Chapter Text
Iruma had always been quiet. His parents liked that about him—how he never asked for anything, how he never caused trouble, how he simply existed in the background of their lives. But here, in this strange place with unfamiliar air and a sky that didn’t belong to any world he knew, he wished more than anything that he could scream.
He had been dragged—no, brought—to an unknown land where a cherry‑bald man spoke in a language that twisted oddly in his ears, sharp in places and soft in others.
“Ƨø ÏЯųмλ‑ƙųŋ шħλŧ đø ¥øų ƨλ¥?” the man asked, turning fully toward him with an expression that clearly expected an answer.
Iruma only stared back, throat tightening. He didn’t understand a single word.
Something shifted in the man’s eyes. He stepped closer and gently cupped his hands over Iruma’s ears. A faint warmth pulsed—once, twice—and then he pulled away as if he’d just made a small adjustment.
“There, can you understand me now, Iruma‑kun?”
The words still sounded foreign. Now, though, they unraveled into Japanese inside his mind. Each meaning slid neatly into place. Iruma nodded slowly, relief and confusion tangling in his chest.
“Very good! As I said earlier, I am Lord Sullivan. Your parents sold you to me in exchange for unlimited riches. I have brought you here to the Netherworld and wish to adopt you as my grandson.”
Iruma blinked. Once. Twice.
Sold by his parents—again. That part barely stung anymore; it was almost routine. But adopted? As a grandson? By a demon lord he’d known for less than five minutes?
His thoughts tangled hopelessly. Why would someone like him want to adopt me?
Sullivan didn’t seem bothered by his silence. In fact, he smiled brightly, as though everything was perfectly normal.
“Wonderful! I’ve already enrolled you in Babyls—one of the most prestigious demon schools in the Netherworld!”
Iruma stared, wide‑eyed.
“Hmmm,” Sullivan hummed, tilting his head. “You’re not very talkative, are you? Most demons would be sputtering in confusion by now.”
Iruma let out a tiny sigh and shook his head.
How am I supposed to explain to a demon lord that I can’t talk?
The words formed clearly in his mind, but—as always—they refused to leave his throat.
Sullivan, blissfully unaware, nodded as if he’d solved a puzzle. “Ah, you must be too tired to express yourself right now. Don’t worry! We have three whole months before the new semester starts!”
He beamed with absolute confidence that everything would be fine.
Iruma wasn’t so sure.
.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.
Morning arrived softly, warm light filtering through the curtains and brushing against Iruma’s face. It coaxed him awake little by little until he found himself staring at an unfamiliar ceiling painted with swirling constellations he didn’t recognize.
Yesterday’s memories returned in slow, uneven waves—Sullivan, the Netherworld, Babyls, adoption.
Right. None of it had been a dream.
He pushed himself upright, rubbing sleep from his eyes as the strange yet comfortable room came into focus. Everything felt still, as though the entire mansion was waking with him. A new day in a new world. He had no idea what it would bring, but uncertainty wasn’t new to him. He’d learned long ago that all he could do was face whatever came next.
He took quiet stock of the room. Three doors—two leading to places he didn’t know, and one he recognized as the exit. For a moment, he simply breathed, letting the silence settle around him.
This world was unfamiliar, overwhelming, impossibly strange…
Yet it was the first place in a long time where he hadn’t woken up afraid.
And that, at least, was a start.
.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.
Not to Iruma’s surprise, when he stepped out into the rest of the house, it was empty. He couldn’t tell if it was because the mansion was enormous or because he always woke with the sun. Either way, the quiet gave him a chance to explore.
As he wandered, he found a small study tucked between two hallways. Curious, he reached for a random book, fully expecting he wouldn’t understand a single word inside. But before he could open it, a tall figure plucked it neatly out of his hands.
“So this is where you were, human,” the figure said. They had reddish‑orange hair, catlike ears perched on top, and an expression that suggested they were permanently bored.
“Lord Sullivan has been looking for you. It’s time for breakfast,” they added, voice flat and unbothered.
Iruma nodded and reached for a small notebook and pen on the desk. The figure raised an eyebrow as he scribbled quickly. When he turned the notebook around—So I can talk to you guys?—the figure stared at the page as though it were written in an alien script.
Without addressing it, they simply turned away.
“Follow me,” the figure said, already walking off and giving Iruma no chance to respond.
.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.
When they reached the dining room, they found Sullivan grinning brightly at the end of the long table.
“Ah! So Opera was able to find you, Iruma—wonderful!”
Iruma nodded and quietly took the seat across from him.
“So, how did you sleep?” Sullivan asked.
Iruma quickly scribbled Fine on his notebook and held it up. Sullivan leaned forward to read it, and his expression shifted into a more exaggerated version of the confused look Opera had given earlier.
“Oh—right. I was going to mention that,” Opera said as they entered with two plates of food. They set one in front of Iruma and one before Sullivan. “It seems the translation spell only works in certain areas. While it can interpret the demon language for him, it can’t convert his writing into it. Whatever he’s trying to communicate stays in his own language.”
Opera spoke matter‑of‑factly, as if this were a minor inconvenience rather than a fundamental communication barrier.
Sullivan blinked, then let out a warm laugh. “Well! We’ll just have to work around that, won’t we? Why don’t you just talk to us until we can adjust the spell or teach you to write in the demon language?”
Iruma frowned, his shoulders sinking slightly.
If only it were that easy, he thought.
Speaking wasn’t something he could simply decide to do—not now, not ever. But explaining that without words felt like trying to climb a wall with no footholds.
Iruma sighed and lowered his gaze to the plate in front of him. The food smelled warm and comforting—something savory, something sweet—but the scent barely registered. His hands moved automatically, picking up the utensils, cutting small pieces, bringing them to his mouth. The motions were familiar, practiced, mechanical.
Eating was one of the few things in life that didn’t require words.
He chewed slowly, quietly, barely tasting anything.
It seems this will be no different than home, he thought, the words drifting through his mind like dust motes in still air.
People misunderstanding him wasn’t new. People assuming he was being difficult wasn’t new. People deciding what he “should” be able to do wasn’t new.
The only new part was the setting—a demon lord’s dining room instead of a cramped kitchen or a cold hallway.
Across the table, Sullivan watched him with a puzzled expression, fork paused halfway to his mouth. Iruma didn’t look up long enough to see the confusion deepen, but he felt it—like a faint pressure in the air. Then Sullivan simply nodded to himself and began eating as well, humming cheerfully between bites.
Iruma kept his eyes on his plate. He didn’t know how to respond to cheerfulness. He didn’t know how to respond to confusion either.
So he responded to neither.
The meal passed in a quiet that felt too loud.
When they finished, Sullivan clapped his hands together with a bright smile. “Feel free to explore the mansion, Iruma‑kun! Or rest! Opera and I will be preparing a few things for your enrollment. Very exciting!”
Iruma nodded once, stood, and slipped out of the room without a sound.
No one stopped him.
No one asked where he was going.
No one asked if he needed anything.
He wasn’t surprised.
.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.
The mansion’s hallways stretched endlessly, each corridor branching into another, each room filled with strange objects and stranger decorations. Iruma walked without purpose, letting his feet carry him wherever they wanted. He didn’t explore out of curiosity—curiosity required energy, and he didn’t have much of that left. He walked because standing still felt worse.
Every so often, he passed a window. The Netherworld sky was a deep violet, swirling with colors he didn’t recognize. It should have been beautiful. It should have been terrifying.
Instead, it felt distant, like something he was seeing through a thick pane of glass.
Eventually, he found his way back to his room.
He slipped inside, closed the door softly behind him, and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, plush and warm, but he barely noticed. His mind drifted, thoughts slow and muted.
He’d been here less than a day, and already the familiar heaviness had settled in his chest. Not fear. Not sadness. Just… weight. The kind that made everything feel slightly out of reach.
He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling painted with constellations he didn’t know. The stars shimmered faintly, shifting in patterns that didn’t exist in the human world. He watched them without really seeing them.
Time passed.
He wasn’t sure how much.
Eventually, the strange Netherworld light outside dimmed, the sky deepening into a darker shade of violet. Shadows stretched across the room, soft and quiet. Iruma didn’t move. He didn’t feel tired, but he didn’t feel awake either. He just existed, suspended in the quiet.
He didn’t expect anyone to come.
People rarely did.
So when a gentle knock sounded at his door, he flinched.
“Iruma, it’s Grandpa!” Sullivan’s voice called warmly.
Iruma blinked at the ceiling.
Grandpa.
He still wasn’t used to that.
The door opened before he could sit up fully. Sullivan stepped inside, carrying a thick book under one arm and wearing an expression far more serious than earlier.
“I’ve been doing some research,” Sullivan said as he approached the bed. His tone was calm—steady, even—and it made Iruma’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t understand. “And I want you to tell me if I’m right.”
Iruma sat up slowly, hands curling in his lap. He didn’t know what Sullivan was about to say, but he braced himself anyway. People usually came to him with corrections, instructions, or expectations. He’d learned to prepare for all of them.
Sullivan sat at the edge of the bed, leaving a respectful amount of space between them. He didn’t lean in. He didn’t crowd. He simply rested the book on his knees and looked at Iruma with gentle eyes.
“You are what the human world calls non‑verbal, correct?” Sullivan asked softly. “It’s not that you’ve been refusing to speak. It’s more that you have a limited way of expressing yourself. Yes?”
The words hit Iruma like a quiet shock.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just… deep.
His breath caught in his throat. His fingers tightened around the blanket. His heart gave a small, startled flutter—like a bird that had forgotten how to fly suddenly remembering the sky.
Someone understood.
Not guessed.
Not assumed.
Not scolded.
Understood.
Iruma stared at Sullivan, unable to move. His mind felt too full and too empty at the same time. He’d spent years being told to “just speak,” to “try harder,” to “stop being difficult.” He’d been dragged to doctors, tutors, strangers who promised to “fix” him. He’d been ignored when he couldn’t meet expectations. He’d been blamed for things he couldn’t control.
And now, here was a demon lord—a stranger in a strange world—sitting calmly on his bed, speaking gently, asking if he was right instead of assuming he was wrong.
Iruma swallowed hard.
His throat felt tight.
His chest felt warm.
His eyes stung.
He didn’t cry.
He didn’t make a sound.
He just sat there, overwhelmed in a way he didn’t know how to process.
Sullivan waited.
He didn’t rush.
He didn’t push.
He didn’t fill the silence with nervous chatter.
He simply waited.
Iruma’s hands trembled as he reached for his notebook. He opened it slowly, the pages rustling softly in the quiet room. His pen hovered over the paper for a long moment. His thoughts were tangled, heavy, too big for the small space of a notebook.
He nodded it wasn’t dramatic, just a small, hesitant motion.
Sullivan’s expression softened—not with pity, not with sadness, but with understanding. Real, gentle understanding.
“I see,” he murmured. “Thank you for telling me.”
Iruma’s breath shuddered out of him. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding it.
Sullivan continued, voice steady and warm. “Iruma‑kun… you don’t need to force yourself to speak. Not here. Not with me. You express yourself in your own way, and that is perfectly fine.”
Iruma’s chest tightened again, painfully this time.
No one had ever said that to him.
Not once.
Sullivan placed a hand on the bed—not touching Iruma, just close enough to be comforting. “We’ll find ways to communicate that work for you. Together. There is no rush.”
Iruma stared at the hand, then at Sullivan’s face. The warmth in the demon lord’s eyes felt like sunlight after years of winter.
He didn’t know how to respond.
He didn’t know how to feel.
He didn’t know how to breathe around the sudden swell of emotion.
But for the first time in a long time, the numbness cracked—just a little.
And something warm slipped through.
Sullivan stood slowly, giving Iruma space. “I’ll let you rest now. If you need anything—anything at all—just come find me. Or write it down. Or point. Whatever works for you.”
He moved toward the door, then paused.
“I’m glad you’re here, Iruma‑kun.”
The words lingered in the air long after Sullivan left.
Iruma sat in the quiet room, notebook still open in his lap, heart still trembling in his chest. He didn’t cry. He didn’t smile. He didn’t move.
But he felt something he hadn’t felt in a very long time.
Seen.
He lay back on the bed slowly, staring at the unfamiliar constellations above him. The room felt warmer now. Softer. Safer.
As the Netherworld night settled around him, Iruma closed his eyes.
For the first time in years, he didn’t fall asleep feeling alone.