The news the next day did not simply spread; it detonated across the Underworld, its shockwaves rattling the foundations of every great house. Official proclamations, stamped with the formidable seal of the Bael clan, confirmed the rumors: Kael had formally and irrevocably renounced the name Phenex and had been welcomed into the bosom of the Bael clan, his status personally sanctified by Zekrum Bael himself. The underworld's gossip networks, usually abuzz with speculation, fell into a moment of stunned silence before erupting into a frantic, fevered pitch. The most dangerous devil of his generation had not just chosen a side; he had reforged his very identity.
Yet, coiled within the tail of this seismic announcement was a venomous adder. The Sitri clan, leveraging their reputation for cunning, issued a counter-statement. Through a cadre of their most silver-tongued diplomats and razor-sharp legalists, they declared their refusal to pay the compensation for the annulled marriage contract. Their argument was a masterclass in deceitful legality: the contract had been negotiated with *Kael Phenex*. By voluntarily discarding that identity, he had voided the agreement. They acknowledged no debt to Kael *Bael*.
This was the pinnacle of the Sitri clan's **strategical mind** at work. The truth, apparent to any devil with a shred of political acumen, was that they had never intended to grant him access to the Sitri Archive—the legendary repository holding millennia of magical research, including the priceless, secret troves inherited from the Leviathan faction when **Serafall** ascended to the title of **Leviathan**. The compensation was a promise they had always planned to break.
The news found Kael in the heart of the Bael manor's war room, studying ancient tactical maps with Zekrum. A steward delivered the missive with trembling hands. As Kael read the words, the air in the room grew dense, charged with a sudden, terrifying potential. The calm on his face did not break; it solidified into something cold and absolute. And then, his **Conqueror's Haki erupted**.
It was not a mere wave of pressure; it was a silent, spiritual tsunami. Throughout the manor's west wing, every **servant** of **mid to low class** power collapsed where they stood, slumping to the floor in a dead **faint**. In the hallways, guards of **high class and Ultimate class** devil rank cried out, bracing themselves against walls, their knees buckling, **having trouble staying awake** as they fought the imperative to lose consciousness, their minds screaming under the assault.
But this was beyond a mere test of will. Kael's fury was so profound, so pure, that his Haki transcended the spiritual and **became strong enough to affect the physical world**. The very air crackled. **Red lightning**—the visible embodiment of a supreme monarch's wrath—crackled and arced from his body, earthing itself into stone walls and leaving blackened scorch marks. The beautiful, ancient stained-glass windows depicting Bael victories **shattered** inward, not with a roar but with a high, sharp cry, scattering a million crystalline shards across the floor. Deep **cracks** raced across the marble flagstones beneath his feet, radiating outwards like a spider web of power.
He stood at the epicenter of this destruction, his eyes glowing with cold, **royal purple** fire, a demon king whose mere emotion could reshape reality.
Zekrum Bael, who had remained as still and unmoved as a mountain throughout the cataclysm, finally turned his head. His ancient eyes took in the destruction—the scorch marks, the cracked floor, the unconscious servants—and then returned to Kael. There was no anger, no rebuke. Instead, a deep, primal satisfaction glinted in his gaze. He had not just acquired power; he had acquired a force of nature. He gave a slow, deliberate nod. The message had been received, and it was more potent than any words.
With a calm that contrasted violently with the recent storm, Zekrum summoned his most steadfast scribe. He dictated a terse, uncompromising letter to the Sitri clan. It demanded not only the original compensation but a further sum for the insult of their cowardly legal maneuvering, delivered by a Bael hell-hawk whose very presence was meant to be a threat.
The Sitri response was not fear but brazen defiance. They rejected the demand outright. Their confidence was a shield provided by their powerful backing: they had the **full support of the Satans**. Serafall Leviathan, in particular, had mobilized her influence to create a political bulwark around her sister's clan, daring the Baels to break through. Emboldened, the Sitris did not hide; they **requested a formal meeting** of the High Council to "adjudicate the matter," a transparent ploy to have the Satans sanctify their betrayal.
The challenge was accepted without hesitation.
The journey to the council chambers was made in a sleek, black limousine armored with enchanted obsidian. Zekrum Bael, the current Lord Bael, and Kael sat in silence, each occupied with their own thoughts. Notably, Zekrum never once questioned Kael about the Haki, its nature, or its shocking physical manifestation. He seemed to understand its function intuitively—that it culled the weak-willed. He filed the knowledge away, another critical data point in assessing kael
As the imposing spires of the council building loomed ahead, Zekrum broke the silence. "**Kael,**" he began, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the car's interior. "**What is your assessment of the lords who will sit in judgment today?**"
Kael, who had been gazing out at the teeming city, did not turn. His reflection was cold and sharp in the window. "**They are clutter,**" he stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "**Noise. They sit at a table of power but bring only cutlery. Their schemes are the desperate scratching of insects beneath the boot. Those who are weak do not deserve to sit beside us. They deserve to kneel.**"
Zekrum said nothing, but the faintest ghost of a smile touched his lips. The philosophy was pure, undiluted Bael. It was the creed of his bloodline.
The car **stopped** at the grand platinum gates. As they **stepped out**, they were met by a full honor guard of council servants and guards—all under the direct employ and protection of the Satans. Kael did not pause. As he walked toward the entrance, he **released a wave of Conqueror's Haki**. It was a focused, precise tool. The line of **servants and guards** shuddered as one, their proud postures breaking as they were forced **onto their knees**, their heads bowing toward the ground as the three Baels passed. It was not a greeting; it was a statement of hierarchy.
The main **council room** was a cavernous space, its ceiling lost in shadow, the round table of obsidian and gold gleaming under magical lights. The lords of the great clans were already seated, a murmur of tense conversation filling the air. The four Satans sat in elevated thrones behind them. The Sitri lord looked out from behind Serafall's symbolic protection, a smug tilt to his chin.
All conversation died the moment the Baels entered. Kael stopped just inside the doorway, letting his gaze sweep across the assembled aristocracy. He saw not leaders, but obstacles. And then, he unleashed his will.
It was not a wave but an **overwhelming** tide of Conqueror's Haki, a deluge of spiritual pressure that sought to fill every corner of the room and crush everything within it.
The result was instantaneous and humiliating. The ornate, magically reinforced **chairs the lords of the clans were sitting on** splintered with a sound like gunshots, exploding outwards and **breaking** into useless kindling. The lords themselves—the heads of the great houses—cried out in shock, pain, and utter humiliation as they tumbled from their shattered seats to land hard **on their knees** on the cold floor, pinned there by the unbearable weight of his will.
The Gremory, Sitri, and the direct vassal families of the other Satans were spared the same fate. Not out of mercy, but because the Satans themselves—Sirzechs, Ajuka, Serafall, and Falbium—reacted a split second later. A visible corona of their own immense power flared around them and their allies, a protective dome that deflected the worst of the Haki's force. Their **expressions became ugly**, shifting from neutral authority to stark disbelief and then to cold, furious anger. Serafall's face was a mask of icy rage. Sirzechs' usual amiability was gone, replaced by a hard, calculating look. They had prepared for a war of words, a political duel. Kael had instead declared open season and had already claimed the first trophies.
He had not just drawn a line in the sand; he had poured a moat of fire and dared them to cross. On one side, kneeling and vanquished, were the weak. On the other, standing only by the grace of their masters' intervention, were the protected. And in the center, untouched, uncompromising, and utterly dominant, stood the new power that answered to no authority but its own. The council had not even begun, and Kael had already won.
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AUTHOR NOTES
IF ANY SUGGESTIONS PLEASE GIVE ANY SUGGESTION TO MAKE THE STORY BETTER IS WELCOMED
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