Location: Tower Rooftop, Asmodeus Quarter
POV: Zephan Asmodeus
I was still looking down at the lower city when the sound of footsteps approached behind me. Not Azelia's. Hers were nearly silent. These were quicker—nervous, careful.
I turned before the figure could speak.
A young male servant stood just inside the rooftop entrance. He wore the black uniform of the central staff, a scroll case tucked under one arm. His head was bowed. His hands were clasped too tightly. This wasn't a visit—it was a summons.
"My lord Zephan," he said, tone even but tight. "Lord Shalba Beelzebub requests your presence immediately… in the Beelzebub Quarter."
I didn't respond right away. The wind spell around the tower whispered faintly past us. I watched the servant's posture—rigid, measured. He was tense, not because of the message, but because of who sent it.
Azelia stepped to my side. She said nothing, but I could feel the shift in her stance. She didn't like this.
Neither did I.
I turned toward the servant. "Did he say why?"
The servant shook his head. "Only that it concerns urgent faction business. You are expected without delay."
Of course.
Shalba never used more words than necessary. He didn't have to.
He was the true center of power in Tartarus—more than Creuserey or Katerea. If he called, you answered. Even I wasn't exempt.
"Very well," I said.
The servant bowed and stepped back, waiting.
I gave the lower city one last look—its jagged sprawl glowing faintly beneath the cavern ceiling. So much history buried under silence and old grudges.
Then I turned and followed.
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We moved quickly through the Asmodeus Quarter, passing through corridors lined with smooth black stone and engraved archways. Every hall was clean, formal, symmetrical. Nothing wasted. Nothing out of place.
But the silence and order fell away the moment we crossed into the Beelzebub Quarter.
The air grew heavier. The symmetry vanished.
Buildings here weren't carved for elegance. They were built to last. Large blocks of dark stone and metal formed towers that leaned slightly inward, ringed with pipes and thick chains etched with runes. The structures jutted from the ground like ribs, some capped with rotating glyph devices, some sealed with pressure domes and glowing arcane containment rings.
The temperature rose slightly. The air smelled faintly of sulfur and steel.
We passed between workshops, labs, and transport vaults. Inside glass walls, I saw spell arrays etched across reinforced plates, magical tanks filled with glowing liquid, and chained figures suspended in containment fields. Devils in thick gauntlets and sleeveless coats moved through these spaces quickly, their horns marked with glowing faction sigils.
This was where theory became weapon.
Even the walkways were different—metal-grated floors laid over slow-flowing channels of molten mana. Above, thick pipelines fed energy between buildings, occasionally flashing with light when excess power surged through.
We passed under a massive gate carved into a broken ring. At its center, a massive centipede coiled around the fractured shape, binding the pieces together. The sigil of House Beelzebub. Two armored guards flanked it, their suits sealed from head to toe, visors lit with wardlight. They said nothing as we passed.
But I knew they were watching. Measuring.
At the end of the hall was a large, reinforced doorway.
The throne room.
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Location: Beelzebub Throne Room
POV: Zephan Asmodeus
The chamber beyond was vast and cold.
Stone pillars lined both sides of the hall, each reinforced with bands of steel and etched with sharp inscriptions. Between them stood statues of past Beelzebubs—warriors, scientists, commanders—each one caught in a moment of triumph. Their expressions were hard. Their postures confident. Nothing about them suggested mercy.
The floor was marked by a long green carpet trimmed in gold, stretching from the threshold to the dais ahead. Repeated down the center was the sigil of House Beelzebub: a broken ring, held together by the massive image of a centipede wrapped around its circumference. Banners bearing the same design hung overhead, suspended between the stone pillars like war standards.
At the far end stood the throne.
Carved from black stone veined with green, it rose tall, sharp-edged, almost jagged. Faint light pulsed from containment lines engraved into its base—an active magical array. Not for defense. For control.
Seated in the center, calm and unreadable, was Shalba Beelzebub.
He looked exactly as I remembered from the old canon—tall, composed, long brown hair falling to his waist in smooth waves. His green, slitted eyes were already fixed on me.
He wore sleek black armor reinforced at key joints. A brown cloak trimmed with white fur draped over his shoulders. Regal, but not flashy. Built for movement—and message.
Azelia stopped behind me as we reached the foot of the dais. I stepped forward but didn't bow.
Shalba's voice was warm, but controlled. "Zephan. I'm glad you came quickly."
"You summoned," I said.
"I did. And with good reason."
He rose and descended two steps from the throne. Close, but not too close. Shalba never gave more ground than necessary.
"Your cousin was dispatched on a mission months ago," he said. "He will not return for some time. Months more, most likely."
His tone was almost gentle. As if it were a relief.
Creuserey had watched me constantly. Every step, every word, every silence—I lived under his eye. He couldn't kill me without risking the loss of Starsend Moment. But he could suffocate me.
And now, he was gone.
Shalba gave a small nod. "He left the estate in the hands of his agents. But I've ensured your quarters remain… undisturbed."
That wasn't generosity. That was calculation. Shalba had always given me space, eased the pressure Creuserey applied, never pushed too hard. Not because he cared. Because he saw value.
Creuserey had no trait. No real inheritance. Just a title, worn like a stolen coat.
Shalba wanted someone who fit the legacy.
He walked a few steps toward one of the banners. "You were born with what most devils will never reach. All Satan descendants begin at Ultimate-class—but even among us, there are limits."
He turned back toward me.
"You are low-Ultimate class now, untrained. But your reserves already place you at High-Ultimate. That's not potential. That's inheritance."
He gestured, voice steady.
"Creuserey and Katerea have worked for decades to reach their level. They lack their clan traits. You and I do not. You hold Starsend Moment. I hold King of Flies. That makes us different."
He stepped closer.
"You could reach Satan-class, Zephan. Like me. With focus, you can stand where our ancestors once stood."
I stayed silent. But inside, I knew he wasn't wrong.
The demonic power in me was real. Heavy. Untamed, but growing. I wasn't a refined fighter yet. Against someone like Sairaorg in full Balance Breaker, I wouldn't last long in close combat. But my raw reserves were stronger. And I was improving.
I had access to elemental magic—fire, lightning, ice—and basic body manipulation: hardened muscle, claws, strengthened limbs. Enough to hold my own, if not dominate.
And then there was Starsend Moment.
I hadn't used it since awakening. I understood its nature better now. Quiet, invisible, seamless. The world simply changed. But the cost scaled with the complexity of what I tried to alter.
It wasn't just dangerous. It was exhausting.
Shalba stopped a few feet from me.
"You've been drifting. Caught in grief and memory. And while you linger, Creuserey gains from standing where you should."
He raised his hand slightly—not a threat, just a gesture.
"I've offered this before. I offer it again. Let me help you become what you're meant to be. Not a relic. A ruler."
I let the silence settle.
For the first time, I didn't immediately deflect.
He was dangerous. But so was being weak.
To change anything, I needed influence. And in Tartarus, power was the only currency that mattered.
I considered the risk. The opportunity.
Then I nodded once.
"For the first time," I said, "I accept."
Shalba's expression barely changed.
But I saw the approval behind his eyes.
"Good," he said. "We begin soon."
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The walk back was quiet.
The noise of Beelzebub's machines faded behind us, replaced by the cool stillness of the Asmodeus estate. Here, the halls were clean again—symmetrical, silent, cold. Guards passed without comment. Servants bowed and vanished quickly.
Azelia followed behind me. Always watchful. Always silent.
I didn't speak. My thoughts were too full.
I spent the rest of the day in my chambers, seated beneath a narrow window as the cavern's crystal light dimmed into simulated night. Runes flickered softly along the walls. The city beyond was calm.
I wasn't thinking about Shalba's words.
They were already decided.
I was thinking about what came next.
I had been placed here—reincarnated, merged, whatever the mechanism was—with full memory of my old life. I knew the factions. The timeline. What would come, and when.
But memory wasn't enough.
Now I had access to more—Zephan's instincts, his experiences, his habits. What I knew and what he knew worked together. And through that, I saw how narrow the margin for error really was.
I didn't just want to survive.
I wanted to move.
Shalba was too dangerous to defy directly. He didn't seek loyalty—he sought utility. As long as I was useful, he would protect me. That was leverage I could use.
Katerea… was different.
She was a manipulator. She used words and networks, not brute force. Her spy web reached far beyond Tartarus, into the human world. If I crossed her too early, it would backfire.
So for now, I would wait.
Creuserey, though—that was different.
He still held the Asmodeus name in practice, even if I had the trait. And reclaiming that authority wouldn't come from a duel.
It would take precision.
I needed information. A full picture of his loyalists—guards, stewards, spies. Their routines. Their weak points. If I wanted to take him apart, I'd have to start at the foundation.
And I already had the tool for it.
Azelia.
From Zephan's memories, her background was clearer now. House Agaliarept—one of the Six Houses of Lucifer. Their clan trait: Mind Domination.
Subtle mental influence. Emotional nudging. Passive memory reading. Full control in rare cases. No glowing eyes, no visible marks. Just silence.
She had never used it on Zephan. Not once. She had been loyal—placed by Shalba to loosen Creuserey's grip. I trusted her more than most.
But I'd still test her.
If I was going to dismantle Creuserey's reach, it would begin with her. Slowly. Carefully.
Katerea could wait. Her usefulness outweighed her threat—for now.
Tonight, I would rest.
Tomorrow would be different.
I stood and turned to the corner of the room where Azelia waited. She hadn't moved since we returned.
"It's late," I said. "You are dismissed for the day. But we'll speak tomorrow. There are important matters to discuss."
She gave a short nod and left without a word.
I turned back toward the quiet chamber.
Tomorrow, everything would begin.
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A/N: Thanks for reading, please leave powerstones and/or a review if you liked it.