The passage of time in the Demon Realm of Érébos was not measured by the gentle arc of a golden sun, but by the shifting hues of the violet nebula that swirled eternally above the jagged peaks of the Obsidian Mountains. For Alexandros—or "Lulu," as his mother's suffocatingly sweet voice echoed through the halls—the first five years of his new existence were a blur of opulence, sensory overload, and the terrifying realization that he was the center of a very dangerous universe.
He sat now upon a rug made from the fur of a Frost-Fenrir, his small, pale legs crossed in a meditative pose that no five-year-old should have been able to maintain. In front of him floated a small orb of condensed mana, flickering with a strange, silvery light that defied the dark crimson essence typical of the Royal Bloodline.
"Focus, Lulu," a voice commanded.
Castor, the second prince, leaned against a pillar of carved basalt, a heavy leather-bound tome tucked under his arm. Unlike the eldest brother, Araxès, who believed strength was found in the snapping of bones, Castor treated magic like a mathematical equation—precise, cold, and unforgiving.
"If you let the mana destabilize, it will take the eyebrows off every maid in this wing," Castor warned, though his eyes betrayed a hint of pride. "And Mother will likely execute me for 'stressing' you."
Alexandros gritted his teeth. Easy for you to say. You weren't a middle-manager who died of a heart attack six years ago. He pushed his consciousness into the silver orb. It didn't feel like fire, as his mother's magic did. It felt like... threads. Thousands of invisible, vibrating strings that connected the air, the stone, and the very souls of those around him. When he touched them, he didn't just see magic; he saw the logic of the world.
With a soft pop, the orb didn't explode. It folded in on itself, becoming a perfect, translucent butterfly that fluttered toward Castor's nose.
Castor froze. His eyes widened. "Structural transmutation? At five? You shouldn't have the mana capacity for that, Alexandros. Your core is... it's shallow, but the density is absurd."
"I just... imagined it," Alexandros lied, his voice high and childish, a mask he wore as naturally as his silk tunics.
The truth was, his "System"—if one could call it that—wasn't a glowing blue screen or a robotic voice. It was an intuition, a residual clarity from his past life combined with the raw, primordial soul he had inherited. He understood efficiency. While his brothers used brute force to move mountains, Alexandros was learning how to find the single pebble that held the mountain up.
"My little miracle!"
The heavy doors of the training hall burst open with enough force to crack the masonry. Queen Hécate swept in, her regal black gown trailing like a shadow across the floor. Behind her, a dozen harried-looking servants carried trays of sweets, enchanted toys, and what looked like a suit of miniature plate armor.
"Mother," Castor sighed, bowing his head. "We were in the middle of a lesson."
"Lessons can wait! My Lulu looks pale!" Hécate scooped Alexandros up, pressing his face into the soft, dangerously powerful crook of her neck. "Castor, if you have drained his vitality with your dusty books, I shall turn your library into a goat pasture."
"He just created a sentient mana construct, Mother," Castor countered dryly.
Hécate pulled back, her violet eyes searching Alexandros's face. She didn't look impressed by the magic; she looked worried. She brushed a stray hair from his forehead, her touch sparking with a warmth that could melt glaciers.
"Magic is a burden, my love," she whispered, her voice dropping the theatrical edge. "I want you to be strong so no one can hurt you, but I fear the world will try to use you before you are ready."
She turned to the servants. "Bring the 'Treaty' gifts."
An official-looking man in a stiff, high-collared uniform—a human—stepped forward. He was an envoy from the Federation of Man, and he looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but in a room with three high-ranking demons.
"Prince Alexandros," the envoy said, his voice trembling slightly as he avoided Hécate's predatory gaze. "On behalf of King Valerius, we bring a token of the peace. A silver compass, enchanted to always point toward the Institute. It is a reminder of the path you will take in ten years' time."
Alexandros looked at the compass. It was beautiful, filigreed with white gold, but to his silver-sight, it looked like a shackle. The mana inside it wasn't just for navigation; it was a tracking spell, woven deep into the metal.
They're already tagging me like a wild animal, he thought.
"How thoughtful," Hécate said, her voice dripping with a sarcasm that made the envoy's knees knock. "A trinket to ensure my son never gets lost. Or perhaps to ensure your assassins always know which room he sleeps in?"
"Majesty! I assure you—"
"Quiet," she snapped. The shadows in the room rose like cobwebs, wrapping around the envoy's ankles. "You will tell your King that my son will attend his academy. Not as a hostage, and not as a diplomat. He will go as a Prince of Érébos. And if a single hair is harmed, I will not bother with a declaration of war. I will simply stop holding back the tides of the Abyss."
She looked back at Alexandros, her expression melting back into that of a doting, slightly "gaga" mother. "But look at you! You've outgrown your toddler shoes. We must go to the capital today. A shopping trip! And perhaps we shall stop by the wolf-kin border. I hear the Alpha's daughter is roughly your age. A playmate would be good for you."
Alexandros felt a cold shiver go down his spine. The "Alpha's daughter." He remembered the plan. The harem "tangled and weird." This was where the strings were being pulled.
"A playmate, Mother?" he asked, trying to sound innocent.
"A bodyguard, a friend, a future... well, we shall see," Hécate winked. "The Lycans are loyal to a fault. Once they bond, they never let go. It's exactly the kind of obsession you need to stay safe in that den of vipers they call the Human Realm."
As they prepared to leave, Araxès entered the hall, hauling a massive crate. "Mother! The boy needs a mount. I have captured a Nightmare foal from the deep plains. It only eats the dreams of the wicked. Perfect for a five-year-old."
Alexandros looked at the crate, which was vibrating with the muffled screams of a spectral horse. Then he looked at his mother, who was currently arguing with Castor about whether a five-year-old should wear silk or enchanted mithril for a casual shopping trip.
He realized then that his "Daily Life" was a constant battle between two extremes. On one side, a family that loved him so much they were accidentally suffocating him. On the other, a world that feared him so much they were already planning his demise.
He clutched the silver compass in his small hand. The tracking spell hummed against his palm. With a subtle flick of his silver-tinted mana, he didn't break the spell—that would be too obvious. Instead, he twisted the "logic" of the weave. Now, the compass would point to the Institute, but it would report his location as being exactly three feet to the left of where he actually stood.
A small victory. But as he looked at the horizon, where the dark spires of the demon city met the pale, sickly blue of the human sky, he knew the real games hadn't even begun.
"Come, Lulu!" Hécate chirped, grabbing his hand. "First, we buy the world's largest ice cream. Then, we negotiate the soul-contracts of your future vassals!"
Heaven help me, Alexandros thought, as he was swept out of the hall. I'm only five, and I already need a retirement plan.