"And the LORD said unto Satan, Whence comest thou? Then Satan answered the LORD, and said, From going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it."
Job 1:7 (KJV)
Tristan walked down the grand halls of Logzeros Hotel, grinning from ear to ear. Blood lightly pounded in his ears as he revelled in his flawless victory, reminiscing about the look of hopelessness on Terry's face. And the look of confusion on the faces of the other vampires; he had moved so fast for a moment that they couldn't perceive him.
Poor Terry almost lost his mind to my influence.
Unknown to the onlookers and Terry himself, the demon had activated his influence ability at the climax of the bout. There was no reason for him to; it was a tactic to further break the vampire's spirit. According to the rules of the bout, he had cheated, but Tristan didn't care. He wasn't a Seraphite, so technically all the rules of the fight were void.
His battlelust had been somewhat sated after his altercation with the pathetic vampires. Although he would have preferred to kill and consume them, he had to stick to the business agreement he had with a certain someone.
A small price to pay for a bountiful result.
His mind drifted, revelling in the fights and challenges he expected to face at the academy. He needed to battle, to kill, and to consume. It wasn't necessary for the demon's survival, but it was the only 'comfort' he was used to. Tristan also needed to grow strong in order to defend against the forces of this world when he was inevitably discovered.
The constant humming of the Chain of Eternity that bound him to Hell was still fresh in his head, a welcome reminder. He was never going to go back. And if he ever did, it would be completely on his terms.
After a couple of minutes of navigating the seemingly endless halls and lifts, Tristan had finally arrived at his room.
My sanctum.
Perched outside was a familiar vampire, tapping his feet impatiently. From time to time, he glanced down at his watch and back at the floor until his gaze snapped to Tristan.
"There you are, Mr Ashborne. Lady Drusilla instructed me to deliver these items," Brandon said, fishing into his pockets and retrieving two cards.
Among them, the black one stood out the most, with intricate gold lines at its edges.
House of Nocturne, Tristan read to himself.
"The black one is a credit card, ultra-premium. Under no circumstances should you lose it," the vampire explained. "The silver card is your room key. Although the rooms lock automatically, you can't get in without one of these. I tweaked it a bit so it can also access the Lady's room. Again, off limits," he finished.
Tristan took the two cards, shoving them into his pockets.
"Anything else?" Tristan asked impatiently.
Brandon's expression soured.
This dude made me wait here for almost an hour, but can't hold a conversation for more than two minutes?
He glared at Tristan.
"When the time is right, tomorrow, Lady Drusilla will send for you. Be prepared," the frontman replied, storming off to continue his shift.
The demon unlocked his room and began to survey it properly. He hadn't taken too much time to inspect it previously, as he was occupied with watching the other hotel residents.
The room was spacious, with cream walls and ceramic floors that felt cold to the touch. Just like Drusilla's, a king-sized bed sat in the centre. It came with breathable cotton covers and a duvet. The room had a bathroom and a shower, which Tristan mentally noted to figure out later. Yet in all its luxury, he was barely impressed by the room. He didn't care about comfort after all; all he needed was a space he could come back to whenever he wanted.
A space to heal and recuperate away from the prying eyes of mortals. This would do.
The demon rolled up his sleeves and made an incision in his palm with his nails. Blood flowed down his wrist, staining the ceramic floors. Tristan willed his wounds to stay open for a bit longer until he had enough blood. Then he began to draw.
What started off as a mess became a circle decorated with eldritch symbols. When he had inscribed the last detail, the circle glowed brightly for a brief moment, then lost all its colour, blending in with the ceramic tiles.
That should do it.
Tristan had successfully created a magic circle.
Just like he had explained to the scientists, Tristan was essentially a freak of nature: a 4th-generation demon with the prowess of a greater demon and a terrifyingly powerful ability. He had a freakish amount of ichor, and with enough observation and secret practice, the demon had mastered the art of making magic circles.
This one was a fusion between a return circle and a circle of restriction. Basically, if he was in a pickle and needed an immediate escape, he could instantly teleport back to this exact location, at the cost of a large amount of ichor, even for him.
Of course, this was completely dependent on the distance. If he were in the bathroom and triggered it, barely any ichor would be lost. The magic circle could also be used only once a week due to it being a fusion. The second part of the fusion slightly restricted the use of spells in his room. The demon knew there were lots of abilities and magic users who could completely bypass this, but it was just a precaution. Tristan also didn't heavily rely on magic due to the unique nature of his abilities.
Compared to his superiors, he was less than nothing, but that didn't matter to him. He might not have a sin anchor to constantly draw power like other greater demons, but he possessed such a powerful ability that it didn't matter: as long as he consumed powerful enemies, he could permanently replicate their abilities. To him, that was all he needed to bridge the gap.
A familiar face materialised in Tristan's mind. He clenched his fist, ichor hissing violently within.
B. We shall see again when this ant becomes an elephant.
Tristan got off the floor and took a seat on the bed, legs crossed in a meditative position. The demon was curious whether he would be able to sleep, considering he had a pseudo-human body, but he wasn't eager to test the theory. The last thing he would want would be to accidentally sleep off and lose his life.
So he resorted to something else: manipulating his ichor internally and externally during his free time. The process required maximum focus; one wrong move and his disguise would crumble, and his ichor would explode, destroying everything around him.
It was sort of a gamble, but he had nothing else to do. He also couldn't risk interacting with more residents, as he might 'accidentally' kill them.
Here goes nothing.
The demon shut his eyes tightly and began to gather his ichor at his core. Power swirled and surged from all his ichor channels, flowing forcefully like a waterfall. He could feel the weight of the tax his transformation demanded of his reserves.
It seems I can only be at full power if I completely shed my transformation.
This was something to take note of since he was going to constantly exert himself at the academy.
Tristan held his focus, constantly circulating his ichor around his channels at high speeds. When he felt his control slipping, he abruptly stopped and restarted from scratch. The demon carried out the process so many times that it began to bore him.
He soon switched up the pattern: pulling all the ichor from his channels to his core. The mass of pure, untapped energy pulsated within, akin to a heartbeat. Tristan strained, condensing the orb of ichor even further until it was the size of a tennis ball.
Then he began to spin it.
The orb slowly picked up speed, swirling and condensing even further.
Beads of sweat began to fall, and his breathing slowed. Tristan closed his eyes tightly. The orb shrunk further until it was the size of a golf ball. He then focused on maintaining the speed and form, ensuring none of the ichor leaked to the other channels.
How long has it been? Minutes? Hours? Days?
The demon couldn't tell, but he wasn't worried in the slightest.
That vampire did say he would send for me.
He banished his wandering thoughts, letting himself be absorbed by the process.
Satisfied with his result, the demon finally opened his eyes, slowly letting his ichor expand and flow back to its respective channels. The first rays of sunlight crept through the curtains, bathing the room in a faint golden glow. Tristan glanced toward the window, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Morning already?
At least he had found a better way to pass time besides sleeping.
As if on cue, a knock on the door greeted his ears. Tristan immediately rose to open it. Brandon stood outside, holding a pair of new clothes and shoes.
"Lady Drusilla is expecting you. Don't keep her waiting," he handed the clothes to Tristan and walked away.
With that, he showered and changed before stepping back into the room. The clothes were a snug fit: a white T-shirt, jeans, and some black boots. The demon was curious how Drusilla had managed to get the exact clothing size, something that he was also curious about, but he waved it off.
With one more look at the combat circle, he made his way to Drusilla's room.
"My, Tristan! You look great!" Drusilla grinned, letting him in. "I'm sorry, but you looked homeless when I met you at the entrance. I wonder where you got those hideous clothes from."
I forcefully obtained them from a human detention facility, but you needn't know that, do you?
Tristan noticed Drusilla hadn't changed her attire; she still wore her black satin robe.
"You called for me? I assumed it was time for us to acquire the new clothes you spoke of," Tristan said plainly.
She sat at the edge of the bed.
"First of all, we aren't 'acquiring' anything; we are making purchases. You make it sound like we are taking stuff forcefully."
That wouldn't be such a bad idea, Tristan said inwardly.
"Secondly, I own this place, Tristan. If every time I needed something I stepped out, I would have been assassinated much earlier. Brandon's getting the clothes I requested."
Drusilla gestured for him to sit beside her, which he declined.
"I always have to be vigilant; I'm here for business, not relaxation," Tristan said blankly.
Drusilla pinched the bridge of her nose.
This guy and his obsession with work.
"Tristan, you do realise you aren't the first line of defence, right? Unless you wanna stand in a corner for thirty minutes, I suggest you take a seat," she sighed.
Tristan glared at her but sat down anyway.
"My God, I need to teach you everything," she muttered, suddenly getting up.
She stood in front of him, the hem of her robe slightly touching him. Tristan's eyes flared, burning with power.
"What is this? Step back!" he growled.
She took a few steps away from him, slapping her forehead.
"Tristan, I know I've already asked you for so much, but I have one more request: could you PLEASE calm the fuck down?"
The demon just stared at her, eyes still burning as red as miniature suns.
"I know you're the mayor of Frown Town. That I can tolerate. But I can't have you suddenly freaking out and becoming hostile, especially if you're going to the Ascendants!" she explained.
"I didn't permit you to be that close to me. So why would you suddenly approach me in that manner?" Tristan growled, showing fangs.
Drusilla pressed her fingers to her thumb, snapping them open and shut like a beak, mocking him.
This mortal.
Tristan clenched his fist, mildly ruffling the sheets.
"I get it; you can't trust anything or anyone. My own family has members in it out to kill me as well; I understand your view on life. But at some point, you have to put your trust in something. Even if that isn't me, trust our agreement. Trust that I won't violate it since I stand to gain absolutely nothing from doing so."
She slowly approached Tristan.
The demon's eyes lost their vibrancy as he relaxed.
"The only thing I will ever trust is my instincts," Tristan said.
"Well, someone did tell me I could do as I wished with their appearance, so that's exactly what I plan on doing," she chuckled.
Tristan remembered his words and cursed himself internally.
Lady Drusilla, you're a strange one.
The demon always felt he was at the breaking point with her, but he never lashed out at her.
Maybe because she was brave.
He wondered how she would react if she found out what he really was.
Drusilla was back where she initially was: standing in front of a sitting Tristan, his face close to her stomach. She ran her hands through the red sea of his hair, admiring it.
"You Seraphites get everything. Maybe you're actually God's children," she giggled.
The vampire was so close to Tristan. He was still uncomfortable, but he tried his best to calm his nerves. Her scent wafted into his nostrils: the familiar lingering copper scent all vampires had, mixed with the smell of vanilla and rosewood.
"Since you haven't blasted me across the room, I take it I can finally style your hair?" she asked.
"Just get it over with," he replied.
Drusilla got to work, her hands dancing across his red hair. She pulled it back toward his nape, smoothing the strands as she worked. After securing the hair with a tie, she twisted the length around its base and formed it into a loose bun. She tucked the ends beneath it before adjusting the bun to her liking.
A few strands had fallen loose around his face, but rather than fix them, she deliberately pulled a few more free, letting them frame his features. She stepped back and examined her work.
Tristan was completely oblivious to the change, of course; he felt she was fooling around with his hair. Not like his appearance mattered to him anyway.
"From a distance, you could actually pass off as an approachable person." Drusilla handed him a mirror to admire her work.
Tristan stared blankly into the mirror, completely uninterested in his new look.
"It's... convenient. At least the length of my hair can no longer be exploited during combat," he remarked.
Drusilla shook her head, snatching the mirror from him.
"Of course, you still find a way to make this about survival. Get up," she ordered.
A vein bulged in Tristan's head. He raised an eyebrow at her.
"Don't order me around, little vampire. I don't have to comply with your demands."
Drusilla let out a groan, grabbing her hair.
"Oh Patriarch of the Stars! May you perhaps create a space for a lowly servant like myself?"
Drusilla replied with a bow, snickering to herself.
Tristan smiled and got up.
That's more like it.
Drusilla couldn't contain herself any longer and burst out laughing. The demon just watched her in confusion.
"What seems to be so amusing? Did I say something?" he asked.
"Tristan, maybe you really do need me to be your mentor. I was mocking you!" she cried out in glee.
The demon still hadn't grasped what had happened.
"Mocking me? You referred to me as Patriarch of the Stars," he replied.
"I was being sarcastic! My God, for a Seraphite, you are quite dense. But fear not: Lady Drusilla will guide you through the brave new world of New York," she exclaimed, handing him a glass of apple juice.
Tristan scowled at her.
"I hope you're still being sarcastic," he said.
"Just drink your juice, man," she replied, still giggling to herself.