason for their lingering on the back-burner. Blindsided by having someone there at all.

“You’d…you would tell me if I was going to die, right? To, um, t-to a huge bird? That may or may not be taking us to an unknown location? You’d let me know, yeah?”

The shadow stares up at him, supplying a blink.

“...not sure what I expected there, ha ha. Sorry about the rambling…”

They blink again, still silent. After a breeze, they unfasten themselves from his tail, climbing up his side over and around to curl on his shoulders. With their newfound heft they lay almost like a scarf, a padding around the bare elements. They’re warm. He leans into their side in a comfortable quiet. It isn’t as big or as heavy as his pelt, but he’s soothed nonetheless. Suppose if he does die today, he at least made one official friend in his life. Has to count for something. In his heart, Azz and Clara count too.

His moment of peace is near instantly shattered by a deafening screech. One so abrupt that the crow all but tosses Iruma to escape. With scream Iruma crashes to the ground below. His back slamming on, luckily, ground that was softer than the rocks around him. Winded and stiff, it takes a good deal to get the air back into his lungs. Ghost seems unharmed, though stares intently at the space behind him. They aren’t spooked, at least as far as he can tell, so Iruma takes it as a good enough sign. He makes it back onto his legs with a new crick in his tail, able to take in his surroundings. The material he sits on is placed and purposeful. Lichen, moss, grass and leaves curved in a bowl shape. Fluff and what looks to be threaded silk of some kind lining the inner walls. Anyone could tell it was a nest. Iruma himself made a few in his time (they were actually more comfortable than the tents he’d sometimes come across) but the nature of its construction wasn’t what he cared about. This nest was big. And if there’s a nest, there’s bound to be something in it. 

Something with the mass to cast a gargantuan, looming shadow. 

Turning around, Iruma comes face to feathers with a bird ten times the size of a bus. Its coat of downy fluff does nothing to dampen its fear factor, pure white plumage accentuating its monstrous scale against the rocky scenery. Crimson marking on its forehead drawing attention to pointed horns and three haunting eyes. With a raucous caw it lunges toward him, but before he can dodge, it falls short. Slumping over. Almost defeated. It screams again, waving its beak in his direction. Though not eager to crowd a wild animal, Iruma doesn’t really have other options, stuck staring at the creature where they lay. More pressingly, the bird doesn’t seem to have any either. With less immediate danger he can see their full figure a little better. Something’s clearly wrong, but he can’t see what. They try to stand again, and shadow trods closer to its area. Where they stop is by its right leg, where the chick keeps a sizeable gash hidden.

“Oh…you’re hurt–” 

The bird interjects with another caw, Iruma now able to hear the pain underneath. He can understand the hesitation. They’re hurt and probably scared, and in their most vulnerable some creature is trying to get all up in their face. He wants to help, but they aren’t going to let him if they think he's a threat. What could he–

An idea in mind, Iruma ruffles around in the nest’s scrap material. Sticks and bone scattered on the bed. He finds a bit of rock with a clean, sharp edge. It’ll do.

Iruma stands slowly with the improvised blade, raising it to show the hurt onlooker. “I can help you. Just watch.”

They don’t get the chance to screech before Iruma grits his teeth and slices the back of his hand. Using their confusion to his advantage he quickly drops the jagged stone and fishes a handkerchief from his pocket. The chick watches as he binds the wound, a light sting dulled by the dressing. He raises his hand back up to make sure they can see. 

“I want to do this to you.” He explains, pointing from his hand to their leg. “Please, let me help you.”

They hold his stare for a beat. Then, extend their leg towards him. Iruma smiles at the go ahead, and bows regardless of how unnecessary it is. “T-thank you!”

Kneeling by the wound, he can see why it was making such a fit. A gouge as deep as his forearm and as long as his leg oozing red that soaks into its bedding.

“Alright, you hold on just a minute. I’ll just–”

As Iruma starts to unbutton his undershirt, a single drop of blood drips into their wound. The flesh begins to hiss. The bead of blood grows, turning from red, to blue, to silver, to white, until it’s the size of the cut. Liquid stretches out like a cloth, spilling from the gash and wrapping around the leg until he could no longer see where the cut started and the leg began. As the light fades, the leg is revealed to not only be healed, but perfectly spotless! Flaked scales and chipped talons looking as spick and span as the day they were hatched. Both the bird and Iruma take turns marvelling at the limb.

‘D-did…was– was that me?! My blood did that?! ’ 

Iruma glances at the wrap on his hand. A dark stain visible from the top layer. He tears off a strip on his uniform and double binds the cut.

‘Human blood can heal demons... No wonder demons want to eat us. I mean, if just a drop can do that…’

He decides that today was not the day for that kind of dread. Figuring out he’s twice as delicious and valuable to a demon’s diet is not something he needs right now. In fact, he may not need anything anymore. Seeing as the bird is standing right over him with a freshly healed leg.

“Look at you already up and about! That’s great! I…um…I suppose you’ll be wanting your meal now…”

Which…well it's a bummer, really. He can’t say if he’d rather be swallowed whole, but supposedly most chicks do that anyway. Hopefully he can make a compelling argument for decapitation. Seeing as he’ll have to choose, Iruma would rather vouch for the option that doesn’t leave suffocation or potentially being boiled alive in stomach acid.

“Please just make it quick, okay? Don’t play with your food…”

The bird responds with light whistles and chirps, nuzzling into his midsection (and almost pushing him over, again this was one huge bird.) With a flick of their head, their beak springs Iruma right over their head and onto their back. Ghost clambering up to meet him.

“Y-you're giving me a ride?”

“CAAWWW!”

“W-well thank you, littl– ahh, b-big guy!"

There is a moment where that feeling creeps back, that draining sensation coiling around himself. He grabs the sore spot on his tail and twists hard, the sudden ache disrupting the sensation. He doesn’t know what the feeling is, but with the track record he has, it makes things pass out, need medical attention, or straight up die. Frankly he doesn't want any of those things to happen to the chick. They’re recovering after all, and they’re about to fly him home! He doesn’t want to hurt them. If it’s really him that’s making those bad things happen. He’d rather not chance it. So with twice the bruises and a new companion, Iruma gets the first voluntary flight of the day. Bumping the number of Misfits engaged with a bird up to two.

Yet as Sabnock crumples before the Kanakiri Guardian, that number seems as if it’ll fall once more.

Chapter Text

“Why do you want to become demon king?”

A query Sabro could recall since manifesting the ambition. The very goal that drove him to where he stands now, battered and bruised at the foot of Kanakiri’s defender.

“So this is the Valley Guardian…what a formidable foe!”

The titan swings back, talons gouging through earth like hot butter. Shockwaves spring shards of debris that nick and delve into the flesh of his back. Many of his weapons lay in pieces where he lands, hilts and shattered metal littering the battlefield. Monuments of his training discarded like trash. The Guardian doesn’t grant him respite, wings shooting down to amass a wall of wind harder than steel. He raises his arms to block but it isn’t enough. The connection sends him crashing into an outcropping of rock, keeping him from plunging into the lava below. Both he and the stone crumble from the impact, Sabro left wheezing on his knees. In every possible sense he’s outmatched. Proven powerless.

Yet he persists.

He forces the pain from his mind and struggles back onto his feet. With a snarl he bites down on the golden tag around his neck. Reserves pushed to the brink as he feels the paltry writhing of mana flow past his hands. Magic zaps into shape. The halberd he holds is far from his best work; gone is the filigree and glamour in exchange for nothing more but a sturdy, sharp tool. In spite of the situation, he hates the sight. It isn’t very befitting of a demon king.  

“At this rate…I may die before I earn the title…”

But why should such a thing matter? Anyone else would run. They would’ve preserved themselves and denied their dreams. Backed away with their tail between their legs, a cowardly show of lacking determination. What makes him different? What drives him so that he stays and fights until his last breath?

His battle cry is piteous before the roaring giant, even as he strikes their limbs with the greatest force he can muster. The Guardian doesn’t even blink.

Fate? A status deemed by his clan, a mission to uphold familial honour?

Sabro charges at the beast again and again, the gleaming chips flashing in lava glow as they’re stripped from his weapon’s blade. Their talons close around the metal, locking it in place. As if lodged in an anvil.

Destiny? Ties of the universe plucked and strung, contorted that he must tread the path unchosen?

Kanakiri itself seems to taunt his every move. Great, craggy summits curved to tower over his life’s fight. Onlookers of his one sided spectacle, a derision most silent as the Guardian tosses the weapon into the air. Sabnock ground and skidding across the dirt from the impact.

Promise? A bond shared between life and death, a final request spoken in whimpering, weakened breath?

“I don’t fight for any of that!!!” He screams, the beast uncaring of the outburst. As it trudges towards him, he has enough energy left to face it. To look death in the eye.

“I want to be demon king because it’s the coolest! It’s why demons are born, to reach their peak! To strive for true coolness! Because the coolest thing for a demon to be is on top of everyone else!”

He can imagine the forge back home. The grating, rhythmic clang of a hammer at work. The hulking wielder mindlessly toying away. Not striving for improvement. Undesiring and plain. Submitting to a joyless, boring, monotonous life because it’s easier to settle than to thrive.

“I will never end up lame like him.”

The Guardian readies another blow.

“I…I have no regrets. I came here chasing what I wanted. I– UNTIL THE END I FOLLOWED MY OWN WILL!”

Claws scrape the sky, diving like a scythe. Despite himself wanting to face it, Sabro can’t help but close his eyes and brace. He feels the wind shake his hair and then–

“Sabnock-san!”

His eyes shoot open to reveal the short blue figure of the honour student. Standing over him, poised to be slaughtered in his place. Before he is swathed in blood, the Guardian halts. Razor tipped talons mere inches from Iruma’s nose. High above them, frantic squawks come from another avian beast. Any prospective king has read through the Netherworld bestiary, but actually seeing the Guardian’s child is another thing altogether.

“Are you alright, Sabnock-san?”

Iruma draws his attention back to the matter at hand. The honour student looks far less concerned with the situation than he does with Sabro’s wounds. He starts shredding up pieces of his student’s blazer, blotting the larger gashes of his arms. Sheer bafflement allows contact with his skin before Sabnock gets himself together. Unknowing of the light red smear on the cloth, or how his other nicks seem to close by themselves.

“What are yo– art thou doing?!”

“Sorry, does it sting? I can–”

“Why are you here?!”

“Oh! Uh w-well I saw you from above and I– I couldn't leave you there…so I jumped down to help.”

‘Above? He went out of his way to…?’

“Regardless, look alive! We don’t know how long the Guardian will be distracted by the child!”

“The Guardian?”

 Iruma seemed to put pieces together in his head, turning away from Sabro to get back on his feet. Whatever he was up to didn’t matter, because now was the perfect opportunity! Sabro gathers what stamina he can to reach for his halberd. His weaponry had proven ineffective so far, but with the mother preoccupied, he could get a good shot at their eyes. Iruma is here for backup as well, surely if he made it through Kanakiri he can provide–

“Excuuussse meee! Guaaaaaarrrdiaaaan!”

“Wha– what are–?!”

 “Your baby’s all better now! Everything’s alright! No wonder you were so upset.”

What the hell is this guy thinking?! Their chance squandered in an instant! The honour student even steps closer to the birds. Sabro would do no such thing. Clutching the halberd over his head. Watching the madman in action.

“There's no need to worry! We aren't gonna' hurt you!” He glances back to Sabro. “...right?”

“Wh–”

“Right?”

Iruma's face hadn’t changed. Head tilted in a polite, conceitless expression. As if he’s known him for years. As if he's asking about the weather. ‘Confidence’ would be a poor descriptor. Those eyes aren't boasting, cunning nor masked. He wasn't pleading for compliance, wasn't forcing his hand. He was asking.

“It'll be fine. Just put it down.”

Reassurances uttered under the glare of a monster. An unfathomable stretch of time that hinged on his judgement. On a whim. Iruma offers a hand, yet still remains patient.

Sabro barely notices as the blade slips from his grip. No more than a hunk of metal on the ground. Iruma faces the Guardian by Sabnock's side, the soft smile never once leaving his face. By his guidance Sabro raises his hands and wills himself to amity. Heart sinking under baleful eyes, helpless as massive shadow trembles the earth. But then…

It bows. Both mother and child, lowering their heads in thanks. A creature older than the valley walls, fearsome and absolute, honouring a simple demon. There isn't a trick. Ruse or injustice. Bent only by esteem. Sabro fears he may have lost it.

“Oh no, no, you're too kind! I was happy to help! I'm so glad you're doing okay now.” 

Iruma returns the gesture, babbling sincerity Sabnock doesn’t process. He truly can’t help but stare. 

Here he was, defenceless of his own volition. Careless, ignorant and reaping the consequences. Any demon would let him die. It was the way of their world. One must expect confrontation when reaching for their desires, and many will fall on the way to fruition. Before today, his best hope of survival in this situation would be if his own clan were here to save him. Perhaps a teacher if he hadn’t flown so far from the rest. And yet, he stands. Attached to all his limbs, maybe more shaken than he’d like to admit, and alive. All at the happenstance of another. He thumbs over the skin of his forearm. Bruised, but not split. As if the wound was never there.

‘This is– Iruma is truly an unusual demon…’

 “–san? Sabnock-san?”

He shakes himself of his mind. Gold finding blue. “Are you alright? Woozy? Lightheaded?”

“It’s nothing. Whatever you did is working fine. Nigh but my pride is wounded.” He replies.

“What a relief. I was just asking if you were alright to fly? T-to the goal, I mean.”

Sabro grumbles and unfurls his wings. The tattered membranes flapping loose from the bone. It stung a bit, but no more than the rest of his nicks. If anything it just squashed the remains of his ego.

“My mana is too low to reform them now, but the wing root is perfectly fine. Nothing that won’t regrow.”

“O-oh…they do that?”

“What?”

“N-nothing! Um, a-anyway, we can figure out a way to get to the end some–”

Another series of croons and caws echo over the rocks. The baby guardian happily flapping around its parent as it did so. Kanakiri’s Leader leans as far down as it can to reach the two of them, a rumble thrumming up from its throat. What it suggests is unthinkable, and takes a bit to register, but Sabnock’s jaw falls when he figures it out.

“It’s…it’s offering to fly us…”

“A ride? R-really? T-thank you!”

The Guardian rumbles again. A sound too scary to be a purr, though too soft to be a growl as it lowers its wing to help them climb aboard. Iruma shines a smile at the Guardian and its kin, relief awash in his eyes. A padded thumping from his feet where his tail (how had he missed that?) wagged against the stones.

Iruma waits to make sure Sabro can walk on his own before allowing him to take the first strides in mounting the beast. He returns the favour by hoisting up the honour student. Taking note of how he favours his right arm, and all but drags his tail behind him. During liftoff, Iruma marvelled at the pleasant texture of the Guardian’s feathers and how high above the valley they were. While distracted, Sabro allowed himself a closer look. 

Under the torn fabric of his sleeve, Iruma's right arm is swollen. Puffy around the joint of his elbow, nails chipped and tips bloodied on his hand. Many of the fresh lashes blend into aged scars and calluses that dot his skin. Sabro’s eye trails further, landing on the somehow forgotten tail. It fairs no better; handfuls of feathers torn from their place. A sickly, white-blue spattering of fluff left to fill the gaps. In strangely consistent spacing there were separations in the layers of plumage. Stunted growth coarsely matted as if pressed flat. The whole of it askew with unnatural bends and poorly healed sprains. 

Discomfort sends pins and needles through his tail in a show of sympathy pain. He himself has experienced a graze or two to the tail. During training or mock duels. Only once had it been severed, but he was fortunate enough to get it reattached the same day. In the interim though, he couldn't explain how dreadful his back felt. It was the day he learned parts of the wing root are connected to tails. For someone so petit, this Iruma must have quite the stone skin to be taking the injury without fair.

“I admit, thou is bolder than I expected. Kanakiri's trials must've proven strenuous on us both. Thou bare the marks of combat.”

 “Huh? O-oh…I guess you could say that. I got a little, uh, turned around during the race. I didn't really know where I was going.” Iruma awkwardly explains.

“I had a few run-ins along the way. After meeting the Guardian face to face, they seem far less impressive. While I do not specialize in restoration, I–” Sabnock huffs, too tired for his own grandeur at the moment. “I can help you with healing if you want.”

“Oh, you don't have to, really. It's nothing I haven't dealt with before.”

Sabnock really doubts that.

“Are you sure? Injuries are best handled swiftly.”

Iruma hesitates. For some reason, he keeps glancing at his shoulder. Like he's talking to something. The quiet is brief before he turns himself backwards to properly face Sabro.

“A-actually, there is something you could help with. It'll only take a second.” 

“But of course! I wouldn’t have offered had I wished to do nothing.”

With a wince and his thanks, the honour student extends his sore arm to Sabnock. “All you need to do is hold my wrist in place.”

Blindly, Sabnock does what he's asked.

“Is there a spell you–”  *POP*

Sabnock shutters as the sensation of someone's bones refitting travels through his hand. Iruma's abrupt jerk pulling the joint back into its socket. Iruma hisses loud from the painful exchange as he weakly flexes his fingers. It isn't a huge visual change, though aside from swelling, the muscle around his elbow looks smoother again. Despite the grimace he seems happy with the result.

“Thank you, Sabnock-san.”

“What the hell did you just do?”

He rolls his wrist and keeps flexing his fingers. It's clearly still tender as he hugs his arm to his chest.

“S-sorry. My arm felt funny. I wanted to see if it was dislocated.”

“And your best idea was to pull on it?”

 “W-well I mean y-you gotta’ put it back in place! An arm’s no good if you can't move it.” 

“An arm’s no better if it’s broken!” Incredulity makes a home of Sabnock's face as his reckless saviour sputters to rationalize himself.

“Y-you said it yourself; it's better to fix now! Besides, it wasn’t broken! I could still move it too, so it’s nothing serious. Y-you know, it was probably just a– a mini dislocation or something! That's a thing, right?”

Sabnock opens and closes his mouth. There are a lot of things he could say about that. Many of which may undermine his gratitude of today's events. “My rival, tell me you'll give your tail proper medical attention?”

Aloof energy shifts in an instant. Colour draining from his face. Wordlessly, hastily, Iruma's tail slinks underneath his skirt. Coiled so tight it's flush to his torso, barely a lump under the fabric.

“A-anyway, my arm will be fine! I can– I can get Opera-san to check later.” 

“You–”

“AND– A-and rival? Me? I don’t mean to disappoint but I’m not g-great competition, Sabnock-san.”

No one would be naive enough to ignore what just happened. Iruma knew that. Sabro knew that. Yet he's still trying. His face stays very well the same, but there's something desperate in those eyes. The same which held no fear in the face of a titanic beast now blurred into an uncanny haze. His mana, a welcoming swill, mimicking the change with a stillness. Comfort reduced to a groggy, sluggish lull. Both the absence, and excess of stimulus.

Not threatening. Not exactly. More like…trespassing. An uncertainty.

“You…you have proven to be more than a worthy adversary. Who else could be my rival?” He acquiesced. 

Iruma laughs off the interaction, mana returning to its foreign scent. Albeit slowly. Thankful he played along. Maybe it's the blossoms Asmodeus flashed his way. Maybe one could chalk it up to his newfound respect. Whatever the reason, Sabro stays his tongue. At least until they're back in Babyls. Tails are known to get infected rather easily, after all. If he cannot convince him to seek the infirmary, he could always turn to the Chair-demon. 

How else would he get a real duel with him if they aren't fighting at their best? Mind and body before battle, as any warrior knows, and he isn't about to let his first rival succumb to unnecessary injury. Such anticipation would normally have him energized, however, in the mere minutes of their journey to the finish, he finds himself no more lively than before he was healed. If he closes his eyes, he fears he may slumber.

But he powers through the temptation. As they come to a bend over the skyline, his rival attempts to point with his weak hand. 

“H-hey! I think I see the goal coming up!”

“IIIIRRUUUMMMMAAAA-CHIIIII! DIDYA’ GET LOOOOST???” 

“Those two are taking a long time, aren't they?”

“Think Sabby went through Kanakiri?”

“You thought he wouldn't?”

“IIIIIIIIRRRRUUUUMMMAAAA-CHIIIIIII!!!”

Kalego checks his watch for the umpteenth time. A ticking cadence beginning to grind on his nerves. Noisome Misfits bumbling, paired with the howls of his newly restrained Cerberus, his patience had waned and then some. Agares had made it to the platform roughly a minute ago, so with all non MIA students accounted for, he could finally move things along. The sooner the rest of the class was back in Babyls, the sooner he could start a search.

More importantly, the sooner all of this wasn't his problem.

“Silence. This concludes the flight test. We will now move to the rankings.” 

“Kalego-sensei! I implore you to wait a little longer! Iruma-sama will be here any second, I’m sure of it.”

Kalego eyes Asmodeus. He imagines it must be quite the toll to experience your master’s shortcomings, however if he was the imbecile to pledge himself to the brat, it’s better to experience disappointment now. Perhaps it would be enough to sever his thoughts on servitude so Kalego could have one decent student. Though he doubts such a thing would happen. With clipboard in hand, he wipes the name ‘Iruma’ off his paper and turns to the rest of the idiots.

“Those who do not follow instructions will be abandoned. Now line up and I’ll explain–”

“Uhh, sensei? Are the mountains…supposed to move?”  

For all that's sinful, he'll never get out of this valley. He swats away Andro’s hand, not trusting those sticky fingers, and has full intentions to ignore the bloke. That is until a torrent of wind nearly slides them off the platform. Rapid gusts that drubs down harder by the second. Fabrics blustering, the students’ surprise comes in muffled garble. Kalego narrows his eyes through the bellowing stream, and under raised arm finds the unexpected.

Kanakiri's Guardian pushes a stormy current beneath its wings. Plant life and pitiful wilds all but mowed over in the presence of its travel. Shadowed, prodigious silhouette gouging a hole into the horizon as its course heads dead on the finish platform.

Why would it leave the valley? Babyls’ stability checks were listed as ‘cautious’ for the flight test; it wouldn’t even leave its nest during their passes. He was part of the security division for hell’s sake! A complete board of Zayin ranked demons who agreed to Dali's, Ifrit’s and Sullivan’s ruling! What could have changed? Had its territory expanded? Its brooding cycle is never lined up with the first year exams so what could have–

Sabnock.

The Saezuri Guardian wasn't spotted during their evaluations. If it had been compromised, or injured, it would likely return to its mother's nest. Guardians best recover when well fed mana, and if its child had a hunger…there was a possibility his warnings heed true.

Cerberion jolts into form and corrals his treasures to the warp tents. 

“ All of you, get back!” He commands, a violet thunder at his palm.

One Khet isn't enough to stop the monster, but he can defend. He sends word to staff through the faculty link and readies to stand ground. He’ll set their very blood on fi–

“Heeeeeey! Everyooooonne!”

As the Guardian grows near, a spec is uncovered on the nape of the beast. A spec of striking blue.

Tufts of windswept hair wave faster than Iruma's arm, that bizarre, sweetened aroma washing through the air. Disproving his grave assumptions further is the slouched figure of Sabnock. Sattled behind the brat with a distant, drowsy stare. His astonishment is squashed by, of all things, Cerberus. Pitched barks and shameful, galloping bounds at the sight of the boy as he dismounted the Guardian. Almost as irritating as the brat’s allies. Valac's whoops and hollers to his return, and the glittering, weepy spectacle of Asmodeus' awe. He spares his eyes the suffering by adding the missing students’ names back onto his clipboard. Allowing niceties and farewells between him and the Guardians out of respect for the creatures.

Before he puts the two imbeciles in their place.

. . . 

“I will now announce your ranks.” Naberius-sensei says. 

At this point, Iruma suspects the lilt of irritation is just the way he speaks. Given how happy he seemed when putting him and Sabnock in ‘Last Place Prison.’ They even got little wooden signs. 

“Babyls records your abilities and skills for rank promotion later in your school careers, assuming you make it that far. However, your initial ranking is determined by an unbiased professional.”

He extends his arm to the crook of his elbow where a flawless white bird perches upon. Its tri-eyed gaze hovers over them all.

“This is a Rank Owl. He was observing your every move.”

Lied rocks side to side on his tail, cooing. “We sure have seen lots of birds today.”

“What a pretty little gentleman~”

Jazz snickers, side glancing their professor. “Hey, don’t that remind ya' of that other bird–”

“Moving on.” Naberius clears his throat. “One by one, the lot of you will put your hands in the pocket on its front. If you're competent, he will give you your ranking badge.” 

To demonstrate, the professor reaches into its stomach pouch. He retracts his hand with a shiny, gold badge between his fingers. A symbol that Iruma knew now to be a rank engraved in its center. While the class awes at his number, he sneers at the Last Place Prisoners.

“You filth will follow your own example, and be ranked last.”

“You suck Goldie~” Clara jibes, lacking the malice to make it sting. 

She flicks pebbles at Sabnock from a few feet away. Ghost partakes in the fun, ricocheting the smaller stones off itself to snag in Sabro’s hair. The Misfits share a chuckle at her playful jab, but Naberius seems to be getting a concerning amount of spiteful joy out of their degradation.

“Serves you right. Revel in inadequacy as your betters throw rocks at you.”

“Just how petty can you be?!”

Sabro grumbles while the rest of their classmates line up to the owl. From where Iruma's sitting, he can hear the grinding of his teeth.

“How humiliating…” 

“N-now, now, it's not all bad. At least we weren't expelled since we came back with the Guardian.”

“Hmph. That is a nice silver lining. What a sight their faces were!” Rather offhandedly, Sabnock grows quiet. He sits seiza style to direct Iruma with full attention. 

“Iruma. I feel as though the earlier words we exchanged do thee little justice. What occurred this day I could not have accomplished without your aid, and I apologise for my rudeness. I am no match for you.”

“I, uh, don't feel I did anything worth that recognition. But– but thank you, Sabnock-san.”

The blonde straightens his posture, a confidence alight in his slitted eyes.

“Thou hast defeated me once, and today thou hast shown there is much I can learn from the ways of a fight. So, to renounce any doubt…” Sabnock breaks into a devilish grin. 

“Henceforth, you are my rival! Dubbed such and immovably so! And, as my adversary on the road to the throne, thou no longer must refer to me as ‘Sabnock-san,’ comrade!”

Well. This is…a development. Call it wishful thinking, but he has kind of hoped Sabnock called him a ‘rival’ in a spur of theatrics. What exactly does a rival do? Is that insensitive to ask? A real rival would probably know. He can't see himself being a very good rival. Pitting himself against someone like Sabnock seemed like a poor choice in general. But. But if he's happy, and not trying to fight him before classes, Iruma can't see why he'd say no. He looks pretty set on it already. It would be a bother to tell him no, wouldn't it? Guess that being a ‘rival’ to the seven foot muscle buff is better than an enemy.

“I…I don't suppose I could, uh, convince you otherwise…?”

“Ha! Only the best can be a worthy challenge to test my conviction, my rival. The future demon king does not misspeak, we shall hone each other's skills on the path to greatness!”

“O-okay. I’ll try to–”

“Oi, you chattering trash! Hurry up!” Naberius interrupts. Maybe for the better.

Alongside the Misfits the two of them shuffle at the back of the line. Anxious enthusiasm engulfing each demon. Iruma imagines this is the same kind of energy as receiving his first check. Pumped to be rewarded although unsure by what margin. From what he knew, ranks sort of set the standard for a person, so perhaps he isn’t too far off in thinking so. It’s interesting to see all the ‘troublemakers’ so eager. They don’t chatter nearly as much while they wait for their turn. Ghost in particular seems very invested. Feverishly so.

“Woah, Asmodeus got Dalet!”

“No wonder he’s top of class.”

“First years are usually Alef or Bet at best.”

Iruma leans out from behind everyone else to see Azz staring down at his badge. Though his face shows neutrality, Iruma catches him glancing back at him with hopeful eyes. He gives a light clap in response, and it adds a small bounce to Azz’s step when he moves for the next classmate. The next being Valac, who held no qualms over being reserved. In a flash she pulls her rank, the etched symbol of Gimmel gleaming on her badge. She gets equal praise for the number, if not more for the unexpected outcome. Even if Azz disagrees with the rating.

“I refuse to accept this! You didn’t even fly for the entire race!”

“Ha ha! Bow down, Azu-Azu!”

“I outrank you, stupid Valac!”

“She did land second place. I suppose luck is a valid skill. Now the rest of you, keep moving. Noisy louts…”

From where Iruma stands he watches each student get their number. Each with their own reaction. Jazz earns himself a Gimmel, letting Clara swap around their badges with a grin. Crocell and that quiet boy, Purson, get Bet. Both celebrating with light smiles or pure indifference. Everyone else; Lied, Caim, Allocer, Agares, Goemon and Ix, get themselves Alef. The lowest rank available and thus the rank Iruma prays he’ll be joining. No one will pay attention to a low ranking demon, right? With everyone else sporting a golden trinket, Sabro steps up to the owl. With little hesitation, he too, pulls out a badge with the marking of Bet.

“Sabnock got Bet?”

“Oh my. I thought he would’ve placed higher.”

“What will the teachers he tried fighting, yeah.”

“Diddo. But he did come in last place. Maybe Mr. Rank Owl favours flying.”

Barring the opinions of his class, Sabnock looks upon his rank with contemplation. Determination spreading on his face. For all the outspoken desire to be Yodh, he seems pleased with the rating.

“You’re last, brat. Get going!”

“Ah– yes, sir!”

He and his shadow approach the magic owl. Ghost slithers up next to the creature, poking around its pouch. The bird spares them a glance for no more than a tick before all three are locked onto him once more. He hears the anticipation of his peers at his backside.

“Oooh, it’s finally his turn.”

“Wonder what he’ll get? My, what if he pulls He?”

“What if he ends up with a buncha’ badges?”

“Like the familiar hall? That would be something.”

“My bet’s that he'll get somethin’ wacky. Maybe a repeat of his little familiar~”

“Silence. No such nonsense will happen here. The Rank Owl is solemn and true, he will judge accordingly.”

Ghost nibbles at Iruma's fingers. Urging him on. He can't just stand here all day, can he? Trepidatious over ‘what if’ scenarios. He lets their voices fade into the background. Thinking on the bright side, he might not even be able to get a rank. He is human after all. He could be deemed ‘non applicable.’ With a gulp and a prayer, Iruma slips his hand into the pouch. 

“We’ve been waiting.”

Raw shrieks deafen the Misfits, the Rank Owl taking to the skies. With their ears ringing it’s near impossible to hear the breathing. Laboured and wet. Choked upon itself like a drowning babe. Lights scrape his eyes. There’s something dripping from his nose. Is he standing? He can’t feel the ground. He can’t feel anything. Just the pain. 

Everything hurts.

It’s under his skin. Splitting. Gnashing. Wriggling, and leprous. Leeches through the marrow, ticks burrowed in his nails. He can hear it. Hear himself breaking apart.

It’s so bright. His eyes may burst. They’re moving, he thinks. The lights. One is moving closer. Burnt gold and cold magma. 

His molars stew. Itching.

He wants. Needs.  

 It gets closer, and he soaks in the warmth. Oozing through meat until gold goes grey, and sinew knits together with the scent of oak and iron.

There’s someone inside the glow. Laying on the ground. Someone…at his feet? Sound comes too. Further away. Underwater. Cleaved through his head.

“.o .…!”

“.. .wf.. ….e! .ik. de..h ...oz.r.!!! M… .. …p!”

“.h…s .ap…..g?!”

“I…ma…..! ..e … ….ght?! .ru….am.!”

There are more now. Glows with someones inside. Crawling like his gums. Are they even really there?

 The pink one is fast. Its scent is safe. Sweet. It reaches out. He tries to touch it, but the glow sinks. He can taste it. 

“Y….. .le…n.! …ma-s… .hy ….. ..u ans… .e?!”

“S… ..c., f..l!”

Pink glow crumples. Its shape somehow…familiar. It looks hurt. He tries to help it, but the glow fades into his palms. Flickering like fire.

“.... k.ll t… .wl! Ir..a! C.. ..u .e.r ..?!”

The glows are getting dimmer. He doesn't feel better. He doesn't like it.

He tries to move but his legs split and crack like porcelain. Mounds of tissue sloughing off the bone. He sees it happen. Like a mirror. Is he even himself?

He smells cactus fruit.

The lights go out.

Chapter Text

Though the Rank Owl had not uttered a sound in centuries, concern over its cry was far outmatched by another. 

Like a blade to the ear. A strident scream that overcomes all senses. The Misfits buckle under its resonance, Bets and Gimmels with palms to their heads as Alefs curl into the dirt. Sabnock, closest to the podium, collapses moments later. Kalego’s teeth rattle to the noise. 

“So loud!”

“An awful noise! Like death, degozaru!!! Make it stop!”

“What's happening?!”

“Iruma-sama! Are you alright?! Iruma-sama!”

As if caught in pounding rain, Kalego only just makes out Asmodeus' call. He too, now searching for the outlying student. Passed where Sabro lay and without a badge of his own, the boy is despondent. Shrieking abandon finding place in the form of a scratchy black shadow at his side. Tethered to and climbing further up the length of Iruma's hand from an off-putting ring. Hollow eyes and moiled breath make him less lively than the parasite. A husk with nary a twitch of his own spare for the crimson droplets down his nostrils.

“You're bleeding! Iruma-sama, why won't you answer me?!” Alice makes a desperate shuffle toward his master.

“Stay back, fool!” Kalego shouts, willing his legs to function. Something more than simple noise keeping him pinned like his students.

Asmodeus reaches out to Iruma but never makes contact. The shadow wraps a sickle hand around his finger, and Alice's knees hit the stones. The idiot isn't unconscious, but coughing up blood doesn't fare much better. 

“I’ll kill that owl!” Kalego growls. “Iruma! Can you hear me?!”

Staggered steps draw its eye. Kalego at the center. With a jittery lurch the monster tugs Iruma forward, creaks of strain in wobbly legs as its teeth gnash the air. Cerberus’ howls wane as the power of their summon slips from his senses. He can't fight fire with fire. But he can subdue it.

He'll definitely get a pay cut for this.

Kalego slams his palm into the platform, electricity driving into the earth. Claw Cage pierces through the rocks around the shadow, clasping bolts severing sound with blissful silence. Non-verbal magic never felt so strenuous.

Agares pokes his head out from his cloud. “Is it over?” 

“Are all the ladies okay?!”

“Azu-Azu, can you stand up okay?”

Valac taps her pockets. With some effort soon enough her arms are filled with light snacks and bottled water. She passes them out to the Alefs and anyone else who seemed worse for wear as the Misfits get themselves back in order. All spare for Sabnock, who gets plastered with an ice pack where he stays on the floor. At least his eyes are open.

“I thought you said that was a Rank Owl? You know, the ones with ranks to give?”

“It is. Rank Owls are one of the oldest demonic creatures in the Nether. They predate some of our ancestors, fool. Whatever–” Kalego grimaces at the ball of electricity. “–that came from has no place with their kind.”

Allocer tries to peer through the Claw Cage spell, squinting from a safe distance. “Confirmation over what exactly an owl's pouch holds has been in debate for ages. There's really no straight answer.”

“So, what, we're gonna’ brush it off? The freaky thing that's just chillin’ over there?”

“What if it comes for us next?!”

“Does Eggie-sensei know what it is?”

“Whatever it may be, it's still with Iruma-sama! It tried to kill him!”

“And us, Asmo.”

Asmodeus waves off Lied like a persistent gnat. “Oh you're fine. Hell forbid you get a headache.”

“A headache!? Sabnock's down for the count and you're calling it a headache!?”

“He was going to pass out anyway.”

“That's not the point!”

“Silence!”

 Kalego approaches the spell capsule. Watching the creature lap up mana like a desert oasis. It's manageably sized. Measured to half his forearm. Without making that horrific noise however, it isn't his concern. He raps a knuckle on the shell.

“Iruma? Iruma, answer me.”

 In the most minute, perceptible breaths the husk of a kid sways back and forth. Seems the impact knocked him off his legs. Back pressed against the walls of mana. Slumped forward as if asleep. In place of red, a viscid, prismatic fluid streaked from his nose. On closer inspection, so too did his ears.

The smell is salivating.

He flinches as the creature slams against the shell, tearing a hole into the barrier. Fully formed scraps of magic disappear down its gullet, and yet to his surprise, it makes no effort to leave. Even with all guards raised it's enamoured with the feast. One of dwindling supply. Though with it preoccupied, Kalego can attempt to gauge the student’s wounds. Not collapsing is good, but Iruma assuredly sustained some kind of–

He doesn't feel when his arm is severed. Only the aftermath. The beast smiles at the bleeding stump.

“TeAR~”

The voice is haunted. Gravelly tin that surrounds all sides. A darkness to blot the sun. There's nothing else but it. It and him.

“tEar…yoUr…tHrOAt ouT…brAt~”

Its mimicry is foul. Words twisted and misshapen. As if spoken through hundreds of ill-fitted mouths. There's one that makes his skin crawl. A whisper from the void black tendrils.

“Sen…sei?”

He reels back into reality. Both arms attached. Not a drop of red spilled. And the thing staring holes into his head.

‘A hallucination?...No…It's threatening me.’

It has made itself clear. An abomination. Something to be exterminated. Iruma's shoulder is soon to be consumed by the monster, black vines spreading up his sleeve. He raises his finger over his head, gathering enough heat to cauterize. If he's clean enough, Buer may be able to reattach–

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. You can't be doing that, Kalego-kun.”

“Chair-demon?!”

“Why, hello everyone! Good to see your test went well. Oh, do I spy a few new Gimmels? And a Dalet? How wonderful!”

The imbeciles seem to ease themselves at the principal’s presence, jabbering useless ‘hello’s and small talk. However, their mindlessness isn't enough to spare him scrutiny.

“Bad, bad Kalego-kun! What kind of example are you setting for the youngins? Haste makes waste, don't you know! If I didn't know any better, you were about to lob off his arm.”

Sullivan's gaze was not one he enjoyed at the best of times. Today, though, he lacks the pride to keep face. He turns away from the man. “The other students might be in danger. It warranted action…”

He tuts at the remark, but says nothing more about the decision. Hands on hips, the old codger focuses on his grandson. An unreadable leer in his eye.

Wordlessly, the man crouches next to his ward and lets a warm light escape his hand. Not healing as he expects, rather a mana transfer by the smell of it. Sensible in hindsight. If a Khet like Kalego had been so affected, the guard dog wonders just how gruelling it would be to bear the ring unranked. Even with the other brats prattling, time seems to stall. 

Watching him pour mana…

The ocean.

That's what it feels like. Swimming in the depths.

He can't see it. He can't see anything, really.

But he's not alone.

It holds his hand. It helps him float. It doesn't mind that he can't see. But there's another.

 It's big. Really big. He doesn't know what it is. But it's there. He doesn't mind. They're nice.

They're both nice.

Then, there's a tug. And another. And another. He feels the water moving. They aren't going with him. Why won't they come?

It's getting clearer. There's something in the water.

It looks so sad.

The rush pops his ears. Water blistering, stuck to his skin. Squeezing, contorted. His head compressed like a tin can.  

His eyes pop. His lungs collapse. His back is boiling. And–

He can see. 

The sun scrapes like sandpaper, his eyelids no smoother. Iron tints the back of his tongue and his nose stings with the same scent as raw air hits his throat. He coughs up something…black? No, red. Of course it's red. He rubs it off on the inside of his sleeve, suddenly aware of the possibly delicious smell human blood can supply. Scrubbing half-dried streaks from his face.

There's a prickling itch on his skin. During the reboot of his brain, Iruma's able to recognize that it's coming from the walls. Shiny gold walls crossed together like lattice. Sharp, like clenched teeth, though wiggly like water’s surface. His classmates’ muffled speech warbles through the tiny gaps. Also, perhaps more importantly, the walls make up a cage. A magic cage. That he's stuck in. Again.

He can't help but wonder if all demons have a cage spell handy, or if he specifically keeps finding the ones that do.

“Iruma-kun! Grandpa’s here!!!”

Of all the things that happened today, that's what makes him jump. Muscles screaming their displeasure as he whips around to face the man. Well, face him as best he could. Even when bent over Iruma still has to crane his head back to meet his eyeline. Sullivan's chuckles hiss against the magic like a broken transmission. Scooting within arm's reach as he gets down to Iruma's level. 

“I suppose you can hear me then?”

Shell shocked, flimsy, he can only nod.

“That's good! Are you hurt anywhere?”

‘Everywhere.’

Iruma shakes his head.

“Good, good. Grampa's going to get you out real soon, but I need you to tell me something first. Is that okay?”

He nods again.

“You're doing great, Iruma-kun. Tell me, do you happen to feel any pain from your friend there? Perchance hear a death-like wail?”

F-friend? What does he…? Iruma follows Sullivan's point, where, now that he's aware, everyone is looking. He turns his head. There are eyes.

He screams.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then.”

The shadow! His– his shadow is staring at him! It's. It's real. It's there. Like– like actually there! Solid. Breathing. Attached to…a ring? Wasn't he supposed to get a badge? Naberius dispels his confinement in his confusion. So supposedly, it's safe enough.

He spins the band around, looking for perhaps an inscription. Nothing. There isn't even a hole where ghost pokes out of. He tries to slip it off his finger. Also nothing. Not the slightest budge. Alarms go off when ghost, the epitome of disinterest, flails and fusses over the jewellery. Going as far as to gnaw on its tail. Panic building, Iruma pulls harder and harder. When his knuckles start popping Sullivan gingerly cups his hands with his own. 

“Try to calm down, dear boy. I’m afraid once you've used it, you won't be able to take it off.”

Though he means well, Iruma suppresses a grimace at the action. Both from the sudden information that he's quite literally stuck to this ring, and how Sullivan is inadvertently tugging on his swollen arm. Figures he'd get a weird demonic ring attached to the arm that's already battered.

“So Iruma-chi doesn't know what it is?”

“If nothing else, the gold goes well with his blue~”

“Ya' think it hurts?”

“...Jazzy, imma' level with you, now's not the time.”

Sullivan helps him back onto his feet, plucking him off the ground as he inspects the strange accessory.

“You certainly know how to cause a ruckus!” He coos, waving a finger at the wisp. “We could hear you all the way from Babyls!”

Hear it? Did something happen? Was– was what he saw real? If ghost has the answer, they don't care to share, and with little hesitation they charge at Sullivan. A thirst in their eyes.

“W-watch ou–!”

“Feisty one, aren't you?” With a frightening indifference, Sullivan shoves his palm into the shadow’s face. “Eat up then!” 

In an instant the slender silhouette of shadow balloons outward. The oversized beach ball gets smaller and smaller until nothing but a black string remains, slinking into the ring without a trace. While his classmates gawk at the display, Iruma flips his hand back and forth. As if the ring will suddenly change. Ghost doesn't pop back out.

 He can't feel them at all.

“Unique little gadget, isn't it? Been an age since I've seen one myself.”

Clara hugs onto Iruma's side to get a look. Lack of…something in her touch that startles him more than the contact. “Does the Chairy-mans know what it is then?”

“Why yes, young lady.” The principal smiles. He holds up Iruma's hand as he speaks.

“You see, this is a tool called the ‘Gluttonous Feeder Ring.’ A magical device that stores the wearer's power. Like a tiny briefcase!”

“What's the point of that? Any demon can hold mana.”

“Very astute, Mr. Shax. In fact, that very assessment is what created this here doohickey! The thought was; if demons run on mana and use that same mana for spells, a demon would never be able to cast at their full potential. The Gluttonous Feeder Ring was meant to solve that problem by siphoning the wearer's mana and holding it separately, so when the body naturally refilled its reservoir, the mana used for spells would be taken from another source.”

Sullivan let's Iruma's hand go to wrap an arm around his shoulders. “Fun bit of learning, yes? Unfortunately there's no way to regulate the amount of mana taken, or who it is taken from. Instead, the ring will eat indiscriminately until full. Wearer and bystander. Of course it's completely harmless when it's fed, so there's no need to worry!”

“Youch…so Iruma probably…”

“No wonder he looks like shi–”

“Language.”

 “Old owl’s got some interesting knickknacks in that pouch of his! Centuries of life will do that to a devil.”

“Trinket or not, now we won't be able to rank him!” Naberius barks.

 Iruma takes it upon himself to check on Azz for the time, making sure to give the professor the space he needs. He too feels different. Like he's missing something.

“Oh you worry too much, Kalego-kun~ Rarities for rarities I say. By next year I bet the wily bird will have something just as strange for us.”

“That doesn't–”

“Now then! What say all to a commemorative photo?”

With a wave of his hand, a ball-shaped bat flaps over. Poised like a camera. At the Misfits’ regained energy and a jovial Crown’s insistence, the class celebrated the end of the flying race. Iruma left badge-less, discombobulated, and…and staring at cold metal. He would be content with dissociating for the rest of the day.

“This is outrageous!”

Or maybe not. Asmodeus scowls at the ranking board, dozens of demons crowding to see where they place. After locating the Misfit Class, Iruma finds what has Azz so peeved. It's his rank. Just below Sabnock's. Alef.

"Such a low rank?! For Iruma-sama?! Impossible!”

“He he, bow down Iruma-chi! Gravel at the mighty Clara!”

“It's grovel  you nitwit, and obviously there's been a mix-up with Iruma-sama’s ranking!”

Iruma lets himself laugh at that. Steadily steering the two away from the board to avoid the scene they were no doubt creating. Though they continue their snide remarks, Iruma wears the lowest rank with glee.

‘I think I finally got a fair assessment. Don't have to be so worried about standing out anymore, do we–’

His smile falters, a glint of gold catching the light. There's a breeze around his shoulders. At his collar. Even as Azz and Clara bicker, even as they traipse through class tours and introductions, he just can't seem to shake the chill.

 He finds himself stealing glances. Silhouettes on the walls, outlines on the grass. It lingers as they play. On Clara's horns. On Azz's hands. As they close out homeroom and make their way to the gates. In the trees, on the path back to the mansion. His own shadow almost looks…smaller than he remembers.

“Iruma-chi? You've gone all wibbly-eyed again.”

Iruma's eyes refocus. Clara is crouched in front of him with her arms around her knees. Head tilted with a frown. “You didn't even laugh at my Eggie-sensei joke…”

“That’s because it was in poor taste.” Azz says, peering over to scrutinize Iruma's new jewellery.

“Are you feeling unwell, Iruma-sama? Is the ring causing discomfort?”

“Not exactly…”

“Shall I carry you to the infirmary?!”

“Wha– no! No, no, I’m fine Azz-kun, really!”

He looks unconvinced, inspecting Iruma's hand in his own. Clara takes a differing approach, whipping out a doctor's head mirror and stethoscope. She puts it in all the wrong places, but the endearment works well enough on its own.

“T-thank you guys, but seriously, you don't need to worry. I’m just a bit– a bit worn out is all. Besides, there's medicine and stuff in the mansion if I start feeling bad later. I’m fine.”

Clara and Azz look so similar when they pout. 

“If you're certain, Iruma-sama…”

“Iruma-chi's lucky Urara is coming home tonight, cuz' Clara would make sure Chairy-mans and Pera-san took good care of you!”

“I-I'm sure you wouldn't have to do that, Clara, b-but thank you.”

His fr– classmates let him go with a polite bow and excited wave respectively, taking their leave as Sullivan's front gates swing open in welcome. The mansion is quiet. His words falling flat as he announces his entry. He thinks he hears someone home, though they're muffled by the sounds of a busybody. He didn't see Sullivan leave Babyls. Guess he has more work to finish before he gets back.

…

Has…has the room always been this empty?

Must have been…

Iruma slides out of his shoes. Soft pattering marks his footsteps through the grand halls. Cacophonous in its silence. He knew the place was big. Kind of a hard factor to miss. Yet today it feels. Bigger. In a way he doesn't understand. Before he fully knows it himself, Iruma creaks open one of the many double doors. The mellow scuffle of idle work drawing him in. Opera toils away inside. Filing a sizeable stack of books into vacant shelves. He hasn't been in this library before.

“Welcome home, Iruma-sama. I apologize for not greeting you properly by the door.”

“It's alright. You're clearly busy. Is– is there anything I can do to help?”

They dust off a hardcover. “No need. His Lordship has tasked me with reorganizing his tomes. Many of these are quite old, and fragile, thus must be handled delicately. The others are…reactive, so to speak. You may feel safer where you are.”

“Oh. I see…”

They hold the stack with the curve of their tail, gloved hands smoothing out the pages of another text. “Is there something you require?”

Iruma chews his lip, glancing at his elbow. There's probably a sling or brace in one of those medkits, right? That's more than he usually has.

“No. I-I'm fine. Sorry to bother you.”

“Not at all. Sullivan-sama will return before dinner. I'll be finished soon, however do not hesitate to ask should the need arise.”

“Okay. Thank you, Opera-san.”

With their noncommittal hum, Iruma closes the door. Back into the stillness.

Iruma stares down at his hand as he walks. Deciding to amble over to the kitchen. “I wonder if they like their job. I hope they do.”

The ring says nothing. Why wouldn't it?

“Seems like they're always doing something, huh. Wonder if I looked like that once.”

He rummaged through the lower cabinets, finding a small first aid kit in the back of the pantry. He finds a knee brace and some gauze in the package. He can make it work.

“Probably not as clean as them. Or as well spoken. They must work hard to do so much all by themselves.”

The brace is loose, and he doesn't take much from the gauze roll, but his arm is somewhat secure now. Aches a little less, which is better than nothing. With both arms operational, Iruma scrounges for a quick bite. He probably shouldn't, he knows that, but he's been peckish since class started and the whole race ordeal hasn't made it any better. 

He peeks into the fridge, the drawers, and the counter tops. Taking small pinches of things that, hopefully, he’s allowed to eat. He sees other, more substantial foods. Stuff to make sandwiches, or maybe onigiri, but he steers clear. He doesn't know what Opera’s cooking with. The last thing he wants is to take something they were going to use. Sewn the seeds of his own guilt, he ends up putting the snacks back where they came from anyway.

…

…

…It. It really is quiet, isn't it?

…

Maybe Opera wouldn't mind some company? When they aren't busy anymore.

He grabs two mugs from the shelves he can reach, filling them with milk. He wishes he could make them something proper. Maybe like that– what's it called– Hell Grey Tea they always make for him. But the thought of messing with their perfect kitchen makes him think otherwise. He should be able to pour a drink by himself.

Warm milk was a treat he could afford on better paydays. From the nice jobs when he may get to sleep on the floor inside. He'd get a good price on a marked down bottle, and could use the company microwave on his break. It almost felt like making food, and if it was hot enough, he could barely notice the curds. He knows cats shouldn't really have milk, but Opera seemed to like it well enough. At least he thinks so. 

He puts the mugs into what looks like a fancy demon microwave, and presses what he imagines to be the right buttons. Right when he starts to have doubts, it starts up. It even makes the microwave sounds! 

If he's lucky, they’ll stay to have it with him.

It was not the first time Opera had heard an explosion in the Sullivan estate. It wasn't even the first time they heard one in the kitchen, courtesy of Sullivan attempting cooking lessons. No, their hasty gait was not due to the incident itself, but who could have caused it.

Record time gets them past the kitchen tile. Smoke and soot marring the polish. They care not for the appliance they'll need to reorder, nor the cleaning that will be added to the list, but their ward. Frantically picking pieces off the floor.

“What is going on here…?!”

“I’m sorry!” He exclaims, eyes wide and pleading. “I-I didn’t mean to I– I’ll clean it up I– I‘m s-so sorry I– I’ll f-fix it! I will! I’m s-sorry I’m–”

“Iruma-sama, I’m not–”

The boy's eyes squeeze shut, smatterings of broken glass clenched into fists. Hands braced and cradling his head. They've never stopped so fast. The harsh squeak of their soles echoing like nails on a chalkboard. Though vile, the sound isn't what curves their ears.

They never anticipated the change overnight. Being sold to anyone– much less a species previously thought fictitious– and being forced to sink or swim in dangerous waters. Tossed quite literally into a whole new world. Such a whirlwind turn to one's life is a mind-bending concept in itself. Something they held little faith a person could do with their sanity in tact, and a measure that became near nonexistent when considering it happened to a child. Acceptance alone, if he was even capable, would take time. Trust was another ball game entirely.

Opera knew better than any demon how long true trust takes to build. The years, the centuries it can take to allow another beyond your stable walls. Yet still they stand. A cinched, throttling pressure in their chest.

His progress, though meager and stiff, had been peeking through the cracks. Trepidatious, but wavering guard. Iruma had started speaking with them. With Sullivan. Of his own volition. He would walk freely through the halls without startling, linger in rooms to feed curiosity. No longer asked permission to eat. Even though they suspect his rapt adjustment was fuelled by the need to make connection, nonetheless they were steps in the right direction. They even found themselves less pressed by his action. Less keen on observations.

How foolish of them...

He doesn’t move. Impossibly smaller than his short frame allowed, curled into himself. He waits. He expects. For something to break, to snap at the first sign of tension. Stability swept away like a house of cards. He doesn't beg, doesn't cry. He just waits. It stains a sour taste on their tongue.

They use their shoe to clear a relatively clean space before kneeling in front of their charge. After proving he had no desire to face them, they carefully take his hands in theirs. He doesn't struggle. Even as they unfurl his fists.

“I am not mad at you, Iruma-sama. Please believe that.” They remove the shards from his hands to be disposed of later. None finding their way beneath flesh, luckily. Though they can see (and smell) where a few creases broke skin.

“Now, what in the world happened here?”

“I-I’m sorry, I– I didn’t mean to give you more work I–”

He flinches when they hold up their hand, shutting his mouth like a trap. With far less effort than it should take for a child his age, Opera scoops him up and places him on the counter. They make sure he holds their eyes.

“Deep breaths, Iruma-sama. Take your time. You're okay. I will not hurt you.”

Shuttering, shaking, Iruma follows instructions. The light hum of healing mana filling the silence. Their scrutinizing eye stumbling upon what looked to be a band of sorts around a reddened, purplish elbow. They boost the mana of the spell.

“When you’re ready, tell me what happened.”

He worries at the skin of his lip, eyes locked on the mess below. “I– I just wanted…you're always doing so much. F-for Sullivan-sama. For me. I– I really appreciate it. The things you do. So I wanted t-to return the favour, s-somehow. I just–”

“...wanted to talk to you…”

Wanted to talk to you.

Wanted to…talk?

There is resignation with the statement. A disgust carried deep in the words. The impression that, having failed to present value, compensation, that he would be denied. Something so minute as communication. A bond.

It appears they had not gotten as far as they thought.

“Heeelllooooo~ Iruma-kuuuuun, grandpa’s hooooooomme!”

Iruma’s shoulders spike at the sound of their lord’s return. Opera’s own muscles tensing as he robotically gets off of the counter. They wish to stop him, to assuage his doubts, but the clock ticks ever closer to schedule. For as much trust as they put into their employer, this is not something they want Sullivan to handle in his. Usual way. A flippant old devil isn’t going to improve the situation.

“I-I'll c-clean up–”

“It’s alright, Iruma-sama. I will handle it. Dinner will be served in ten.”

They escort their ward into the dining room, hoping the security hellcats can distract him from himself. They’re sure to set the table before returning to the kitchen. Starting with Sullivan’s place. As they set his usual glass and silverware, they whisper over their shoulder.

“We need to talk about the boy.”

Iruma lay on his bed. The ceiling’s texture all but memorized. He hopes that, if he does it enough, it will replace his memory of today. Regardless of how many times the events played out in his mind. Dinner sitting heavy as his brain fog. He shouldn’t have eaten as much as he did, but throwing up would be such a waste. Opera wouldn’t be pleased to know that all the food they were forced to serve came right back up. He could do himself a favour and just be done with the day.

At the same time, he's not sure if he wants to sleep. Sleeping meant tomorrow. Tomorrow is another day. A day he isn’t sure he’s ready for.

A day he’ll face alone.

For the millionth time Iruma looks at his ring. Light shining on its smooth surface. Nothing but gold to stare back. No matter how hard he looks. The ticking of his hellraiser clock as his only clue as to how many minutes have passed. There’s nothing there. Still nothing there.

Numb weight wraps slowly around his chest. Dull, cold, and scrunched up in his insides. All the way up to a choked lump in his throat. He doesn't want to touch it. Afraid to see it unravel. He knows he shouldn't be getting so worked up over a shadow. Perhaps even a figment of his imagination. He shouldn't, but he is. He always does.

The room never felt so quiet.

“I guess you're not here anymore, huh?”

“I hope…I hope you're alright. Wherever you are.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I'm really sorry. This whole time I– I only gave you trouble.”

“You didn't have to be there. You didn't have to stay, but you did. I didn't mean to rope you into it.”

“I wasn't very good to you, was I?”

“I never did give you a name…”

“You know, my– my mom told me once that names mean quality. That you spend more for the title because you know it's good.”

“I kind of get it…I think. But. But I think names– names are how we remember faces. That's why, um, you– you get attached to them.”

“I…I used to name a bunch of strays when I slept out in the street. There was Box, and Gutter. The twins, Me and Ow.” He chuckles. Hearing the names out loud for the first time in years. “Not very good names, but it was nice to be able to remember each one.”

“…Dad said I shouldn't name something I didn't want to lose. So I…I stopped doing it.”

“W-what I mean to say is…I have a name for you now. If– if you're gone…if you're gone I can't lose you, can I?”

 He thinks back to all his previous attempts. Giving human names to a demon. Putting the block in the circle hole. Figured it out, now that it doesn't matter. Why is he always so late?

“I think I’ll call you…‘Ali.’ It’s still kinda’ human sounding, but it's also a bit– um, demon-ish. I think. Clara told me that demons call companions ‘allies’...and they're like…like friends. So. It. It would've suited you, right?”

He can picture the look on their face. The utmost disapproval that they’ll be named after the first demon word he liked to hear. It’s enough to crack a smile. Even if the tightness in his chest doesn't go away. It rarely does anyway. 

“I’m sorry I was so late. That we couldn't find a name you liked together.”

Iruma curls his tail around his legs, and cups his hands to his chest. Rubbing the band between his fingers. It’s cold against his skin.

“Bet you're most happy you don't have to listen to all this sappy stuff. Sorry about that. Again.”

He curls his back flat against the headboard, making a barricade of pillows. Able to see the moonlight on his door. In the wind, the branches outside look like shadow puppets.

“Goodnight, Ali-san.”

As he closes his eyes, he can trick himself into believing they say it back.

Chapter Text

      Opera sat in the cushioned seat of their lord’s new carriage. Ears downturned with irritation. Across from them was their ward, Iruma. The unwilling rationale for the vehicle they ride, none too pleased himself about their current position. Alternating between nervous glimpses out the carriage window, and fidgeting with his ring. Sullivan calls from the coach.

“Iruma-kuuun~ How's the ride so far?”

 Not even the stamping gallop of the Nightmares’ hooves overshadowed his elation. Blithe to juxtapose his grandson’s nerves.

“Um– It's great, grandpa! Very– uh– very smooth…”

  Opera’s tail flicks. Lingering resentment from the night prior. Perhaps it was foolish of them to hope for discretion. A sense of responsibility laden on their shoulders for their part in accelerating his antics. That is to say, broaching the subject with Sullivan had proven a poor decision. Weeping exaggerations, hysterics and drama. Balancing dinner prep with ‘smother guard duty’ and alleviating Iruma's oncoming distress. Excusing his inept choices, Sullivan's exuberance wasn’t at the core of their grievance.

  Sullivan is not an easy demon to get along with. His reality and the Netherworld may very well not be a shared experience. Opera knew this, and well. Regardless of their years of service, even they hadn't a clue to his wiles and machinations. His will is his own, as they came to understand. Everyone else is merely along for the ride. For better or worse. He is far from an ignorant man and further from incapable.

Meaning he knew damn well what they meant. Opera knows that he knows. 

  They've played this song and dance for decades. Frankly they're more insulted that he thought they wouldn't have something to say about it. Disregarding their charge's wellbeing shouldn't have excuses. Crown or otherwise. If there was some grand reason to postpone the topic, he could muster up the courtesy to share why. At the very least.

“A-are…um…are you alright, O-Opera-san?”

Opera sighs, patting down the raised fur of their tail. How undignified. 

“Perfectly, Iruma-sama.”

 Their reply is curt, as their tone tends to be. Unintentionally making the boy clam up. Though they wish to be false, he likely sees their dissatisfaction as residual emotion from the kitchen incident. Another fallacy that could have been avoided had that old fetcher regarded their tone with a smidge of staid attitude. By no fault of Iruma, of course. They are not known to be the best suited for an emotional environment. They straighten their cufflinks. He doesn’t need their gripes on top of his anxieties.

“How is your arm fairing?”

He seemed surprised they were talking, sitting a little straighter. Perhaps they should contact Balam for tips on appearing more affable.

“I-it’s better, thank you.”

“Good. In the future, I would prefer you inform someone of an injury rather than let it be. I am none too fond of those types of surprises.”

The boy scratches his cheek. “Sorry for making you worry. I’ll try harder not to get hurt.”

“I should hope so. I’m still quite curious what ‘accident’ could have left you to fix your own dislocation.” They would hazard it wasn't an accident at all.

“Ah. Y-yeah. It isn’t as interesting as you’d think. Just bad timing. And a little fall. It’s all fine now though, I promise.”

They squint. “I fear your definition of ‘fine’ leaves something to be desired.”

“Ha ha…r-really though, it was my fault. I should have been better prepared for something like a flight test.”

  Iruma laughs about the fact while Opera’s ears fall flat to their head. He has a rough idea of what normal cat signals meant, but he wasn’t sure if Opera fell into the same category. Hopefully not. Their ears go down a lot when he’s around. 

“Thank you for informing me.” They finally say. Maybe he’s overthinking things again, but they look...upset?

“In light of the circumstance, I will be exchanging words with Sullivan-sama. We will likely depart Babyls before you, so should you desire, I will stable the Nightmares by the gate to transport you home.”

  He thinks about the flashy chariot exterior and the meat-hungry horses. Left to loiter by Babyls doors. 

“Ahh, t-thanks but, n-no thanks. I really don’t mind walking.” It was bad enough he was taking it to school to begin with.

They only hum in response.

  The two reduce to comfortable silence. The rock of the carriage offset by Opera’s tail whipping in their seat. He’s not sure what they meant by ‘inform.’ Wouldn’t they have known about the flying race? Guess when he racks his brain, they weren’t actually with Sullivan when he came to see the class.  

 Reflecting on it with a clearer head, Iruma should’ve known there wouldn’t be a normal lesson when Naberius-sensei led them to the tents. Not sure why he thought anything would be normal in a demon school. Almost everything yesterday could’ve been avoided. He could’ve tried harder to reach the teacher before classes. Could’ve asked Sullivan for an excuse, or listened to his danger sense and ditched when he had the chance. Hurting himself on the platform gate was just a byproduct. And to be fair, it isn’t like Naberius knew he couldn't fly. Being pushed off a cliff wasn’t the worst part of yesterday anyhow…

 The ring on his finger shone stark against worn skin. A part of him wonders if Ali would leave regardless of the owl’s gift. At least then, it would be their choice. Maybe it would sting less.

 He pushes down the knot in his chest. It doesn't help, and it won't change what already happened. Better to put the thought behind him. He’s gone through way worse before, he can manage alone again. Same as always. Muffled chatter grows in volume through the carriage windows as the wheels roll to a stop. Depleting his brief respite as Sullivan's dismount creaks from the coach.

  Iruma steadies himself with a goal; From now on, he'll live quietly and do everything he can to. Not. Stand. Out. Lacking Ali, what he has left to rely on is luck and discretion. Keeping himself out of the gallows is easiest if he no one knows he's on the block. Steer clear of the extraordinary, aim for passable. That's all he needs to do. It's enough to ground him, even as Opera swings open the door.

“IRUMA-SAMA HAS ARRIVED!” 

 …Well it was.

 Their announcement, louder than he thought was possible, drew the eye of many students. Gasps and gossip starting before he even made it outside. Hammering down the drama, Opera produces a lengthy velvet carpet. Unfurling a straight red line all the way up to Babyls front. They turn back to him, bowing low with a gesturing hand. 

“Go ahead.”

‘How do you expect me to do that?!!’

“Ooooooh Iruma-kun! Don't forget your bag!” Sullivan calls, bounding over like a child. As always he brushes off the murmuring student body in favour of extravagantly exposing Iruma. 

“Do you see that?”

“The honour student made the Chair-demon carry his bag!”

“That kid’s somethin’ else…”

“Have a good day today, Iruma-kun! Don't forget that grandpa's office is always open for you! Oh! And I got you something before you go! It's a mobile phone, so you can call me whenever you need– Iruma-kun?”

 Bag in arms and guilt rising, Iruma beelines to the outskirts of Babyls without hearing what Sullivan has to say. Demons too preoccupied by their renowned principal’s butler dragging said Yodh away by the horn to notice his departure. 

  Two minutes into the morning and everything’s going south. At this rate, he’s unsure if Sullivan’s boasting is genuine or malicious. Assuming he’s always been like this, it’s the former, but there really isn’t a difference in Iruma’s case. Maybe falling off a cliff isn't such a bad idea after all.

“Good morning, Iruma-sama!”

 Carried scent of burnt caramel and a regal intonation, Iruma can momentarily shake the dread. Pulling together a smile for his fr– for Asmodeus as he sprints from across the courtyard. It was still a little jarring to witness someone excited to see him. A little extra knowing it was someone he was completely outclassed by. But it was nice either way.

“Good morning Azz-kun. Sorry I didn't go with you guys today.”

“Nonsense, your grace shouldn't be resigned to walking when you have fine service at your disposal! A superb display, Iruma-sama! An entrance befittGAHK–”

 Azz folds in on himself with a lurch. The re-rolled red carpet boxing him square in the face. If the ‘kaboom’ he heard at the impact didn't give it away, the tube lands with a ‘fwump’ to reveal familiar lime hair wrapped in its center. ‘Unpredictable’ wasn't a trait Iruma liked at the best of times, but Clara continues to be the exception. An outlook he imagines Azz doesn't quite share as he rubs the bridge of his nose.

Clara beams at him from her cannoli prison. “Mornin' Iruma-chi!”

“Good morning to you too, Clara.” He replies calmly. A relative distance away from the two as their daily romp begins. 

  As is the custom they exchange increasingly creative and semi-flaming blows throughout the course of their trek to homeroom. Resounding banter and minor property damage in their wake. He's glad they caught up to him after he ran from the gates. Iruma had enough of a scene caused by his entry to last a lifetime, but at least now he has as few onlookers as possible. One upside of the Misfit Class being so far from the main building, he supposed.

 Sing-songed ‘kablangs’ and the dusty twinge of soot flow into cave steps. Their descent lacking weaponry (a morsel of luck on Iruma’s side) before and after they take their seats. With the rest of his classmates speaking amongst themselves and a stationed desk at the back of the room, he can finally recede into the background. Better late than never.

“My rival! Your injuries have healed well, I presume?”  

  Or so he thought. Twice wrong already, huh. The titan that is Sabnock Sabro takes a seat at the desk in front of him. With the size of their classroom compared to the stature of the student, almost all the Misfits stare by default. Great.

“Uh y-yeah, Thank you Sabnock-kun. But I wouldn’t call it–”

“What’s this about an injury?! The Chair-demon assured you were unharmed!” Asmodeus’ distress pinches a crease in his brow, fretful as he seems to scour Iruma for some grievous battle wound. Even Clara pouts at his side. 

 Did he do something wrong?

“It’s alright, he probably–” Oh…he didn’t tell Sullivan, did he? “I-I told him not to worry about it. Opera-san helped with the swelling anyway, it was basically a bruise. I'm fine.”

“Fit for a spar then! I look forward to it.”

 Iruma sweat drops at the image, forcing a chuckle to mask his grimace. “W-well, um, m-maybe not… today?”  

Sabnock laughs. “I jest, rival. The future demon king knows better than to stress one's recovery.” 

‘Weren’t you the same guy who tried to axe me in the face yesterday?’ 

“Besides, your tail must be–”

“Silence.”

  Naberius strides as surly as ever. His presence demands attention, and so Sabnock moves back to his seat without a fuss. Azz grumbling something along the lines of ‘incorrigible brute’ as he goes.

“I'm taking roll. Answer when your name is called, and shut up before then.”

Roll call begins, yet the noise is garbled through Iruma's ears. Lost in the thick of his mind as Sabnock's words wade through the sludge.

His tail.

His tail.

How could he forget? On the Guardian, Sabro was with him. And he saw.

Disquiet churns the acid in his stomach, constricting his thoughts and mind. He should be glad. Odds of being eaten alive by a particular classmate have gone down significantly. Assuming the ‘future demon king’ isn’t cannibalistic, that is. Iruma could use some good news right about now, but the revelation is tainted with a greasy film of implications.

  He isn't naive. Iruma has gone over Sullivan's contract so many times that he could forge the man's signature. It's outlandish, coldly written, and, strangest of all, heavily weighted in Iruma's favour. But that couldn’t be right. Since he signed, since he met Sullivan, he’s been trying to decipher the why. Why the man would spend so much for something like him. There had to be a reason. No one would ever go through all this effort unconditionally. So, what did he have that no demon could sell? His humanity.

  Sullivan is rich, respected, and powerful. If he wanted just any grandchild, demons would be lined up for miles. But a human would be a different story. Judging by what happened with the Guardian’s baby, it's something more valuable than he may have thought. So theoretically he was right to keep the extra limb on the down low. He should’ve been able to handle that. Clearly, he thought too highly of himself. Now he has no idea what to do. Amongst devils his abnormality may be an advantage, but blending in with the crowd is his second priority of survival. Right now, Sullivan takes first place. Iruma has to keep him happy. He has to play the part he wants.

 What if Sabnock brings it up again? He was more than happy to just now, and that was in the earshot of his whole class. Iruma hadn’t thought about how normal a tail would be to a demon. They see one every day, why wouldn’t they talk about it? The equivalent of bringing up a tattoo. But Sullivan is the Chair-demon! He’s working right now! A building away! He could be in spitting distance the next time Sabnock opens his mouth. He needs Sabnock to keep it to himself. But what does he–

“Iruma.”

Reality jolts back to him in the form of a cross demon’s scowl. Naberius standing in front of his desk. Iruma stammers, reminded of attendance.

“H-here, sir.”

“Starting today you will begin classes with other teachers. Refrain from extremely insolent behaviour, such as not answering when called upon.” Naberius’ frown lines deepen. “Or foolish actions, such as challenging your teachers to a fight.”

Sabro gives a thumbs-up at the jab, making the professor’s brow twitch. He turns to the rest of the class on his way out the door. “That is all. Get out of my sight, and make your way to the class tower immediately.”

At his instruction (or more likely wanting to get away from their sensei) the Misfits start filing out. Iruma breathes a sigh of relief. 

‘I’m not sure if he’ll be any less dangerous if I apologize. It might just piss him off more…I’ll figure it out later…’

“Iruma-sama?”

Clara’s teeth gnash in his face. Causing a start that nearly topples him from his chair. Reeled back, Iruma processes Asmodeus’ hands at fault for the face, and not in fact a hungry Clara. 

“Wh-wha– what’s w-wrong?”

“Er, well…my apologies Iruma-sama. You seem a bit down this morning, and I was trying to cheer you up.” He scans between his and Clara’s expressions. Earnestly eyeing his reactions.

 “...is it working?”

Clara cackles. “Azu-Azu is a little dumb Iruma-chi. But Clara’s gotcha’ covered! Wanna’ piggyback?”

“What did you call me?! That’s rich coming from–”

“Ya’ just grabby grab! Like this, Iruma-chi!”

“Unhand me Valac! This isn’t helping Iru–”

  Iruma watches the start of another caper unfold. Antsy stupor replaced with a fluttery kind of feeling. ‘Cheer him up,’ huh. The phrase only makes him giddy, a no doubt stupid looking smile spreading on his face. He almost has a whole new problem trying to get his tail to stop wagging. He shuffles up to their impromptu wrestling match.

“How ‘bout we get to class? We don’t want to be late.” He says fondly.

  In truth he doesn't know what Sullivan would think. Something that scares him more than being eaten. More than being useless. But– but there’s still hope. It’s not like Sullivan roams the halls, and he has Clara and Azz to keep him a little calmer. If tails are so commonplace, it reduces the opportunities to talk about it, right? It would be like chatting up someone’s left leg. So if he can somehow convince Sabnock to forget about it altogether, for once he could start thinking about the positive repercussions of his mishap. Should be simple. Iruma’s never bribed someone himself, but he’s seen loads of examples. He liked the flower crowns for some reason. But...those weren't a bribe, those were gifts (right? Is there supposed to be a difference? He thinks so.) There's always the obvious. Sabro likes the demon king. Maybe he could work with that. 

Just for a little while, though, he could put it off for later.

  Demonic classes strung a web of intrigue. Each professor bearing distinct forms of demonstration and text for the school year ahead. Iruma relished the experience, fascination sparkling in his eyes. Most topics were completely foreign to him – having little ‘conventional' academic experience in general– yet being able to participate properly for the first time in forever was exciting on its own. Even if he was behind in the introduction worksheets and understood zilch of the magic based units. Being overwhelmed but in a good way (although keeping his tail still was a bit cumbersome as a result.) This newest class, however, he thinks will be his favourite.

  Much akin to the campus greenhouse he temporarily lived in, the first year botany– rather– diabotany classroom took place in a tower. An enormous spire of glass and vine. High against Babyls walls, with a brick-tiled main floor and a wrap-around mezzanine for a second. Organized chaos flanked every square inch of this indoor garden. Shrubs, herbs, and pots stacked high with soil and verdure. Iruma even recognised a few sprouts that grew around his den. Enthralled by the bizarre beauty of Netherworld flora.

  The Misfits trickle into the centremost part of the tower where a few tables and smaller potted starts lay in wait. Sabnock careful not to crush any wayward greenery, and Agares needing to dismount his cloud to untangle thorns from its fluff. Allocer and Goemon find their own trouble with the space, undergrowth getting caught in their furs. Aside from the desks and the blackboard, there’s little room for anything besides plant life. The main courtyard didn’t have as much greenery. Iruma doesn’t mind at all.

“Iruma-chi, you got another one!”

Clara plucks a wandering root from his hair, its tiny legs kicking for freedom as she lets it skitter off into a seedbed. The third one since their arrival. It seemed the plants may be sharing his admiration, many blooms and leaves almost eerily following his path. Come to think of it, Iruma vaguely remembers that happening in the forest.

“I wonder why…Clara, do you know about plants like these?”

She hums a tune. Spinning one of the potted seedlings between her hands. “Hubbub is all clingy if ya’ know where ya’ are. But not really really. Maybe they like your funny smells!”

Iruma coaxes her hands away, leaving the little leaf with dizzy eyeballs. And then her words click.

“W-wai-wait– I smell?”

“Yeah! Like a squishy magicmallow!”

‘I smell like food?! No one told me!’

“I see you’re taking a liking to my little ones, yis. This is good, yis,” A mellow voice said, effectively beginning their lesson and postponing his panic.

  A woman strolled to the front of the class with a skip in her step. Dressed in an altered, green version of the Babyls staff uniform that was tailored in the shape of petals. The diabotany professor was just a fraction shorter than Iruma, perhaps more so if not for her upturned hairstyle. Stature accentuated by a quaint, cat-like smile and barely-there black horns. She matched seamlessly with her classroom, down to the green, stem-like tail that bobbed behind her.

“Students of the Misfit Class, it’s a pleasure to meet all of you. Yis.” She greets. 

“Welcome to the diabotany tower. Here, as I’m sure you can guess, you will be learning about diabotany. Yis.” She clasps her hands together. Any vegetation lingering by promptly wiggle back to their planters. 

 “I am Stolas Suzy, and I will be your professor in this course. Yis. Today, let us test your magic by making some flowers bloom, shall we? Yis!”

  Iruma's shoulders droop. He’s sure he’ll still learn a lot, but he had held out hope that the gardening class would be more hands-on than mana forward. Nothing much he can do about that. He can still enjoy the material. Stolas-sensei shuffles up to an extra pot with her hand outstretched.

“Your task is simple, yis. Hold your hand over this special sapling, and…”

“Quan Quan!”

  A sunny yellow flashes from her palm, coating the little bud. In no longer than a second the sapling shines back, and its shape changes in the light. What’s left is a charming pink flower that Stolas shows to the class. From afar, Iruma would’ve thought it was a Camellia, but the Netherworld flare comes in the form of two eyes blinking in its middle. Copies of Suzy’s own. 

“Just like that, a flower has bloomed! You can use this to give shape to your magic, and learn how to direct your flow of mana. Yis. Alright everyone, let us begin! Yis.”

 Misfits took to the concept quickly. Snatching up pots and chanting their own spell. Iruma took the initiative to move away from popular tables to a more secluded one. Stolas-sensei toddles around the room. Observing everyone’s progress. 

“One tip is to envision what the flower should look like in your mind. Yis. Don't focus on others and hone in on what you want this flower to be. It's your mana, you control it. Do your best, yis.”

Her words of encouragement seem to work well with his classmates. A few colourful flashes blinking around pot stems as they get a feel for the task. He’s interested to see what everyone makes.

‘I have no mana, so I can't produce a flower…but I should still go along with it. People may notice if I don't.’

  A separate flash pops just to his right. He looks over in time to see a white mist engulf a nearby pot. Compacting into a curved, Lily of the Valley like shape.  The flowerets themselves are a cute lavender, and resemble clusters of Forget-me-nots. Purson, who he hadn’t registered until just now, rotates the pot to get the best look. Its shaking sounds like wind chimes. 

“What an intricate flower, Purson-kun.”

Purson’s ever stoic face jerkily turns to Iruma. He looks around. Mainly behind himself. When he turns back, he looks like he’s blue screening. He points to himself, slowly.

“...um…y-you are Purson, right? I’m sorry I didn’t mean–”

Purson evaporates. Like, actually evaporates. Scant a wisp left in his place. His plant reacts just as poorly, shrinking in on itself and pulling back its blooms. It looks the same as when it started. As if Soi was never there.

‘To think I scared a demon. What great company I must be.’ Iruma thinks. It’s probably best to leave well enough alone. Even if he sees Purson reappear a little further away.

“That’s the honour student, huh?” 

“Talkin’ to that sapling an awful lot. Ya’ think he’s like Suzy-sensei?”

“The top scorer is here, too.”

  Iruma glances up to where the people were talking. On the balcony, there’s a number of slightly older looking students. Some do their own thing, fiddling with gardens and watering seeds, but others hang by the railing. Just watching.

“They’re our upperclassmen.” Asmodeus explains, coming up to stand with him. “Since the first year’s ranks have been posted, they’re likely checking in on our progress. A tad nosey to interrupt a class. In my opinion.”

Lied leans across his table to take a peek. “Esh…look over there. Student council grunts.”

  Iruma follows his gaze to spot two students dressed in black and red. He thinks he’s seen the girl with purple skin before. Escorting students out of the familiar hall. By that logic, he’s probably seen the grey-haired guy too. He should probably try to steer clear if the council president was any indication. Hopefully they aren’t here for him. 

Goemon whistles. “They never come to see their underclassmen. If they aren’t causing trouble, that is.”

“What are they doing here?”

“A FOOLISH QUESTION!” Lacking all subtlety Sabnock skids on the tile into their view. To his credit, they do look over.

“I am Bet rank, and the future demon king! Of course they came to observe me; Sabnock Sabro!” Baring Broadway level theatrics Sabnock waves a giant hand over his sapling pot. “And I will surely give spectacle! Witness my true power!” 

“Quan Quan!” 

  Sabro puffs out his chest as the searing shine from his pot fades. An angry, spiky floret with the likeness of a Tansy absolutely tearing through the ceramic holding itself. There seems to be a theme with Netherworld flora having faces.

“Behold!”

“I-It’s breaking its pot! Watch y-your fingers, Sabnock-kun!”

“Brilliant, is it not? I shall call it ‘Destructive God!’”

“I don’t think they’re supposed to do that, Sab.” 

“I give it a B+. Yis, very feisty.”

“Why?!”

“Hmpf. How crude.” Azz scoffs. If the smoke didn’t make it obvious, a Quan Quan flower chars the lining of Azz's own pot. Petals ablaze on a stem of dark burgundy and fuchsia scales. Rather than ash, it smells of roses. He clicks his tongue at the blonde. “Should you wish to seek elegance, my blossom is the pinnacle.”

“It certainly suits you.”

“How pretty, and with healthy mana distribution. Yis, it is an A+.”

Asmodeus preens, the flames rising on the stalk. “Effective and balanced magic requires the honing of one’s artistic ski–”

 Doused from streaming water, Azz is left with a fruitless stem and an overflowing pot of wet dirt. Sabnock sneers with an empty bucket in hand. 

“What’s with the face? Thou mustn’t forget to water one’s flowers.”

Asmodeus snarls with spited glare. “How dare you extinguish the flame of my bloodline?! Unforgivable fiend!”

“Ah, thou art short-tempered. Very well! Allow me to cool thy head as well!”

  Aaaand there they go. Sabnock and Asmodeus have managed to pick fights in almost every one of their subjects throughout the day. Iruma’s distress and concerns driven off by the repetition. By now Iruma is most surprised they lasted this long, and Stolas-sensei appears to think the same. Casually walking up with her flower, letting gargantuan vines spill out from its pot to contain the two brawlers. 

“Could you hold off until after class? Yis. My classroom is not fit for fighting. Now, let’s take a look at the other flowers. Yis.”

 Class runs rather smoothly after that. Iruma granted a front row view of the Misfits’ creations. Indigo hands compose the base of Jazz's plant, each adorned with gems and hoarding gold. Lied’s flower turns flat and circular, a functioning roulette wheel with plastic chips in the soil. Allocer grows a vine-bound scroll, Goemon a vortex of wind, abstract visions compared to Crocell and Ix. Sculpted ice and fragrant pink blooms respectively, that hold the typical likeness of decorative plants. Agares rests on his plant behind Caim, a jumbo cotton ball that casts a shadow over the… risque shape inside Camui’s pot. Iruma could so clearly match the plant to the person. Though there was one he was missing.

“Clara? How did yours…go?”

“Nowhere! Nothin’! Clara’s got nothin’!” She shouts. Hiding a very clear something with little success. 

  It’s obvious that it was her sapling because of a few things. One, he isn’t blind. Two, it’s apparently just as spontaneous as she is. The pot somehow getting from between her arms to Iruma’s in a blink. Playing patty-cake against his ahoge. He couldn’t accurately describe what it was by any stretch of the margin. The best he would call it would be ‘expressive.’ Like impressionistic pieces he’d clean when he worked for a museum a long time ago. The noises it made reminded him of Hubbub (he thinks Clara said that was the forest’s name.) Fitting. He gently nudges it back to Clara. Sitting with her head in her hands, beet red. 

“I can tell you put a lot into this, Clara. It’s certainly you.”

“Nope! Nothin’! Iruma-chi didn’t see! I gotsa’ waaaay cooler planty boy!” She says, stuffing it under her shirt. Though Iruma can tell she’s biting back a smile. One that slips once Jazz screams across the room, both her and Iruma recognizing the missing lump from her shirt. She sprints away to retrieve her sprightly blossom. Iruma going back to survey from the sidelines.

“Everyone’s magic is so unique. Their flowers look wonderful.” He muses. He cups the sides of his little sprout, a bit solemn to think that it won’t be getting its own transformation.

“Sorry. I can’t make you grow like the others. Maybe another student can, though. I’m sure you’ll be great.”

‘If I could make a flower, what would I want?’

  Iruma sets the pot back down. Guiding his hand over the sapling, where Ali’s ring catches the sun. He thinks of his old tent. Of sleeping under the stars. Dirt and leaves. Caves and dens. More than anything, he thinks of spring. Bundled on soft petal beds.

‘...Something warm. Something fluffy.’

Something safe.

“Quan Quan!”

“What in the nine circles were you thinking?”

  To anyone else, the question would sound idle. Not a lilt nor accusation to be heard. An unusual phrasing perhaps, but nothing more. Yet uttered by one such as Opera, there were many demons who would run for the hills at even the thought. Sullivan stays careless. Rubbing the horn they pulled from the gates to his office.

“I get the sense you aren't talking about the new picture frames I ordered.”

“Why did you let a wingless child perform a mandatory flight test?”

 Sullivan winces, hissing breath through his teeth. 

“Ah. That. Not my best work, I admit.”

  They aren’t in the mood. Not for this, and not with him. They shouldn’t have to be asking. They shouldn’t have found out this morning. They shouldn’t have learned about it after pressing their ward about an injury. They shouldn’t have to be here.

“Explain to me your reasoning, because I am unable to fathom why the Chair-demon of Babyls couldn’t spare the effort to remove his grandson from harmful activity.”

“I did! I sent a note. Multiple iterations, different formats and everything! Kalego-kun had to have read one.”

“A note?” They feel the tips of their claws prodding at their palm. “I was unaware you had gone senile.”  

“What else was I to do? Exempting him directly would be exceptionally suspicious! Need I remind you, I’m not the best imp on campus amongst staff at the moment.” The Lord saunters to the chair side of his table. “Dali may play nice, but I know he doesn’t believe our little story. Many don’t. Forcing my kin to remain unranked wouldn’t help persuade them.”

  Such an asinine excuse.

“What part of your position have you misconstrued? Blame it on nepotism. On preference. On the sky if you so choose. You are the proprietor. You don’t need their approval.”  

  He tilts his head. Mock contemplation clouding Sullivan’s pointed, observant stare. As if Opera couldn’t see it. Insulting one-sided exchange that clenches their jaw. The Crown’s tone remains even as he chooses his next words.

“The race was monitored. A teacher on standby. I myself went to see Iruma-kun at the finish line, if you recall my absence. He wouldn’t have been hurt in any lasting way.” With an air of finality, he settles into his chair. 

“Even still, your frustrations are founded. You're right to be upset with me. I should have told you my intentions. I apologize.”

“But now he’s ranked, and fit as a fiddle. Everything worked out in the en–”

  Thunderous clatter shakes the walls. Furniture wobbling from the force that shattered through the desk between them. Opera themself isn’t sure of their actions, even as their shoe lies mere inches from their master’s skull. Leg caught in a vice grip of Sullivan’s making. A snare of mana locking them in place, commanded with a single raised finger.

  In all their years. In all their time. They have never felt such disparage. Boiled blood scalding their veins. Watching him skirt past their accusation, false naivety flown by the tip of his fangs. Denying them purpose as he carelessly hinged the life of their responsibility on a piece of paper. Against Naberius Kalego. Of all instructors, he deliberately selects the compassionless, spiteful demon to care for his grandson. The most absentminded of devils knows better than that. He knows better than that. They could picture it now; trademark scowl as their kohai crumples Iruma’s scanty excuse of a lifeline. Flippant crock wasting breath apologizing to them. No manner of spurt vitriol could aptly quell their rage. In no instance would a note be enough. How did he manage? A full flight length, all alone? ‘A little fall’ he said. ‘My fault’ he said. As if he would– could adapt to that. He isn’t a–    

  Clarity. The click of puzzle pieces. They seethe, though no longer bubble.

  Porcelain cups cease their rattling.

  A portrait slides off the wall.

  They’ve seen the look in their lord’s eye. The briefest of sight barred by round spectacles. He knows. They know. Now, they start on the same page. Stiffly, they retract their limb. Bulwark of magic released in tandem. 

  The stillness is deafening.

“...Is there something you’d like to discuss?”

  There isn’t a question. Both know the answer. They too, have had an inkling towards the revelation. Knowing looks shared between the halls of their manor home. 

  But the fact doesn’t supply reason.

“You have yet to validate your decisions. You formed a contract with him. That should have been enough confirmation. There was no need to put him in harm's way.”

Sullivan’s glasses gleam. “Confirmation of what, exactly?”

“You don’t think he’s human.”

 Their master’s lip twitches upward. Seemingly pleased with their deduction. He flicks scraps of wood from his suit as he rises from his seat. “Neither do you.” 

 Minacious aura permeates the room. Mana reversing the flow of time, reconstructing the disaster they caused. 

“The human world cannot sustain mana. It’s sapped up. Wrung dry. To a common demon, there’s nothing left to sense. Even Iruma's contract with me only spared the faintest flicker. Theories may span within the reaches of truth, yet nothing can be assured without proper tools at our disposal. Something that can see the potency of one’s mana. Something that taps into it directly. Something like a Rank Owl.”

  Splinters mend back into boards, spilled ink into wells. He leans against his reformed desk. “The owl cannot rank those who haven’t received a familiar, and performed the flight test. Even if he didn’t finish the race, Iruma would’ve been marked for participation and been able to greet the owl. Had he been excused, he would miss the opportunity.”

  Opera stares at their employer. Grasping the concept behind his terrible choices. They go off to the side, fetching their lord’s favourite, hand painted, one-of-a-kind tea set. Gifted to him by a high ranking noble ally.

 And smash it to pieces. 

“You’re an idiot.” They say. Watching the nine foot man-child sputter at their destructive turn.

“Regardless of conjecture or attest, you cannot expect Iruma-sama to handle situations like everyone else.”

Sullivan is shut down before he has a chance to open his mouth. Opera pointedly speaking louder. “He dislocated his elbow yesterday. Alluded to the cause being ‘a fall’ of sorts. To my knowledge, he didn’t tell anyone. I myself only learned of this by coincidence whilst tending the kitchen last night, and early this morning, when he admitted to resetting it himself. Did he confide in you? No, I suppose not.”

  Bewilderment bleeds back into tense silence. They idly picked the broken dishware from the floor, not in the mind to entertain the Crown’s expression. They could guess what it looked like.

“Have you noticed anything yourself, for that matter? How he waits for your permission to leave a room? Have you seen him hide food around the house, or rig alarms by his bedroom door? Perhaps you’ve caught him peeling feathers from his skin, speaking of himself like an object ready to be discarded?”

  Opera stands again. Gingerly placing the tea set shards back on their tray.

“You acquired a grandchild. Not an interest, or fascination. A charge you have accepted into your care. Not being human doesn’t mean he’ll suddenly attune himself to the Netherworld. It won’t wash away the world he knew, nor the ‘humanity’ you saw that hurt him. Forcing things will only make it worse. You must let him adjust. Give him a reason to let us in.” 

  They face him anew, satisfied with the level of distress and realization in his features. They know their lord to be of odd thought and stranger action, correctly determining that his Satan awful logic was suppressing finer judgement. Though they wish they could’ve intervened beforehand, it’s better to be corrected with time than not at all. His lordship was handling the subject well given his emotional temperme–

"OOOOOOOOOPPPPPEERRAAAAAAAAAA! I’M A TERRIBLE GRANDPAAAA!”

"Quite, my Lord." 

"OOOOOOOOOPPERRRRAAAAAA!!!"

  Inward, they remind themselves that they chose this vocation of their own autonomy. The egg-shaped, sobbing mass at their feet a ramification of that choice. Likewise, ensuring the Chair-demon doesn't die from dehydration or cause irreversible water damage also falls into their obligation. Well. They assume he wouldn't be so downtrodden had he not understood the severity of their scolding. Luckily a distraction rears its head in an unusual tremble in the ground. One that dries Sullivan’s tears, and perks Opera’s ears.

“My. What a marvelous view.”

   And indeed it was. Resplendent, plush blossoms, cascading pink petals onto Babyls. Aloft by the winding wood branches of a Sakura tree. Sunken grooves of a deep, starlit core glistening beneath bark. Its trunk burst from the ruined top of the first year diabotany tower. If they recall, the Misfit Class should be scheduled there.

  They snap a picture for the ‘Iruma Album.’  

“Seems we have a tad more to chat about.”

“Indeed.”

“Oh, and Opera? Tell Kalego-kun his pay’s been halved.”

“With pleasure, Sullivan-sama.”

  Cool breeze sways through strong branches, showering petals evermore. Students and staff alike basking in awe and serenity at the otherworldly flower. None more so, perhaps, than Azazel Ameri. Stern gaze narrowed through her office windows. She hears the rapid clack of approaching footsteps before the council room door slams open. Kimaris Quichelight is out of breath and lacking decorum, though Ameri is preoccupied enough to let it slide.

“President! T-the honour student! He made some kind of– of fluffy pink thing!”

  Petals gather on the windowsill. Close inspection reveals shifting swirls of blue and white on their surface, like sparkling pearls.

“Those flowers…they only exist in the human realm.”

“P-pardon?”

  Ameri shut her notebook of theories. Pen scribbles filed away with a dull click. So few days into the year, yet so many unnatural events. A security breach before opening day. Forbidden, ancient spell chanting. The Familiar Hall incident. Random cases of mana fatigue, and the most recent ‘Kanakiri Guardian’ newsletter. This…flower simply adds to the pile. It weaves quite the confounding tale. 

  As the student council president, it is her duty to protect Babyls. From threats big and small. If what she suspects is true, she alone cannot unravel the extent of trouble it could cause. It must not be left to fester. She redirects her attention to Quichelight.

“The honour student Iruma. I must speak with him.”

Chapter Text

    There are six-hundred-sixty-six students in the demon school Babyls. Spread across six grades, each and every imp under one roof. All made to coexist with each other and rampant demonic urges. What separates Babyls from disorder and atrocity– what makes Babyls renowned and high-spoken– goes by the title of Babyls student council. 

  Elite, thoroughbred demons, known for their hardened integrity that keeps all students straight backed in line. Maintaining order by the everyday is their pride and position. Second only to official staff themselves. They are the footmen, the frontline, and what made any demon proud to be part of the Babyls institute. So it was of no surprise that the student council president had shown interest in the Misfit Class. Much less that she wanted to speak with the honour student directly. He who, in a mere week of semester’s start, has been the epicenter of many school-wide phenomena. Though in a sea of teenage devils, and for all the gravitas around Sullivan's grandson, finding just one wasn't going as well as they'd anticipated.

“He wasn't in the Misfit’s classroom or cafeteria. The diabotany tower was empty, too. Apparently Suzy-sensei gave them all a free period.” Western explained. Readjusting his already straight glasses.

Quichelight rolls his eyes. “Not that she was much help. She's too invested with the plant to even care about the damage. That said, Smoke and Grave scouted the tree as well. Nothing to report other than the fact its unique properties seem to be drawing in students.”

“Ugh. Have they nothing better to do?”

“What about the Chair-demon? Was he with him?”

“No, boss. The Chair-demon and his security devil departed just after the tree sprouted. They were alone.”

“...Very well. Tell Smoke and Grave to stay by the tower if he comes back. You two, double check on populated areas.”

“Yes, boss!”

  Ameri dismisses her subordinates, shutting the doors to her office in contemplation. Imps aren't exactly known for strong attention spans. The vast majority of the student body could recite his news-worthy spectacles, or what gossip that had flown their way with ease. However strapped for entertainment value, so far only his direct classmates could remember what he even looked like. At this rate there was no guarantee they'd catch him before the school day ended. She could do a call-out through the broadcaster batra, but if he is what she thinks he is, that's far too much unnecessary attention. Discretion is of utmost importance. Especially should things go awry.

‘Iruma shouldn't be aware of my knowledge. If he suspects anything, it could make things much more difficult. What with the Chair-demon on his side. Then again, he may be willing to cooperate…’

  She makes a routine pass of her mana, trapping sound within the walls and closing curtains. Satisfied enough with the privacy, she turns to the bookshelves.

‘Dali-sensei has advised me to keep an eye out for troublesome signs regarding Iruma. He didn't specify why, but after what happened with Sullivan at the familiar summonings I wouldn't be surprised if his guardianship is in question.’

  Hidden safely behind stacks of books is what she's looking for; an embedded seal. It turns red when sensing her magic, a low humming tune filling the office. One sharp click and the hum gives way to a rumble. The bookshelves open like a gateway.

‘If really is human, he may be here against his will. There's a chance I could persuade him to tell me the truth if he understands I mean him no harm. But how would I begin to interact with a human?’

  Volume after volume are unveiled behind the settling dust. Stashed away from all besides herself. Her very hands tremble at the thought of opening one of these books again. She reaches out, plucking one from its place. Its surface foreign to her fingers.

“I need more information. More research. Anything I can gleen could unravel what I'm missing…”

  A steadying breath. The tick of the clock. A bead of sweat.

“It must be done. For Babyls.”

  Determined and braced, Ameri flips open the text. It's pages releasing their untapped power.

 

“My name is Hoshino Rin! And I'm currently running late!”

“How could I do this to myself!? On the first day of–”

She turns the corner, but suddenly!

*BAM!*

“Ouch…oh no, I bumped into someone!”

“Are you okay?”

*Doki Doki*   *Doki Doki*

 

  Her heart drums faster than a dem-dol concert. Face flushed and ears bobbing. Ameri gasps at the realization that she was almost enthralled by the forbidden texts! Their aura a magnet drawn directly to her chest. She slams the book shut.

…And opens it again.

  She couldn't read a lick of the otherworldly symbols, those that made up the undeniably potent inscription she laid her eyes upon. That of the human language. Even with the cute pictures detailed diagrams, what the pages were implying seemed nonsensical. A girl running somewhere bumps into a boy…which makes her fall in love? Just like that??? Do humans possess innate charming abilities? Do they communicate with physical interaction? They must supersede the likes of succubi and incubi if they influence love directly. What a terrifying thought!

“If only I could read it…n-not for myself! Of course! It would certainly make things easier…” She justified said to herself. 

“This particular passage doesn't appear to discuss what I’m looking for. A love spell won't do me any good. Perhaps I was ill prepared to delve into uncharted territory.”

She closes the book again.

…

“B-but one can never be too hasty! As the student council president, it's my duty to soldier through this conundrum. With or without aid. Just a few more pages…”

  So soon did time pass her by. Squeals and fangirling concealed by silencing magic as the day toiled on. Little did miss president know that the source of her strife lay just a stairway from her reach. Council overlooking the notion that a certain blue haired student would volunteer to clean school grounds. Easily missed under the abnormality of demonic charity, even out in the open. Staring at the sky.

  Cherry blossoms marked one of Iruma’s favourite seasons in Japan. Sweltering summer sun was still months away, and the stress over finding more layers to wear was left behind. Autumn was an easier time as well, but held a persistent sense of fleeting. Balancing everyday labour with the need to prepare for the upcoming winter. Spring was his respite. A reprieve wherein the very elements weren’t out for his neck. Jobs were shy of taxing, money making hours were getting longer, and– if he managed time right– he could actually spare a moment for himself. For Iruma, those moments often revolved around the blooming season. Sakura viewings were open for everyone, stretched for multiple days, and didn’t cost a thing. A perfect place to let himself relax. He lay beneath the branches many nights in his life. Tarp tent freckled with petals that hid the wear. Iruma didn’t get to see them bloom this year. Too busy. He loves that he’s been given another chance. 

  Just not like this…

  Strangled weight lay stone slabs on his lungs. Gnarled knots and wood flakes pressing into his torso. Iruma doesn’t move. His grip to the stalk that nearly blew off his skull. Sprung from the sapling that should never have grown. Bloodrush through his ears dampening the ecstatic praise coming from below. 

“Brilliant work, I-Iruma-sama!”

“Iruma-chi! Your flowers are so pretty!”

“An amazing plant, yis, yis! Superb! An A++! Yis!”

  Iruma numbly gives thanks, though he doubts the sound carries. He isn’t paying attention. Waiting for the inevitable. Sure enough, like clockwork a slender silhouette glides down through the branches. Features fuzzy. Where he expects a bone crushing hug, Sullivan hovers where he clings. He's thankful. His back is acting up again.

“You’ve made a wonderful plant, Iruma-kun. Do you need help getting down?”

  It would be rude not to reply, even so it takes a moment for him to find the words. Sullivan gingerly coaxes Iruma’s iron grip from the log. Scooping him up, and flying him to a not so lethal height. Today was going well. He’s not sure why he keeps expecting it to stay that way. Holding onto the demon Lord was making him feel a bit better though. A familiar trickling warmth. As they make their way to the ground, Sullivan takes the initiative to elaborate.

“Remember how I filled your ring with some of my mana? Well, now that it's charged you're able to use magic.”

  Sullivan steadies Iruma as they touch down. Watching students fly out from the blossoms, and others, entrapped by wreaths of pink, get assistance from Stolas. 

“It’s normally activated by the wearer's intent. I didn't expect it to work at a notable scale.” 

  He gently puts a hand on Iruma's head. 

“Still, it must've been quite the scare for you, dear boy. Apologies for not telling you sooner.”

  Iruma can only nod.

  His Quan Quan flower had destroyed the whole of the diabotany tower. Where it once stood, a Sakura tree grew in its place. Paired with spindles of blue in their limbs. A lovely scene. Complemented the building, actually. But the moment can't help but be downtrodden. Ruptures thumping his shoulder blades, tail to collar no better than a dented can. The string of recent days is beginning to grind at his psyche. These sudden ‘surprises’ getting fewer reactions and more woozy head.

  There are worse ways to feel. His grandfather offered to let him skip the rest of the day, delighted to let him go home with them early. He would've gone. What he would give for a bit of shuteye. But…he wasn't sure he was ready. Besides, it's not like he could leave this mess for everyone else to deal with. That wouldn't be fair. Keeping busy could always clear his head anyway. 

  Iruma swept up the last of the glass that used to comprise the classroom roof. Packing up the cleaning supplies of finished work, waving goodbye to the cleaning staff as he went. Netherworld sunset drapes hues of orange and pink over Babyls’ stately structure. As if the walls themselves swallow the light. Sun crept beneath the horizon to match the now emptied halls. Iruma hadn't noticed the time. 

  He leans up against the rooted tower walls, feigning a view of the sky while he fights the whistling ting through his ears. Trying in vain to blink away the dizziness. He still has to walk back to the mansion, and he'd rather do it when he isn't at risk of stumbling off the road. Good thing Azz and Clara already left. He wouldn't want them to wait around so long. Good intentions or otherwise.

  Acknowledging how beat he was felt like a slap in the face. Loathe to accept that his cross-campus cleaning had taken until sundown. Something he could only blame on lagging hands and spotty eyes. If using mana makes him this loopy every time, he may have to ask Sullivan for a way to turn off the ring entirely. What he thought was plain disorientation proving to be much harder to shake, and more so to clean with. Given his previous short escapades with magic, he can at least say a bad headache is a lesser evil. Including the riot in his belly.

“Guess I missed dinner…at least Opera-san didn't have to cook so much.” He mused.

  Gurgling revolt from his insides is what he gets for bringing up food. Lament in the form of a pinching ache. What has welcomed itself as a pattern to follow Iruma plus magic. He’d go for full weeks without grub back home. Often so long his stomach ceased to growl. So why it's such a bother now he suspects is from something the Netherworld has to offer. ‘Demonic hunger’ has to be the worst side effect he’s fought since appendicitis. Everything smells so strong, everything makes his mouth water. Strung to the wriggle of dangling bait. A disturbing concept, given the demons he now mingles with. Which is without considering if it’s the magic that’s the problem. Iruma can't help but recall Sullivan's words the day they met; how humans aren’t built for mana.

  He shakes his head. Pounding pressure between his eyes to derail the train of thought. Won’t help anyone by thinking like that. It could be nothing. Maybe it's because he's been spoiled with Opera’s cooking. Or the plentiful table he could actually sit at. Or that he was just allowed to eat at all. Any reason would be better to dwell on. Sullivan would know if it was something demonic affecting him, right? He– he would tell him. Would he?

‘I don't want it to get any worse before I get home. The marbles help a lot, but rummaging around in the staffs’ things isn't a great idea. Ali always knew where to find them…’

  How, he had no clue. Watching them pick a direction and book it like a bloodhound. Ali would hide them inside his pockets and bag. At home he'd even find some in his dresser. He didn't realize how many he'd been eating until he ran out. Iruma hadn't thought about stockpiling because he was never the one finding the things. He didn't feel hungry then. Certainly not gluttonous. Iruma squirms at the memories. Losing it at the drop of a hat. He doesn't want it to happen. Then again, he doesn't know how to fix it other than to eat. Granted he wasn't sure why. He pushes himself off the wall, mulling over what to do. At least the petals look pretty.

  The petals…? Hmm. 

  A slight sweet, a flowery bitter. Far from unpleasant given his experience. The leaves weren’t awful either. Sullivan’s manor isn’t that far away…He saw loads of other students enjoying the plant too. And– technically– he made the tree. It shouldn’t be off limits.  Well, he has a little time, doesn’t he? Before he goes?

  As the last bell roared to mark closing gates, a door creaked open. Blue slipping into rooted shade. 

  And so the clock hands turned. 

“I can't believe this…” 

  Shameful. Absolutely shameful. She has to get up early tomorrow. She has an image to uphold! And what does she do? Spend the entirety of her preparation and paperwork hours stuck in a book. One she couldn't even read. In good conscience Ameri couldn't deem her– um investigation as a waste, however failing to manage her work was bothersome to say the least. In no small credence to the rectangular lump against her midsection.

‘I left in such a hurry I bought the damn thing with me! Father told me these texts were valuable but to think I let it get the better of me!’ She scolded, the nudging of the novel’s surface like an incessant pecking bird.

‘No matter. It's pointless to turn back now. I'll just put it back in the morning.’

   Ameri’s ear flicks.

  Not that she wanted to keep it with her. Or that she was too stubborn to concede she couldn't understand it. Or her flimsy justifications had bled into a personal fascination. Nothing like that at all. It was– it w-was completely professional! She just, um, hadn't reached the section she needed. For her research, of course! One must broach new subjects with caution in these circumstances. Discounting any amount of fluster or palpation she certainly did not feel.

‘Still, this is a major responsibility. A genuine relic of another world. Outside of my office, I need to keep it close.’

  Flick. Flick.

  Grand scarlet wings poise for the skies. One beat, and she’d be on her way. Ameri double, then triple checks that the forbidden text is secured at her side. Only to find the slightest jostle causes it to slip. Cursing the lack of sizeable pockets.

  Flick. Flick, flick.

“I should have brought my bag. If I fly like this, I’ll have to take it slow. Father will be worried if I don't get back soon…”

  Flick. 

  The ginger stills. Unable to ignore the persistent shifting on her head. Top ears twitching and attentive. Ameri retracts her wings, and listens. A beat. Then another. Feeling a foolish endeavour. Then– she hears it; Scraping.

  She would've overlooked it. The softest of sounds. Scarcely a whisper through the wind. It wormed into the back of her skull. As if her confusion had boosted the volume. Repetitive, though not mechanical. Each scratch with slight difference. Like…chipping? Ameri idles in the yard. Simply listening.

‘Night watch should come through soon. Whatever it is, they can fix it before lock up. I should be getting home.’ 

  Despite reason, Ameri stays put. The scratching doesn’t stop. It’s coming from the diabotany tower. 

‘Is the tree still growing? It doesn’t seem so. What else could be making that noise?’

  An animal, perhaps? Rare to find any on campus. Babyls barrier gates did a fine job deterring the unwelcome. Or at least, it had. The image of blasted iron bars came to mind. Melted metal and lowered defences. For as much confidence as she placed in Babyls as a fortress, the fact of the matter still stands; their walls had failed before. Ameri may have only been shown photos of the breach, but the impact had not been deadened. Something got in. Snaked through, slipped its sordid paws unbidden and unwanted. They never found the thing. Nor what it came for. She couldn’t chase the thought that it was still inside. Could be anywhere. 

  She nears the tower. The door is ajar.

  Stolas’ classroom was still intact at its base. Plants, though dishevelled, retain their lively vigour. Entwined with their new addition. Ameri keeps her steps light, navigating the twists and brush. Avoiding the human tree’s more cluttered arrangements. The scraping grows clearer as she draws to its trunk. Acutely aware of the surrounding flora, and how they lean toward the noise. Magnetised. Reaching.

  What once pricked her ears turned now to her nose. A fog that made her pupils dilate, and fangs itch. She’s reminded of old pleasantries. Picnics as a child. Her first proper flight. Story time with her father. Ceaseless rose-tinted memories, bottled in a sweet aroma. Much further she was into the room than she remembered. Facing now to the crumbled stairs of the second floor, their panels drowned in vine. Such sweetness like poison. A serene calm that showed all the signs of farce. Ameri hitches at the prospect of what could cause such a trance, but she persists.

  Adorned in a cocoon of roots, the second floor balcony melded with the tree’s trunk. Deep blues, purples and silver festering through cracks of bark. Smouldering like fresh coals. An outcropping of the tower dug into its surface. Creating a gash likely dragged open during the plant's rapid growth. Bleeding forth an aurora illuminating soft waves of light to mirror the night sky. The source of the tree’s pale glow now revealed behind its wooded shield. Hypnotizing beauty, though not what had her eye.

  Scratch marks and scuffs trail in sporadic patterns. Sparse branches hanging limp. Chewed up and stripped of their flowers. Twigs strewn across the floor. Flaked, ashy, dead. Underlit by the waving blues, a silhouette digs through bark. Hunched by the base of the fissure. Steady paced climbing ever closer to the opening. Often slipping, and carving into its surface. Kept upright by a feathered, scrappy tail coiled around the limb. Making odd clicks and low rumbles as it went. For all its disconcerting action, it appeared to be a demon. A demon in blue clothes.

  Trademark Babyls uniform smoothed Ameri's tension. A mild outcome compared to what her worries had conjured. However off putting their behaviour may be.

‘That smell is coming from them too. Could be unregulated mana. An Evil Cycle? Hopefully they have a decent amount of sense left in them.’

  Low hanging limbs are brushed aside as she winds the bramble to the top steps. Caution now in minor priority. At the end of the day, she came in here to do her job. Whatever they were doing, there was no good reason to be loitering (she'll have not one word about hypocrisy.) Before she could make her presence known however, the demon tears through the plant's sheath. Luminescence showering over their figure as the split is peeled further. Piercing the quiet with loaded snaps of fresh wood and splinters. Ameri stops dead in her tracks, the culprit shimmered in blues.

 Iruma rakes his claws down the wound. Condensed core sloughing off in bulbs of sap. Greedily lapping at the substance, rending like warm butter. Tail lashing feathers loose to follow scraps of debris. Captivated, she catches herself leaning in. Has he always had a tail? Were his nails always so long? Weren’t his eyes blue before? Ameri couldn't stop staring.

  This was a human. She had all but confirmed. There was too much evidence, too many coincidences for it to ring false. But there was no shaking what was right in front of her. The spitting image of a demon. An unwell demon, a desperate demon, but a demon all the same. She had seen him before this. Twice he was unchanged. Twice he reeked of anxieties, wary of every encounter, spooked as if everyone was out for his hide. Twice she had been sure he was different. Her scriptures had nothing that resembled this. Humans weren't depicted with tails. They didn't scrap about teetering on a wicked phase, either. She was sure humans didn’t have evil cycles! Mind going a mile a minute, she turns to the text for answers. There's no way she could have missed something this–

  *BZZZZT BZZZT BZZZZZT*

  No sooner does Iruma come crashing down does Ameri startle back into the cover of brush, a weight tumbling out from her vest. The instinctive (admittedly a little over reactive) need to remain undetected. She watches as the honour student shakes himself off from the landing, wood flakes and a petal or two poking through his ruffled hair. He jolts from the ground with a start, frantic, unbalanced and tail shoved awkwardly under his shirt. 

  His vision ripples like bled watercolour. Ghostly afterimage as he moves. Dry throat, and tacky tongued, but significantly less crummy than he had been. Claws retracted from the pit in his gut.  Iruma rubs his eyes, the gaps in the ceiling shining white onto his face. White? Was that…the moon?

  *BZZZZT BZZZT BZZZZZT*

  He jumps to the noise. A buzzing from the floor. He follows it to his bag, its contents loose from the open flap. In the front pocket, a sort of horned flip phone(?) rings away. This morning’s vaguest of memories bubbling up to the surface. Sullivan said something about a phone, hadn't he? Without really thinking he picks up.

“H-hello?”

“Iruma-sama, are you in need of assistance?”

Opera registers slower than he’d like. Question lagging to his brain. “Iruma-sama?”

“Huh? Oh. Uh, n-no?”

“...Are you certain?”

“Y-yes?”

“Hm. Very well. In that case, may you please return to the manor? Ample sleep is most beneficial to children your age. I’m sure sir Asmodeus and lady Valac are willing to part with you.”

“Azz-kun and Clara? T-they aren’t with me.”

The line goes static for a pause. The rustle of footsteps coming through the signal just after. “I am on my way.”

“W-wha– Opera-san, I can walk just fine! Y-you don’t have to–”

“I had been under the impression you were in company. A child should not be wandering alone at this hour. It is of no consequence, Iruma-sama. ”

“Opera-san, really I– I’m alright! You and grandpa said you were busy! It’s not that late.”

Static comes again. “Iruma-sama. It’s quarter past seven.”

“WHAT?!”

“I’ll be there in three.”

“Wha– wai–” 

  The snappy ‘click’ of the receiver shuts him down before he can finish. Effectively frazzled, Iruma hastily shoves his belongings back into his bag. An unassuming paperback swept up with them. Oblivious to distraught fox noises as he sprints out the door.  

  It’s– it’s dark out. Stars and all. Didn’t he just get here? 

  He could still taste flowers in his teeth, the cambium on his tongue. He only picked a few of the branches. There weren’t many for him to reach from the base. Fewer of a reasonable size. Cherry blossoms never caused him to blackout before. It did have some blue stuff on the inside…are Netherworld Sakura different from normal ones? Did the Nether have cherry blossoms? 

  Gods, he should've just gone home.

“There you are, Iruma-sama.”

  Graceful, rust-red wings soundlessly carried Opera over Babyls fence line. Gleaming almost black as they fold behind themselves. Before Iruma can attempt to spout apologies, Opera circles him. He tenses for the castigate. Maybe a bruise as they pat down his arms and angle his face. 

“Are you alright, young master?” 

  But it doesn’t come. Iruma cracks open his eyes to face the cat, their expression flat as always. Unbothered, as far as he could glean. Without a response their eyes narrow. What he assumed to be scrutiny perhaps instead their version of concern. He stammers as they start another round of circling.

“I-I’m fine. Um, I– I’m really sorry you came all the way back for me. I should have paid attention to the time.”

“Any misadventures?”

“Uh– n-no?”

“Supposed ‘accidents?’”

“N-no…”

“Grievous injury, or maim?”

“W-wha– no!”

  They tarry their gaze. Slit pupils tracing his face with frightfully thorough inspection. Had it been their first meeting, Iruma would be reciting his funeral. Finally, and with a much needed blink, their straightened posture returns. Their wings outstretched once more.

“I will ask you to reflect on punctuality in the future.” They say flatly.

“I’m sorry, Opera-san. It w-won’t happen again…”

“I should hope not. His lordship has already added both his, and my own contacts into your hellphone. Should you have intentions past curfew, I would advise on sharing them with one of us beforehand.” 

They squint lightly, picking Iruma up. “Preferably before concerns rise.” 

Iruma shrinks further. “Y-yes, Opera-san.” 

  Securely held and scolded, the two took to the skies. A ginger demoness left to watch their receding form. One 'forbidden’ book lighter. 

  Seeing the enigmatic spires of the Sullivan estate makes Iruma’s hold on Opera tighten. Their wing beats unfettered by his weight on their back. It’s reminiscent of just days ago; trees blurring past his feet as he’s flown towards an imposing new destination. Suppose he’ll take a piggyback over being carted around in a bubble. 

  The gate and manor doors open to their presence, Opera descending smoothly from treetops straight through to the foyer. They close behind them with a swish as Opera kneels to let Iruma back onto the floor. He passes the table and heads for the stairwell, when a heavenly scent smacks him upside the nose. Opera brings out a long serving cart stacked with cloches. Setting his usual spot at the table.

“You…made food?”

“I do every night, young master. There isn’t man nor beast that can be sustained off of Sullivan-sama’s cooking.”

“Ah n-no I– but I wasn't on time?”

  They pull out his chair. A nearly imperceptible raise of their brow urging him to elaborate.

“I– dinner is always– I missed it. Do I– I still get to eat?”

“Well, are you hungry?”

“...yes.”

“Then you do. Neither I, nor time dictate your necessities. You haven't eaten, so you will be fed.”

  They guide him to sit. As far as their typical neutrality goes, he couldn't see any signs of it being ingenuous. He fidgets with his sleeve cuff. The question sounds so obnoxiously stupid the more he’s left to think.

“Sullivan-sama is busy in his office, so he will not be joining you. I'm sure if you requested him, however, he would make an exception.”

“Oh, um. That's okay. Thank you for dinner, Opera-san.”

  They nod. As they finish unloading the cart, their pocket begins to vibrate. A red version of the phone grandpa gave him, one more simplified and sleek, is fished out with their tail. They glance at the number before bowing to his seat.

“Please excuse me. Enjoy your meal, Iruma-sama.”  With that, they return to the kitchen. 

  The plates are emptied slower than usual. The idle clinking of utensils floating like ghosts in the silence. The dining room looked an awful lot bigger when it was just him. Though Sullivan never ‘ate’ per se, he did offer his own form of noise to fill the hollow of his house. Opera supplying their presence at the least. Short of company the hush of the room felt…off. Drapes and boards developing their own anatomy. Prowling, breathing stone. Alive in the absence. He can't shake the impression. Too open. Too still. 

  Iruma stared at the final cleared plate. Listening for voices he wouldn’t hear. Asking for more does cross his mind, but it takes little to decide against it. He stacks and carefully reorganizes his dishes back onto the serving cart. Rolling it back from whence it came. With a bit of courage he lingers by the door. Opera seemed awake enough. They could have tea, maybe. Last time didn't go as planned, but a small part of him held out hope for a second try. Some attempt for normalcy. Iruma dawdles by the door.

  But scurries off. Making his way upstairs.

  Dim candlelight and half-drawn curtains tread a thin, wispy line of sight through the mansion's corridors. Shadows pushed impossibly far into corners. Hiding their depth where the moonlight couldn't reach. A spilling blackness that shaped a labyrinth of winding umbra. Finding his room, though he had walked the path enough to know the way, felt like an expedition. A haunted aura carried over by each padded step. When he does reach his quarters it’s all the same. Finery with sharpened flare. Impeccably clean and tidy. Swathed in encroaching dark, just a square of light from his window. He. He isn’t sure what he expected.

  Nightly routine changed little with his world-swapping. He brushes his teeth. He changes clothes. He picks stray feathers from his uniform. Robotic but pleasing, yet as he sat on the edge of an alluringly soft mattress, sleep seemed the last on his mind. He waits. He lies. It still doesn’t come.

  Iruma knows he can fall asleep. One of the only constants in his life. Tomorrow is so close. Just waiting for him to shut his eyes. It's always easiest to sleep. To let it happen, to welcome a new day. He can't stop the world from turning. What he can do is be rested enough to face it.

  …but he doesn't want to. Today was– was fine. Scary, overwhelming, a little dizzy at the end, but leagues above anything he’d call a ‘bad’ day. Biggest issues caused by being ill prepared or simply ignorant. There's just so much. Of it. Of everything. Opera gives him words. Light and airy. They haven't raised their voice, or hand. He has a roof under Sullivan. Protection from what could know his origin. He was allowed inside even after he caused trouble. Education, friends, food, and now magic. He has everything he's never had and more.

  So what do they want?

  Lodged in his skull since class began. The question burning away like a forgotten stove-top. He's fallen for it all. He likes having a bed. He likes having classes. He likes not being yelled at. Time is ticking, and he has nothing. Nothing to give back. Every day closer to that reality. Every moment the same question returns. He still has no answer. Linen covers rustle like shed cicada shells. Silk robes and plush comforts reduced to burlap and cardboard. That sinking, watchful feeling oozes from the halls and into his sanctuary. A room that, really, wasn't his. Iruma can’t tell how long he sits there. If the world crawls into static, or if the sun wakes mere minutes away. But he's there for it all. Staring into nothing.

  Velvety rug fibres feel alien on his soles. Mustering the faintest step he could when leaving his room. He catches sight of himself on the way. Some raggedy twig doll dropped in a dream house…he dons his pelt, and slips out the door.  

  Legs lug him along. A mindless wander to quell nagging thoughts. Iruma doesn’t know where he’s going. He should be more careful. Especially here. For now though, he lets his feathers drag beneath thick fur. Passing doors. Windows. Stairs. Eyeing the shadows much as they do him. A quiet, traitorous longing that, maybe, one of them will move. One of them would follow…one would sprout from his ring. Over the dark itself he expects nothing else. So as he rounds one of a thousand bends, he doesn’t expect to see another. 

  Sullivan fit like a glove. Lanky, sharp angles complementing the house’s menacing tastes. His vacant, indecipherable expression fixated on one of many paintings hung on the wall. There’s an uncanniness to it Iruma cannot place. Both in the scene, and the demon lord.

“How fortuitous. I was just thinking about you.”

  Iruma freezes up. Unprepared to be addressed, and evidently, not as stealthy as he'd thought. The man makes a vague gesture to the corner Iruma peers from. He pulls his cover close, but pressure drives him to his grandfather's side. Iruma keeps a respectful distance. Drawn to the same picture Sullivan faces. A portrait, webbed with craquelure and worn varnish.  Of a demon with long violet hair. 

  Neither seem keen to speak.

“…”

“…”

“...I’m sorry if I…bothered you. I didn’t think– I thought you were asleep.”

“No harm done. This is your home too, you know.”

“Right…”

“...”

“...”

“Sleep troubles?”

“I. I guess you could say that.”

“Hmm. Has the tea been working at all?”

“Oh. Y-yeah. It helps most days. Thank you for that, again.”

“Anything for my grandson. Let me know if it ever stops working.”

"S-sure..."

“...”

“...” 

  Amber slits alight in his peripheral. A stare to melt wax glowered over glasses. Iruma instinctively nestles deeper into his cloak, the caged sense of clinging eyes rubbed into his skin. It didn’t feel like malice. Didn’t feel like anything. It scared him more that he didn’t know the meaning. It could’ve been seconds, could’ve been days, before Sullivan speaks again.

 “I have something to ask of you. I understand it is rather late, but would you care to accompany me? For just a while.”

   Within a single stride the demon Lord dispelled the fragile, anxious air he was creating. A mere foot away. Even in the glow of those golden eyes, the visage of disgust or disapproval were nowhere to be seen. No matter how Iruma scoured. Unable to deny a request, Iruma follows. Unsure of where this would lead. 

  Reserved were Sullivan’s carefree smile, and outward sense of whimsy. A pointed, yet nonchalant shift in presence akin to their first meeting. His usual jaunty gait had been slowed to match Iruma’s. Perhaps the first time he had walked with the man in question. Iruma chooses to concentrate on the carpet rather than settle on the change in character.

  The route they take becomes one of purpose over grandeur. Arriving at a simple, unassuming door. It looked older than the rest of the house. Faded. Oddly dusty. Sullivan toils with its lock, the resulting ‘kerchunk’ rattling off the door as it swings open. Iruma expects a room. As any sane person would.

  Instead, he gets a breeze.

  Fields of flaxen stretch farther than the eye could see. Barest hint of olden mountaintops and floating islands, a distant lake at rest in its middle. Night’s cool air blew a gentle hush through both the land, and Iruma's hair. Subdued. Calming. The door they came through in the midst of nowhere. 

“An ally of mine– a friend created this.” Sullivan says. “Insisted it was the best view the Nether could provide. That this spot, and only here, could make stargazing worthwhile.”

  He appears lost in thought, admiring the very air as if greeting an old memory. He steps out into the flowers and grass. 

“Complete balderdash, that. He could see more striking scenery from his doorstep if he wished. Then again, to question his word was to reason with a brick. So many years later, it pains me to say that he was right.”

  He huffs out a laugh as he takes a seat. There's no wave of the hand, no snap of a claw to make something to sit on. Something Iruma expects him to do. The old man simply crosses his legs on the ground. Just. Just like anyone else. Though hesitant, Iruma passes through the threshold to join him. The two lapse into something close to comfortable silence. 

  …And Iruma can't bear the weight. He wants to look. Wants to know. But he doesn't know what he's searching for. If he really wants to see. The boy hugs his knees to his chest, tail wrapped tight for security. He swallows his nerves.

“Why…why did you bring me here?”

  .

  .

  .

“That friend..." Sullivan finally replies. "He loved this place. More than any in the world he had created. You could fly from here to heaven and back, and never find it. He'd come here almost every day.”

  Iruma listened. Dread and uncertainty ebbed by the solemn tone of his voice.

“One day, though, he suddenly disappeared. Just. Gone. Much like this spot, he was nowhere to be found. It wasn’t long after that I sealed this away. It is perhaps the last place in the Netherworld his mana still lingers. Today, it is the first time in four hundred years that anyone has stepped inside.”

  Sullivan turns to face Iruma proper. 

“I brought you here because it is important to me. To share more of myself with you. I figured, what better place to start than where it ends, hmm?”

  Iruma's mind practically switched off. Any and all of his racing thoughts coming to a screeching halt simultaneously. “You w-want…what?”

  There must be a blatant show of lacking brain function on his face, because Sullivan's eyes crinkle upward. He adjusts himself to a more casual seat, criss crossed on the grass with his hands folded in his lap.

“I was…given the opportunity to reflect today. On the contract. On our arrangement. I realize I haven't been the most reliable guardian. I’m not someone you trust. I’m not someone you know. I hope to remedy that.”

  A pang of guilt rings him like a gong. Sincerity dripping from the demon Iruma assumed just minutes ago was planning to 'repurpose' him. Misgivings, a bit of stress, and– and something else stirring in his chest. Sullivan leans to the side, hoping to catch Iruma's eyes again.

“If you're alright with it, that is. All I ask is that you give it some thought.”

  Tired eyes give another glance over the sprawling grassland. Sullivan begins to stand. “Well now, I've kept you long enough. It is a school night, of course. Thank you humouring an old ma–”

“What– what's your favourite food?”

  The elder blinks. A few times, at that. Iruma feels his face heating up as he tries and fails to maintain the skosh of confidence that spurred him to speak.

“I, um, I l-like sweet things a lot. Don't get to have em’ much s-so it's– uh it's extra special when– if I find some. Like– like dorayaki was tasty. Oh b-but there was the time I got to try katsudon…that was really good too. I guess I’ll eat anything, so I don't really have a f-favourite myself…so this isn't a good start–”

  Laughter bubbles up from behind Sullivan's hand. Rather unsuccessfully hiding his mirth as the quietude enhances the sound. He recovers swift, though still dons a smile as he settles back down in their patch of grass. Iruma fights the urge to just curl in his pelt and die.

“Very enlightening, dear boy.” He says with a chuckle. “I believe I'm quite similar. I wouldn't say I have a favourite. However, there was a time I tried something called ‘baklava’ from your world. It was the closest thing to a demonic dish I already fancy, so I suppose that's an answer.”

“Umm…how…about….favourite colour?”

“Hmm. I like a good rose gold.”

“Not purple?”

“Not purple.”

  Questions passed back and forth. Some short. Some involved. Each listened with keen ear, and curiosities. Iruma couldn't remember the last time he'd spoken to someone this long. About anything not money related. It was new. It was nice. And slowly, Iruma felt himself winding down. His blinks get longer. His breath gets shallow. For perhaps the first time in his life, Iruma falls asleep without telling himself to.

  Long arms hoist the sleeping boy from the ground. Cradled with care as Sullivan ambles through the motions of returning his grandson to bed. A certain cat waiting by the bedchamber doors.

“Balam-kun called.” They whisper, opening the way for their master. “He was rather elated to share his progress has been near fruitless.”

“In the thick of it, then? At least he's having fun.”

“Quite. His rambles were particularly elaborate.”

  Sullivan sits on the edge of Iruma's bed, the fledgling sleepily clinging to his shirt while Opera helped remove his mantle of fur. A fondness in his eyes (and theirs) to see the boy's tail wrapped around Sullivan's arm. They continue to aid in the detachment of their ward, tucking him in after a bit of futzing.

“Did he take well to your idea, Sullivan-sama?” 

  Sullivan smiles. Carding claws through his grandson’s hair. “We spoke more than I would have thought. I should have brought my devicam with me~”

“That would defeat the purpose of your interaction, my lord.”

“Yes, yes, I know…”

  Butler and Lord let the boy have his slumber. Closing his doors with a soft ‘click.’ 

“Did Balam-kun have anything notable outside his excitement?”

“Nothing extraordinary, I'm afraid. He was mainly concerned about procuring more specimens to study. Apparently the feathers are quite fragile, and...react strangely to mana. Shichiro has significantly less than we sent him.”

“Hmm. We can arrange for another parcel. Iruma-kun isn't keen on keeping the shed ones, anyhow.”

“Very well, my lord. I'll see to it in the morning.”

“...”

“...”

“...do you think Iruma-kun would like tail garments?”

“Sullivan-sama.”

“Oh I know, Opera, there's no need for the face. But they make such nice ones these days! There was this cute little waistcoat set with a tail opening, and he would look just dashing in it!”

“Sullivan-sama. If he hasn't told us, he isn't ready. You will not force him.”

“...I know.”

“...”

“...”

“...He would need a proper preen beforehand at any rate. I can inquire about feather care products tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Opera~”

Chapter Text

  There are a handful of Babyls professors that have a separate position in faculty aside from their teaching duties. Nothing spectacular. Not even official posts. These are really just bonus statuses pertaining to any staff members who enjoy hobbies that are extra beneficial to the workplace. Most of faculty live in Babyls, after all, so it's more like catering to their home than anything extracurricular. This includes the likes of Ipos (on campus mechanic,) Stolas (doubling as a groundskeeper,) Ifrit (who's also a security devil,) and other such postings. 

  Murmur Tsumuru's double-duty? In-house stress counsellor. 

  Murmur bounces from foot to foot. Assured he stands at the right destination by the hushed bickering and thumps of clatter heard through the doorway. He straightens his uniform, cracks open his thermos of Hell Grey Tea, and waltzes into the school library. Furcas' unofficial office.

  Immediately he spies one of the study tables in the far corner. Occupied, strangely, by fellow staff. Marbus, Morax, and stranger still, Orias.

  Marbus and Morax seem to be here for a reason. Swamped in scrolls, books and tomes that stack along their table. Though Morax is the only one reading. Marbus…well he looks occupied, but Tsumuru would hesitate to call his mumbled ranting productive. Orias sits across from them both. Appearing without purpose whatsoever. Spinning hat tricks and making houses out of cards, the luckiest man alive appears he'd rather eat his own fingers than sit in this room. Curious in and of itself given that he's a grown man with every opportunity to leave. They're all coated in some unfortunate shades, colours revealed courtesy of Mood Ring. Frustration, worry, boredom, even hints of anger.

  The posse sticks out like a sore wing in the uncrowded space. What few students seated around the room choosing an almost eerily quiet volume comparatively. That factor, though, may have something to do with the last teacher he sees; Furcas. The morose librarian sits slouched in her desk. Her usually stern brow further pinched in discontent. A dry quill tapping away against half written papers that seem to be on the receiving end of her ire. Her eye shifts to Murmur's direction, frowning impossibly firmer. She looks about two seconds from an evil cycle.

  He takes that as a sign to let himself in.

“Evenin’ sensei.” He greets.

 She grumbles in return. He begins pouring her a cup.

“Rough day?”

“Go away.”

“Eesh, cold reception! You don't even know why I'm here.”

“There's only ever one reason you're around, and I’m not looking for more distractions. Go. Away.”

“Hey now, you don't know that! I could– um– w-want to check out some books!” 

  The demon selects the closest of her hardbacks with a smile. The title ‘Magically Inclined Mechanical Engineering Theorem’ nearly rouses a yawn. Some of these authors really need to cut down on the technicalities. Furcas doesn't seem to buy his feigned interest either. Her stare goes straight through him as she swipes it out of his hand.

“I’m not dim, Tsumuru. Literature wouldn't draw your eye if it was all you could see.”

“Well not normally, but maybe I want a change of pace.”

“Too bad. Don't want to talk about it.”

“The book, or what's bothering you?”

“...”

  There it is. She glares harder at her paper in vain attempts to ignore his presence. Jaw set while he pushes the cup closer to her line of sight.

“You know what my job is, Furcas-san. I can tell you have some things to say.”

"..."

“Are you really going to make me explain Mood Ring? Neither of us want that.”

“...”

“You know I will. I got nothin' going on today, believe me I have the time. I can even give excruciating detail if you want–”

  His reflexes are fast enough to dodge the very same book she just took from him. But just barely. Leather bound now jutting out from the wall where it flew past his skull. Furcas rakes a hand down her face with a huff. Rubbing the bridge of her nose as she all but exudes exasperation. Preemptively he pulls up a chair. She really must be in a sour state to be so careless with her texts.

“Still got those Execution Cannonball skills, eh? Good for you.”

“Shut. Up.”

Sensing the rather cyclical conversation pattern, Murmur rests his head on his palm. “We could do this all day, Fur. So let's think of it this way; perhaps if someone else wanted to chat, I wouldn't have to.”

“...”

“Lay it on me. I’m all ears.”

"...I hate you."

He smiles. "I get that a lot."

  She sighs harder. Finally (with more force than necessary) shoving her quill off to the side. She takes the offered tea and downs half of it in a single swig.

“...it's just one thing after another. Raim stealing my mug in the staff room…got infested with first years…gaggles of fresh-winged fools wanting incantations several times their skill level…idiots flittering about indoors and practicing spells everywhere flammable.” Furcas’ gripe begins. "Couldn't break in the staff room because Dali-sensei's touring around some newbie..."

"Think I saw the one you mean." Murmur hums. "Bars, I believe he said. Not sure how he'll hold up teaching familiars with Kalego-sensei, but he's got the spirit. If nothing else."

"His 'spirit' shouldn't be heard from three doors down. He's moving into your dorms today, you know."

"I'll...I'll keep that in mind."

  A light show of negative emotion bubbles up through Mood Ring’s lens, streaming like kettle steam. Colours desaturating with the release of a day’s pent up stress. Murmur uses a calming spell to ward off the more persistent negative hues. After a moment, only vestiges remain in a cloud of mint green, baby blue, and a smidge of pastel pink. Relief, exhaustion, and gratitude. Furcas carries on, but with less heat than before.

“…and as if it couldn't get any worse, that rabble has been plaguing my workspace the whole damn day.”

  He offers a sympathetic smile while she drains her mug and bemoans more of the inconsiderate. He now also notes the way Furcas' desk is arranged. The indubitably intentional one-sided organization; high enough to block her view of their coworkers' table in particular.

“Sounds like we have some real bold ones this year. I can ask Suzy-san if she has any Soothesnapper balm laying around for you. Still, you’re nothing if not resilient! I'm sure they'll tamp down eventually.”

  She makes a curt noise in response. Muffled with her head to her desk. Carefully he prods further into her real trouble. 

“Now, am I to assume ‘that rabble' is…?”

  With a loose gesture toward the other teachers, a pocket of blood orange cuts through her calm. Annoyance. She lifts herself high enough off the table to glare daggers into her barricade of books. Scorn no doubt intended for the demons behind it. Tsumuru can hear her teeth grinding.

“Have they said why they're here?” He asks.

   Furcas clicks her tongue at the question, boarding on offended Murmur didn't already know. With a level of disdain he’s seen only from the likes of Kalego, the demoness shoves the clutter of her desk around in a search. Muttering all the while. Eventually she finds what seems to be the source of her woe. Holding it up between her claws.

  A feather. A simple, blue feather.

Murmur grimaces. “Oh...”

  The woman puts the plume aside. Clearly desiring to be rid of it. If it was heavy enough to throw, Tsumuru imagines it would be dirt ridden somewhere in the courtyard right about now. He can't say he blames her. If one were to simplify and point blame, there was a solid argument to be made that a few feathers kicked off the continuous string of misfortune Babyls has had to muddle through. The barrier break, suddenly untrustworthy security evaluations, a potential kidnapping scare, random cases of mana fatigue in students…It's been one hell of a start to the year.

  And hours of emotional regulatory spells for Murmur. To think something so small would bring on such physiological warfare.

“Student council president submitted a report on the diabotany tower. Insisted it was her reason to investigate something. Not sure what exactly. Her word choice was pretty vague.” Furcas explains. “March’s classroom is close by, so he gave the place a once over out of curiosity. Apparently a whole slew of these were inside. He's been raving ever since."

  The woman gives a cursory squint at their coworkers. Pouring herself more tea. She adds a generous amount of liquid to the mixture from a small, personal flask she fishes out from her top drawer. It stinks of ‘should not be on campus.’ Although that kind of reprimand can wait for another time. Maybe when she isn't so close to ripping someone's head off.

“He tried getting Dali-sensei to help with– with whatever he's up to. Lucky bastard was too busy with the newbie. Tried to convince Kalego-sensei to borrow Cerberus’ tracking, which went as well as you'd imagine. Made such a poor impression in fact, that Naberius wouldn't give him Balam-sensei's contact either.”

She scowls into her glass. “Freak must have a bloody list or something. Kept asking anyone and everyone to indulge his madness with no takers. So now I’m stuck with him. Bumbling around while I'm trying to get work done.”

Tsumuru eyes the amount of purplish hues hovering around the torturer with more wariness than before. His cloud the bulk of the table's poor aura. "How bad is it?”

  A rather loud crash rumbles through the room as if to supply an answer. His coworkers’ table buckled under the weight of one tome too many. He and Furcas watch on as three Zayin rank demons struggle to stealthily repair the damage. Each panicked jerk followed by rough creaks and worrying snaps. The few students in the room inch away from the pitiful showcase. Furcas lays her head back on the table. 

“Full frenzy. It’s like the breach all over again. Can't even tell them to leave because it's technically a valid security risk.”

Murmur winces. “Ah. I see.”

  The demon starts up another round of stabilizers for Furcas. Letting her colours even out again. Marbus' behavior may be erratic, but he doubts he's purposefully making a scene. He'll be easy enough to settle with a few security passes. Maybe a lock change for his storage room. The other two…

  Furcas and Morax have always butt heads, perpetually debating over knowledge or some niche topic. One such infight was born from the breach; a self-imposed race to see who could solve the mana siphon issue first. Neither were successful. The only reason they called it quits was because the term had officially begun. With Marbus in a tizzy, it couldn't have been long before Morax caught wind of his discovery, and got the ball rolling again. Truly the pettiest old man alive. There's really nothing Murmur can do to stop either of them from being stubborn, but taking care of Marbus should cut down on their steam. With the first rank up exam around the corner, they'll be swamped with work to distract them anyway.

  Last is Orias. Tsumuru just has to figure out why Marbus’ discovery is something he's invested in. He obviously has no other reason to be here. Wracking his brain for any clues, the best Murmur could think of would be his minor existential crisis around ceremony's preparation. A few days of being unable to use Lucky Happy that had gotten him a bit. How would he put it?...Loopy. Something he guesses the man blames on the intruder to some degree.

  Of course, there's no way to know if his sudden loss was related to the breach in any way. Other than coincidence there's nothing tying the two things together, no matter his insistence. Murmur will bring it up with him regardless. He doesn't have much else to go off of. It's obvious he'll be chatting with a few more professors either way. If what Furcas described rings true.

“Got my work cut out for me, then.” Murmur says after a minute. “But I can get them out of your hair. If that's all that’s bothering you.”

  The pink in her aura grows. If just a little. With an inkling to her coming answer, he smiles and pours himself some tea.

“...that would be appreciated, Tsumuru.”

“It’s what I'm here for, sensei.”

  The two enjoy a semblance of comfortable quiet. Furcas finally able to wind down and break away from her siphon research. He may have his own way of going about it, but Murmur truly does enjoy this part of his job. He knows he's far from Babyls' aces, and so takes pride in what he can do to ensure everyone's running smoothly. Of course, the sense of superiority doesn't hurt. It's not every day you can get a coworker to admit their shortcomings. Much like now. Entertained by the feat of incompetence Marbus, Morax, and Orias display. Foiled by dismantled DIKEA furniture. Again, Zayin rank demons. It's honestly impressive.

“To think you let those guys get under your skin. You're losing your touch, Furcas-san~”

“Oh shove it. I could've dealt with this on my own.”

“Don't know about that one. You’re smart, professor, but I don't think you would get away with serial murder in broad daylight.”

“The headmaster would pity me, I’m sure. If Oswell keeps up his shenanigans we may just be headed down that road anyhow.”

"Oh? What's that about?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary. Just another betting pool. March making him miserable has been the only good thing I've seen today. Scared him into thinking he can lose Luck Happy."

Looks like Murmur guessed right. He takes a sip of his drink. "Suppose he wouldn't want to lose it before a new bet. What's the gamble, anyway?"

"If the headmaster's lying about his grandson." 

  The demon sputters for air, choking on tea while Furcas does nothing to help. Through watery eyes he can see a new colour enter her pool; the blinding neon yellow of amusement.

"You should really cover your mouth when you cough."

"HE'S WHAT?!" At the drawn attention of those around him, Murmur changes his shout to a firm whisper. "Who the hell bets on that?!"

"A few demons, apparently. He assures the gamble is only on whether there's a blood relation, not if Sullivan-sama's whole story is faked. As if there's a difference. Wonder how long that'll last..."

"Why didn't you tell me?!"

  To his horror Furcas cracks a smirk. 

“You didn't ask. Maybe if you bothered them instead of me, you would've found out sooner.”

“It’s my job to ‘bother’ all of you! And that's not the point! You weren't going to tell me anything were you?!”

“Aren't you the one who keeps insisting we do things we enjoy? What they do with their vill is none of my business. Might even make my day.”

“It'll be all our business if Sullivan-sama finds out! Opera-san will tear his head off!”

“Really? What a shame.”

“I can see you smiling, you know!”

  Tsumuru takes it back. He doesn't enjoy this job at all.

  My take on Murmur and staff evil cycles:

 Some are unavoidable based on changes that happen in a demon’s life (i.e brooding, puberty, developing mana, etc.) Everything else is just stress needing to be released. Like a full mental cleanse. A healthy, and natural occurance. But demons can feel/sense when a wicked phase is coming, meaning they have a rough estimate of when to relieve stress should they want to avoid a cycle altogether (in the case of particularly destructive bloodlines, high rankers with more fallout, or even just packed schedules.) When to book an Akudol concert seat, when to head to that theme park they like, and so on. 

  But demons are prideful. Their body tells them they're reaching their limit? Fuck you that can't be true. I'm better than that. And then the next day they're engulfed in primal demonic urges. 9/10 that's how evil cycles start. And just because they're teachers doesn't mean they don't fall victim to this too.

  Essentially Murmur loves being cocky by picking out staff members under stress because it means that A) they now have to admit they can't power through it like they want to, and B) Murmur gets to say they're stupid for letting it get this far and they can't disagree because he's right.

  He does actually want to help. He’s canonically and uncharacteristically kind for a demon. But in his own, slightly bastardly way.

Chapter Text

Coming out to say that I'M TRYING VERY. HARD. NOT TO BE DEAD. I have simply been failing. Miserably.

I'm not gonna drone on cuz ain't nobody got time for that but the Mental Health has been Mental Health-ing and it's really done a number on ya boy's ability to exist. It's just the way life is sometimes, and sometimes life makes it so you don't update for like half a year. And as silly as it is, this fic is something that's been helping me as a little personal project (even if I greatly enjoy seeing people like the work as well.)

But I kinda have to admit to myself that posting as often as I really want to-- aka consistently-- just isn't something I can do right now. Even once every other week. I think I wanted to get the whole thing out faster to get to the parts I really really wanted to write *cough* season two *cough* and now ended up hating a lot of what I've actually written so far. Which...is kinda counterproductive. I fully intend to continue this story, I do, but I'm not quite happy with the way I've written certain aspects of it.

That is to say this fic is gonna fuckin happen even if I have to gouge it out of my own skull and graffiti my brain matter on paper like a Crayola blow pen. This is a threat.

TL;DR I've surrendered myself to the slow updates tag, and in an effort to get myself back into the swing of things, I'm going to go through most of the chapters and edit. Like. A lot.

I'm not changing the storyline or anything, so I won't call it 'rewriting,' but the way certain chapters are paced or framed (like chap 1+2) I'll be changing quite a bit. Hopefully for the better. At least for what I have in mind.

The real chap 24 will come out when all that's done and with any sort of luck it'll at least be this year. I'll probably delete this note when that happens unless someone wants me to keep it for posterity or something.

Thanks to anyone who took the time to read this. And thanks more so to anyone who still wants to read my silly trauma boy story. If you're willing to hang, I hope you're here when the story continues.

The Fool says thanking you~