The collective silence following Noir Sullivan's jarring rewriting of the Oath was broken not by faculty intervention, but by a single, resonant snap of a fan closing.
Every eye in the auditorium turned toward the source: a strikingly handsome young demon with flaming pink hair, wearing his Babyls uniform with dramatic, perfect flair. This was **Asmodeus Alice**, scion of the powerful Asmodeus lineage, renowned for his pride, impeccable grades, and devastating fire magic. He was widely considered the most powerful new student, until moments ago.
Asmodeus Alice rose from his seat, his intense emerald eyes fixed on Noir. His face was a mask of cold fury, his usual arrogance replaced by something akin to spiritual violation. The raw, challenging power Noir had released felt like a personal insult to his family's reputation and his own superiority.
"You!" Asmodeus's voice carried clearly across the stunned crowd. "What blasphemy was that? The Oath Stone is sacred! You tainted the core contract with the arrogance of a common fiend, yet possessed the power of an Elder Demon. Who are you, and what right do you have to usurp the position of the strongest among us?"
Noir remained seated, trying to project a façade of bored confidence while internally wrestling with the two rivers of divine and abyssal power. The Seraphim energy, still choked and suppressed, was building pressure like a tectonic plate grinding against the Demonic flow. His heart hammered against his ribs; the internal fight was threatening to spill into physical tremors.
"I am Noir Sullivan," he stated calmly, tapping his obsidian horn. He made sure his voice didn't tremble, lending it a low, dangerous quality instead. "And I merely applied for enrollment."
"Lies!" Asmodeus snarled, his hand already crackling with pink flame. "That level of pure, unbridled mana does not belong to the grandson of the frivolous Sullivan! You are a pretender, a rogue agent, or worse—a beast with no control! Such power deserves respect, not this… this *gimmick*!"
Asmodeus descended from the stands, ignoring the murmurs of the faculty. He marched directly to where Noir was seated.
"If you are truly a lord of the Abyss, prove it! I, Asmodeus Alice, challenge you to a **Duel of Authority**! If you are stronger, I will accept your declaration. If you are a fraud, I will burn your insolence from this sacred hall!"
The sight of the approaching Asmodeus, fueled by fiery magic, triggered a genuine, crippling panic in Noir.
*I have no spells.*
This was the terrifying paradox of his existence. His mana reserves were vast—a boundless wellspring drawn from both the highest heavens and the deepest abyss. But raw mana was not a tool; it was a resource. He had no techniques, no incantations, and absolutely **no idea how to shape** the overwhelming force inside him into a usable defense or attack. His power was pure potential, not application.
*He's radiating heat. This is a real demon using real magic. I can't fight him! I don't know the first thing about fighting!*
Noir's thoughts screamed, yet he forced his face into an expression of utter disdain.
Asmodeus stopped directly in front of him, radiating heat and fury.
"Stand up, Sullivan! Accept the challenge or admit your cowardice!"
Noir slowly stood, forcing his legs not to shake. He focused every ounce of his concentration on maintaining the strict mental partitions Opera had taught him, all while making a desperate bluff. He had to rely on the inherent, crushing **Aura of the Primordial Demon** to intimidate his opponent before the duel even began.
He allowed a controlled *leak* of the Abyssal Mana—just enough to make the air grow heavy and cause the floor beneath Asmodeus to groan faintly.
"A challenge?" Noir's voice was deep, laced with the echo of his earlier spiritual declaration. He was acting, imitating the ancient authority that had erupted from him, hoping to sell the performance. "You challenge the one who re-wrote the Oath Stone? Are you truly so confident, little fire-starter?"
Asmodeus hesitated for a crucial beat, feeling the unnatural gravity of Noir's presence. But his pride, the hallmark of the Asmodeus clan, overruled his instinct.
"I am! My fire will purge your dark ambition!" Asmodeus roared, and without waiting for the signal, he unleashed his signature spell.
"Fire Magic: Raging Purgatory Maw!"
A massive, swirling vortex of rose-pink fire erupted from Asmodeus's hand, instantly shaping itself into the head of a monstrous, hungry beast hurtling straight for Noir. The heat was immense, causing the marble pillars nearby to glow faintly.
Noir's survival instinct—the same one that had kept him alive on the fishing boat—took over.
*I'm dead. I'm going to burn. The whole school is going to see the 'Demon King' get incinerated by a teenager.*
In that moment of raw terror, he didn't use a technique; he panicked, and that panic expressed itself as a desperate, spiritual rigidity.
He stopped trying to **flow** the mana. Instead, with a horrified mental jerk, he slammed the door on the **Demonic Mana** while simultaneously intensifying the seal on the **Seraphim Mana**. This was not the smooth "Balance" Opera intended; this was slamming two opposing forces against each other right beneath his skin, creating a spiritual wall of *No*.
The pink vortex of fire was only feet away when it impacted this volatile, concentrated barrier. The *Raging Purgatory Maw* was composed of complex, organized fire magic. But when it hit the space around Noir, it encountered the point of greatest internal spiritual strain: the wall where the cold, rigid demand for **Order** met the crushing, chaotic need for **Entropy**.
The magical principle of the fire was fundamentally violated. Its structure was destabilized by the contradictory presence.
The vortex **didn't explode**; it **buckled**.
The colossal head of fire shrank and twisted, consuming its own energy as the chaotic spiritual forces tore at its structural integrity. In less than a second, the entire spell—the raging heat, the light, the form—collapsed into a small, flickering cinder of pink light that dissipated harmlessly a foot from Noir's face.
Noir stood untouched, his crimson eyes wide not with power, but with sheer, internal shock. He had done nothing but panic and survive, and his essence had devoured the complex spell.
Asmodeus Alice was utterly aghast. His most powerful, meticulously crafted spell had been nullified, not by a stronger spell, but by sheer, inexplicable spiritual physics—an energy so incompatible with normal magic that it simply **negated** the spell's existence.
The silence returned, heavier this time.
Noir, still recovering from the internal whiplash, realized he was supposed to speak. He forced the raw authority back into his voice, fighting the trembling in his limbs.
"You challenged the Lord of the Abyss," he stated, his voice now lower, rougher, and laced with absolute, terrifying conviction. "You should have brought more than a parlor trick."
*It was a fluke. It was a complete, lucky fluke. Don't challenge me again. Please don't challenge me again.*
Asmodeus didn't fight back. He didn't even attempt a rebuttal. His pride, which had driven the challenge, now recognized the unmistakable reality of his defeat. He saw not a frightened boy, but a primal, incomprehensible force that effortlessly defied the laws of magic he had mastered.
Slowly, deliberately, Asmodeus Alice lowered himself to one knee before Noir Sullivan. His emerald eyes, once filled with fury, were now alight with intense, unwavering reverence.
"The power… the sheer, defiant authority that consumes my strongest spell without effort…" Asmodeus whispered, bowing his head in total submission. "I misunderstood your nature, Lord. I insulted your throne. My pride has been utterly broken by your majesty."
He reached up and took a handful of his pink hair, laying it on the ground—a traditional gesture of total surrender and fealty among the high-ranking demon nobility.
"Asmodeus Alice," he declared, his voice ringing with renewed, devoted purpose, "I swear my absolute **loyalty** to you, the one true master of this domain. I will serve you, your majesty, in the acquisition of your new throne. Command me, my Lord."
The auditorium erupted in gasps and frantic whispers. The highest-ranked fire user had been utterly **subjugated** by the student who had just rewritten the oath.
Noir, standing over his new, kneeling devotee, felt a complicated mix of relief, confusion, and a sudden, sharp spike of triumph from the Primordial Demonic energy. He had survived. He had won. And now he had a follower.
He looked down at Asmodeus, whose eyes gleamed with absolute fealty, then to the faculty table where Sullivan was now openly weeping tears of pure joy, and finally to Ameri Azazel, who was watching him with frightening, focused intensity.
"Rise, Asmodeus," Noir commanded, trying out the sound of true authority, hoping the fear didn't show in his eyes. "You have made your oath. Now, we go to class."