Interlude
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abel targayen
Getting sticky.
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POV: Yubelluna
For the twentieth time that hour, Yubelluna went flying. Dirt exploded around her as she crashed into the training field, rolling once, twice, before landing flat on her back.
She groaned.
Her limbs ached. Her hair was tangled. Sweat clung to her skin in an unglamorous sheen. Her beloved king, however, stood not ten meters away, shirtless, barely winded, and positively glowing like some divine punishment.
"Again," Riser Phenex said, calm as the moon, flame still flickering faintly in his palm.
Yubelluna thumped her head against the ground. "You've got to be kidding me."
Almost a year had passed since they moved to Emberhold. A full year since that unforgettable night—the night of his legendary dance, now known across the Underworld as The Phoenix Mandala. And yet, some things hadn't changed.
Like her king's obsession with training.
If anything, it had grown worse. Fiercer. Like something haunted him. Like there was a clock ticking only he could hear.
"Why do you train like this?" she'd asked once, between bruises and coughing up smoke.
"In pursuit of my ambition," he'd replied.
Cryptic as always. Her king had a habit of speaking in riddles and half-truths. It drove her crazy. And not the good kind of crazy.
Still, being Lady of Emberhold had its perks: twenty demonic leyens under Riser's command now. Twelve low-class, seven mid-class, and one high-class. All of them produce infernal crystals: raw magic solidified, the most valuable currency in devil society. Not just for trade, no, these weren't for trinkets. Crystals could be absorbed, slowly increasing a devil's demonic power, which is why a society based on power would accept it as a currency.
But only if matched by class.
A high-class devil trying to absorb low-class crystals would barely feel a tickle. The real gains came from parity, like for example mid-class crystals for mid-class devils. Even then, a hundred crystals gave only a two-percent increase. Power was a game of patience and pain. And most devils weren't willing to play it.
But her king? He played. And he played to win.
Yubelluna groaned again. "Ugh. Why am I thinking about devil economics right now...?"
Oh right—because if she looked at him again, she was going to pounce. Riser wasn't even sweating. Shirtless. Muscles taut and shimmering in the setting sun like some sort of infernal romance novel come to life. It was rude. Unfair.
"How am I supposed to concentrate when you're walking around looking like that?" she muttered, pouting.
"Stop having inappropriate thoughts," Riser said mildly. "And stand up."
She glared. "You read my mind again, didn't you?"
He didn't deny it.
"Why can't you be like a normal devil? You know—lazy, indulgent, fucking me into unconsciousness like any reasonable man would?"
"Control your hormones, woman," he said, clearly amused.
"Unfair," she huffed. "It is not a crime to want to be ravished by my incredibly sexy, shirtless king who's built like a war god and smells like sin."
That earned a laugh. A rich, beautiful sound that made her toes curl.
"If you can keep up for thirty more minutes," he said, "then you'll get your reward."
He said it like she was some pet earning a treat. And... well. She kind of was.
Thirty minutes. The longest thirty minutes of her life. She couldn't even stand by the end. Her knees buckled, her legs gave out and he caught her.
Riser lifted her into a princess carry, all grace and fire. She collapsed into him, boneless and breathless.
"So…" she murmured against his shoulder, "do I get my reward, master?"
He hummed. "Yes."
"Fabulous," she sighed, and promptly licked the sweat off his cheek like a dog in heat.
He snorted. "You're making me reconsider."
"Not fabulous," she whimpered.
He laughed again, deep and beautiful and hers.
And even if she was sore and exhausted, at that moment, she was exactly where she wanted to be.
POV: Valerie
Valerie Tepes had long since stopped expecting her world to change. She had been born in a coffin of marble and gold, raised within the cold stone walls of the Tepes castle, and taught early that kindness was an illusion—a story told to weak children to make them easier prey.
Dhampir. Half-blood. Mistake.
They had a hundred words for what she was, and none of them were meant to make her feel like she belonged.
Even the silence here bled contempt. Every corridor, every black-draped window, every flickering candelabra reminded her of what she wasn't: pure. Whole. Worthy. The purebloods passed her like she was dust in the air, or worse, a stain that would never wash out. And so Valerie learned to walk with her chin high, her heart low, and her hope buried so deep it had almost suffocated.
Almost.
The only thing that made life inside the castle bearable was Gasper. Poor, trembling, cursed Gasper.
He was five years her junior, though in this place, time bent strangely around suffering. He had been born twisted by a Sacred Gear no one understood, shrouded in fear before he could even speak. They said his mother died just from holding him. Valerie didn't believe it was his fault.
She remembered the first time she saw him. Huddled in a corner like a shadow given form, eyes wide and red-rimmed, too scared to cry. She had marched right up to him and declared, "You're mine now."
He didn't flinch. He just looked at her. And stayed.
Over time, he stopped stuttering around her. He started smiling, even. She made him laugh once, and it nearly broke her heart. Because he still believed in something. Maybe in her. Maybe in escape.
He would talk about the world beyond the castle. About dragons and angels and great cities filled with light that never went out. He dreamed of meeting beings who didn't look at him like he was broken. And Valerie—
She pretended to listen with a smile. But inside, she knew better.
There was no escape. There was no world that wanted them.
But then the dreams started.
Valerie had never seen a city before. Not really. But in her dreams, she stood beneath impossible towers of glass and light, buildings that touched the sky and bled color like rain. She saw metal beasts rushing down black rivers, people wrapped in strange clothes and noise, and music.
Always the music.
It was haunting, lilting, without words but full of meaning. It crept under her skin, filled her lungs like mist. And then, always, the figure appeared: tall, golden-haired, crimson-eyed. Beautiful beyond understanding.
He would smile, and speak without moving his lips:
Follow the melody, and you will find what you seek.
She didn't know what it meant. And she didn't want to believe it. Hope was dangerous. It made you soft.
But then, one day, Gasper came to her. He looked shaken, pale even by vampire standards.
"I want to leave," he said. His voice was firm. Clear. "I want to try. Please, Valerie. Come with me."
And she looked at him, really looked. At the only person who had ever seen her as something worth staying for.
She remembered her dream.
Follow the melody.
"Alright," she said.
They planned carefully. Valerie knew the guards' rotations, when the feeding halls were emptied, when the castle's wards shifted briefly at twilight. Gasper, nervous as he was, could control his Sacred Gear just enough to freeze the eyes of anyone who caught sight of them for a few crucial seconds. They gathered what little they had: cloaks, dried blood packs, a map stolen from a tutor's study.
When they slipped out into the night, hearts pounding and senses stretched taut, they didn't expect to make it far.
But they made it past the gates.
And then they heard it.
The melody.
Faint, distant, but unmistakable. Valerie froze. So did Gasper.
He looked at her.
"You hear it too?"
She nodded slowly.
The music was eerie, unearthly. It carried no words, but it pulled. It beckoned.
She remembered the dream. The golden figure. The promise.
Follow the melody.
They had no map for what came next. No plan. Only each other, and the music.
So they followed.
According to whispered talks Valerie had overheard among the vampire nobility, the vampire world was a pocket dimension connected to the darkness of a human country called Romania. A shadowed mirror of the real world. There were checkpoints—gates—where the vampire realm bled into the human one, patrolled and watched by guards. She had never seen them. Never hoped to. But the melody led them there.
As if fate willed it, they found an unguarded moment, a weakness in the patrol. Valerie found it strange, too easy. Her unease deepened, but they pressed on and passed through the gate.
Romania.
The air felt different. Cleaner. The trees looked alive, not twisted and blackened like those behind them. There were rivers. Grass. Birds.
They walked for hours, eyes wide with awe, still following the song.
And then they began to hear the words.
Hush, now. Hide, all you little ones.
Rush now, Into the middle of Nowhere;
Singing and laughter will die.
The melody remained soft. Almost cheerful. But the lyrics turned their blood to ice.
Dreamless sleep Follows the Nowhere King.
When his kingdom comes, Darkness is nigh.
Gasper whimpered. Valerie took his hand.
Quiet, Crawl through the in-between.
Silent, Secretive feeling of fearsome Hatred that reaches the skies.
You will bring joy to the Nowhere King, When he sees the light Leaving your eyes.
The contrast between tune and words was unbearable yet comforting in an odd way. The music comforts the disturbed and disturbs the comforted. And, they followed. What else could they do?
Moments later, Valerie's dread proved right. Figures emerged from the forest, men in strange clothes, bearing holy swords. Their eyes cold. Their expressions cruel.
Vampire hunters.
Valerie froze.
"Well, well," one sneered. "What do we have here? Two young blood-sucking parasites, fresh out of the womb."
"How delightful," another laughed, raising his blade.
They didn't attack at once. They played. Taunted. Mocked. Like cats with mice.
Valerie tried to fight. So did Gasper. But they'd never seen real battle. Their strikes were clumsy. The hunters laughed.
"This is what the lords of night spawn now?"
And then one of them stepped forward, bored. Drew his sword and without hesitation, stabbed Gasper through the heart.
Valerie screamed.
She dropped to her knees beside him, blood soaking through his cloak. His eyes were wide with shock, lips trembling with a name he could not finish.
She held him. Cried. Cursed herself, the hunters, the melody, the world.
He died in her arms.
And something inside her shattered.
The world burned white.
The Sephiroth Graal awoke.
Visions tore through her: life, death, soul. She saw the shape of existence, the principle of vitality. The language of creation screamed through her.
She rose.
The hunters turned but too late.
Her power tore them apart. Bones cracked. Screams filled the forest.
When the last body fell, she staggered back to Gasper.
He was still. Cold. Gone.
But the melody still played.
Desperate, broken, Valerie gathered his body into her arms and followed the song.
She ran for what felt like hours, through trees and shadow, as the final verse echoed in her bones.
You will bring Joy to the Nowhere King,
When he sees the light leaving your eyes.
And then, the forest broke.
A boulder loomed ahead. And beside it—
The figure from her dreams.
Tall. Golden. Crimson-eyed. Radiant beyond reason.
Is he a fairy? she wondered. No... something more.
She stumbled toward him, still holding Gasper's body.
"You're the man from my dreams," she whispered.
He smiled. "I am."
"You said... if I followed the melody... I'd find what I seek."
"And you did."
"Then save him," she begged, falling to her knees. "Please."
The figure tilted his head. "What will you give in return?"
"Everything," Valerie said, voice raw.
He smiled wider. And from his palm rose three small objects, smooth and gleaming like marble. She did not know what they were—only that they pulsed with strange power.
Two floated to Gasper's chest. One drifted into her own heart.
And then darkness took her.
3 months later
It's been about three months since I became a bishop in Lord Riser's peerage.
I remember waking in a bed softer than anything I'd ever felt, draped in silk and the scent of roses. He explained it all to me then, calmly, kindly. That he was a devil. That I had been reincarnated as one too. That I was now part of his household, his servant, his bishop. At first, I was terrified. A deal with a devil rarely ends well. It's almost laughable, isn't it? I tried to escape slavery and instead walked straight into it, willingly. But I don't regret it. Not when the person dearest to me was saved.
Since that day, I've thrown myself into learning. Everything I never had the chance to study while trapped in the Tepes palace, I devour it now. Etiquette, manners, speech, customs, the intricacies of devil society. Yubelluna, the queen of the peerage, has been teaching me. She's been... kind. Too kind. It makes me suspicious. But Gasper adores her. She's the third person in his life to treat him like he's not some cursed thing. He smiles more now. Laughs. I keep telling myself: even if her kindness is fake, his happiness is real. And that's enough.
Still, I'm not stupid. I know why we're treated so well. It's because we're useful. Sacred Gears are rare, precious. We're assets, not family. That's why I work harder than anyone else. I have to be indispensable. I study until my vision blurs. I train until my demonic energy burns. I force myself to improve, because I cannot be discarded. Not again.
Yubelluna praises me often. Says I'm talented. That I learn fast. She taught Gasper and me the foundations of devil magic. I picked it up quickly. I was proud, until I remembered what pride leads to. So I swallowed it and trained harder.
I researched on my own. Learned the limits and possibilities of devil magic. It's said to be limitless, in theory anything is possible. But in reality, there are walls everywhere. Demonic Energy, talent, knowledge, resources. Thus most devils specialize in a specific area of magic. Enchantment. Conjuration. Curses. Transmutation. Potions (very rare). Very few master more than one.
Except for Lord Riser.
He noticed me after I demonstrated aptitude for ritual theory. Since then, he's taken over my training. His knowledge of magic is... unnerving. He understands everything. Not just spells or potions, but the principles behind them. He teaches with such clarity that he answers questions before I even ask them. Sometimes, it feels like he's reading my mind.
I asked Yubelluna once: was every pureblooded devil like him?
She laughed. "No," she said, shaking her head. "He's a freak."
She meant it fondly. She told me that while talent is unevenly distributed, most devils have limits, things they can't do. But Riser Phenex... doesn't. Most devils are specialists, but his specialism is omniscience. He's a master of everything he touches. Magic. Music. Weapons. Dance. Yubelluna grew wistful as she listed them. Violin, harp, piano—he plays them all and weaves memory into melody. He enchants people not with spells, but with Mastery.
A perfect devil.
And he's mine to serve.
He's been focusing on rituals and alchemy with me. Potions, runes, summoning circles. It's difficult, delicate work, but he makes it make sense. He's patient, precise. Demanding, yes, but fair. And I give everything I have. Every thought, every hour. Because if I'm useful, I'm safe. If I'm useful, Gasper is safe.
And maybe….maybe—I can find freedom in this service. Even if I'm still a slave in name, at least I'm no longer in chains.
Not yet.
POV: Riser Phenex
The knowledge I gained from absorbing Kelzior Saeros' soul has proven… invaluable. Predictable, but still deeply satisfying.
Kelzior had been many things: a sadist, a despot, a brilliant polymath whose intellect burned so hot it incinerated morality. A Devil who once said, " All that is created must be known to me, or it exists without my sanction." A sentiment I now understand with unnerving clarity. The moment I took his soul into myself, his mind became part of the architecture of my own. Not as a voice—no, that would be crude, but as impulse, intuition, a sharper edge to my will.
He was an expert in enchantment, transmutation, conjuration, potions, alchemy, and ritual magic. A master of soulcraft. A scholar of domination in both magical and psychological forms. And now I am too.
But more than his knowledge, I inherited his hunger—a ravenous desire to master every discipline that caught his gaze. That part of him, his tyrannical intensity, I have not tamed. I've simply aimed it.
And it is accelerating everything.
My body, reshaped and refined through Kelzior's soul-fueled rituals, is something else entirely now. Even beyond its aesthetic perfection, though I do enjoy the way mirror reflections seem to pause in reverence, my capabilities have multiplied. My strength, even before enhancing it with demonic energy, is staggering. When I exhaust myself in training, my reserves recover at unnatural speeds. My demonic energy output is already above peak high-class. I'm still below ultimate class, but not by much. Not for long.
The leap from high-class to ultimate-class isn't simply about power. It's about transcendence.
In the devil hierarchy, each rank isn't just a number but a new state of being. Low-class devils are two to three times stronger than a human without enhancements; with demonic energy, they reach tenfold. Middle-class devils eclipse them five to seven times over. But from there, the scale curves steeply: high-class devils are ten to twelve times stronger than middle-class, and ultimate-class devils are fifteen to twenty times stronger still. The difference between an ultimate-class devil and a High-class entity is as vast as the ocean to a pond.
And then… There is Satan-class. The gods in all but name. Beings like Serafall Leviathan, Falbium, The Seraphs, Odin, Zeus, Azazel.
To breach these thresholds, raw power is not enough. One must undergo a qualitative transformation, an evolution. A unique ability, a sacred gear, a perfected technique, or in some cases, a conceptual shift in how their power manifests. Just as the caterpillar does not become a stronger caterpillar to fly—it becomes something else.
Before I attempt that leap, however, I must address my species' most persistent vulnerability: our racial weakness to holy and light-based forces. The very idea of being undone by such primitive elements offends me. So I've begun experimenting, rituals, potions, symbols long-buried in myth.
Progress has been slow. The work demands something beyond even my enhanced capability. A missing component.
Which is why I accelerated Valerie's escape from the Tepes estate.
In the original timeline, her Sacred Gear, the Sephiroth Graal, awakened only under extreme emotional trauma while helping Gasper escape. But in my version, I ensured their path was smooth, too smooth, in fact. Her emotional trigger never came. So I corrected the oversight.
I manipulated a group of vampire hunters into "finding" them. Let the scene unfold. Valerie's despair reached the necessary pitch. Gasper's death, temporary, of course, was the final push. She awakened. Just as I intended.
When she begged me to save him, I offered a deal. She accepted without hesitation. Just as I planned.
And now the Graal is mine.
Valerie is important. More than she knows. Her Sacred Gear connects her to the very principles of life. Through it, she perceives how life and soul are formed. Through it, I will reshape the biology of devils.
The Sephiroth Graal's ability that most interests me is its ability to reduce weakness. Vampires become more resistant to holy weapons. Evil Dragons resist their Slayers. Devils—I—may become impervious to the light.
That alone would be enough.
But with her help, I can craft potions and rituals impossible by conventional means. Imagine the possibility of overcoming the racial weakness of devils to anything holy or light, where I am free to act without constraint, without flaw. Imagine an existence where even God's weapons are dulled against me.
That is the future I am building.
And it is coming faster than I expected.
AN: Yep, it's that time again—another chapter has arrived. Believe it or not, I was planning to kick off the next arc here and make this chapter as long as a small novel, but then I remembered sleep exists. So the next arc will start in the following chapter instead.
If you're wondering about the song I used: it's from a children's show called Centaurworld, and yes, it's about the Nowhere King. I just thought the song was cool, creepy, and weirdly perfect, so I chucked it in there like seasoning.
As always, any kind of feedback would be interesting. Honestly, it's the only reason I even post. That and to inflict firebird drama on the world.
For the twentieth time that hour, Yubelluna went flying. Dirt exploded around her as she crashed into the training field, rolling once, twice, before landing flat on her back.
She groaned.
Her limbs ached. Her hair was tangled. Sweat clung to her skin in an unglamorous sheen. Her beloved king, however, stood not ten meters away, shirtless, barely winded, and positively glowing like some divine punishment.
"Again," Riser Phenex said, calm as the moon, flame still flickering faintly in his palm.
Yubelluna thumped her head against the ground. "You've got to be kidding me."
Almost a year had passed since they moved to Emberhold. A full year since that unforgettable night—the night of his legendary dance, now known across the Underworld as The Phoenix Mandala. And yet, some things hadn't changed.
Like her king's obsession with training.
If anything, it had grown worse. Fiercer. Like something haunted him. Like there was a clock ticking only he could hear.
"Why do you train like this?" she'd asked once, between bruises and coughing up smoke.
"In pursuit of my ambition," he'd replied.
Cryptic as always. Her king had a habit of speaking in riddles and half-truths. It drove her crazy. And not the good kind of crazy.
Still, being Lady of Emberhold had its perks: twenty demonic leyens under Riser's command now. Twelve low-class, seven mid-class, and one high-class. All of them produce infernal crystals: raw magic solidified, the most valuable currency in devil society. Not just for trade, no, these weren't for trinkets. Crystals could be absorbed, slowly increasing a devil's demonic power, which is why a society based on power would accept it as a currency.
But only if matched by class.
A high-class devil trying to absorb low-class crystals would barely feel a tickle. The real gains came from parity, like for example mid-class crystals for mid-class devils. Even then, a hundred crystals gave only a two-percent increase. Power was a game of patience and pain. And most devils weren't willing to play it.
But her king? He played. And he played to win.
Yubelluna groaned again. "Ugh. Why am I thinking about devil economics right now...?"
Oh right—because if she looked at him again, she was going to pounce. Riser wasn't even sweating. Shirtless. Muscles taut and shimmering in the setting sun like some sort of infernal romance novel come to life. It was rude. Unfair.
"How am I supposed to concentrate when you're walking around looking like that?" she muttered, pouting.
"Stop having inappropriate thoughts," Riser said mildly. "And stand up."
She glared. "You read my mind again, didn't you?"
He didn't deny it.
"Why can't you be like a normal devil? You know—lazy, indulgent, fucking me into unconsciousness like any reasonable man would?"
"Control your hormones, woman," he said, clearly amused.
"Unfair," she huffed. "It is not a crime to want to be ravished by my incredibly sexy, shirtless king who's built like a war god and smells like sin."
That earned a laugh. A rich, beautiful sound that made her toes curl.
"If you can keep up for thirty more minutes," he said, "then you'll get your reward."
He said it like she was some pet earning a treat. And... well. She kind of was.
Thirty minutes. The longest thirty minutes of her life. She couldn't even stand by the end. Her knees buckled, her legs gave out and he caught her.
Riser lifted her into a princess carry, all grace and fire. She collapsed into him, boneless and breathless.
"So…" she murmured against his shoulder, "do I get my reward, master?"
He hummed. "Yes."
"Fabulous," she sighed, and promptly licked the sweat off his cheek like a dog in heat.
He snorted. "You're making me reconsider."
"Not fabulous," she whimpered.
He laughed again, deep and beautiful and hers.
And even if she was sore and exhausted, at that moment, she was exactly where she wanted to be.
POV: Valerie
Valerie Tepes had long since stopped expecting her world to change. She had been born in a coffin of marble and gold, raised within the cold stone walls of the Tepes castle, and taught early that kindness was an illusion—a story told to weak children to make them easier prey.
Dhampir. Half-blood. Mistake.
They had a hundred words for what she was, and none of them were meant to make her feel like she belonged.
Even the silence here bled contempt. Every corridor, every black-draped window, every flickering candelabra reminded her of what she wasn't: pure. Whole. Worthy. The purebloods passed her like she was dust in the air, or worse, a stain that would never wash out. And so Valerie learned to walk with her chin high, her heart low, and her hope buried so deep it had almost suffocated.
Almost.
The only thing that made life inside the castle bearable was Gasper. Poor, trembling, cursed Gasper.
He was five years her junior, though in this place, time bent strangely around suffering. He had been born twisted by a Sacred Gear no one understood, shrouded in fear before he could even speak. They said his mother died just from holding him. Valerie didn't believe it was his fault.
She remembered the first time she saw him. Huddled in a corner like a shadow given form, eyes wide and red-rimmed, too scared to cry. She had marched right up to him and declared, "You're mine now."
He didn't flinch. He just looked at her. And stayed.
Over time, he stopped stuttering around her. He started smiling, even. She made him laugh once, and it nearly broke her heart. Because he still believed in something. Maybe in her. Maybe in escape.
He would talk about the world beyond the castle. About dragons and angels and great cities filled with light that never went out. He dreamed of meeting beings who didn't look at him like he was broken. And Valerie—
She pretended to listen with a smile. But inside, she knew better.
There was no escape. There was no world that wanted them.
But then the dreams started.
Valerie had never seen a city before. Not really. But in her dreams, she stood beneath impossible towers of glass and light, buildings that touched the sky and bled color like rain. She saw metal beasts rushing down black rivers, people wrapped in strange clothes and noise, and music.
Always the music.
It was haunting, lilting, without words but full of meaning. It crept under her skin, filled her lungs like mist. And then, always, the figure appeared: tall, golden-haired, crimson-eyed. Beautiful beyond understanding.
He would smile, and speak without moving his lips:
Follow the melody, and you will find what you seek.
She didn't know what it meant. And she didn't want to believe it. Hope was dangerous. It made you soft.
But then, one day, Gasper came to her. He looked shaken, pale even by vampire standards.
"I want to leave," he said. His voice was firm. Clear. "I want to try. Please, Valerie. Come with me."
And she looked at him, really looked. At the only person who had ever seen her as something worth staying for.
She remembered her dream.
Follow the melody.
"Alright," she said.
They planned carefully. Valerie knew the guards' rotations, when the feeding halls were emptied, when the castle's wards shifted briefly at twilight. Gasper, nervous as he was, could control his Sacred Gear just enough to freeze the eyes of anyone who caught sight of them for a few crucial seconds. They gathered what little they had: cloaks, dried blood packs, a map stolen from a tutor's study.
When they slipped out into the night, hearts pounding and senses stretched taut, they didn't expect to make it far.
But they made it past the gates.
And then they heard it.
The melody.
Faint, distant, but unmistakable. Valerie froze. So did Gasper.
He looked at her.
"You hear it too?"
She nodded slowly.
The music was eerie, unearthly. It carried no words, but it pulled. It beckoned.
She remembered the dream. The golden figure. The promise.
Follow the melody.
They had no map for what came next. No plan. Only each other, and the music.
So they followed.
According to whispered talks Valerie had overheard among the vampire nobility, the vampire world was a pocket dimension connected to the darkness of a human country called Romania. A shadowed mirror of the real world. There were checkpoints—gates—where the vampire realm bled into the human one, patrolled and watched by guards. She had never seen them. Never hoped to. But the melody led them there.
As if fate willed it, they found an unguarded moment, a weakness in the patrol. Valerie found it strange, too easy. Her unease deepened, but they pressed on and passed through the gate.
Romania.
The air felt different. Cleaner. The trees looked alive, not twisted and blackened like those behind them. There were rivers. Grass. Birds.
They walked for hours, eyes wide with awe, still following the song.
And then they began to hear the words.
Hush, now. Hide, all you little ones.
Rush now, Into the middle of Nowhere;
Singing and laughter will die.
The melody remained soft. Almost cheerful. But the lyrics turned their blood to ice.
Dreamless sleep Follows the Nowhere King.
When his kingdom comes, Darkness is nigh.
Gasper whimpered. Valerie took his hand.
Quiet, Crawl through the in-between.
Silent, Secretive feeling of fearsome Hatred that reaches the skies.
You will bring joy to the Nowhere King, When he sees the light Leaving your eyes.
The contrast between tune and words was unbearable yet comforting in an odd way. The music comforts the disturbed and disturbs the comforted. And, they followed. What else could they do?
Moments later, Valerie's dread proved right. Figures emerged from the forest, men in strange clothes, bearing holy swords. Their eyes cold. Their expressions cruel.
Vampire hunters.
Valerie froze.
"Well, well," one sneered. "What do we have here? Two young blood-sucking parasites, fresh out of the womb."
"How delightful," another laughed, raising his blade.
They didn't attack at once. They played. Taunted. Mocked. Like cats with mice.
Valerie tried to fight. So did Gasper. But they'd never seen real battle. Their strikes were clumsy. The hunters laughed.
"This is what the lords of night spawn now?"
And then one of them stepped forward, bored. Drew his sword and without hesitation, stabbed Gasper through the heart.
Valerie screamed.
She dropped to her knees beside him, blood soaking through his cloak. His eyes were wide with shock, lips trembling with a name he could not finish.
She held him. Cried. Cursed herself, the hunters, the melody, the world.
He died in her arms.
And something inside her shattered.
The world burned white.
The Sephiroth Graal awoke.
Visions tore through her: life, death, soul. She saw the shape of existence, the principle of vitality. The language of creation screamed through her.
She rose.
The hunters turned but too late.
Her power tore them apart. Bones cracked. Screams filled the forest.
When the last body fell, she staggered back to Gasper.
He was still. Cold. Gone.
But the melody still played.
Desperate, broken, Valerie gathered his body into her arms and followed the song.
She ran for what felt like hours, through trees and shadow, as the final verse echoed in her bones.
You will bring Joy to the Nowhere King,
When he sees the light leaving your eyes.
And then, the forest broke.
A boulder loomed ahead. And beside it—
The figure from her dreams.
Tall. Golden. Crimson-eyed. Radiant beyond reason.
Is he a fairy? she wondered. No... something more.
She stumbled toward him, still holding Gasper's body.
"You're the man from my dreams," she whispered.
He smiled. "I am."
"You said... if I followed the melody... I'd find what I seek."
"And you did."
"Then save him," she begged, falling to her knees. "Please."
The figure tilted his head. "What will you give in return?"
"Everything," Valerie said, voice raw.
He smiled wider. And from his palm rose three small objects, smooth and gleaming like marble. She did not know what they were—only that they pulsed with strange power.
Two floated to Gasper's chest. One drifted into her own heart.
And then darkness took her.
3 months later
It's been about three months since I became a bishop in Lord Riser's peerage.
I remember waking in a bed softer than anything I'd ever felt, draped in silk and the scent of roses. He explained it all to me then, calmly, kindly. That he was a devil. That I had been reincarnated as one too. That I was now part of his household, his servant, his bishop. At first, I was terrified. A deal with a devil rarely ends well. It's almost laughable, isn't it? I tried to escape slavery and instead walked straight into it, willingly. But I don't regret it. Not when the person dearest to me was saved.
Since that day, I've thrown myself into learning. Everything I never had the chance to study while trapped in the Tepes palace, I devour it now. Etiquette, manners, speech, customs, the intricacies of devil society. Yubelluna, the queen of the peerage, has been teaching me. She's been... kind. Too kind. It makes me suspicious. But Gasper adores her. She's the third person in his life to treat him like he's not some cursed thing. He smiles more now. Laughs. I keep telling myself: even if her kindness is fake, his happiness is real. And that's enough.
Still, I'm not stupid. I know why we're treated so well. It's because we're useful. Sacred Gears are rare, precious. We're assets, not family. That's why I work harder than anyone else. I have to be indispensable. I study until my vision blurs. I train until my demonic energy burns. I force myself to improve, because I cannot be discarded. Not again.
Yubelluna praises me often. Says I'm talented. That I learn fast. She taught Gasper and me the foundations of devil magic. I picked it up quickly. I was proud, until I remembered what pride leads to. So I swallowed it and trained harder.
I researched on my own. Learned the limits and possibilities of devil magic. It's said to be limitless, in theory anything is possible. But in reality, there are walls everywhere. Demonic Energy, talent, knowledge, resources. Thus most devils specialize in a specific area of magic. Enchantment. Conjuration. Curses. Transmutation. Potions (very rare). Very few master more than one.
Except for Lord Riser.
He noticed me after I demonstrated aptitude for ritual theory. Since then, he's taken over my training. His knowledge of magic is... unnerving. He understands everything. Not just spells or potions, but the principles behind them. He teaches with such clarity that he answers questions before I even ask them. Sometimes, it feels like he's reading my mind.
I asked Yubelluna once: was every pureblooded devil like him?
She laughed. "No," she said, shaking her head. "He's a freak."
She meant it fondly. She told me that while talent is unevenly distributed, most devils have limits, things they can't do. But Riser Phenex... doesn't. Most devils are specialists, but his specialism is omniscience. He's a master of everything he touches. Magic. Music. Weapons. Dance. Yubelluna grew wistful as she listed them. Violin, harp, piano—he plays them all and weaves memory into melody. He enchants people not with spells, but with Mastery.
A perfect devil.
And he's mine to serve.
He's been focusing on rituals and alchemy with me. Potions, runes, summoning circles. It's difficult, delicate work, but he makes it make sense. He's patient, precise. Demanding, yes, but fair. And I give everything I have. Every thought, every hour. Because if I'm useful, I'm safe. If I'm useful, Gasper is safe.
And maybe….maybe—I can find freedom in this service. Even if I'm still a slave in name, at least I'm no longer in chains.
Not yet.
POV: Riser Phenex
The knowledge I gained from absorbing Kelzior Saeros' soul has proven… invaluable. Predictable, but still deeply satisfying.
Kelzior had been many things: a sadist, a despot, a brilliant polymath whose intellect burned so hot it incinerated morality. A Devil who once said, " All that is created must be known to me, or it exists without my sanction." A sentiment I now understand with unnerving clarity. The moment I took his soul into myself, his mind became part of the architecture of my own. Not as a voice—no, that would be crude, but as impulse, intuition, a sharper edge to my will.
He was an expert in enchantment, transmutation, conjuration, potions, alchemy, and ritual magic. A master of soulcraft. A scholar of domination in both magical and psychological forms. And now I am too.
But more than his knowledge, I inherited his hunger—a ravenous desire to master every discipline that caught his gaze. That part of him, his tyrannical intensity, I have not tamed. I've simply aimed it.
And it is accelerating everything.
My body, reshaped and refined through Kelzior's soul-fueled rituals, is something else entirely now. Even beyond its aesthetic perfection, though I do enjoy the way mirror reflections seem to pause in reverence, my capabilities have multiplied. My strength, even before enhancing it with demonic energy, is staggering. When I exhaust myself in training, my reserves recover at unnatural speeds. My demonic energy output is already above peak high-class. I'm still below ultimate class, but not by much. Not for long.
The leap from high-class to ultimate-class isn't simply about power. It's about transcendence.
In the devil hierarchy, each rank isn't just a number but a new state of being. Low-class devils are two to three times stronger than a human without enhancements; with demonic energy, they reach tenfold. Middle-class devils eclipse them five to seven times over. But from there, the scale curves steeply: high-class devils are ten to twelve times stronger than middle-class, and ultimate-class devils are fifteen to twenty times stronger still. The difference between an ultimate-class devil and a High-class entity is as vast as the ocean to a pond.
And then… There is Satan-class. The gods in all but name. Beings like Serafall Leviathan, Falbium, The Seraphs, Odin, Zeus, Azazel.
To breach these thresholds, raw power is not enough. One must undergo a qualitative transformation, an evolution. A unique ability, a sacred gear, a perfected technique, or in some cases, a conceptual shift in how their power manifests. Just as the caterpillar does not become a stronger caterpillar to fly—it becomes something else.
Before I attempt that leap, however, I must address my species' most persistent vulnerability: our racial weakness to holy and light-based forces. The very idea of being undone by such primitive elements offends me. So I've begun experimenting, rituals, potions, symbols long-buried in myth.
Progress has been slow. The work demands something beyond even my enhanced capability. A missing component.
Which is why I accelerated Valerie's escape from the Tepes estate.
In the original timeline, her Sacred Gear, the Sephiroth Graal, awakened only under extreme emotional trauma while helping Gasper escape. But in my version, I ensured their path was smooth, too smooth, in fact. Her emotional trigger never came. So I corrected the oversight.
I manipulated a group of vampire hunters into "finding" them. Let the scene unfold. Valerie's despair reached the necessary pitch. Gasper's death, temporary, of course, was the final push. She awakened. Just as I intended.
When she begged me to save him, I offered a deal. She accepted without hesitation. Just as I planned.
And now the Graal is mine.
Valerie is important. More than she knows. Her Sacred Gear connects her to the very principles of life. Through it, she perceives how life and soul are formed. Through it, I will reshape the biology of devils.
The Sephiroth Graal's ability that most interests me is its ability to reduce weakness. Vampires become more resistant to holy weapons. Evil Dragons resist their Slayers. Devils—I—may become impervious to the light.
That alone would be enough.
But with her help, I can craft potions and rituals impossible by conventional means. Imagine the possibility of overcoming the racial weakness of devils to anything holy or light, where I am free to act without constraint, without flaw. Imagine an existence where even God's weapons are dulled against me.
That is the future I am building.
And it is coming faster than I expected.
AN: Yep, it's that time again—another chapter has arrived. Believe it or not, I was planning to kick off the next arc here and make this chapter as long as a small novel, but then I remembered sleep exists. So the next arc will start in the following chapter instead.
If you're wondering about the song I used: it's from a children's show called Centaurworld, and yes, it's about the Nowhere King. I just thought the song was cool, creepy, and weirdly perfect, so I chucked it in there like seasoning.
As always, any kind of feedback would be interesting. Honestly, it's the only reason I even post. That and to inflict firebird drama on the world.
