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AUTHOR NOTES
I will be honest with you guys because of my collage i do not have enough time for the story further more there is little support for this story i was originally planning to stop or pause it but then i remember i promised a fan next chapter so i wrote it
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The silence that settled over the Bael manor after the last terrified guest had fled was not the quiet of peace, but the profound, humming stillness that follows a cataclysm. The grand hall, still bearing the psychic scars of Kael's unveiled might, was now a temple to a new, terrifying truth. The **Banquet of Revelation** was over. The message had been delivered not in words, but in the language of primal fear, etched into the very souls of the underworld's elite.
In the aftermath, the political freeze that had gripped the Bael clan shattered into a torrent of frantic, obsequious activity. The **cold shoulder** was replaced by a deluge of warmth so sudden it was comical. The same Pillar clans who had days ago ignored their messages now flooded the Bael communications array with groveling missives, extravagant gifts, and requests for audiences. Trade agreements were not only reinstated but sweetened with ludicrous concessions. The isolation was over; the age of sycophancy had begun. The Bael clan accepted it all with the same cold, disdainful pride with which they had endured the slights. It was their due.
Yet, for Kael, this was not the endgame. It was merely the establishment of the board. With the hierarchy now unquestionably clear, he turned his attention to the pieces, specifically the one he had promised to meet: Rias Gremory.
Their meeting did not take place in the intimidating opulence of the Bael manor, nor in the familiar comfort of the Occult Research Club. Kael selected a neutral, yet utterly controlled territory: a private tea room in the most exclusive, magically warded establishment in Kuoh, which his retainers had seamlessly and silently commandeered for the afternoon.
When Rias arrived, escorted by a silent Bael guard, the air was thick with the scent of rare incense and unspoken power. She was the picture of Gremory nobility—crimson hair perfectly styled, uniform impeccable—but her posture was rigid, a carefully constructed fortress against the terror she felt. Kael was already seated, not at the main table, but in a solitary chair by a window overlooking the silent city. He did not rise.
"Rias," he acknowledged, his voice a flat calm that demanded no response yet commanded all attention.
"Kael," she replied, her own voice steady, though a faint tremor beneath the surface betrayed her. "You wished to speak with me."
"I did." He gestured with a minimal motion of his hand to the seat opposite him. It was not a request. She sat, her back straight, hands folded in her lap. "The underworld has realigned. You witnessed this."
"I did," she repeated, the memory of the crushing pressure making her knuckles whiten.
"Your family's position in this new paradigm is… fluid," he continued, his royal purple eyes analyzing her as one would a complex piece on a chessboard. "The Gremory name carries weight. Your brother's power is respected. But respect is a currency that devalues quickly in a storm."
He was speaking around the issue, and she knew it. Every word was a test. "What is it you want from me? From my family?"
"A great many things, in time," he said, his gaze turning from her to the window. "But for now, I want the narrative to proceed."
Rias blinked. "The narrative?"
"The story of this town. Of your peerage. Of the Red Dragon Emperor." He turned his head back to her, and the intensity of his focus was like a physical weight. "It is a story I find… useful. It must continue. You will continue to play your part."
A cold dread, different from the terror of his power, began to seep into her. He wasn't just a force of nature; he was a director. "My part," she echoed, the words tasting like ash. "And what is my part? To be a pawn in your game?"
"Everyone is a pawn in someone's game, Rias Gremory. The difference is that I am telling you this." He leaned forward, ever so slightly, and the room seemed to shrink. "The engagement to Riser Phenex. It proceeds."
The blood drained from Rias's face. "What? But… after what you showed them… the power you have… you could end it with a word!"
"I could," he agreed, his tone utterly devoid of empathy. "But I will not. Your struggle against that archaic tradition is a critical thread. It will test your pawn. It will forge your peerage. It will reveal the mettle—or the lack thereof—of those around you. I am interested in the results."
He was using her despair, her impending lifelong misery, as a *laboratory experiment*. The horror of it stole her breath. Her rebellion, her most personal battle, was being orchestrated for the amusement and assessment of a god.
"Your brother will not intervene," Kael stated, as if reading from a pre-written script of her doom. "The Satans will maintain their official neutrality. You will be forced to rely on the tools you have. Or you will fall." He finally stood, a smooth, effortless motion that signaled the audience was over. "The Rating Game will be your stage. Do not disappoint me."
He walked out, leaving her sitting in the silent, opulent room, the weight of her fate feeling heavier than any Conqueror's Haki. She was trapped, not just by her family's traditions, but by the chilling designs of a Super Devil who saw her heartache as data points.
The news, delivered through formal channels, struck the Gremory household like a well-aimed blade. The engagement was to be honored. The political reasoning from Lord Zeoticus Gremory was a masterpiece of tragic logic. With the Bael clan's ascendancy and Kael's terrifying, unpredictable nature, an alliance with the resilient, traditionalist Phenex clan was seen as a necessary bulwark, a stabilizing force in a world gone mad. Rias's personal feelings were, as always, collateral damage.
When Sirzechs visited Rias in Kuoh, his usual gentle warmth was subdued, replaced by a grim resignation that frightened her more than any anger could.
"Rias," he began, his voice heavy. "I cannot interfere. Not directly."
"Why?" she pleaded, the facade of the stoic heiress crumbling in front of her beloved brother. "You're a Super Devil! A Satan! He's just… one devil!"
"He is Kael Bael," Sirzechs corrected softly, his eyes full of a pain she rarely saw. "And he has made his… interest in the natural progression of events clear. To challenge him on this, to directly counter his will so soon after his demonstration, would be to risk a conflict that would make the Great War look like a skirmish. The underworld cannot survive it. I am sorry."
His apology was a verdict. She was truly alone.
For the Phenex clan, the engagement took on a new, desperate significance. In the shadow of Kael Bael, they were relics. This union with the Gremorys was their claim to relevance, their anchor in the old world order. Riser, emboldened by the official backing and his own unshakable arrogance, saw the upcoming Rating Game not just as a formality to claim his prize, but as his chance to prove that the old ways still had power. That *he* still had power. He was blissfully unaware that he was merely another variable in Kael's equation.
It was Issei Hyoudou, of course, who remained the one beautifully unpredictable variable. Oblivious to the grand political machinations and the terrifying gaze of a Super Devil, his world was simple and pure. He saw a beautiful girl in pain, a future he found abhorrent, and a rival who deserved a punch in the face.
His training became a frantic, desperate thing. His declarations to save Rias, once seen as the comical boasts of a lecher, now carried a weight they hadn't before. In a world bending to the will of a single, overwhelming power, his stubborn, localized defiance was a spark of something else entirely—something Kael, for all his foresight, had not fully calculated: the power of a motivation that transcended fear, strategy, or even self-preservation.
The stage was set. The pieces were in motion: Rias, trapped and despairing; Riser, arrogantly confident; the Satans, forced into passive observance; and Issei, training with a fire born of pure, uncomplicated devotion. And watching from the wings, a silent, purple-eyed king, waiting to see if the flame of this "narrative" would produce something useful, or if it—and all the pieces involved—would be found wanting and subsequently extinguished. The engagement arc would proceed, but it was now a play performed under the gaze of a critic who held the power to burn down the entire theater.
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