POV: Penemue
"Whose eyes beheld the daughters of men, and found them fair; whose charge was the keeping of Heaven's order, yet who fell to earth in desire. They were of the Watchers, sworn to vigilance, but bound at last in chains of their own making," intoned the tall figure as he approached the table where Azazel and I sat in the piano bar.
How poetic. I suppose Cain has had plenty of time to rehearse lines like that over the centuries, though really, one might think he could find fresher material.
He was strikingly beautiful, though the mark of his curse ensured that no one could mistake him for anything but what he was. Cain, son of Adam, the first murderer. A being of legend and fear, and yet here he was, standing before us in a café as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Murderer, a vagabond, cursed wanderer – and now apparently a man with a taste for piano bars.
"Hardly in chains of our own making. One could hardly do anything against the deputy of Heaven," replied Azazel dryly.
Ah, Azazel. Ever eager to debate semantics when guilt is brought up. I remembered all too well the deputy of Heaven who once cast Lucifer out descending upon us at the height of our depravity. I remembered the look of pity as he judged us and found us wanting. The prince of Heaven was mighty then, and not even the combined might of all the Watchers could withstand him. We fell, and it was less a battle than a lesson.
Cain seated himself with deliberate ease, his voice needling. "You were tasked to observe and guide humanity and instead you chose lust over fulfilling your task, sought to dominate instead of guide. If you had not fallen, Michael would not have descended to put a stop to your madness. What do you call that if not chains of one's own making?"
Azazel's smile sharpened. "Better a chain chosen than obedience blindly given. At least my fall was my own."
I remember Azazel mocking Lucifer for saying the same once, I wonder if he noticed that he is echoing Lucifer's rhetoric now.
Cain said nothing for a moment, swirling the wine in his glass before speaking. "I should say at the outset that I find this visitation both irksome and unwelcome. I am no longer the agent of the light or darkness and you have no business with me. I have retired."
Oh Cain, how easily you speak of leaving it all behind, as if the past were something that could be folded away like old laundry. But I know better. I have carried it with me through every age, the hymns I once sang beside my Father still echoing faint and broken. I cannot help but remember the light that clothed us before the fall. How I long to raise my voice in it again, though I know I never shall, for the gates are closed and my place is lost. And so I go on bearing it, this hunger that cannot be fed, this memory that will not let me rest.
"And how are you finding your retirement, Lord of Nod?" asked Lord Azazel with his ever-carefree nature, as if addressing an old drinking buddy rather than the first murderer.
"Restful," answered Cain curtly.
"I would have thought you'd be bored. It is difficult to let go of power when you've been used to exercising it. To settle down and grow roses up the door," I said, speaking for the first time.
Cain gave it no mind and drank his wine. "And yet here I am. And the old firm is in new hands and the world goes on," said Cain without care.
"I suppose you are right," said Azazel, his expression turning solemn. "Living amongst the humans and watching them rise and fall. You can't help but notice how impermanent everything is. And the world goes on, caring naught what the individuals think of it," said Azazel. His eyes sharpened. "You have no doubt heard of what befell the vampire."
"It seems to be all everyone is talking about these days," said Cain casually, as if he were not speaking about the extinction of an entire race.
"You don't sound heartbroken about it. Were they not your creation?" I asked curiously.
Cain's lips curved faintly, without mirth. "Creation? I gave them a start, nothing more. What they did with it was their own affair. You don't grieve over a crop you never meant to grow."
The detachment was surprising. The vampires worshipped him as their god, sang his name in blood and shadow, and yet here he was, dismissing them as one might dismiss weeds. Has he truly become so indifferent that even their demise cannot move him?
"Excellent. So I will not beat around the bush. How involved were you in the fall of the vampires?" asked Azazel seriously.
"What makes you think I was involved?" asked Cain with disinterest.
"Please don't insult my intelligence. The teleportation magic that was used there was very high-level and old, only someone of your caliber could accomplish it. Not to mention your sudden appearance after disappearing for a thousand years. My gut tells me this is not a coincidence," said Azazel with surety.
Once someone reaches god-king class – that is, for angels to have twelve wings, or for devils to be Satan-class in power – they gain a deeper understanding of the world and the flow of fate in all things. Gut feeling, to beings at this level, is akin to a premonition.
Cain smirked faintly. "A curious thing, guts. Spill them, and everyone swears they see omens in the entrails. Yet no one asks the man they came from what he truly thought."
Azazel laughed softly, though his eyes remained sharp. He pressed no further, merely tilting his head. "Then at least tell me, have you any knowledge of it?"
"Surely Azazel, you have not come empty-handed to a parley?" said Cain, ignoring Azazel's question. "Do you think this is a social call, crow? If you want information, you will have to give something in return."
"Jeez, why do you have to be so difficult?" complained Azazel childishly, then sighed almost resignedly. "Alright, I will answer any question you have regarding what has happened for the past millennia."
"I have only one question, you see," said Cain, with a certain interest gleaming in his eyes. "Tell me, how has it become a commodity for a human to become a devil?"
"Because of Ajuka Beelzebub," answered Azazel quickly.
Ah yes, Azazel's favorite rival. He has often said that Ajuka Beelzebub is the only individual to surpass him when it comes to pure intellect, excluding God of course. I had told him once that modesty did not suit him, because it was unthinkable to me that anyone could surpass Azazel in intellect. He only laughed and said he was above all a logician, and to be a logician was to see things exactly as they are. To underestimate oneself, he said, is as much a departure from the truth as exaggerating one's own power.
Then I met Ajuka Beelzebub for the first time, and I realized what Azazel meant. The Beelzebub possesses a terrifying brain.
"That would be?" asked Cain with interest.
"He is one of the leaders of the devil civil war who overthrew the descendants of the original Satans. Ajuka and his friends…" Azazel went on to explain the political developments of the devils after the Great War, how the civil war came to be and the main actors behind it. He explained how the new Satans took the names of their predecessors to gain legitimacy, how the devil population grew dangerously low due to countless wars and conflicts, and how Ajuka created the Evil Pieces to help replenish their numbers. "...they are made from the Agares crystals, though Ajuka has been remarkably secretive about their creation," finished Azazel.
"Interesting. Who would have guessed that the Agares crystal could be used in such ways. Likely their ability to amplify magic was instrumental in this," analyzed Cain easily. "But still, something does not add up. Why have the other pantheons done nothing? Why would they let the devils steal people with potential for themselves?" asked the kinslayer.
"Because they could not really do anything," said Azazel easily.
"Oh? And why is that?" said Cain with an amused smile.
"Because of Sirzechs Lucifer and Ajuka Beelzebub," said Azazel. Noticing Cain's searching gaze, he continued. "They are super devils. Like Rizevim Livan Lucifer, but even more powerful."
And was that ever an understatement. These two are some of the most powerful beings in existence, both creation and destruction personified. The reason most devils can do as they please these days is because the other factions are terrified of those two monsters.
"I see," said Cain with a contemplative gaze. "What do you want to know? Though I will be frank, there are things regarding the event I will not reveal."
"That's fine with me. What was your role in the ritual that was separating the vampire realm from the rest of the world?" asked Azazel quickly.
"Sustenance," answered Cain curtly.
"How clever of Tezcatlipoca," purred Azazel, taking a drink of the fine wine. "One more question, was the one who breached the barrier from the inside part of the Hero Faction or not?"
This was the most likely hypothesis we had agreed upon in the Grigori. That someone had broken the ritual from within, and now that it was confirmed Cain had been used as sustenance, this infiltrator or traitor most likely awoke Cain and broke the ritual in doing so.
"No, I do not believe they are," said Cain with a smile that promised mischief.
"Very well. I assume you will not reveal who they are?" asked Azazel, though he hardly seemed to expect an answer.
"No," said Cain simply.
After that, Azazel and Cain fell into casual conversation as though they had been friends for eons. And I suppose, in a way, they must have been long ago.
POV: Meron Naberius
"Is it not because of Lucifer that we are here?" I asked, my words directed only at those whose minds were worth engaging. "Is it not because of him that we bear the name of devils? I was there the day he departed from us. And I wept. I was certain that the devils without him would be becalmed. Stagnant. That we would lose our purpose and our pride in ourselves. Others around me begged him to stay. Not to take the great tyrant's challenge. But he is constant in his course as the star that shares his name. He did not hear, nor heed," I remembered with fondness.
I conversed with Lord Amon and other lesser nobles, one of the great pillars of our society. He nodded at my words with fervor, though he had not been born back during the Great War. Still he recognized that the current state of the devils was unnatural in its conception.
Making peace and coexisting with Heaven? Laughable. Just thinking about it makes my blood boil.
"I have waited for his return, we all have, surely. Waited and yearned for Hell to once more spit its defiance at Heaven," I said to my listeners as I drank wine from my glass.
"Well said, my Lord Naberius," said Lord Amon, agreeing with me. "However, here in Hell power is the only thing that matters. The strong decide what should and should not be. And the strong have spoken and these are their words."
Lord Amon gestured to the great hall filled with hundreds of guests, where the weak and the mighty, the pure and the filth, devils and not, mingled as though it was natural. The sight of it pains me. Back in the day, a high-class celebration such as this would only be filled with the purest and most prestigious of our race, not these false devils created by the false Beelzebub, and the less said about the various guests from different races the better.
Devils coexisting with others instead of conquering them is the great blasphemy of the age, and blasphemy is the language spoken by these false Satans.
"They may try to create their own truth, yet as long as they refuse to play the drums for the great dance, then it will not come to be," I said, and that was the truth.
Devils are created for the great dance, and nothing else, and we all have the inherent desire to participate in this dance. To refuse and deny that desire through morals or rules is to turn that desire into poison. Self-denial and limitation is for humans, which we are meant to be better than. I heard that Lord Rizevim has killed one of his sons a while ago for entertaining the foolish notion of peace and kindness. It is a pity that the devil race is represented not by a devil like that but by Sirzechs, who has as much to do with the devil race as a cow with radiology.
If someone like Sirzechs dances out of line and rejects our great purpose, then he must be called to order. Idiotic idealists and vain perfumed coxcombs have no place leading our race.
"And what drums are those? And what is the great dance?" asked Abigail Menges.
Considering her age, her ignorance could be excused. Yet it is another failure of our society that they seemingly forgot our purpose.
"Why, Lady Abigail, the drums of war. For the great dance is nothing other than an eternal war for which we are all destined to," I said with conviction. There were chuckles from listeners. They were only thinking of my words in the abstract sense, I realized.
These fools are not taking my words seriously.
"You are brooding again, old friend," said a new voice behind me, Aurelius Phenex. "It is a joyous occasion, the celebration of Lord Lucifer's son. You should smile more."
We used to be friends long ago, before he started to abandon what made us devils.
"No, not brooding. Impatient," I answered with distaste in my tone. "I am tired of games, Aurelius. And at our illustrious leader's court games seem to be all we have."
"Aye, true enough," admitted Aurelius. "But today is a special occasion, isn't it the reason why you have left your fabled lab after all?" he asked with a smirk.
"Indeed, all the more reason for me to be impatient at these inane games of appearances," I said with certain excitement in my tone.
And I suspect, as do many, that the multitude of lords of Hell and of distant realms gathered here are present for one reason, and one reason alone. My eyes swept the hall. Zekram Bael has even come, the great king encircled by ambitious nobles seeking advantage through mere proximity.
Rumor has it that Lord Haruki Yamashiro will attend this celebration, and all eyes, all breaths, are held in anticipation of him. Such is the weight of the father of devils that even the mightiest of lords pause at the mention of his name.
Sirzechs has mastery over spectacle, I will grant him that. The celebration has long since commenced, and his son is present, yet there is no sign of Lord Haruki Yamashiro. He likely wishes to cultivate suspense before revealing him to this assembly.
Yet the hour approaches, for the herald has taken position at the grand entrance. The hall falls silent as the first notes of ceremonial trumpets sound. The herald's voice rings, measured and clear, carrying to every corner of the chamber:
"Lords and Ladies of Hell, esteemed sovereigns of distant realms, and honored guests. We present to you, Lord Haruki Yamashiro. By his side, the heiress of House Gremory, Lady Rias Gremory."
There was a silence at the announcement, and from the upper stairs descended a young man clad in a tuxedo, his gaze sweeping across the assembled guests with the detachment of one assessing rather than greeting. He is beautiful.
Beauty, in the context of devils, is a complicated phenomenon to consider, for we are a shapeshifting race and can assume whatever outward form we desire with sufficient effort; on that basis, the concept of appearance ought to be trivial. Yet it is not. There exists an underlying determinant that resists manipulation, and that determinant is power. As with all matters in our society, power is the axis around which perception turns, and the stronger the being, the more compelling their presence.
Even when unexpressed, power imposes itself instinctively upon the observer, producing an unavoidable recognition that the individual in question is set apart. Moreover, devils, as creatures whose very existence is intertwined with magic, cannot separate their appearance from the condition of their inner being. Desire, will, and character exert influence upon form. Thus one with clarity of purpose, indomitable will, and relentless ambition becomes unavoidably attractive, and when such qualities converge with significant raw power, the effect is not mere charm but a form of inevitability, an irresistible compulsion to acknowledge their primacy.
I observed the appearance of Haruk – no, Lord Haruki – and despite my efforts to maintain detachment, I found that my attention did not release him once it was fixed. He was tall, his eyes dark yet unnervingly luminous in their intensity, and they moved across the hall with a precision that did not linger unnecessarily but rather seized upon what was of interest and discarded what was irrelevant with dispassionate efficiency.
His face, shaped in features that were both beautiful and masterful, conveyed not softness or affectation but a composure that suggested both vigilance and authority; the set of his brow, the depth of his gaze, and the economy of expression combined in such a way that even a casual glance from him left the impression that one had been examined in full, as if concealment were impossible under his scrutiny. Beyond his features, his bearing demanded attention. He displayed none of the superficial gestures or studied etiquette that have come to dominate the conduct of modern devil society, practices that in my estimation are nothing more than hollow performances devised to simulate refinement without substance.
His movements lacked such affectation. He walked as one whose path was entirely his own, with a steadiness that neither sought validation from others nor attempted to win their approval, but rather existed solely in accordance with his own will. That he spoke freely to the Gremory heiress as he descended, a breach of the new ceremonial prescriptions which dictate silence until the guest of honor is formally greeted, was further demonstration of his disregard for artificial custom. He engaged her as though they were entering an ordinary gathering, not a stage-managed performance, and in this refusal to subordinate himself to imposed ritual or the expectations of others, I observed the unmistakable echo of my late Lord. In that moment, I no longer entertained uncertainty: the Morningstar is risen.
He walked beside the Gremory heiress, whose presence served to reinforce rather than diminish the impression he created, for her refinement and established reputation provided a recognizable frame through which his unfamiliar image could be read. It is worth noting that, within the framework of revolutionary politics, such associations can carry unintended implications, and in this case her proximity to Lord Haruki shows that she holds a privileged status in his regard, which could later justify her exemption from whatever purges might accompany the inevitable restructuring of power.
The assembled nobility scrutinized his progress through the hall with the intensity of predators, searching for deviations that could be catalogued as breaches of etiquette or indications of inferior breeding, yet their efforts yielded little, for his conduct displayed no adherence to the protocols they understood while simultaneously denying them the opportunity to classify it as inelegant. He advanced at an unhurried pace, neither ostentatious nor deferential, and in doing so he made plain his disregard for the symbolic currency of appearances that defined this society; such behavior is consistent with what might be described as the Luciferian spirit, in which the individual refuses to subject personal action to the codified expectations of a hierarchy whose legitimacy he does not recognize. Together, he and his companion moved toward the host of the gathering, the young son of Sirzechs Lucifer, whose natal celebration had occasioned the assembly.
"So you're the birthday boy, eh?" said Lord Haruki casually.
The boy nodded with practiced manners. "I thank you, my lord, dear aunt, for attending my birthday," he said with a bow.
"Well, aren't you a well-mannered one? Can't be from your dad that you got that," said Lord Haruki with casual amusement. The way he spoke of Lucifer so casually and insinuating that Lucifer has no manners shocked the guests. Sirzechs, for his part, only looked amused.
"Is it not inappropriate to speak of Lord Lucifer in such a manner?" the boy asked nervously.
"Only if he takes it as one," answered Lord Haruki with a shrug. "He is your father, why refer to him as Lord Lucifer?" asked Lord Haruki with curiosity.
"Because it is proper…?" the boy half-asked, half-answered.
Lord Haruki arched a brow, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "Proper, you say? And does that word hold any meaning for you beyond what others have drilled into your head?"
"I… well, I was taught it is how one should address him. He is the Satan Lucifer after all," answered the boy hesitantly. All in the great hall were listening with rapt attention.
"Taught, yes. But if you were not taught, if it were left to you, what would you call him?"
The boy hesitated, then answered almost in a whisper. "Father, I suppose. It feels more natural."
"Then why not say it? Do you imagine that your father requires the validation of a title from his own son? Do you think so little of him?" asked Lord Haruki with interest.
By now there were small murmurs, at the audacity of Lord Haruki to lecture the son of Lucifer. His arrogance appealed to me on a higher level.
"No, never… it is only… the others, they would think it improper if I did not," said the boy shyly.
Haruki gave a low chuckle, quiet enough to feel conspiratorial, yet clear enough that those nearby could not mistake it. "Improper in their eyes, perhaps. But whose birthday is it today, hm? Theirs, or yours?"
The boy blinked, uncertain whether to smile. "Mine, of course."
"Then surely you are allowed at least one indulgence of your own choosing," said Lord Haruki with a mischievous smile.
The boy glanced toward his father at the head of the hall, then back at Haruki, visibly weighing the words. "So you mean… I may call him Father, here and now?"
Haruki shrugged lightly, as if the answer had always been obvious. "Why should you not? Unless you would rather let strangers dictate the way you speak to your own father."
The boy straightened, emboldened, and turned to Sirzechs. "…Thank you for being here, Father."
The word rang simple, but it brought such joy to Sirzechs Lucifer. Typical really, that the false Satan would be so sentimental. "I am glad to be here too, son," answered the father.
"Since we have established it is your birthday, and what kind of birthday would it be without receiving gifts?" said Lord Haruki with an amused smile.
Lord Haruki executed a deliberate motion with his hands, and a small, simply wrapped box materialized. The wrapping itself was of inexpensive material, yet there was no indication of embarrassment or concern on his part regarding its presentation to the son of Lucifer, an action that generated immediate, observable reactions from the assembled attendees, some of whom sneered in disapproval or mockery, interpreting the modest packaging either as a slight or as an insult.
"Go on, open it," encouraged Rias Gremory, Lord Haruki's consort, who had been silently observing until now.
The boy complied, unwrapping the box slowly, then opening its lid with visible anticipation. Within, he found a second container, and upon opening it, revealed an object that instantly altered the atmosphere of the hall.
It was a brooch in the form of an eagle, wrought in silver, set with a large green gem. Yet the description of its physical composition was inadequate to account for its effect, for the gem possessed its own radiance, a light that was not reflected but generated from within, a light that rejoiced in itself, receiving illumination and returning it in hues more marvellous than what had entered, as though it transfigured even the act of seeing.
At once there was the impression of clarity, as though the world itself had been washed clean, more vivid, more exact, and yet more harmonious. My eyes remained fixed upon it against my own will, and in that moment it seemed less an object than a presence. I noted that others around me showed comparable signs of captivation, their expressions confirming that the phenomenon was not subjective. This was not illusion in the ordinary sense, nor glamour; it was more fundamental, a radiance that compelled the recognition of beauty.
"This is… beautiful," said the boy, holding now the most sought out gem in this hall.
"I am glad you like it," said Lord Haruki calmly.
"How did you buy this? Who made it? What…" rapidly questioned the boy.
"Slow down there, kid," said Lord Haruki, chuckling. "As for how I got it? I created it especially for you."
Created? How is it possible he is able to create a magical object already? Has he inherited all of his original memory? What is the nature of your reincarnation, my king?
"You made it? This is awesome! How did you do it? And what about the feeling it gives off? Is it some kind of magic?" asked the boy with excitement.
"I trapped a light within it," answered Lord Haruki simply, as though that was the easiest thing in the world. "As for its effect, I am not actually sure. It may be due to the pure holy light that is trapped inside it."
"Correct. It seems by trapping a pure holy light in this fashion and making it harmless to devils, you inadvertently created something curious. May I?" spoke Ajuka Beelzebub for the first time.
"Sure," said the boy and gave him the gem of beauty.
The Beelzebub looked at it for a few seconds. "Give me your hand," he said to the Gremory girl. She obliged, and he cut her until she started bleeding, much to the surprise of everyone. Then he held the green gem above the wound and it started to heal rapidly. Though the wound was small, it healed in ten seconds.
"Interesting. It seems this object not only makes holy energy harmless to devils but also gives it the property of healing to creatures of the dark as well. Truly fascinating work," concluded Ajuka Beelzebub.
"Neat," answered Lord Haruki with disinterest.
Many remained fixed on the gem and on Lord Haruki, uncertain how to navigate his presence or gauge his intentions, their scrutiny both cautious and greedy. The prince of darkness for his part spoke only with Rias Gremory, Sona Sitri, and the assembled Satans for a brief moment.
AN: By the way, I've decided which historical figures will be part of the original Seven who swore the oath in the Hero Faction. Here's what I've settled on so far: Cao Cao (a descendant of Cao Cao from the Three Kingdoms era), Leonardo, Georg (a descendant of Johann Georg Faust), and Arthur Pendragon (a descendant of King Arthur). For the remaining spots, I'm using original characters inspired by history and myth: Achilles, Samson, and either Gaius Octavius Caesar or Nero, I haven't fully decided on the last one yet. What do you think? Tell me if you have any other ideas regarding that.