The ride from the sky castle to Babyls Academy was a blur of arcane geometry and anxious silence. Opera had spent the journey lecturing Noir on the fundamentals of demonic magic—mana flow, elemental affinities, and the basic principles of binding contracts—all of which only highlighted the vast, gaping void in Noir's own practical knowledge. Noir nodded, feigning understanding, while internally he was agonizingly trying to visualize the separation of the Demonic and Seraphim energies.
"Remember, Young Master," Opera concluded, his voice cutting through the rumbling of the carriage wheels as they neared the academy gates, "Absolute control is maintained through discipline, not emotion. Do not allow the fear of disappointing others to weaken your internal seals. Project indifference; that is the simplest form of authority."
"Understood, Opera," Noir murmured, running a thumb over the polished obsidian of his horn. The horn felt less like a feature and more like a warning light; it pulsed faintly when the internal pressure spiked.
The carriage, drawn by magnificent, bat-winged horses, finally came to a smooth stop at the main academy entrance.
Noir swallowed, taking a deep, steadying breath. It's just a performance. They expect arrogance. Give them arrogance.
As the carriage door was opened by an Academy attendant, Noir stepped out into the bustling morning light. Hundreds of students were already milling about, heading toward their respective classrooms, but the moment Noir's crimson eyes swept over the courtyard, the subtle, wide path of respect instantly reformed around him.
And then he saw him.
Asmodeus Alice stood waiting by the steps of the main hall, impeccably dressed and radiating the coiled intensity of a guard dog waiting for his master. The pink-haired demon's emerald eyes locked onto Noir with absolute, unadulterated fervor.
Noir's carefully constructed façade wavered, a cold dart of pure nervousness shooting through his stomach.
Oh, gods. He's still here. He's completely serious.
The memory of the duel—the accidental nullification and the subsequent, immediate subjugation—felt fresh and terrifying. Asmodeus was a ticking time bomb of devotion; one wrong word, one moment of perceived weakness, and the demon might either incinerate an innocent bystander in a fit of protective zeal, or realize his Lord was utterly inept and challenge him again.
Project indifference. Project indifference.
Noir forced his shoulders back, allowing a hint of the Abyssal energy to surface—just enough to give his presence a chilling weight. He didn't smile, he didn't nod; he simply began to walk toward the main entrance, moving as if the ground beneath him was solely his to tread.
Asmodeus immediately fell into his accustomed position: a deferential half-step behind and to the right.
"Good morning, My Lord," Asmodeus greeted him, his voice pitched low, carrying only for Noir. His tone was perfectly respectful, yet brimming with excitement. "I trust your sleep was worthy of your rank."
"Adequate," Noir replied curtly, maintaining the façade. Don't engage. Act above him.
"I apologize for my forwardness, My Lord," Asmodeus continued, utterly unfazed by the lack of warmth, "but I have taken the liberty of reviewing your class schedule for the day."
Noir felt a sliver of relief; the conversation was, at least, transactional. "Proceed."
"Our first class is Arcane Fundamentals with Sensei Kalego," Asmodeus informed him, his eyes sparkling with anticipation. "It is the most critical class of the week, as it pertains to the cornerstone of demon life: the Familiar Summoning Ceremony."
Noir kept his face rigid, but his internal focus sharpened. A familiar? That meant magic, spells, and technique—all the things he lacked.
"And what does this ceremony entail?" Noir asked, slowing his pace slightly.
Asmodeus beamed, recognizing the inquiry as a sign of his Lord's supreme, calculating interest.
"It is simple, My Lord, but immensely important. Every demon student, upon formal enrollment, must summon a familiar—a creature bound by contract to serve them. This familiar acts as the extension of a demon's power and will."
Asmodeus then lowered his voice conspiratorially, leaning in slightly as they entered the bustling school hallway. "But the critical part, My Lord, is this: the strength of the familiar determines the student's rank."
Noir's external composure remained flawless—the cold, unreadable face of the formidable demon. But inside, his mind seized on the implications.
"The student's rank?" Noir echoed, carefully.
"Yes! The rank is measured and recorded based on the familiar's power, fearlessness, and loyalty. It is the initial measure of a demon's true potential and ability to command," Asmodeus explained, his enthusiasm barely contained. "The current highest rank is held by a third-year whose familiar is a powerful, ancient beast. But for someone of your boundless authority, My Lord, the familiar you summon will surely establish you in the highest ranks of the entire school immediately!"
Asmodeus spoke with utter certainty, convinced that his powerful master would effortlessly bind some legendary, world-consuming entity.
Noir, however, was suddenly consumed by a different kind of thought.
A familiar… a being bound to my core.
He didn't know how to cast a single offensive spell, but the ceremony wasn't about specialized skill; it was about raw contractual power. If the ritual drew mana from his core and projected it into a binding contract, it would access the entire wellspring—the infinite, clashing potential of the Abyss and the Seraphim.
He wouldn't need to know the incantation for a fireball; he would simply need to provide the raw spiritual fuel for the contract. The sheer, untold volume of his power, the energy that had already shattered the Oath Stone and nullified a high-level spell, would be pouring into the summoning.
The thought of what that contract might pull out of the void—what kind of monstrous, paradoxical familiar could be bound by the mana of a hybrid Seraphim/Primordial Demon—sent a cold wave of adrenaline through him.
This wasn't just a threat; it was an opportunity. If the ritual worked, he could secure an overwhelming rank with zero magical skill, giving him the perfect, unassailable camouflage he desperately needed.
Noir's tired, nervous crimson eyes suddenly gleamed with genuine, focused excitement.
A binding contract based on pure, infinite mana volume? This... this might actually work.