Lilith, the capital of the Underworld, is not a place I get to visit frequently. Slaves after all do not get the freedom to choose where to go on any given day.
And despite what several lifetimes ago had been depicted in a ridiculous anime - most reincarnated devils were slaves, or worse.
Rias Gremory might have treated her slaves with kindness in that imaginary land. That doesn't help those like myself who weren't so lucky with our masters.
And Rias and her generation are verymuch the exception to the rule.
Even this high-class examination I am attending… It's a Hail Mary achieved through theft and subterfuge. One last shot at achieving something.
To become someone capable of revenge.
The waiting hall of the examination arena is an opulent thing of course, as suited to noble pricks. Vast and echoing - its dark stone walls are lined with banners bearing the sigils of the surviving pillar houses front and center.
Some day that number will be zero… I fervently wish, keeping a tight lid on my emotions.
It wouldn't do for those banners to spontaneously combust right now, not while I am in the vicinity.
The architecture is imposing - sharp with gothic spires and archways that loom overhead like the ribs of some great beast. The weight of history presses against the very air here, even as I know those like me, are a rarity to ever see these halls.
Reincarnated devils need a very good sponsor to ever see this place. Few are that lucky. As in I can't even remember the last time a reincarnated devil became High-Class and got their evil pieces.
And I've been around since their conception. Unfortunately.
As for Ultimate class? Hah! That will never be allowed.
Not until the boob Emperor anyway, and that was in a made up world running on idiocy. I somehow doubt once that set of events kick off, that things will go the same way in a real and cruel world.
The only real difference between the Old and the New Satans - is the PR.
Those not born to devilhood have no real future.
I lean against a towering pillar of black marble, watching the others as they wait for their turn for the battle that will decide our success or failure, all of us having already conquered the written test. My ice-blue eyes are half-lidded, gaze gliding across the assembled devils like a predator surveying lesser prey. My lips curl in quiet disdain at what I see.
They're all young. Children, really, despite their posturing. Some barely into their second decade, others no more than a century old at best. Not a single reincarnated one among them.
These are creatures of privilege, sons and daughters of noble lines, their power handed to them on a silver platter. None of them have clawed their way up from the filth. None of them have bled for centuries, crushed beneath the boot of another.
None of them has suffered the indignity of rape, of raping others under duress. Of murdering and torturing, of being murdered and tortured.
I had just turned eighteen back then, on top of the world in Vienna, a marriage arranged to a beautiful woman I'd come to adore despite our differences. Enjoying the acclaim of a virtuoso - an artist, a musician, a scientist, attached to the Emperor's court due to my skills.
Then I was murdered by a devil, brought back as his toy. Only the fact he had a full peerage to sate his lusts saved me from being debased on the daily.
Music… Art…
What was the last century when I was allowed to enjoy that again? I could hardly remember…
If demonic power ran on hatred - I fancied my chances against the four satans, solo.
Hatred I knew intimately. It was my sole reason for survival at this point. How I had not wholly broken. It ran in my veins, I tasted it with every meal, every drink - pure hatred ran down my face when I wept, it exuded out of every drop of blood that was taken from me.
Devils… They don't deserve this world. This power. How dearly I wish to take it away from them!
I shift slightly, the fabric of my suit whispering with the movement. Impeccable, as always - an Armani masterpiece, pitch-black with blood-red accents along the cuffs, the tie a perfect match. My gloves are the same deep crimson, the leather smooth and expensive.
Fitting, perhaps, considering how much blood these hands have spilled - innocent blood, a whisper coos malevolently in my ear. I ignore it with practiced ease, continuing to compare myself to the spoiled brats and finding them wanting.
A gloved hand gently touches my hair, an equally striking crimson red that might have one believe I was related to far more important people... It is tied back into a large and neat braid trailing down to my lower back, though two strands fall to frame my face, accentuating the harsh lines and sharp edges of my features. Masculine, rugged, shaped by time and suffering.
I may still only look like a man just into adulthood - that's devil physiology for you - but I at least saved myself from looking like a pretty boy twink, my muscles evident even in this fine suit.
No matter how many times I was whipped andworse for daring to become too masculine for my masters permission, I held on to my looks. It was the one thing I could control.
It is also likely one of the reasons for my survival in a peerage that has changed massively over time. My continued bouts of defiance has kept me from becoming too boring of a toy.
There really is no such thing as resignation as a reincarnated devil. One must only hope that their master throws them away alive instead of dead in the end.
The thousands of reincarnated devils working menial jobs in the Underworld is proof enough that does happen. I, on the other hand, have a master who does not believe in letting others use his toys when he's done…
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