The corridor leading to the ballroom was lined with red velvet banners embroidered with gold thread, each bearing the Cattivo family crest—a crimson serpent coiled around a blazing sword. Chandeliers hung like constellations above me, their crystal arms glowing with a gentle shimmer of embedded mana stones.
The doors to the grand hall creaked open before me, and a chorus of horns signaled my entrance.
I walked forward, chin raised.
Just enough to remind them I was not someone to be patted on the head.
I descended slowly, each step controlled. Measured. Intimidating. Or at least as intimidating as a three-foot-tall child in velvet can be.
Whispers began swirling like perfume in a brothel. The nobles, gods bless their forked tongues, couldn't help themselves.
"Have you ever seen such poise? Five years old and he walks like a grown lord!"
"His skin is flawless. That's Third Wife's blood, surely."
"Oh please. It's the Devil's blood. Didn't you hear? They say when he was born, the sky turned red for a whole minute."
I twitched an eyebrow. It was?
A particularly fluttery baroness cupped her hands around her mouth and whispered too loudly, "Look at his lashes! They're longer than mine! What do they feed him?"
Her friend leaned in, clutching her pearls. "Probably crushed phoenix feathers. Or virgin moonlight."
There was a collective giggle. A few ladies had to hold their fans tighter to avoid fainting.
One man near the edge of the room said solemnly, "I heard he read the imperial war codex last year and annotated it."
Another replied, "That's not even the scary part. He corrected it."
That part's true. The footnotes were abysmal.
Some teenage girl gasped, eyes wide and dreamy. "I want him betrothed to my sister!"
"Your sister?" another girl barked. "I want him for myself! By the time he's fifteen he'll look like a fallen angel!"
"Ugh, I'd marry him just for those cheekbones."
"Lady Bernice, he's five."
"Five... and already devastating."
Behind me, the knight tried very hard not to laugh. His helmet shook slightly.
The ballroom, large enough to house a battalion, was filled with lords, ladies, barons, baronesses, counts, viscounts, and every other title the dukedom had seen fit to invent so lesser beings could feel important.
All of them turned toward me.
And like sharks catching scent of blood in the water, they swarmed.
"Ah! Young Lord Fuoco!"
"Happy birthday, milord! May your mana shine as brightly as the duke's sword!"
"What grace! What posture! Why, you stand like a miniature duke already!"
That last line was a conversational grenade.
I caught the quick flicker in Lady Belladonna's lashes as she turned toward the first wife's circle of sycophants. A hush followed. Just for a moment. Just long enough for the air to grow tight.
Bastiano, the heir. My half-brother. Son of First Wife. Heir by both birth and brute repetition.
Calling me a miniature duke wasn't flattery. It was provocation.
Not that I cared much.
"He has the eyes of a lion! And the aura of a general!"
General?
Please.
That's an insult.
I ruled Hell. I commanded generals—some made of bone, others of stars. I once turned a war council into a chessboard and played them against each other. Literally.
If anything, comparing me to a general was like comparing a phoenix to a rotisserie chicken.
"How is your health, young master?"
"Does the duke allow you to train yet? I could arrange a personal tutor—"
Before I could blink, a swarm of nobles had formed a half-circle around me. The hungry ones. The ambitious ones. The ones who scented instability like wolves on a wounded hare.
They bent, bowed, fanned, curtsied, and shoved boxes into servant hands while maintaining the illusion of civility. One box contained a silver quill said to write the truth only. Another had a scroll of pre-signed land deeds. One woman offered a tiny griffin encased in stasis glass—its wings twitching faintly, its eyes glowing in resentment.
I nodded to most questions. Gave a politely disinterested smile. Maintained perfect posture and poise.
Until—
"Milord," a man said, half-whispering, "if ever you need a discreet channel for liquidating small estate shares, my firm—"
I turned my head very slowly.
"No," I said.
He blanched like milk in vinegar. "I-I meant—"
"I said no."
If I blinked any slower, the man might've evaporated.
He stepped back into the crowd. A servant quietly passed him a glass of wine. He downed it with the urgency of a man praying for amnesia.
I smiled.
Soft. Beautiful. Just a flash of teeth.
One noblewoman clutched her chest like she'd been blessed by a seraph.
Another stammered something about angelic presence. Oh, if only they knew.
A young noble girl, maybe seven, clutched her gift box tightly and stared at me like I was a shooting star wrapped in silk.
I had become the court's holy artifact.
Tragic. Hilarious. Borderline heretical.
What a time to be alive.
Just then, a servant dropped a tray of fruit. A splatter. A startled yelp.
Everyone turned.
And at the far end of the ballroom—
A new presence arrived.
Tall. Imposing. Smiling like a man with too many knives hidden behind his teeth.
"Apologies for the interruption," the man said, voice low and smooth like poisoned wine. "But I wouldn't miss the young lord's birthday for the world."
My fingers curled slightly.
He wore black. A crimson gem dangled from his collar like a drop of blood. And behind him stood two robed figures with empty eyes and sealed lips.
The nobles began murmuring.
My heartbeat slowed. Just a bit.
That man.
That aura.
Was that a demon in human skin?
What's a demon doing in this mortal world?
I narrowed my eyes.
But no… not one of mine.
Not one of Hell's.
To be precise, this mortal world wasn't even my domain. Not truly.
When I invoked the Circle of Causality—a forbidden loop of soul anchoring—I expected to descend into my own rebirth. To prepare my vessel.
Instead?
I was flung here.
To another realm. Another universe. Another dimension.
Somewhere beyond the Veil. A domain governed by a different order, a different flow of mana. But it seems demons existed here too.
Not mine. Not children of the Nine Circles. Not even adjacent breeds.
Just… locals.
Unregistered demons playing dress-up.
The man before me bowed. Slow. Unhurried. Deliberate.
He wasn't groveling. He was tasting the air.
"Ah, young lord Fuoco," he said, eyes gleaming like lacquered obsidian. "The star of today's celebration. Your reputation precedes you."
I said nothing.
He approached with perfect decorum. Each step balanced. Noble to the letter.
But his presence was wrong.
A slight delay between footfall and echo. The faint scent of burnt metal beneath perfume.
The demon was masking well… but not perfectly.
He kneeled slightly. Not enough to seem submissive. Just enough to show he knew the etiquette.
"I am Lord Dantalion," he said. "Minor cousin to the Head of House Kravich. Visiting from Vildemere Province."
House Kravich was real. It's a count family. A reputable house known for its froststeel mines.
My lips curled in a faint smile. "Welcome, Lord Dantalion. The halls of House Cattivo are open to all guests bearing proper seal and manners."
He tilted his head. "Ah. So composed. And yet only five years in this world. Remarkable."
"Some of us learn quickly."
"Indeed." He chuckled softly. "The eyes of one who has seen... far too much."
I tilted my head, feigning curiosity. "Do you always flirt with children, Lord Dantalion?"
A flicker. Barely perceptible. But he smiled through it.
"Well said," he replied. "I merely meant to compliment your presence. It's… dense."
"Dense?" I echoed.
He leaned slightly closer.
My guards instinctively shifted. But he raised one hand gently, palms open.
"No threat," he said. "I merely wished to offer a birthday gift. Something… unique."
From within his cloak, he produced a small, black box wrapped in stasis ribbon.
Mana rippled around it. Chaotic. Improvised. Not the refined threading of imperial enchanters.
Whatever was inside, it wasn't made by humans.
"An artifact from the eastern continent," he said. "Said to... awaken the soul aura."
That wasn't a gift.
I smiled. Touched the box lightly with two fingers.
Then I withdrew.
"I'm afraid," I said, "that my soul is still very much in bed with a fever. Perhaps another day."
His eyes gleamed. "Of course. Of course."
The man straightened, brushing invisible dust from his cuffs. Then he looked around the hall, as if admiring the architecture. But I saw his gaze flick toward me again. Calculating.
"Forgive me," he said. "But I must ask. Were you… born under a rare star?"
"No," I replied. "I was born under three. The astrologers cried. One died."
Another pause.
Then he laughed. Softly. Politely. But I heard the confusion under it.
A lesser demon. Very minor. Barely held together by whatever blood oath he'd brokered to stand under daylight.
He couldn't place me.
That was good.
"Hmm…" he murmured. "How strange. Your aura—no, forgive me. I ramble."
"You're not from here," I said softly. "Your dialect has edges."
He blinked.
Dantalion smiled again. But I saw the twitch at the corner of his lip.
"You're very sharp, milord."
"I merely travel," Dantalion said, spreading his arms lightly. "Seeking interesting... individuals. Some children are mere candles. Others—"
"Explode and ruin your face," I interrupted. "I see."
That time, he did not laugh.
Instead, he bowed once more. "Happy birthday, young lord. I do hope we speak again. In a… more private setting."
Unacceptable.
"I'm five," I said flatly.
He chuckled. "So you are."
And with that, he turned. Slipping into the crowd like oil into water.
My mother appeared a moment later, eyes narrowed, but calm.
"Who was that?" she asked.
I shook my head. "Stray wind."