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The kitchen was alive with the sound of sizzling oil, bubbling broth, and the occasional exasperated sigh from Teruteru. The Ultimate Cook was in his element, stirring a large pot of soup with the focus of a seasoned chef. Nearby, Nagito loitered in his usual unsettling fashion, smiling absentmindedly at nothing in particular.
Gundham strode in, his usual dark and layered ensemble billowing dramatically as he made his entrance. His scarf, thick and imposing, framed his face as he declared, “The Overlord of Ice has arrived! Mortal sustenance is unnecessary, yet I shall bear witness to your meager rituals.” His stomach growled like a disturbed devil.
Teruteru, barely glancing up from his station, scoffed. “Yeah, yeah, just don’t touch anything.”
Nagito let out a dreamy chuckle. “Ah, but isn’t it fascinating how even something as seemingly trivial as cooking can be a testament to hope? The balance of ingredients, the precise—”
His foot caught something. A single banana peel, questionably placed (most likely by Hiyoko). Before he could even register his misfortune, the Ultimate Lucky Student slipped with a dramatic flail, knocking his elbow into the soup pot.
The pot tipped over.
The greasy, scalding contents cascaded through the air in a slow-motion disaster.
And landed squarely on Gundham.
A stunned silence followed. Steam rose from the drenched fabric, the thick scent of grease filling the air. For a brief, terrifying moment, it seemed like the Four Dark Devas of Destruction had been caught in the splash zone. Gundham went through each stage of grief at the same pace as his racing heart. But then, from atop his head, emerged the tiny, unharmed forms of San-D, Jum-P, Maga-Z, and Cham-P, their whiskers shivering.
Gundham stood, frozen. He hadn’t yet even registered that he’d been splattered in liquid hot enough to melt him into soup. The Overlord of Ice was more likely the Overlord of Melting Glacier.
But that was the least of his problems right now. He looked down at his clothing and, with the gravity of a man who had lost everything, he whispered, “Unforgivable.”
✦✦✦
Smoke lingered in the air, the acrid scent of scorched fabric mixing unpleasantly with the heavy grease clinging to Gundham’s form. The self-proclaimed Dark Overlord stood frozen in the kitchen doorway, his cloak hanging in pitiful, oil-drenched tatters. The tiny bodies of the Four Dark Devas of Destruction still trembled from the ordeal.
“G-G-Gundham! Y-You—!” Mikan’s voice cracked as she stumbled toward him, nearly tripping over herself in the process. “Y-You’re covered in boiling grease! You n-need medical attention, o-or, or—”
“A pox upon this cursed fate!” Gundham bellowed, completely ignoring her distress. He clenched his fists, staring down at the remains of his once-glorious attire. “My armor! My sacred vestments! Befouled by the wretched concoction of a mere mortal!”
“Hey now, don’t blame my cooking!” Teruteru scoffed, arms crossed. “If anything, you should be thanking me. That grease is practically a deep-conditioning treatment. Your hair’s gonna be silky smooth.~”
“Silence, you culinary fiend!” Gundham whipped his head toward Teruteru, causing the Devas to scurry further into his hair. “You shall pay for this crime in a manner most befitting a traitor…banishment into the depths of the infernal abyss!”
Amid the chaos, Mikan trembled near the counter, her eyes wide and brimming with panic. “U-Um! This is bad, w-we really need to treat the burns—”
“I am no fragile mortal, trembling beneath the weight of flame,” Gundham declared, standing tall with his charred sleeve peeling slightly at the seam. “My pain only fuels the tempest within me!”
“You’re gonna get an infection!” Mikan wailed, fumbling through her first aid kit. She yanked out ointments and gauze with increasing hysteria. “Please sit down! I’m begging you!”
“N-No! Y-You can’t just stand there like that! G-Gundham, you, you need medical attention!”
“I require no such—”
“I-I mean, you were just covered in boiling oil! I-I’m sorry! That was obvious, wasn’t it? But I need to treat you! Please, just, oh god, I’m sorry for yelling!”
Gundham turned to her, his eyes blazing with gothic grandeur. “This pain is but a fleeting whisper—”
“Y-You could have blisters! A-And scarring! I-I’m so, so sorry if I’m being pushy, but you need help!”
One of the hamsters squeaked from the summit of his scorched shoulder. Gundham paused. Then sighed.
“Very well,” he said at last, voice like wind through a haunted valley. “For the sake of the Dark Devas, I shall permit this lowly rite of mortal healing.”
“Th-Thank you,” Mikan whimpered, guiding him to sit on a stool. “I-I’m sorry. You probably don’t want to be touched right now. Oh no, I didn’t mean that in a weird way, I just meant, um, please don’t hate me!”
Gundham blinked, clearly uncertain whether to be insulted or impressed.
Meanwhile, Mikan was already frantically rummaging through her pink emergency bag, which appeared to be bulging with more supplies than should physically fit inside. “I-I have burn gel! And gauze! And—and I promise I washed my hands before we got here! I-I’m sorry, that was a weird thing to say, huh?! I just, I don’t want to hurt you any more than you already…oh no, I’m so sorry…”
“Mortal, compose thyself,” Gundham muttered, though not unkindly.
She nodded quickly, swallowing her panic and doing her best to focus. Her hands trembled as she dabbed antiseptic on the reddened skin, whispering another apology every time he so much as flinched.
“I-I’m sorry, does it sting? It’s supposed to help! Oh, but I can dilute it if it’s too strong—I just don’t want it to get infected, I-I’m so sorry, please don’t die—”
“I shall not fall to mere kitchen treachery,” Gundham growled. “Even the fires of perdition could not consume my will.”
“T-That’s really cool,” Mikan murmured, trying not to cry. “Y-You’re doing great. I-I’m sorry for… um… everything?”
With the burn ointment applied and the gauze secured, Gundham rose like a mythic knight.
“There is no time for weakness. The true battle lies ahead. I must avenge my shattered armor.”
“Seriously,” Mahiru muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’re all impossible. Especially you, Gundham. Take off the coat before you make it worse. You can’t just walk around marinated in grease. You’ll burn yourself worse and make Mikan cry.”
“The Dark Devas demand vengeance,” Gundham growled, holding up his hand. One of them, nestled atop his head like a crown, let out a tiny sneeze.
Mahiru sighed. “You can just…wash it. The laundry room is pretty close by. It’s really not that big of a deal. You do know how to use the washing machines, right?”
“I shall cleanse this vessel of my power myself,” he announced. “I shall not entrust its sanctity to lesser beings.”
And so, determined to restore honor to his attire, Gundham departed, trailing grease and smoke in his wake.
✦✦✦
Gundham changed into his school uniform before stalking off to the laundry room (no mortal could possibly handle the sight of his barest form).
Gundham glared at the washing machine. He deposited his ruined clothes into its maw. Then, with solemn ceremony, he grabbed the detergent.
He poured.
And poured.
And kept pouring.
He did not measure. He had no need to quell such non-existent mortal anxieties.
“More,” he whispered. “Cleanse this corruption…”
By the time he slammed the lid closed, the machine was burping up suds like a possessed jacuzzi. Foam gushed from the edges, bubbling onto the tiled floor.
Nagito chose that exact moment to wander in, arms folded behind his back and humming.
“Oh wow,” he said, blinking at the floor rapidly frothing beneath him. “This is…poetic. The overflowing soap, the literal erasure of impurities, the way it blinds us with false cleanliness…this truly is hope.”
Nagito almost seemed to froth at the mouth just like the washing machine.
“Cease your drivel!” Gundham snapped, but the damage was done. Nagito took a single step forward and immediately slipped, crashing into the side of the machine and knocking it into a spin cycle so violent that the walls vibrated.
Suds cascaded across the room.
“Is this karma or destiny?” Nagito murmured, lying face down in the foam.
Once the spin cycle of doom ended, Gundham reached into the washer, heart pounding.
He pulled his cloak out. It was smaller now. Considerably smaller. And pink. There was… glitter?
“No,” he whispered, voice trembling. “No!”
The scarf was worse. Stiff, stained, and knotted beyond recognition, it now looked more like a limp churro than a garment fit for an overlord.
Gundham dropped to his knees, clutching the remnants to his chest. “You will not be forgotten, noble shroud…”
Sonia, having heard the tale through the grapevine (Nagito), arrived shortly after. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene: Gundham kneeling in soap suds, Nagito half-submerged in them, and the smell of failure thick in the air.
“Oh, dear,” she said softly. “Gundham…I am truly sorry.”
“I have lost everything,” he rasped.
Sonia knelt beside him, placing a delicate hand on his shoulder. “Then it is time to create something new. Something greater. The next form of your dominion.”
He blinked at her.
“You must rise again, like the mighty phoenix,” she continued. “With an outfit worthy of your legend.”
From the suds, Nagito coughed. “Yes…step over the ruins of despair to reach new hope…”
Gundham stared into the distance.
And then, slowly he stood. His eyes burned with purpose.
“So be it,” he said. “If destiny demands my rebirth…then I shall forge a new set of armor to rattle Heaven and Hell alike.”
✦✦✦
Gundham stood over a cluttered desk, a spiral-bound notebook open before him. Most of the pages had been dedicated to arcane symbols and dramatic monologues, but tonight, it had a higher purpose.
He tapped a pencil against his lip thoughtfully. “If destiny dares to strip me of my war regalia… then I shall craft a new vessel. One forged not from threads, but from tenacity, ambition, and unholy flair.”
He began to sketch. Very poorly.
A few minutes in, Ibuki burst into the room like a confetti cannon of opinions. “Yo! I heard your wardrobe got oiled up! That sucks, man. But you gotta turn tragedy into style! You ever consider…spikes? Like, everywhere? And, like, glowing ones?? Maybe LED ones? Or non-LED if that’s more your style!”
Gundham did not look up. “Silence, fool. The Devas could not stomach such high-voltage adornments.”
Ibuki flopped on the floor and dramatically clutched her heart. “Tragic! Okay, okay, no zappy-zap, but what about chains? Or a cape made of belts? Maybe throw in some neon? OOH! What if your coat screamed when you moved?”
Moments later, a refined cough interrupted them. Celeste stepped into the room like an elegant specter, hands folded neatly.
“If you two are finished discussing your punk-rock clown couture,” she said sweetly, “I may offer a more…dignified suggestion.”
Gundham raised an eyebrow. “Speak, Lady of Lies.”
Celeste smiled, her gaze cool. “You should consider taking inspiration from ouji fashion. Think of it as gothic prince attire. Structured, striking, undeniably regal. It would honor your aesthetic while elevating your presence.”
That lit something up behind Gundham’s eyes. He flipped to a fresh page and began sketching furiously, his earlier nonsense now replaced by dramatic lapels, dark brocade, and embroidered sigils that may or may not be inspired by forbidden alchemical texts.
“This…” he breathed. “This is the future. Nay…this is fate.”
The Four Dark Devas squeaked in agreement.
✦✦✦
The dining hall had never hosted anything quite so… theatrical.
The tables had been pushed to one side. A makeshift runway (read: a sheet taped to the floor) stretched across the room. Chairs had been dragged in from every floor. Ibuki stood at the end, bouncing on her toes. “Ladies, gents, and hamsters!! It is time for the moment we’ve all been waiting for…Gundham’s Grand Garment Reveal!!”
A fog machine (god only knows where that came from) sputtered into life. The room darkened. A spotlight from somewhere (probably just a flashlight taped to the ceiling) clicked on.
Dramatic music played, possibly from a haunted pipe organ.
And then…
He emerged.
Gundham walked with the slow, reverent grace of a monarch who’d just resurrected from the crypt. His new outfit shimmered under the lights: a fitted brocade jacket in deep black and crimson, lined with silver thread and eldritch patterns. High boots, a layered capelet, and gloves adorned with runes completed the ensemble.
The room fell silent.
Even Nagito was struck speechless, though he eventually whispered, on the verge of drooling, “This truly is hope incarnate.”
“Silence, fool,” Gundham snapped. “This ensemble is not hope. It is retribution. It is rebirth. It is…FABULOUS.”
Sonia clapped with regal delight. “You look magnificent, Gundham! Like a lord of darkness ready to conquer the runway!”
Celeste gave a rare nod of approval. “Acceptable.”
Teruteru, who had spent most of the week trying to clean the grease out of his kitchen tiles, simply blinked. “Is it too late to say sorry again?”
Gundham ignored him. He turned, cape flaring behind him, and posed. “Let this day be remembered not as a tragedy, but as a testament to my indomitable spirit. You may scorch my threads, but you shall never burn my soul!”
The Four Dark Devas struck tiny dramatic poses atop his shoulders. Everyone applauded, and for the first time since the incident, Gundham smirked.
The Overlord of Ice had returned. And he had never looked better.