The dramatic entrance and furious decree of Naberius Kalego managed to achieve the near-impossible: temporary silence in the Misfit Class. The students, even the bombastic Sabnock Sabro, were subdued by the palpable displeasure of their new homeroom teacher.
Kalego, however, had no intention of conducting a civilized lecture. He merely pointed a stiff finger toward the classroom window, which overlooked the sweeping, mountainous landscape behind Babyls Academy.
"The first lesson of the Misfit Class will not be taught in this room," Kalego declared, his voice cold and commanding. "Gather your pathetic excuses for belongings. We are moving."
A short, disgruntled walk later, the entire Misfit Class stood on a high, jagged peak overlooking a massive valley known as the Warbling Valley. Below them, the terrain dropped into a dizzying expanse of deep canyons, towering rock formations, and swirling air currents.
Kalego stood at the very edge of the precipice, the wind whipping his cloak around him. He turned to face the huddled, confused students.
"Listen closely, for I will not repeat myself," Kalego began. "Your rank, which dictates your power, your status, and your future in the Demon World, is initially determined by two factors: the first semester's exams and the mandatory Familiar Summoning Ceremony—a criterion many of you have already completed."
He gestured dramatically across the treacherous valley. "Your first practical exam, designed to gauge your speed, resourcefulness, and efficiency, begins now."
"The goal is simple: Reach the designated flag marker on the mountain peak directly opposite us. You must get there as fast as possible. Your time will be recorded, and the results will be used to calculate your initial rank, starting from Aleph (\alpha) and Bet (\beta) upward."
Kalego then detailed the hazards of the course.
"The Warbling Valley is not empty. You must contend with the fierce updrafts and downdrafts of the Sky Columns, which can crush a lesser demon against the canyon walls. Furthermore, the valley is home to territorial avian demons, the Scythe-Winged Harpies, who are protecting their nesting grounds."
A tiny, winged demon student, who had been nervously twitching, raised a hesitant hand. "Sensei, are we allowed to attack the bird monsters?"
"You are demons," Kalego replied, his tone dripping with disdain. "You are allowed to do whatever you deem necessary to complete the objective. However," he paused, his eyes narrowing, "there will be deductions. Kill too many of the nesting bird monsters, and your rank assessment will be penalized for unnecessary brutality. You are being tested on efficiency, not carnage."
Kalego then sighed, rubbing his temples in utter defeat. "Originally, the class was intended to race through the Cutthroat Valley—a much more challenging course—but due to certain… unforeseen circumstances, it has been ruled off-limits."
He paused again, his voice dropping slightly as he eyed the valley floor. "A highly placed guardian entity in that territory seems to be on edge lately. The administrative decision was to avoid provoking the creature before the end of the semester. Therefore, Warbling Valley is the only available course this year."
Sabnock Sabro, who had been listening with barely concealed impatience, immediately rejected the restriction. He stepped forward, his eyes shining with pure ambition.
"Unacceptable!" Sabro boomed, pulling a ceremonial axe from his gauntlet. "How can I prove my worthiness for the Yod rank against mere Scythe-Winged Harpies?! A true Demon King must face the ultimate challenge! I will enter the Cutthroat Valley, regardless of the administrator's cowardice!"
Kalego turned to Sabro, his expression one of bored resignation. "Sabnock, you may attempt it. However, the finish line, the timers, and the rank assessors are all located at the end of the Warbling Valley course. If you deviate, your time will not be recorded, and your rank will remain Aleph, understood?"
Sabro hesitated, then slammed his axe into the rock, conceding the tactical point. "Hmph. Fine! But this course will be completed with maximum theatrical flair to satisfy my regal ambition!"
The class, accepting the rules of the race, began to prepare themselves. This was the first time Noir would reveal his full self to the other students in a competition setting.
Noir felt the familiar, thrilling surge of power as he willingly opened the seals on his mana core. The dark energy of the Primordial Demon coalesced around him, mingling violently with the incandescent golden light of the Seraphim. The air around him grew heavy, and the ground cracked under the sudden, oppressive gravitational pressure.
Noir's obsidian horn and the golden crown above it pulsed, and his eyes burned crimson. His entire form became visually magnificent and utterly terrifying.
The entire class—even Sabro and the unflappable Gaap—reeled back from the sheer, raw power radiating from him. This was not the contained strength of Alice's fire or Sabro's armor; this was the uncontrollable, fundamental force of cosmic catastrophe.
"Such… such an overwhelming, regal aura!" Sabro gasped, momentarily forgetting his own ambition in the face of such majesty. "He truly possesses the form of a great sovereign!"
"Indeed! Look at the magnificence of the Chaos and the Order converging in one form!" Alice cheered, beaming with pride as he shielded Clara from the gravitational effects.
Then, with a terrifying, silent display of power, Noir summoned his wings. Not two, but eight massive, utterly black wings ripped from his back, shimmering with residual golden light along the edges, symbolizing the corruption of a fallen Seraphim. The sheer number of pinions and the obsidian color spoke of ancient, devastating power.
The wings were immense, easily spanning twenty feet, the shadowy segments absorbing the light while the golden edges gleamed with divine, unsettling power. The eight wings beat once, stirring the dust on the cliff face and pushing back the wind.
The reactions of the class were amplified: gasps of astonishment mixed with whispers of fear. Noir had wings. And they were spectacular, horrifying proof of his cosmic nature.
Kalego looked over the assembled class, which was now radiating various forms of intense, concentrated magic and preparing to launch. He himself spread his own enormous, powerful, bat-like wings.
"Your race begins on my mark. I shall be awaiting the arrival of the victor at the flag."
With a mighty THWUMP, Kalego kicked off the peak and shot across the valley, flying at incredible speed toward the distant finish line.
The rest of the Misfit Class reacted instantly. Every demon, from the muscular Sabro to the tiny slime demon, unfurled their own massive, diverse wings and took flight.
Sabro's wings were like iron plates, beating the air with concussive force. Alice's were elegant, fiery pinions of pink light. Clara's were disproportionately large and fluffy, beating with chaotic speed.
The class launched off the cliff face in a thunderous rush, instantly becoming tiny specks heading across the chasm.
Noir, despite his magnificent eight black wings, stood frozen at the edge of the cliff.
He looked down at the sheer drop, then back at the impossibly fast wings spanning his back. His demonic form was perfect, his wings were real, and his power was undeniable.
But Noir Sullivan had never learned how to use them.
Inner Dialogue (Noir):I have eight wings! That's... four times as many as everyone else! But... how do they work? Do I operate them in pairs? In sequence? What if I fall? What if I break my back? What if I look awkward in front of Alice?
He realized with a crushing, internal scream that he was a human who could spontaneously generate a majestic flying apparatus but lacked the centuries of demonic instinct necessary to actually operate it.
He took one tentative step to the edge, flapping his colossal, glorious wings in a clumsy, asymmetrical manner. He nearly lost his balance, stumbling back onto the solid rock.
He was majestic, terrifying, and utterly in control of the presentation of his dual nature, but the non-flying Noir Sullivan was now completely and utterly LEFT BEHIND at the starting line of a mandatory, rank-determining flying race, unable to translate his power into motion.