"Again."
Alaudi's back hit the wall hard enough to crack concrete.
He exhaled, not quite a grunt, more annoyance than pain. Dust crumbled down his shoulders as he rolled his neck.
Across the room, a Fallen Angel with short dark hair and lazy eyes floated above the training floor, one wing half-spread like he couldn't be bothered to use both.
"Your reaction time's good," the Fallen said. "Your temper's better. Your footwork is shit."
"Yours is old," Alaudi replied.
The Fallen—Khaim, one of Azazel's "if you break him, you fix him" instructors—grinned.
"Talk back after you dodge."
The next volley came fast: blades of compressed light, not lethal but not friendly either. Alaudi's Cloud Flames burst to life before they hit, a violet shimmer across the floor. The blades sank into it, slowed, then stopped like they'd been stabbed into wet cement.
Alaudi stepped aside and flicked his fingers.
The flame-stuff surged, pushing the light blades away and pinning them to the far wall.
"Better," Khaim said, dropping to the ground. "But you're thinking of it like a shield. It's not. It's you."
He jabbed a finger toward the purple haze slowly fading from the floor.
"That thing doesn't just block. It claims. You're not the kid with a weird flame. You're the storm that says 'mine' and makes everything else deal with it."
Alaudi didn't answer. He already knew. Three years in the Grigori's underground facilities had driven the lesson in. Study. Tests. Fights. More tests. Azazel didn't adopt strays; he catalogued anomalies.
But Azazel had never put a collar on him.
That counted for something.
"Again?" Khaim offered.
"No." Alaudi brushed dust off his shirt. "You're getting slower."
Khaim laughed and waved him off. "Get out. Azazel was looking for you anyway."
That was never comforting.
---
Azazel's office was the same as always: cluttered, humming, full of junk that could end civilizations if dropped wrong.
The Governor-General sat with his boots on a desk buried in papers and schematics, glasses low on his nose as he studied a floating magical projection. He didn't look up when Alaudi walked in.
"You're late," Azazel said.
"I was being a storm," Alaudi said.
"Cute." Azazel flicked his wrist and the projection shifted, showing a map of Japan. Multiple glowing points flared along it: Kuoh, Kyoto, a few minor clusters. "We're done poking your flames in a box. Time to throw you at the real world."
Alaudi stepped closer, eyes narrowing on the map.
Kuoh pulsed red.
Kyoto pulsed gold.
"Devil territory. Youkai territory," he said.
"Mm." Azazel finally glanced up. "The three factions are in their awkward peace era. Devils are consolidating, Heaven's reorganizing, we're minding our business. Officially."
"And unofficially?"
Azazel smirked. "Unofficially, I want eyes and hands in places I don't feel like personally visiting. Lucky you."
Alaudi stared at the map.
Kuoh was loud. Two big devil heiresses. Dragon host inbound. Leaky edges.
Kyoto was… different. Older. Denser. More like the air before a storm than an active battlefield.
"Assignment?" Alaudi asked.
"Observation," Azazel said. "You're good at not dying. I'd like you to continue. Also good at not talking. I'd like you to continue that, too."
He tapped Kuoh.
"Option one: hang around Kuoh. Don't interfere with Rias Gremory or Sona Sitri unless the world's actually ending. Watch. Learn. Send reports."
He tapped Kyoto.
"Option two: Kyoto. Youkai capital. Yasaka runs it. More neutral, more spiritual. That mutated flame of yours will either blend nicely or piss everything off. I'm curious which."
Alaudi watched both lights pulse.
"Which do you want me to take?" he asked.
Azazel shrugged. "I'm not your dad."
Technically, he absolutely was trying to be. Alaudi ignored that.
"Pick the place that lets you grow," Azazel said, more serious. "Not the place that lets you show off."
That narrowed it.
Kuoh was a stage.
Kyoto was a forge.
"Kyoto," Alaudi said.
Azazel's smile said he'd expected that. "Thought so. Try not to start a war with the foxes. Oh—and one more thing."
He snapped his fingers.
Something small fluttered down from a stack of books and landed on Alaudi's head.
Alaudi went still.
A round yellow bird peered down past his bangs, black eyes unblinking. It chirped once, loudly, like it had made a decision.
"…No," Alaudi said.
"Yes," Azazel said. "That little idiot's been roosting on your door for months. Survives your flames. Bites anyone else. Congratulations, it's your familiar now."
The bird hopped from his head to his shoulder, puffed its chest, and chirped again.
Alaudi eyed it. "Name?"
The bird chirped: "Hi-biiird."
Azazel snorted. "There you go."
Alaudi sighed through his nose. "Fine. Don't slow me down."
Hibird fluffed up, offended by the implication.
As Alaudi turned to leave, Azazel called after him, "Oh, and Alaudi?"
He paused.
"Those flames saved you in the Gap," Azazel said. "But that wasn't luck. Something in you chose to live. Don't forget that next time someone tells you your existence is borrowed."
Alaudi didn't answer. He walked out.
---
Outside, the artificial corridors gave way to open sky.
Grigori's outpost perched high above the clouds, cloaked from most senses. Alaudi stood at the edge of a floating platform, wind tugging at his hair and jacket.
Violet fire curled lazily around his boots, feeling the drop, tasting the air.
"You heard him," he murmured. "Kyoto."
Hibird hopped once on his shoulder and chirped like agreement.
The Cloud Flames spread out in a ring, then formed a thin, jagged halo around his wrist.
For a split second, another light flickered above his hand—a faint outline of a crown made of pale-gold shimmer.
Alaudi stilled.
The presence that came with it was quiet but clear. Not Cloud. Not human. Something that wanted to weigh, to balance, to gather.
He closed his fist.
The crown flicker vanished, leaving only violet.
"Not yet," he said.
That other power could wait.
For now, he had one job: go to Kyoto, stay free, get stronger, and make sure no one could ever throw him away again.
He stepped off the platform.
The Cloud Flames caught him.
The sky rushed up to meet the storm.