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The news of what transpired within the shattered remains of Kuoh Academy's student council room did not simply spread through the Underworld; it detonated across the demonic strata of society with the force of a supernova, its shockwaves reverberating through the very foundations of every great house and echoing in the silent, opulent halls where power truly resided. Information traveled through specialized magical conduits, whispered conversations in exclusive clubs, and frantic emergency council meetings. The reaction was immediate, polarized, and perfectly reflected the brutal new era of stark choices that was dawning—an era where subtlety was dying and raw power was becoming the only true currency.
The **Bael clan stood taller and more unyielding than ever before**, their collective posture one of defiant, almost arrogant pride. Their official statements, delivered by grim-faced emissaries to every major and minor clan, were masterpieces of cold, uncompromising logic designed to quash any dissent before it could form. They addressed the death of Genshirou Saji not with apology or regret, but with dismissive, terrifying finality. Their position was brutally clear: a **mere servant**, a reincarnated devil of the lowest possible station, had **publicly disrespected a recognized Satan-class devil and a direct scion of the Great Bael Clan**. In their unshakeable view, Kael's response wasn't an overreaction; it was the necessary enforcement of a natural, ancient law—the strong righteously culling the weak for their unforgivable impudence. They rejected the Sitri clan's demands for compensation with open, scathing contempt, framing them as the pathetic whining of an incompetent leader who could not control her own pieces. The message was carved in stone for all to see: the old courtesies and diplomatic niceties were dead and buried. **Power was the only currency that mattered**, and the Baels were the richest house in the realm.
The **Sitri clan's reaction** was one of pure, unadulterated, and utterly helpless devastation. Their demands for justice, while passionate and morally sound, were the cries of those who had already lost the war before the first true battle could even be joined. They were shouting into a hurricane, their voices torn away by the winds of a new, crueler reality. Sona was completely broken, locked away in her quarters, the horrific, visceral image of her pawn's explosive demise seared permanently into her mind, a waking nightmare that shattered her famed stoicism. Their heartfelt appeals to tradition, law, and basic decency fell upon ears that had willfully chosen to hear only the brutal, simplistic language of force. They were now the tragic, cautionary tale of the new order.
Seeing the political landscape shifting like tectonic plates, the **Satans moved with calculated, cold precision**. They understood they could not directly challenge the Bael narrative without risking the open, catastrophic war they had thus far managed to avoid. So, they chose instead to manipulate the outcome, to turn this disaster to their advantage. In private, sound-proofed councils with the other Great Clans, their messengers and proxies framed the incident not as a tragedy, but as a brutal, necessary object lesson in realpolitik. "The Sitri trusted in rules, in honor," the subtle implication went, "and look where it has left them. Isolated, weak, and humiliated. Will you stand with them and inevitably share their fate, or will you align yourselves with the side of undeniable, terrifying strength?" It was a masterful, deeply cynical play. They used Kael's horrific act as a **blunt instrument to shatter old alliances** and forge new, pragmatic ones, herding the frightened and ambitious nobility away from the defeated Sitri and toward the ascendant, terrifying power of the Bael faction, all while positioning themselves as the necessary intermediaries of this new power.
**(Bael Mansion - The Inner Sanctum)**
In a magically fortified, secure chamber deep within the heart of the Bael mansion—a room lined with lead, enchanted obsidian, and blood-bound secrecy runes—Kael, Zekrum, and the current Lord Bael were reviewing the clan's strategic position. Maps of the Underworld and human world glowed on tables, and reports from various spies lay scattered. The atmosphere was tense, focused, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and simmering power.
A senior servant, his face pale with apprehension, entered after a series of complex knocks, bowing so deeply his forehead nearly touched the cold stone floor before handing a single, sealed communiqué to Lord Bael. The wax seal, which he broke with a snap, was not from a friendly house.
As Lord Bael's eyes scanned the succinct, damning document, his face darkened like a storm cloud. His knuckles turned bone-white where he gripped the expensive parchment, and with a sudden, furious roar that seemed to shake the very dust from the shelves, he **tore it apart violently**, scattering the pieces like pathetic confetti across the ancient floor.
"Damn those scheming Satans! Damn those spineless, sniveling cowards!" he seethed, his voice shaking with a rage so profound it vibrated in the air. The curse was aimed squarely at the **lords of the noble devil clans**, the so-called Pillars of the underworld who were now showing their true colors.
The paper had contained a concise intelligence report: one by one, the clans who had been traditional, sworn allies of the Bael clan for centuries were now giving them a deliberate, calculated **cold shoulder**. Bael diplomats were being politely but firmly turned away at borders, long-standing trade agreements were being suddenly "reconsidered" or delayed indefinitely, and urgent messages were going conspicuously unanswered. The Satans' campaign of isolation was working with terrifying efficiency. The other clans, either terrified of being the next target or desperately eager to curry favor with what they perceived as the winning side, were publicly distancing themselves. The thought that they would dare treat the mighty, legendary Bael clan with such disrespect **infuriated** Lord Bael to his very core. It was an insult that demanded a response written in blood.
Zekrum Bael, throughout this outburst, said absolutely nothing. His ancient, weathered face was an unreadable mask, his eyes closed as if in deep meditation. He slowly turned his head, his piercing, millennia-old gaze bypassing his enraged grandson entirely and settling directly, heavily, upon Kael.
"Kael," Zekrum's voice was preternaturally calm, a stark, unsettling contrast to the tension choking the room. "What do you propose we do now?" It was phrased like a question, but in reality, it was a clear statement, a passing of the torch: *You created this problem with your actions. You will now provide the solution.*
"I think," Kael said, his voice devoid of any emotion, cold and flat as a polished steel blade, "it is time to show them the true, irrevocable power of the Bael clan. To make them understand that their isolation of us is not a choice they are permitted to make. It is a temporary state that we, and we alone, will permit or revoke."
With that, he raised a single hand. The air in the room shimmered, warping visibly as an immensely powerful **privacy spell** sealed the chamber from any possible magical or physical observation, cutting them off from the rest of reality. The action was so sudden and the magic involved so potent and complex that both Lord Bael and Zekrum became instantly **alert**, their own immense power rising instinctively in response to the potential threat.
"Kael, what is the meaning of this...?" Lord Bael began, his anger shifting to confusion and wariness, but his words were **sharply interrupted** as Kael did something truly unimaginable.
He reached within himself, past the layers of control, to the very core of his being where a series of self-imposed, immensely powerful seals kept his true nature contained, and with a single, simple thought, he **removed the last of his suppressing seals**.
It was not an explosion of energy. It was an *unveiling* of reality. A *revelation*.
A wave of power so profound, so absolute, so fundamentally *other*, flooded the sealed chamber that the very enchanted stone of the walls seemed to groan in protest, the ancient wards flickering violently under the strain. It was a **crushing, omnipresent pressure** that spoke of a realm of existence far beyond that of an Ultimate-class devil, far beyond even that of a typical Satan-class devil. It was the pressure of a nascent star contained within a human form. Lord Bael gasped, physically staggering back a step and catching himself on the edge of a heavy oak table, his eyes wide with a mixture of utter shock and primal, instinctual fear. Zekrum's ancient, legendary composure finally cracked, his eyes widening a visible fraction, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in his hands stilling as he focused entirely on the phenomenon before him.
"Impossible..." Lord Bael breathed, the words a hoarse, disbelieving whisper torn from his very soul. "Your power... it's... you're a... **Super Devil**!"
**Super Devil**. The term was legend, a myth, a realm of power thought to be achievable only by removing the metaphysical restrictions placed upon devilkind by the original Lucifer himself at the dawn of their race. As far as their ancient knowledge knew, only three beings in all of history had ever reached this god-like zenith: Sirzechs Lucifer, Ajuka Beelzebub, and the hidden, treacherous threat, Euclid Lucifuge. Now, indisputably, there was a fourth. And he belonged to the Bael clan.
The implications were earth-shattering, reality-altering. Every political calculation, every careful alliance, every threat and promise made across the underworld in the last week was rendered instantly obsolete, rendered trivial and childish.
A slow, wide, triumphant smile spread across Zekrum Bael's face, the first genuine, unguarded expression of pure, unadulterated victory he had shown in centuries. He looked from his stunned, shaken grandson to Kael, the living, breathing weapon of mass destruction that had just redefined their world's entire hierarchy.
"Send invitations," Zekrum commanded, his voice ringing with absolute, unquestionable authority that brooked no dissent. "To all the noble devil Pillars. And to the Satans themselves. The Great House of Bael will host a banquet tomorrow evening. Attendance is mandatory. It is time we showed our... *guests*... our true power. Let them come and look upon their new god."
.... **The Banquet of Revelation** ....
The next evening, a summons—for it was far more than a mere invitation—was received by every major and minor devil clan of note. Delivered by stone-faced Bael retainers who offered no answers to frantic questions, it announced an immediate, mandatory banquet at the Bael manor. The stated topic was deliberately omitted, but the summons itself carried a weight of unmistakable, terrifying finality. Refusal was not an option; it would be interpreted as a declaration of war.
The great hall of the Bael manor was transformed into a scene of opulent, intimidating grandeur designed to awe and humble. banners bearing the Bael crest hung between tapestries depicting their legendary victories. The long tables groaned under the weight of exotic foods and rare vintages from a hundred worlds. Ethereal music provided by bound spectral musicians floated in the air. But beneath the surface of the lavish spectacle, the air was thick with a tension so palpable it was like breathing fine metal shavings. The lords and ladies of the Pillar families were all there, their expensive robes and polished jewels doing little to hide their tight, nervous smiles and darting, fearful eyes. The Satans were present in full regalia—Sirzechs, Serafall, Ajuka, and Falbium—seated at the high table, their expressions a carefully maintained mix of polite interest and deeply watchful caution. The Sitri contingent was notably, pointedly absent.
The evening proceeded with a strained, brittle formality. Forced conversation and the clink of cutlery against fine china echoed in the hall. The unspoken question hung over everyone like a guillotine blade: *Why are we here? What does the Bael clan want?*
Finally, as the main course was cleared by silent, efficient servants, Zekrum Bael rose from his imposing seat at the head of the table. A dead hush fell over the assembled aristocracy, so complete that the fading note of the spectral music seemed to scream in the silence.
"Honored guests," Zekrum began, his voice, amplified by a whisper of power, echoing effortlessly in the vast, silent hall. "We have gathered you here tonight not merely for feast and hollow fellowship, but to correct a rather... significant misapprehension that seems to have recently clouded the judgment of certain parties within the underworld." His gaze swept over the crowd, lingering for a moment on the Satans' table. "It has come to my attention that some among you believe the strength of the Bael clan is a matter for debate. That our position, earned through millennia of conquest and blood, is somehow subject to the whims of fleeting politics and temporary alliances."
He paused, letting the uncomfortable, heavy silence stretch to the breaking point.
"This is a fundamental error. A dangerous one. Tonight, that error will be corrected." He turned his head slightly, a minimal gesture that carried the weight of a world. "Kael."
As one, every eye in the hall turned to Kael. He had been standing motionless and overlooked in the shadows of a far wall, a specter at the feast. At his name, he pushed himself off the wall and began to walk with a slow, deliberate, and utterly calm pace to the very center of the great hall. He did not look at the Satans. He did not acknowledge the gathered lords. He simply stood there, a still point in a turning world.
And then, he ceased suppressing his power.
He didn't unleash it in an attack. He didn't shout or roar. He simply… let it *be*. He allowed the truth of what he was to exist in the space, uncontained.
The effect was instantaneous and cataclysmic. It was not a wave of force; it was the sudden, terrifying sensation of the ocean floor falling away into a lightless, abyssal trench miles deep. The air itself became thick, syrupy, resistant to movement and difficult to breathe. The magnificent light in the room seemed to dim, not from any lack of source, but because it was being drawn inward, bent and swallowed by the gravitational field of his mere presence. The **crushing, omnipresent pressure** he had revealed in the private chamber returned, but this time it was unleashed, multiplied a hundredfold to fill the vast hall, a physical and spiritual weight that pressed down on every soul.
Servants of low and mid-class rank collapsed where they stood, slumping to the floor in a dead faint, their minds and bodies simply shutting down. High-class devils cried out, gripping the edges of tables for support, their bodies trembling violently, veins bulging on their temples as they fought with every ounce of their strength just to remain conscious and upright. Ultimate-class devils, the proud, ancient lords of great houses, sank to their knees on the cold floor, their faces pale with a terror they had never known, their eyes wide with the humiliating realization that their power, their vaunted titles, their millennia-old bloodlines—none of it mattered. They were gnats before a hurricane, leaves in a cosmic storm.
At the high table, the reaction was more controlled but infinitely more profound, for they understood exactly what they were witnessing. Falbium grunted, his body solidifying, his form seeming to become denser and more mountainous, as if bracing against a gale-force wind. Ajuka's glasses glinted as his fingers twitched minutely on the tablecloth, countless magical calculations and energy readings undoubtedly flashing behind his eyes at impossible speeds as he tried and failed to categorize the impossible data he was sensing. Serafall's carefully maintained, playful facade shattered completely, replaced by a look of sheer, unvarnished icy horror as she realized the true, unimaginable depth of the monster they had been so carelessly provoking. This was beyond politics; this was extinction-level power.
Sirzechs Lucifer did not move a muscle, but the air around him shimmered and twisted faintly with the contained, reactive aura of his own Power of Destruction, a subconscious, instinctual response to the overwhelming, peer-level threat standing in the room. His face was a mask of solemn, grim acceptance. He looked across the hall at Kael, and in that single, crystalline moment, he *knew*. The balance of power had not just shifted; it had been utterly, irrevocably obliterated. A new sun had risen in their sky, and it burned with cold, purple fire.
Kael stood at the epicenter of the chaos and terror he had created without lifting a finger, his eyes glowing with a soft, steady, **royal purple light**. He was the calm, immovable eye at the heart of the storm. He had not spoken a single word. He had made no threats, issued no demands. He had simply *existed* at his full capacity for a few moments, revealing a mere fraction of his true nature.
The message was more eloquent, more terrifying, and more absolute than any speech could ever hope to be.
The Bael clan did not need allies. The Bael clan did not need to play political games or negotiate for position. The Bael clan housed a **Super Devil**. They were no longer mere participants in the hierarchy of the underworld; they were its undisputed apex, its final arbiters. They *were* the hierarchy.
As the staggering, horrifying reality of what they were witnessing settled over the room—the confirmation of a fourth, living Super Devil standing casually in their midst—the previous weeks' politics, the shaky alliances, the calculated cold shoulders, all of it vanished, rendered trivial, meaningless, and childish. The world had changed in an instant, in the space between two heartbeats. And as Kael finally, slowly, re-imposed his seals, allowing the crushing pressure to recede back into its fathomless depths, every single devil in the hall knew, with chilling certainty, that they were now living in Kael Bael's world. And the rules were his to write.