POV: Koneko
Koneko Toujou was seated in the Occult Research Club, quietly eating a piece of delicious chocolate, when Kiba entered the room and, without a word, handed her his phone.
She glanced up at him, puzzled. It was unlike Kiba to interrupt her so abruptly, especially without explanation. The ever-calm knight rarely showed urgency, let alone anything that resembled unease. But when she saw the seriousness on his face and another emotion she couldn't quite identify, perhaps worry, she chose not to question him and simply took the phone.
If she were honest, among all the members of the Gremory peerage, she found Kiba the easiest to be around. That did not diminish the depth of her devotion for the others in any way, as she would give her life for each of them without hesitation.
She loved Rias deeply, and her gratitude toward her master ran deeper still. Rias had taken her in despite the consequences, despite the inevitable anger it would provoke from another Pillar house. How could Koneko not cherish her? Rias had extended her hand to the sister of a sinner, someone the world would have been content to discard.
She loved Akeno as well, despite how Akeno bottled up her emotions, always pretending to be calm and composed when that couldn't have been further from the truth. Even the shut-in vampire, the anxious Bishop who could barely speak without stuttering, was someone she had come to care for, in her own quiet way.
The peerage of Rias Gremory was a collection of broken people. Each with no one but each other, each carrying their own tragedy and each quietly unhappy in their own way.
Koneko considered herself fortunate in spite of everything. Her master was perhaps the kindest devil she could have hoped to serve, born into a family that treated their servants as something closer to kin, and Rias embodied that kindness more than anyone else.
She did not always understand the depths of her peerage's suffering, nor could she fully grasp the weight of what they had endured. Yet she offered them something none of them had before, a place of safety and the assurance that they would not be cast aside.
Koneko was not one to complain… did not have the right to complain. She had lost that right when the one person she believed would always stay with her, would never abandon her, whom she thought loved her as much as she loved them, had succumbed to madness and left her behind without so much as a backward glance.
Every bit of love, every scrap of affection, from her master was worth far more than the cruelty of her past and the hollow feeling of being unwanted.
All she had to do was be obedient, useful, and be a good little kitten.
That was why her new name did not trouble her, for Koneko, the little kitten, was someone who could be loved, whereas Shirone, the girl she used to be, was someone the world had already discarded.
If she had to abandon her past identity to become someone worthy of love, someone people would never abandon, then so be it. She knew that no one would mourn Shirone. But for Koneko, there were at least four people who would grieve.
She had friends now. Friends who understood her, who neither judged nor abandoned her. Although she could not fully understand why they offered her such acceptance, she cherished it with everything she had.
So when one of the few people who would mourn her placed a phone in her hands with such a grave expression, she felt a quiet anxiety bloom deep within her chest, yet she did not hesitate to look.
On the screen, a video began to play, and what she saw felt like a scene torn from the canvas of a grand, ancient painting. Vast armies stood assembled in a perfect circle, their forms stretching endlessly toward the horizon, while above them the sky churned violently with crimson lightning that split the heavens apart, and the land itself bore the scars of devastation, scorched and shattered as though a catastrophe of unimaginable scale had unfolded there.
Every figure present seemed transfixed, their attention drawn toward the center where several individuals stood, their gazes filled with a reverence so bordered on worship, like apostles witnessing a divine revelation.
No… they were not watching the group gathered in the middle.
They were watching him.
The camera zoomed in, and she saw a beautiful, dark-haired devil clad in tattered armor, armor that did nothing to diminish the sheer splendor of his being. She had seen beings like him before. Entities so attuned to the world, so utterly dominant in their existence, that everything else around them seemed to blur into insignificance.
She had only ever felt that way when standing face-to-face with those considered the pinnacle of devilkind, those who had reached the realm of Ultimate-class and especially when they did nothing to restrain their overwhelming presence. She remembered the suffocating presence of Grayfia Lucifuge, Sirzechs Lucifer, and Serafall Leviathan,
It was not a feeling she had enjoyed.
If she had to describe it, it was like having your will stripped away, like becoming a cherub who is destined to gaze upon perfection for eternity. You could not look away from such beings. To do so would feel like a tragedy, as though you were denying yourself the right to witness something divine. And looking away felt just as unbearable, like the dull, pounding aftermath of a heavy drink.
Koneko watched, utterly bewitched, enthralled as the devil crowned himself amid blood and smoke. So captivated was she that she did not, could not, notice anything else. The countless figures kneeling before him may as well have not existed at all.
She kept watching. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear a voice calling her name, but she ignored it. She did not want to miss even a single second of the figure on her screen.
It would be a tragedy to miss even a moment of this symphony of perfection.
"Koneko-san!"
The sudden touch on her shoulder shattered the trance. The sensation was jarring, like being pulled abruptly from a deep and pleasant dream, leaving her disoriented and breathless.
She looked up to see Kiba watching her, his expression understanding. He, too, knew the overwhelming effect of an Ultimate-Class being who made no effort to restrain his splendor.
"Are you alright?" he asked gently.
"I-I'm… fine," she replied, her voice unsteady as she exhaled a breath she had not realized she had been holding. "Wha-who was that? He seemed… familiar."
"He's the Prince of Sheol, Prince Meruem of House Beleth, the one who returned from exile," Kiba explained, his gaze still searching hers. "Although it would be more accurate to call him a king now. That was his coronation."
"Hmm…" she hummed softly. "But why?"
She didn't elaborate, and she didn't need to. Kiba understood her without requiring a full explanation.
"I showed you because of the person behind him," he said, pointing back at the video.
Only then did it occur to her just how completely she had ignored everything else. The others in the scene had been nothing more than faceless shadows to her. She replayed the video, this time forcing herself to focus, bracing against the pull of that overwhelming presence.
The first person she noticed was a beautiful woman who looked like a female reflection of the crowned devil. She knelt before him, holding out her hands as though she had just presented the crown, her posture reverent.
Two young men stood nearby, one with golden hair and one with black, both appearing close in age to her master, and she recognized them as Prince Belathriel and Hermon. Beside them stood two women, one with silver hair and the other with a blend of gold and silver, whom she identified as Princess Athaliah and Princess Herodias.
Behind the royal siblings knelt a silver-haired girl clad in armor reminiscent of a valkyrie from the stories she had read. Beside her stood a delicate-looking girl with wheat-blonde hair.
Koneko narrowed her eyes slightly, trying to focus on the figure beside the blond girl. The camera angle made it difficult, the image partially obscured by movement and distance. She waited, her grip on the phone tightening unconsciously.
Then the camera shifted. And she saw her.
Koneko froze.
Her blood ran cold, her breath caught in her throat, and her vision narrowed as a single impossible truth forced its way into her mind. There she was, a face she had never imagined she would ever see again.
How could this be?
Her thoughts spiraled wildly as disbelief clawed at her, her mind rejecting what her eyes clearly saw, insisting that it had to be an illusion, a fabrication, something unreal, because there was no possible way her sister could be standing there, unharmed, surrounded by devils.
How else could her sister - who should have been hunted down and executed the moment any devil laid eyes on her- be standing there, completely unharmed, surrounded by an army of devils?
It was impossible. Utterly impossible.
Her sister was a criminal of the highest order. An SS-rank threat, a classification reserved for the most dangerous stray devils and wildest of the demonic beasts. She had murdered their former master, a devil of the Pillar House of Naberius.
The nobility of the Underworld ruled over the low-class devils with an authority far exceeding any human feudal hierarchy. Where mortal kings relied on titles, social custom and on the perception of legitimacy to command respect, the devilish nobility required nothing of the sort. Their power demanded obedience, needed no other legitimacy other than that.
Low-class devils were born to serve, to obey, and to fear; their lives were expendable, their opinions irrelevant. To question, challenge, or even glance at a noble with the wrong intent was a good way to buy a ticket to your funeral.
In hell, power was the only law, and only the powerful held sway. Those who attained nobility did so because they were strong, so strong that the weak could do nothing but bow or perish. The weak remained lowly devils, shadows in a world ruled by fire and blood, while the mighty ascended to reign without question.
The Pillar Houses stood even above that. Chosen and blessed personally by the Morningstar, they were revered as prophets, as living embodiments of Hell's will. Therefore to strike, threaten, or even breathe disrespect toward a member of a Pillar House was to commit blasphemy itself and such blasphemy invited a fate far worse than death.
And her sister had killed a member of House Naberius.
It was a cardinal sin in the eyes of devil society. A servant daring to strike down their master, such an act defied the very order of their world.
That was why Koneko could not comprehend what she was seeing.
There was no possible way her sister could be standing among legions of devils… without being immediately executed for her crime.
"K-k… Kuroka-nee-sama," she whispered, her voice trembling as though each syllable had to fight its way past a tightening throat, her mind refusing to assemble the fragments of what she was seeing into anything that made sense.
A hand rested on her shoulder, firm and grounding, an anchor cast into a sea that threatened to pull her under, and she clung to that touch without realizing she was doing so, as if the simple weight of it could keep her from dissolving into the storm raging behind her eyes.
She had imagined this moment before, in quiet and fragile daydreams, yet never like this, never with her chest tightening and her breath shortening, never with the sight of her sister, alive and radiant and impossibly real, striking her like a punch to the gut.
~Because I'm your older sister, silly~
The voice echoed through her memory with a bright, teasing warmth, threaded with that familiar laughter that always seemed to hover just at the edge of every word, as if the world itself amused her.
Images rushed forward without permission, vivid and merciless.
She saw a younger version of herself, small and thin, curled beneath a ragged blanket while Kuroka sat beside her, gently brushing tangled hair from her face, her golden eyes soft with a quiet determination that promised safety even when there was none to be found.
She remembered the nights when hunger gnawed at them both, when Kuroka would press what little food they had into her hands and insist she had already eaten, smiling as she did so. Koneko had been too young to question.
~Nya, your onee-sama is strong, you know, and she will always protect you, no matter what happens.~
The warmth of those memories shattered without warning.
Rain hammered against the ground in a relentless rhythm, turning the earth into a slick, crimson-streaked mire, and the air was thick with the metallic scent of blood that clung to her lungs with every breath.
Bodies lay scattered in grotesque disarray, limbs torn apart and strewn across the ground as though discarded by something that did not understand the shape of a human being, and Koneko stood frozen at the edge of it all, her small hands trembling at her sides as her mind struggled to understand what her eyes refused to deny.
Kuroka stood at the center of that nightmare, her figure drenched in red, her golden eyes gleaming with something wild and unrecognizable, something that twisted the image of the sister Koneko knew into something monstrous.
"Stay back," Kuroka had said, her voice low and sharp, carrying a warning that cut deeper than any blade, and yet beneath it there had been a tremor, a fracture that Koneko had not understood at the time.
"Why… why are they…?" Koneko had tried to speak, but the words broke apart as she stared at the bodies, at the way the rain washed over them, as if trying to erase what had happened and failing. Koneko stood there unable to reconcile the sister she loved with the monster before her eyes.
Kuroka's expression had flickered, just for a moment, and in that fleeting instant Koneko had seen it, the grief, the fear, the unbearable weight pressing down on her sister's shoulders.
And then… the tears. Golden eyes, wet and trembling, as her sister had left her alone in the lab.
Why was she crying that day? Why leave me behind?
"You shouldn't be here," Kuroka had whispered, her voice suddenly fragile, her eyes glistening with unshed tears that caught the dim light. "You must never become like me."
And then she had turned away.
Koneko remembered reaching out, her hand trembling as she tried to grasp the hem of her sister's sleeve, only for it to slip through her fingers as Kuroka stepped back into the rain, into the chaos, into the darkness that seemed to swallow her whole.
"Wait… nee-sama, please… don't leave me…"
The memory twisted again.
Cold stone floors stretched endlessly beneath her bare feet, and towering figures loomed above her, their gazes sharp and merciless as they looked down upon her like judges passing sentence upon something already condemned.
Voices echoed through the chamber, overlapping and suffocating.
"...A stray…"
"...A potential threat…."
"....Connected to the perpetrator…"
Koneko stood alone at the center, her small frame dwarfed by the enormity of the tribunal, her heart pounding so violently it felt as though it might tear itself apart.
"It wasn't me," she had said, her voice shaking, her hands clenched tightly at her sides as if she could hold herself together through sheer force. "It wasn't me. I didn't do anything."
The murmurs did not stop.
"I'm a good kitten," she had insisted, the words spilling out faster, more desperate, as tears blurred her vision. "I will never hurt anyone. I promise. I will be good. Please… I will be a good kitten…"
"Koneko!"
The present snapped back into place with a jolt.
Kiba's voice cut through the haze, steady and urgent, pulling her back from the depths where those memories clawed at her.
"Take a deep breath," he said, his hand tightening slightly on her shoulder. "You're having a panic attack."
Her body shook uncontrollably, like a fragile branch caught in a violent storm, and she barely registered the words leaving her mouth as they repeated over and over, a broken mantra carved from fear and desperation.
"It wasn't me. It wasn't me. I'm a good kitten. I will never do harm. I will be a good kitten. Please… I will be a good kitten…"
Warmth enveloped her suddenly, strong and unwavering, and for a moment it felt like being pulled from deep, suffocating water into air that she could finally breathe.
Kiba's arms were wrapped around her, firm and protective, holding her as though he could shield her from the memories themselves.
They remained like that, time stretching and softening, until her breathing slowed and the trembling began to subside, the storm within her gradually losing its strength.
When she finally pulled back, her gaze dropped to her hands, now empty, and a faint realization surfaced through the lingering fog.
I must have dropped the phone, she thought.
"I'm fine, Kiba-san," she said softly, her voice steadier now, though a trace of fragility still lingered beneath it. "I'm fine now. I'm sorry about your phone."
"Don't worry about it, silly," he replied gently, holding the device out toward her. "It's not broken."
She hesitated for a brief moment before reaching out. "May I?"
He placed it in her hand without question.
This time, when she looked at the screen, the image of her sister did not send her spiraling, though her chest still tightened as she studied it closely, her eyes searching for something familiar within the figure that felt both known and impossibly distant.
"How?" she asked quietly.
"We don't know yet," Kiba answered. "We think she might be serving under King Meruem, though we cannot confirm that. He has not said anything since his coronation."
Koneko nodded slowly, her gaze never leaving the screen, her thoughts circling around the same question that refused to settle.
Nee-sama… what are you doing?
...
POV: Sirzechs
"Well, he certainly has a style." Flabium Asmodeus yawned as he delivered his assessment. On the large screen, a young boy crowned himself amidst the gathered Lords of Hell.
Nothing ever impressed the indolent Satan, and it seemed the prospect of a seventeen-year-old devil reaching the realm of an Ultimate-Class stirred no particular interest in him. Sirzechs suppressed a sigh at his old friend and colleague's attitude.
Would it truly pain him to treat the situation with the gravity it deserved? he wondered. He turned his gaze toward the other occupants of the spacious oval chamber, searching for a more serious reaction.
There sat the companions of his youth, those who had stood with him through thick and thin, now seated as his equals and confidants. Unfortunately, seriousness had never been their defining trait. Serafall was typing furiously on her phone, no doubt locked in yet another spirited argument with strangers online about this or that, as she often was when left idle.
"..and ANOTHER thing," she muttered, typing furiously. "If pineapple belongs on pizza then so does–no, that's ridiculous–"
Sirzechs decided to ignore that for the sake of his sanity.
His other friend, and the one Sirzechs considered his closest, Ajuka Beelzebub, appeared to be staring into empty space. In truth, Sirzechs knew better. Ajuka was almost certainly absorbed in some complex equation of some form or another. At the very least, Sirzechs was confident that his attention was nowhere near the video they had just watched. Ajuka had never been particularly invested in the affairs of others.
Sirzechs exhaled softly, already aware that meaningful input would not be forthcoming. When none of them responded, he allowed himself a more audible sigh. Seeing it did not gain their attention, he sighed louder again.
"Yes, drowning devil lords in holy water was particularly inspired," Serafall said with an enthusiastic nod, her eyes never leaving her phone. "Very avant-garde. I say we should make it a standard torture method. There are plenty of people I'd like to try it on. Think about it, Zechs-chan. All those insufferable nobles who think their breath doesn't stink, burning and screaming☆."
Sirzechs felt a flicker of unease at the delight on her face as her imagination wandered. Even so, he knew Serafall would never act on such thoughts. She was far too kind-hearted.
"No, Sera, we're not torturing people we dislike with holy water," he replied, rubbing his temple.
"But we can use other methods?" Serafall asked eagerly.
"No." He shook his head firmly. "No torturing anyone simply because they are annoying."
"But what if they're really, really annoying… and ugly?" Serafall pressed.
"Not even then," Sirzechs said, more emphatically this time. "And being ugly is not a sin."
Serafall puffed out her cheeks, her expression one of exaggerated disappointment. "You've changed, Zechs-chan. You used to be fun. Now look at you. Grayfia has you completely whipped."
Sirzechs exhaled slowly, long accustomed to her theatrics, and chose not to dignify that with a response. Instead, he refocused, his gaze returning to the screen where Meruem's image stood still.
"Setting that aside… what do we do about him?" he asked.
"We?" Falbium echoed, one brow lifting in mild amusement. "I wasn't aware you had taken to borrowing French words. Last time I checked, you are the Satan of Domestic Affairs. Handling matters like this falls squarely within your jurisdiction.
Sirzechs fell into a brief, silent brood, his gaze lowering slightly as he muttered under his breath about the particular cruelty of long-standing friendships and their inconvenient refusal to be useful when needed.
"How fortunate," he muttered under his breath, dry as dust, "to be surrounded by such steadfast friends."
Falbium was, as always, correct, and Sirzechs was not inclined to deny it. Yet if he has to suffer, then he would not do it alone. That was precisely why he had called for a meeting with the other Satans.
Strictly speaking, the situation did not entirely fall within his domain either.
The title of Satan was often misunderstood, even among devils themselves. It was not kingship in the traditional sense, nor did it grant absolute sovereignty over every corner of the Underworld.
The Satans of the old era had ruled the Underworld in its entirety with an ironfist that allowed for no division, no negotiation, and no resistance. There had been no distinction between governance and command, because all power had flowed from a single source.
Even the great pillar Houses, those that would later come to define the political landscape of devilkind, had held no true sovereignty in that age. They had existed as extensions of the Satans' will, elevated above lesser devils in status and responsibility, yet ultimately no different from any other subordinate. Their authority had been granted, and it could be revoked just as easily. They governed only insofar as they were permitted to govern, and every decision they made remained subject to the approval or whim of their rulers.
It was a system that crushed dissent before it could take form. Individual will, ambition, and even caution were all secondary to obedience. No devil, regardless of rank or lineage, had possessed the right to refuse.
It was this structure that made the Great War even possible to begin with.
When the original Lucifer declared war against Heaven, there had been no councils to deliberate, no Houses to object, and no factions to resist. The command had descended from above, and it had been followed without question. Every devil had marched to war because there had been no alternative. Preference, doubt, and self-preservation had been irrelevant in the face of absolute rule.
When Sirzechs Lucifer and his allies emerged victorious from the civil war, they dismantled that system. Limited the power of a Satan.
Power was no longer allowed to gather entirely in the hands of a single ruler or even a small group. Instead, authority was divided, distributed across distinct bodies that each held responsibility over different aspects of governance. This separation ensured that no individual could unilaterally drag the entire Underworld into disaster, as had happened in the past.
At the same time, the Pillar Houses were granted a degree of autonomy that would have been unthinkable under the old regime. Their territories became truly their own, not merely lands administered on behalf of a higher authority. Within their domains, they were sovereign, free to establish their own systems of rule, enforce their own laws, and pursue their own ambitions without direct interference.
Sirzechs, in his role as Satan, did not govern these territories in the traditional sense. His authority did not extend into the internal affairs of any single House. He could not dictate how a Pillar ruled its lands, nor could he impose his will upon their internal structures simply because he possessed the power to do so.
His domain lay in the inter-house relation.
His role was one of enforcement and equilibrium. The Satans stood as the final arbiters when conflicts threatened to spiral beyond control, when ambition and rivalry between the great Houses risked igniting wars that could engulf the entire Underworld, that was when his intervention became both justified and necessary.
Their authority allowed them to intervene, to impose decisions that no single Pillar could defy without consequence. However, that authority was not something to be exercised lightly.
In this way, the system ensured balance. So that no mad tyrant may force our race to an eternal war for his wounded pride again, thought Sirzechs.
No House could dominate another without consequence, yet no Satan could dominate all Houses without restraint.
"A seventeen year old has somehow reached the realm of the ultimate class," he said, his voice carrying a weight that silenced the room. "An ultimate-class at seventeen."
"So we've established," Serafall replied lightly. "He's another one of your ilk, a super devil in the making. Though I fail to see how that concerns us. So far, he has done nothing beyond defending his claim to the throne. He poses no threat to us or to the stability of the underworld."
Her reasoning was sound, and Sirzechs understood that. Even so, there was a persistent unease that he could not dismiss. It settled quietly in his chest, a sense of anticipation that something significant was approaching.
He had lived long enough to recognize that instinct and to trust it. Whenever that feeling had surfaced in the past, it had never been without cause. And for reasons he could not fully articulate, that boy stood at the center of it.
"Not even Sirzechs or Ajuka reached Ultimate-Class at such an age," Falbium added, his voice shedding its usual languor. "They were both well into their late twenties when they crossed that threshold, as I recall. It is unusual, and perhaps even suspicious, that he has advanced so quickly. At the same time, unusual does not automatically mean dangerous."
"Meruem was always exceptionally talented," Serafall said, more thoughtful now. "And let's be honest, Sirzechs and Ajuka never truly pushed themselves in that regard. They didn't need to. Their strength came naturally. Meruem, on the other hand, is said to be relentless. A complete training maniac, if the rumors are to be believed. Give someone that level of innate potential and pair it with that kind of discipline… it's hardly unthinkable that he would advance at an abnormal pace."
"I met the boy once, when he was still young," Falbium continued, his gaze distant as he recalled the memory. "His mother approached me with a request. She wished for me to take him as a student because he had expressed a desire to learn the art of war, and the queen would settle for nothing less than the finest tutor. I declined, of course. However, I did speak with him briefly. He was sharp, and unusually perceptive for his age. Even so, I can say with certainty that he did not possess the overwhelming presence that Sirzechs or Ajuka displayed even in their youth."
"It may also be worth noting," Ajuka said, speaking for the first time, his gaze still distant, "that both Sirzechs and I were born with high-class demonic energy reserves. Meruem was not. By all measurable standards, his reserves were ordinary. Aside from his notable talent and work ethic, there was nothing inherently exceptional about him. His current level of power defies all logic."
That aligned with Sirzechs' own conclusion.
"Ultimate-Class devils simply don't fall from the sky," he said. "...especially not at that age. Something about this is… deeply wrong. Which is precisely why we must take this seriously "
Serafall raised a hand slightly. "Counterpoint. What if we don't?"
"It is, admittedly, a compelling argument," Falbium said with a faint chuckle.
"We could ignore it," Sirzechs conceded. "At present, he has shown no intention of threatening the Underworld. But do you truly believe that someone bold enough to crown himself in such a manner will remain passive?"
"And what exactly do you propose we do?" Serafall asked, a playful note returning to her voice. "Arrest him for a crime he hasn't yet committed? I still don't understand why you're so concerned about him."
That was the crux of the matter. Why was he, the strongest devil, unsettled by a single boy?
In truth, Sirzechs did not have a clear answer.
Was it because Meruem embodied everything Sirzechs had spent centuries trying to move beyond?
Perhaps, he saw an echo. An echo of everything that had once defined devilkind. The barbarity. The needless cruelty. The way suffering was elevated into spectacle, into art. It was all so… archaic.
A relic of an older age, steeped in the darkest traditions of their kind. That past had been built on domination and excess, on the idea that power justified all things, and that the strong existed to impose their will without restraint. Sirzechs had hoped, perhaps naively, that such tendencies were fading into irrelevance.
Changing the nature of devils had never been simple. It was like attempting to redirect a river that had carved its path over millennia. And yet, progress had been made. Slow, incremental, but progress nonetheless. Over the past five centuries, something had begun to shift.
It showed most clearly in the younger generation. Devils such as Rias, Sona, and Sairaorg led their peerages in a manner that would have once been considered absurd. They treated their servants as companions, as comrades, even as family. Bonds were formed through trust rather than coercion, and strength was no longer the sole measure of worth.
What had once been an exception was gradually becoming the norm.
And yet…
That image of Meruem's ascension, crowned in blood and screams, felt like a fracture line running through all of it. A threat to everything Sirzechs had tried to build.
What unsettled him further was the reaction. On the Devi-Net, the response had been disturbingly enthusiastic. Many devils praised him openly, celebrating his actions with a fervor that bordered on nostalgia.
'Finally,' they said, 'a proper devil.'
"You remember Zarqel of House Beelzebub, don't you?" Sirzechs said, his thoughts drifting back to one of their most dangerous adversaries during the last civil war. "At the battle of shattered wings. The one where you and Grayfia fought for ten days and ten nights."
"How could I forget?" Serafall smiled, a trace of nostalgia softening her expression. "I remember the moment you intervened and forced our battle to end, only for all of us to be surrounded by the army of Damaidosu Zereikel Asmodeus… and the battle that followed. What a battle that was! My forces and yours together against the heir of Asmodeus and his legions. I remember the sky itself trembling under the weight of that clash, and then…" Her expression shifted slightly as realization dawned. "Ah."
As realization dawned on her, Sirzechs allowed himself a faint smile.
"You remember the creature that appeared shortly after," he continued. "The fly chimera that began attacking indiscriminately, striking both sides without distinction. At the time, none of us understood what we were facing. It was only later that we learned it had once been Zarqel himself. He had gained an enormous increase in power in an absurdly short span of time, only to lose all sense of self and transform into something monstrous. I remember thinking, even then, how profoundly unnatural that kind of growth was."
"I see… so that's what you're getting at," Serafall said quietly, her tone shifting as understanding settled in. The others, too, showed signs of recognition. "You think Meruem's sudden rise might be something similar?"
"To this day, we don't know what truly caused Zarqel's transformation," Sirzechs replied calmly. "We reached several conclusions, none of which could be confirmed. There was speculation that House Nabiros had some degree of involvement through their research and experimentation. If that assumption held any truth, then what we are witnessing now may be a refined version of that same principle. A method to elevate power rapidly without the loss of control that Zarqel suffered."
"That is a possibility," Ajuka Beelzebub said evenly. "However, I believe you may be allowing that past incident to influence your judgment too strongly. Even if House Naberius had achieved such a breakthrough, there would be no logical reason for them to entrust it to Meruem. From their perspective, House Beleth would be considered unreliable at best and traitorous at worst."
"I'm aware there are gaps in my reasoning," Sirzechs admitted without hesitation. "But the fact remains, Meruem's growth defies all known precedent. And then there are the rings of power…"
Now Serafall's attention sharpened instantly. "Now that's something I find fascinating," she said, her voice bright with curiosity. "How does a seventeen-year-old create artifacts of that caliber?"
"I have not yet had the opportunity to examine them directly," Ajuka said, a rare hint of interest entering his tone. "However, from all available accounts, they are extraordinarily sophisticated. Their construction suggests mastery across multiple advanced disciplines of magic. I find it highly unlikely that Meruem himself created them, despite his claims. The level of knowledge required far exceeds what someone his age should possess. Unless…"
"Unless someone else created them and is supplying him from the shadows," Serafall finished. "Or he discovered a method left behind by someone else. My bet is the latter. Perhaps something hidden within the inheritance sites of the previous Satans. He has always been obsessed with uncovering those, hasn't he?"
"That possibility raises even more questions," Sirzechs muttered.
"Naturally," Falbium said with a small shrug. "But those are questions for another time. What does Lord Bael say? Anything regarding how his sister attempted to seize a sovereign pillar house… and died in the process?"
"They've issued an official statement," Sirzechs replied dryly. "Dimora acted independently and had been exiled from House Bael prior to her actions. Therefore, her rebellion does not reflect the will of House Bael in any capacity. Lord Bael even went so far as to congratulate Meruem for eliminating a traitor and securing his throne."
Serafall let out a rich laugh. "Of course he did. If she had succeeded, the narrative would be very different."
"How predictable," Ajuka said, unimpressed. "And ultimately irrelevant. I doubt Meruem will accept such a convenient explanation. You said it yourself, Sirzechs. He will not remain idle. House Beleth has always been defined by its pride."
"…Just my luck," Sirzechs said under his breath. "All of this, and whatever chaos these artifacts bring, falls under my jurisdiction."
"Aww, don't be like that☆," Serafall said with a grin. "I know you're secretly excited. You thrive on this sort of thing. Besides, things are becoming interesting. Whatever else can be said about Meruem, he's certainly not boring ☆☆☆."
"Interesting for you," Sirzechs replied flatly. "For me, it means more paperwork."
"Don't brood, Zechs-chan. Magical Girl Levi-tan is here to improve your mood ☆," Serafall declared brightly. "Now, let me tell you what Yasaka mentioned last week. Apparently, there's a cult rising in the Far East…"
POV: Jahibath
The man I loved is dead. Killed by my father… and by my own treachery.
Why did I do it?
Jahibath asked herself, though the question brought her no comfort. She searched for an answer that could ease the weight pressing against her chest, yet none came.
Regret lingered in every thought, heavy and suffocating. She wished she could return to that moment and refuse him. She wished she had never listened when her father first spoke of serving the demonesses of ruin. Yet wishes held no power over what had already been done.
The demoness had been named well. Ruin was all that remained in her wake.
She had been only fifteen when she was sent away to be wed, offered as a bride to King Andrameleth, a ruler who had already lived for centuries. She had known nothing of him beyond the whispers carried through court and rumor.
In the quiet hours before the journey, her thoughts had been filled with dread. She had imagined a man who would take pleasure in cruelty, a lord who would see his young bride as nothing more than a possession to be broken.
She had feared a husband who would delight in humiliation, who would parade her before his court only to remind her of her place. She had feared a tyrant who would demand obedience without offering even the smallest measure of kindness, a man who would treat her body as a tool for his desires and discard her once he grew bored.
She had prepared herself for a life of fear, of silent endurance, of suffering that could not be escaped.
She had expected many things, most of them terrible.
She had never expected to love him.
Andrameleth had been a solemn man, burdened by a quiet sense of unworthiness that he never fully concealed. It should have been my brother upon that throne, he would say, his voice heavy with a guilt that never seemed to fade.
Yet for all his faults, he had been gentle with her.
On the night of their union, when fear had threatened to overwhelm her, he had not rushed her or demanded anything she could not give. He had spoken softly, calming her, guiding her through her own anxiety with patience she had not expected to find in a king known so prideful. He had treated her as though her comfort mattered, as though she were something more than a political offering.
She had been his sixth queen, the least remarkable among women of far greater pedigree. Her sister-wives were daughters of powerful houses, each one more beautiful, more accomplished, more formidable than she could ever hope to be. Jahibath possessed no great magical talent, had not even reached the realm of High-Class despite nearing her one hundred and twentieth year, and her wit, while serviceable, could not compare to the brilliance of Queen Morena, whose intellect was as sharp as it was merciless.
Morena had made it clear from the beginning that Jahibath was unwelcome.
Every slight had been deliberately staged to break her. Every word had been chosen to undermine her. Morena's influence grew steadily within the court, and with it came a constant pressure that threatened to crush Jahibath beneath it.
Jahibath resisted as best she could. She refused to become another piece to be moved at Morena's whim. She answered schemes with her own, fought for what little ground she could hold, and endured what she could not overcome. She refused to yield, even when it would have been easier to do so.
Yet despite everything she lacked, despite the constant tension and quiet hostility that surrounded her, her husband never treated her as lesser.
He had shown her no less favor, no less kindness. For reasons she never fully understood, he had grown fond of her. Perhaps it was because, in her presence, he found no schemes, no manipulation, no veiled ambition. She had wanted nothing from him beyond his company, those quiet moments where the burdens of rule seemed to loosen their hold on him, if only slightly.
Morena saw that, and she had extinguished it.
Jahibath endured in silence. She chose not to burden the king with her struggles, believing that time would secure her place. She believed that if she gave him a child, a healthy son, then her position would become unassailable. She believed that love, once strengthened by such a bond, would protect her from the hostility that surrounded her.
But this was Hell, and hope was a fragile thing.
No child came.
Months turned to years, and years stretched into decades, while her co-wives bore children in quick succession, their triumphs sharpening the quiet dread that grew within her. Jahibath began to fear that she was barren, that her failure would leave her exposed, vulnerable to Morena's cruelty without even the shield of maternal status to protect her. She began to wonder if something within her was broken, if she had been denied even that one chance to secure her place.
When Morena bore a child before her, that fear became certainty.
Jahibath understood then what awaited her. Morena's position had been solidified, and with it came the certainty that her cruelty would no longer be restrained. Whatever torment Jahibath had endured until now would only deepen, sharpened by the knowledge that she had failed where it mattered most.
It was in that moment of weakness that her father found her.
He spoke to her quietly, filling her thoughts with carefully chosen words that fed her fear and twisted it into something else. He spoke of survival, of necessity, of the reality of the world they lived in. He spoke of treason and she listened.
She allowed him to guide her, to shape her doubts into agreement. When he revealed his plan to support Dimora Bael, she did not resist. She accepted it with the quiet resignation of someone who no longer believed she had another path.
An ultimate class on one side and a mere boy on the other, her father had said. The outcome is obvious. House Urieus will stand with the victor and secure its place in history.
She had believed him.
Now he is dead.
Every member of their House had been burned away, reduced to nothing by the one her father had dismissed so easily. The boy had not fallen. He had risen, and in doing so, he had destroyed them all.
Jahibath was the last of House Urieus.
And there was no one left to blame but herself.
She thought of her husband again, of that quiet, melancholic smile that had never quite reached his eyes. There had always been a sadness in him, something deep and enduring that no crown could hide.
She remembered how she used to watch him in silence, studying that sorrow as though it were something precious, something fragile that only she had been allowed to witness. There had been times when she convinced herself that she could take it away, that if she remained by his side long enough she could ease that burden he carried.
And yet she had conspired to kill him.
The thought hollowed her from within. Ever since her betrayal, she could feel the absence he had left behind, a quiet emptiness that no amount of distance or denial could fill. When she had looked into his eyes, she had seen something vast and endless, like a sky that promised both warmth and shelter. There had been comfort in his presence, a safety that she had never known before him. All of that was gone now, torn away by her own hand.
His throne was no longer his. In his place sat a new king, younger, colder, and far less forgiving. A king who demanded her head served on a plate.
The moment she had learned of Dimora's death and the events that followed, she had not hesitated. She had fled. She understood immediately what would happen to those who had taken part in the betrayal. With Morena guiding the aftermath, there would be no mercy, no leniency, no chance for redemption.
She had gathered her peerage and those few who still remained loyal to her, and she had escaped to the human world. Germany had been their refuge, Hamburg their temporary shelter. She had taken every precaution she could think of, changing teleportation routes, abandoning safe paths, moving constantly to erase any trace that could lead back to her. She had accepted that this would be her life from now on, an existence defined by flight and fear.
It was not the future she had once imagined.
She returned from her morning walk, the cool air still clinging faintly to her skin as she stepped into the luxurious hotel suite. The quiet routine had been one of the few comforts she allowed herself.
She used to walk like that with her husband, in those rare moments when duty loosened its hold on him. Those memories lingered, soft and distant, like fragments of a life that no longer belonged to her.
She closed the door behind her and stepped further inside.
Then she stopped.
The world seemed to fall into a suffocating silence as her gaze settled on the living room.
They were all there.
Her servants sat in their chairs exactly as she had left them, arranged in stillness that felt unnatural. For a single, fragile moment, her mind refused to understand what she was seeing. Then the details began to emerge, one by one, and her breath caught in her throat.
They were not moving.
Their bodies had stiffened into grotesque imitations of life, their heads tilted at unnatural angles, their limbs slack and lifeless. Their skin had taken on a pallid hue, stretched thin and waxen. From their eyes, from their ears, from their noses and parted lips, things crawled.
Maggots writhed in pale clusters, spilling outward in slow, nauseating waves. Beetles burrowed into flesh that no longer resisted them, disappearing beneath the surface before emerging again slick with decay. Thin, black insects poured from hollow sockets, their legs clicking softly as they spread across the room. The faint, wet sound of movement filled the air, a constant, crawling whisper that seemed to press against her ears.
The faint scent of rot hung beneath the sterile perfume of the room, cloying and revolting.
Her stomach twisted violently as the truth settled in.
They're all dead, she realized, though the words felt distant, as though they belonged to someone else. Her heart began to pound, each beat loud and frantic, drowning out all reason.
She is here! Oh Lucifer, no, she's here. She has found me.
A cold terror wrapped itself around her spine, tightening with every passing second.
I must run. As far away from here as possible.
She turned and fled, her movements frantic, uncoordinated, driven by raw instinct. She did not stop to think, did not look back, did not allow herself even a moment of hesitation. She ran through streets, through alleys, through the edges of the city until Hamburg blurred into distance behind her.
She kept running.
She ran until her lungs burned and her legs trembled beneath her. She ran until the world around her became unfamiliar, the ordered streets replaced by empty stretches of land and silent roads. Time lost meaning as exhaustion crept in, slow and inevitable.
At some point, she saw it.
An abandoned industrial building stood alone in the distance, its structure broken and hollow, a relic left behind and forgotten. It rose from the landscape like a corpse, silent and waiting.
I must have run for hours, she thought dimly. I need to rest. Just for a moment.
She approached the building cautiously, her steps faltering as fatigue weighed heavily upon her. Her mind drifted back to the scene she had left behind, to the sight of her loyal servants reduced to something unrecognizable.
How did she find us? she wondered, dread coiling tighter with every step. We covered our trail so carefully. Why… why does it always end like this?
She was alone now. Truly alone.
A sound broke the silence.
It was soft at first, barely noticeable, like the faint rustle of something shifting just out of sight. Then it grew, multiplying, layering upon itself until it became impossible to ignore.
She froze and turned slowly.
The warehouse loomed before her, its dark interior stretching wide and empty. Within that darkness, something moved.
Insects.
At first there were only a few, crawling along the edges of the broken walls, slipping through cracks and shattered glass. Then more followed, and more still, until the space began to fill. They poured in from every opening, from windows and doorways, from the ground itself as though the earth had split open to release them. Their movement was steady, purposeful, a tide that advanced without hesitation.
They were not ordinary creatures.
She felt it instinctively.
Then came the sound of scratching.
Rodents emerged next, thin bodies slipping through the same openings, their eyes glinting in the dim light. Rats and mice gathered in numbers that defied reason, their forms pressing together as they spread outward, surrounding her completely. Their small claws scraped against the floor, creating a chorus of dry, grating noise that echoed through the hollow space.
They moved as one.
Some of them began to climb over each other, their bodies twisting and merging into a single, grotesque shape. Flesh pressed against flesh, tails intertwining, until the mass rose upward, forming the outline of something disturbingly human.
Jahibath's breath hitched.
From within that writhing form, a figure emerged.
The rodents fell away in clumps, scattering across the ground as though they had never been more than a vessel. In their place stood a woman of striking beauty, her presence overwhelming in a way that carried both elegance and terror. Her hair was dark as midnight, cascading smoothly over her shoulders, and her eyes shone with a deep, regal purple that held a cold and merciless intelligence.
She was adorned in exquisite jewelry, each piece crafted with meticulous care. Rings glimmered upon her fingers, bracelets encircled her wrists, and a necklace of fine design rested against her collarbone. Upon her head sat a delicate tiara, its intricate structure catching what little light remained and reflecting it in faint, cruel brilliance.
"An abandoned warehouse, in the middle of nowhere," Queen Morena said, her voice soft and composed, carrying a quiet satisfaction. "A rather fitting place for your end, would you not agree, my lady?"
Jahibath understood at that moment that there would be no escape.
There had never been any escape.
Morena's domain extended far beyond sight. She was the mistress of plague, of vermin, of all the small and overlooked creatures that existed in every corner of the world. Through them, she saw everything. Through them, she followed.
It had been foolish to believe she could hide.
"Did you truly think you would find peace after what you have done?" Morena continued, her gaze unwavering. "You conspired against my son. You played a part in the death of my husband. If you must blame someone, then blame yourself. You chose this path knowing where it would lead."
Jahibath remained silent. There was nothing she could say that would change what was to come.
"You always claimed to love him," Morena said, her tone sharpening slightly. "You convinced yourself it made you special. Yet when the moment came, you betrayed him all the same. That is the value of your love."
A flicker of anger stirred within Jahibath. "You understand nothing," she replied, her voice quiet, weighed down by something deeper than defiance.
"Perhaps," Morena said with a small, dismissive motion. "It changes nothing. I remain the queen, and you stand before me as nothing more than a beggar. My son will lead our House into a future greater than anything that came before. It's my duty as his mother to clean up the rif-raffs left in his wake."
The creatures moved.
They surged forward all at once, a living tide of chitin and fur that crashed against her. Teeth sank into her flesh with brutal force, tearing away pieces of her as though she were nothing more than carrion. Pain erupted instantly, overwhelming and absolute, spreading through her body in waves that left no room for thought.
Rats latched onto her limbs, their jaws strong enough to rip through muscle and bone. Insects swarmed over her skin, crawling into every opening, burrowing beneath the surface, devouring from within. She felt them in her mouth, in her throat, forcing their way deeper as her scream was swallowed and replaced by a choking flood of movement.
Her body failed her.
Piece by piece, it was stripped away.
The world dissolved into agony, into sensation so intense that it eclipsed everything else. She could no longer move, no longer see clearly, no longer form coherent thought. There was only the relentless consumption, the certainty that nothing of her would remain.
At the very end, as she lay upon the cold ground, her awareness fading into nothingness, there was one final sound that reached her.
The quiet, satisfied laughter of the queen of rot.
AN: Writing the psychology of the abandoned child could get quite angsty. Honestly, all the canon MCs have had such a shitty life. The world of DxD can get quite dark at times. And we see the reaction of the Satans, they are not quite as worried as one might expect.
Advanced chapters are available on my Patreon, so if you want to read ahead or support me so I can focus more on writing, check out my Patreon: patreon.com/abeltargaryen?