The creature collapsed, devoid of any ceremony.
The head separated from the torso in a single surgical movement; the rest was merely physics bending to the blade's dominance.
Fourteen.
Kael remained motionless for a few seconds, watching the tension drain from the corpse.
Low-Class Mission — High Risk.
Officially, within permitted parameters. In practice... it no longer represented a real challenge. And that bothered him.
The Fragment of Lostvayne vibrated subtly as he wiped away the dried blood. It wasn't euphoria; it was expectation. Hungry. Always hungry.
He took a deep breath. The body was intact, microfractures closing silently. Nothing that required activating the curse, but the mental exhaustion persisted—it didn't regenerate at the same rate as the flesh.
Kael spread his wings and left, leaving the valley behind.
On the horizon, Lilith City rose in segregated layers. Upper Districts shimmered in the distance, protected by invisible barriers, political permissions, and the dominion of the Great Families. Low-Class Demons did not cross those borders; not for lack of physical strength, but because of structure, rule, and caste.
When Kael landed on the main road of District 9, the reaction was immediate. Instinctive.
Low-Class Demons recoiled without understanding why. Steps hesitated, conversations died in the air. Some crossed the street to avoid his path. It wasn't conscious fear, but a primal recognition. Something within them screamed: "This doesn't belong here."
Kael advanced silently, without imposing his will. However, the Ancestral Demonic Authority manifested itself organically. Unconsciously. Naturally.
The Middle-Class Demons who crossed his path felt a deep, visceral discomfort. It was like an infra-bass sound that the body perceives, but the ear doesn't process. If a High-Class demon were present, they would notice something even more disturbing: not a direct threat, but a presence that ignored modern hierarchy. Something too ancient to be subdued.
As he walked, memories of the last two months surfaced:
The Stone of Condemnation dragged across sharp ashes for an uninterrupted hour. Letting go meant failing. He never let go.
Five thousand punches with bare fists. Shattered bones, regeneration learning and adapting under the trauma.
Five thousand push-ups on incandescent rock. Muscles tearing. "If it tears… keep going." He continued.
One hundred kilometers of running across solidified lava. No pauses. To stop was to accept slow death.
Fourteen missions completed. From low to high risk. No escape, no excuses, no gratuitous activation of immortality. The body evolved, the mind hardened, and something else awakened—something alien to the contemporary Underworld.
The doors to the mission building opened automatically. Silence followed, gradual and inevitable. Behind the counter, a Middle Class demon from the Phoenix Clan maintained a firm posture, but his shoulders betrayed the tension. He sensed the anomaly before him.
"The fourteenth mission has been registered and confirmed," the attendant declared after a meticulous check.
Kael nodded.
"I need information about your application for the Ascension Tournament."
The attendant took a deep breath.
"For that, we need to validate the completion of the fifteen mandatory missions."
"The fifteenth will be completed today."
The demon analyzed the data for longer than necessary.
"Your progress... is atypical."
It wasn't an accusation, just an inevitable observation. He placed a metal seal on the counter.
"This is the official proof. It confirms that you completed the requirements without external interference."
Kael took the seal, feeling the weight of the symbol.
— And the registration?
— Formal registration doesn't happen here. You must present yourself to the Agares Clan territory. This document only certifies your missions. Screening and final authorization are exclusively their responsibility.
— Transportation?
— Arcane Train. East Platform. Only recognized candidates board.
Kael kept the seal without saying anything more. He turned and left. The attendant only relaxed when the door sealed, and even then, it took seconds for the oppressive feeling to dissipate.
Outside, Kael observed the upper districts. There was no envy or immediate desire, only the cold understanding that the Underworld was made of filters and castes. The tournament was just another one of them. Not participating wasn't neutrality; it was stagnation. And stagnation was death.
Seven hearts beat in unison. Lostvayne vibrated.
The fifteenth mission awaited him.
After that... the tracks. The Agares territory. A tournament designed to measure Low-Class demons.
The problem was that something predating the system itself was about to enter it. And the Underworld hadn't yet realized the impact that was coming.
Kael didn't need maps to find the location of the fifteenth mission. The Fragment of Lostvayne acted as a thirst compass, pointing to the rift on the edges of District 9, where the reality of the Underworld seemed thinnest and sickest.
The Final Stage
The target was a Fallen Soul Eater. An abomination that had once been Middle Class, but had succumbed to madness, becoming a mass of eyes and fangs that fed on other Low Class demons.
When Kael entered the damp cavern, the smell of ozone and sulfur was suffocating. The creature roared, a sound that would make any recruit's knees buckle.
Kael didn't even draw his blade immediately. He just walked.
The Devourer lunged forward, a mass of tentacles and claws. Kael dodged with a movement so economical it seemed lazy. He wasn't fighting; he was processing.
Punch one: The creature's sternum shattered. Punch Two: One of the monster's three hearts stopped beating.
The Cut: Lostvayne emerged from its sheath like a death whisper.
There was no fight. There was execution.
The silence that followed was absolute. The fifteenth mark gleamed on the metallic seal in his pocket, acknowledging the end of the cycle.
The Arcane Train
The East Platform was a monument of black iron and pulsating runes. The Arcane Train exhaled a silvery smoke that distorted the surrounding light.
There, the contrast was brutal. Dozens of Low-Class demons—the elite among the weak—were gathered. They wore polished armor, wielded expensive weapons given by their masters, and displayed an arrogance that served as a mask for fear.
When Kael climbed the metal steps, the carriage—noisy with laughter and taunts—plunged into a frigid calm.
He was not like them.
They smelled of effort and ambition.
Kael smelled of antiquity and dried blood.
He chose a seat in the corner, resting his head against the cold glass. The train whistled, a dissonant note that echoed through the valley, and began to move toward the Agares Clan territory.
Agares Territory: The Screening
Hours later, the ash plains gave way to mountains carved from obsidian. The Agares Clan castle was not just a residence; it was a fortress of bureaucracy and military power.
Upon disembarking, the candidates were lined up in a vast courtyard. In the center, a Flow Measurement Gate.
An Agares Clan officer, a High-Class demon with four curved horns and eyes that glowed an electric blue, walked among the rows. He held a crystal clipboard.
"The Leveling Up Tournament is no playground," the officer's voice boomed like thunder. "Your records say you're Low Class. The Gate will determine if you're worthy of stepping into the arena or if you're just cannon fodder."
One by one, the candidates passed through the runic arch.
Candidate 1: Stable Flow. Approved.
Candidate 2: Turbulent Flow. Failed.
It was Kael's turn.
The officer stopped before him. The High Class demon frowned. He sensed something. An "error" in the atmosphere.
"Name?" the officer asked, his voice losing some of its automatic authority.
"Kael."
"Mission record?"
Kael extended the metallic seal. The officer took it, and the instant his fingers touched the metal that had been in contact with Kael, a spark of dark energy leaped out, slightly burning the officer's leather glove.
The officer stopped. His blue eyes locked onto Kael's.
"Go through the gate. Now."
Kael walked under the obsidian arch.
The result was no ordinary glow.
The gate's runes, designed to measure the power of modern demons, began to spin frantically. The glow shifted from blue to violet, and from violet to an absolute black that seemed to suck the light from the courtyard.
The alarm didn't sound. The system simply locked up.
The entire courtyard fell silent. The other candidates stared in terror. The Agares Clan officer dropped the crystal clipboard, shattering on the ground.
"This..." whispered the officer, bringing his hand to the hilt of his own sword in pure defensive reflex. "This isn't a Low Class record."
Kael looked at the unlit gate and then at the officer.
"The seal confirms the fifteen missions. Am I registered?"
The officer swallowed hard. He knew he should take that boy to the interrogators. But the Tournament rules were sacred and automatic. The seal was legitimate.
"Yes," replied the officer, his voice unsteady. "You are registered. But know one thing, Kael... the Agares Clan will be watching your every move."
Kael simply nodded and moved forward, entering the corridors of the fortress.
He didn't need their approval.
He just needed the tournament to begin.
Behind the Scenes of the Agares Fortress
Kael walked through the obsidian corridors, ignoring the scornful stares of the "purebloods." To them, a Low Class demon was merely a servant or a statistical error.
He was led to an antechamber where the candidates awaited the draw. The ceiling was high, adorned with frescoes depicting the Great War between Angels, Fallen Angels, and Demons.
The Draw: Selection Arena 01
The names swirled in circles of crimson light. When they stopped, the silence was absolute.
Fight 3: Kael (Independent/Low Class) VS Balan (Agares Clan - Rank: Knight).
Balan, one of the guards who had been laughing at Kael seconds before, paled slightly, but quickly regained his composure, drawing a short sword bathed in arcane light.
"Looks like I'll have the pleasure of cleaning the floor with you before dinner," Balan hissed, trying to recover his wounded pride.
Kael didn't answer.
He knew that somewhere in that fortress, the Watchers of the Four Satans or perhaps one of the members of the Council of Elders would be watching through magical mirrors.
The underworld system was based on pieces and hierarchy.
Kael was the missing piece on the board. A piece that refused to be moved.
The room was spacious, silent, and structurally perfect.
Black columns supported the arched ceiling, adorned with ancient seals of the Agares Clan. The air was dense, but controlled—like everything in that territory.
Seated in an elevated position were the Lord and Lady of the Agares Clan.
Impeccable posture.
Stable presence.
Nothing there was impulsive.
To the right, in a slightly lower position, was their daughter.
Seekvaira Agares.
The next heiress.
She was a young woman with a cold, analytical gaze, an erect posture, her hands resting on the tournament documents. She wore transparent gray-tinted glasses that discreetly reflected the magical light of the room.
Her face showed no unnecessary emotion.
Everything about her was calculated.
The door opened with unusual force.
Quick footsteps echoed through the hall.
A High-Class demon entered—tall, with a solid presence, curved horns emerging from his forehead. His breathing was controlled, but his movement revealed urgency.
He knelt.
The High-Class demon maintained his kneeling posture.
"A demon officially registered as Low-Class has completed the fifteen mandatory missions."
The Lady replied serenely:
"That's the minimum requirement."
The demon continued:
"He completed them in two months."
The silence changed texture.
Seekvaira slowly raised her eyes above her gray glasses.
"Repeat that."
"Two months, Miss. No previous candidate has completed the requirement in that timeframe. It's… the fastest record ever recorded in the Underworld."
Now even the Lord leaned slightly forward.
"The previous record?"
"Seven months."
Absolute silence.
There was no exaggeration in that room.
But there was calculation.
The demon continued:
— Ten out of fifteen missions were Low Class — High Rank. No failures. No emergency support activations. No external interference.
Seekvaira extended his hand.
The report was delivered.
His cold eyes scanned the data.
Reduced average combat time.
Maximum time recorded per mission: ten minutes.
The room fell silent.
The Lady broke the pause:
— Ten minutes… on High Rank missions?
— Yes, Lady. Some were completed in less than seven.
The Lord rested his fingers on the table.
— He didn't just win. He eliminated the resistance before the scenario stabilized.
— That's not ordinary efficiency. It's absolute situational mastery.
— And the pattern is progressive. The more dangerous the mission… the shorter the completion time.
— The power estimate indicates Medium Class — High Rank. Flirting with the threshold of Upper Class.
Seekvaira slowly closed the report.
— And officially he's still Lower Class.
Now, the interest in the room was no longer mere curiosity.
It was strategic analysis.
— Ten minutes… — murmured the Lord. — Either he's far above what he appears to be… or we're facing something that shouldn't exist within the current structure.
Very interesting indeed, perhaps, I'll meet him before my father.
— Allow your registration.
Short pause.
— I want to see him in person.
Lord Agares' voice didn't rise.
It didn't need to.
The silence that fell over the chamber was immediate, heavy, almost oppressive.
"As you wish, my Lord."
The demon in charge of missions hesitated for a moment before speaking:
"Should we… officially notify him?"
The Lord's golden eyes moved slowly toward him.
"No."
A single word.
Cold.
Definitive.
"He will reach us on his own merit." The Lord's fingers touched the surface of the obsidian table. "And only if he reaches the end… will I speak."
No one questioned.
"Total surveillance order?"
"Maximum."
The answer came without pause.
"I want observers at all levels. Logistics, combat, aura analysis, behavioral reading, emotional variation, and exhaustion patterns."
Her eyes widened slightly.
— This will require…
— Put as many people as possible on it.
The phrase echoed like a sentence.
— I want every movement recorded. Every decision analyzed. Every second measured.
The Lord stood up.
His presence distorted the air.
— A demon officially registered as Low Class who completes fifteen mandatory missions in two months… — he paused briefly — is not common.
— Maximum combat time: ten minutes per mission. Progressive reduction tendency as the danger level increases.
— Exactly. — The Lord walked to the center of the room.
— If he fails, he will just be another outlier.
He stopped.
— If he makes it to the end…
The demonic pressure subtly increased.
— …then the Underworld will have to accept that something new is emerging within its own rules.
Seekvaira closed the panels.
— The surveillance begins now.
The Lord turned to the darkness beyond the chamber. — Kael Black… — he murmured. — Walk.
One step at a time.
— Let's see how far a "Low Class" can really go.
The Draw: Selection Arena 01
Selection Arena 01, nestled in the heart of the Agares Clan territory, was surrounded by maximum-level observation barriers. This wasn't merely a tournament; it was a political filter. On the upper levels of the fortress, private rooms pulsed with activity: analytical mages, aura observers, and demonic hierarchy specialists.
All focused on a single name: Kael.
The names swirled in crimson light across the arena floor. When the mechanism ceased, the silence that followed was absolute.
Fight 3:
Kael (Independent / Low Class)
VS
Balan (Agares Clan – Rank: Knight)
A chilling murmur echoed through the stands. Balan was an official Knight of the Agares Clan; trained, registered, and hierarchically superior. The guard, who moments before had laughed at Kael, paled for a brief second. However, he regained his composure and drew a short sword enveloped in an arcane light of gravitational properties.
"Looks like I'll have the pleasure of cleaning the floor with you before dinner," Balan hissed.
He needed to verbalize it. He desperately needed to reaffirm the natural order of things.
Kael remained silent. His seven hearts beat at a slow, ancient rhythm, completely out of step with that century.
The Dome's Perspective
High above, hidden by multiple layers of magic, Seekvaira Agares observed through a prismatic panel. Her face was a mask of impartiality, but the technical readings revealed another story.
"Unstable hierarchical pressure," murmured an analyst.
"The Knight is exhibiting microvariation of demonic flow."
— Insecurity?
— questioned another.
Seekvaira adjusted her translucent gray glasses, her eyes fixed on the data.
— He's not releasing power — she stated.
— Even so — interrupted another analyst, eyes wide — the field around him is suffering some anomaly.
The Initial Impact
The arena activated the combat seal. Balan advanced first: quick, precise, displaying the training of a true Knight. Kael took only a single step forward.
Balan's sword descended with fury. The impact echoed throughout the enclosure, but there was no expected sound of metal against metal. There was rupture.
The gravitational light of the blade wavered for an instant, as if it had collided with something its nature did not recognize as inferior. In the stands, the Low Class demons felt a chill and instinctively retreated. The Middle Class showed visible discomfort.
Something was fundamentally wrong. The underworld system was sustained by Pieces and Hierarchy.
Kael wasn't a piece; he was an anomalous variable. A presence that refused to fit into a mold.
High above, Seekvaira murmured to herself:
"He's not reacting like a Low Class. He's... imposing his own order."
In the highest room of the fortress, the Lord of Agares stood motionless, observing the arena through the layers of magical seals.
He wouldn't speak.
Not yet.
Words would only have value if that demon truly broke through all the barriers imposed upon him.
If he reached the finals.
The Lord already knew how this would end.
The final wouldn't be a simple fight.
It would be a challenge.
And, in absolute silence, he had learned something that wasn't in any official record:
Kael's previous confrontation with a member of the secondary branch of the Bael Clan.
Not a Low-Class demon.
Not even a Middle-Class one.
To be precise… High-Class.
Imposed in secret.
Without an audience.
Without a formal report.
Evidence disguised as an incident.
The result had reached him in fragmented form—contradictory accounts, excessive silence, discreet attempts at cover-up.
The kind of thing that only happens when someone dares to confront the Great Demon Families.
And worse.
When someone wins.
Since the fall of the old Four Demon Kings—
and now the new Sirzechs Lucifer, Serafall Leviathan, Ajuka Beelzebub, and Falbium Asmodeus—the Underworld had been reorganized under a new order.
More stable.
More political.
More controlled.
The Great Houses maintained the balance.
Or, at least, the appearance of it.
Direct conflicts between high-ranking bloodlines were handled with extreme care.
Not out of honor.
Not out of balance.
But because nothing new could emerge.
After the fall of the old Demon Kings, the Great Demon Families created laws that were not written to protect—they were written to contain.
No one could leave the Underworld.
Except:
— those who held Elite rank
— or those who possessed formal support from one of the remaining families of the Seventy-Two Pillars
Low or Middle Class Demons, without affiliation to a Great House, simply… did not exist outside the borders.
And within them, they existed only as long as they were useful.
Control was absolute.
Economic.
Military.
Political.
Banks, contracts, demonic energy routes—everything passed through the Great Families.
Those without a name… had no protection.
They could kill.
They could seize property.
They could violate agreements, homes, wives.
All in silence.
All without record.
The new Maou?
They didn't see.
Or they pretended not to see.
Some had no real power to interfere.
Others preferred to maintain the illusion of order.
And everyone remembered what happened when someone truly drew attention.
The case of the yōkai who lived in the Underworld still echoed like an unofficial warning.
An entire race wiped out.
No declared war.
No tribunal.
No announcement.
Only two survivors remained.
One… became a renegade, erased from the records.
The other was silently absorbed by the Gremory family—not as an equal, but as property.
Lord Agares remembered this.
Everyone remembered.
This was how the Underworld dealt with the unexpected.
It didn't correct.
It erased.
IN THE ARENA
Balan, blinded by fury and humiliation, didn't wait.
The blue-green aura exploded around his body, dense and oppressive. The two twin blades vibrated in unison, responding to the ancestral gravity of the Agares Clan.
"—Gravitational Vortex: Dance of the Celestial Knight!" he roared.
Balan's body fragmented into successive blurs, spinning around Kael. Each blow sought not merely to cut—it sought to kill. The air was crushed, space distorted, perception violently pulled off-axis. It was the ultimate technique of an Agares Knight: kill the enemy.
The blades tore through the air with a deafening hiss.
To observers, Kael seemed trapped in the center of a hurricane of steel and demonic power.
But he did not move.
It was a noise.
A risk.
An inconvenient question.
Lord Agares knew this.
He also knew that reports don't disappear by accident.
They are silenced.
And someone had decided that this confrontation shouldn't exist in the official records.
He showed no irritation.
Nor surprise.
He simply rested his hand on the back of his chair, thoughtful.
"When someone challenges the Great Families…" he murmured to himself, "the least that's expected is that they know their place."
A pause.
His gaze returned to the arena.
"But this one… doesn't seem interested in accepting any place."
And that… was what truly worried him.
In the arena, the timer began its countdown. And everyone present knew: if that fight ended in less than ten minutes, the Underworld would have a new—and dangerous—problem.
Dome Analysis
In the highest room of the fortress, the atmosphere turned to pure tension.
"The compression has reached its limit!" a technician shouted. "This technique would destroy a Low-Class demon instantly!"
Another one banged on the panel, nervously:
"Crushed bones, collapsed organs… nothing would be left!"
In the arena, Balan's Gravitational Vortex made the ground creak. The pressure was so intense that even the arena's barrier vibrated.
But Kael didn't move.
Seekvaira Agares stepped forward and adjusted her translucent gray glasses.
"Look closely," she said coldly.
The numbers began to change.
"This doesn't make sense…" murmured a technician. "There's no peak of pain, no defensive response."
"Because there's no real impact," Seekvaira replied.
She pointed to the projection.
"The attack is hitting first… an invisible layer."
"A barrier?" someone asked.
"Not a conjured barrier," she corrected. "Something worse."
Silence.
"The shock of the technique is being absorbed," she continued. "Dissipated before it reaches the body."
One of the technicians paled.
"This is impossible for a Low Class… even a Middle Class would have internal fractures!"
Seekvaira narrowed her eyes.
"Exactly."
She took a deep breath.
"His body is reacting before his mind. As if it were used to being destroyed… and rebuilt."
At that moment, everyone understood.
It wasn't active defense.
It was brutal adaptation. "—His regeneration…" a technician whispered. "It's reacting even before the damage happens."
"—That's not healing," another corrected, shocked. "It's prevention through repetition."
As if that body had already died too many times to allow the damage to fully heal.
From the shadows of the room, Lord Agares finally stirred.
He tilted his head slightly, his eyes fixed on the arena.
"—So that's it…"
His voice was low. Deep.
"—Shock doesn't knock him down. Pressure doesn't break him. And regeneration corrects before the body gives way."
He paused briefly.
"—It's not technique. It's survival taken to the extreme."
Seekvaira didn't answer.
She continued to look at Kael as if she were seeing something that didn't fit into any register.
Back in the Arena
Balan sensed it first.
Something was wrong.
The technique demanded everything from him. Energy, focus, absolute control. But the return… didn't come. It was like attacking a wall that absorbed the impact and returned only silence.
"Why are you still standing?!" he shouted, forcing even more power.
That's when Kael moved.
Not fast.
Not explosive.
He simply raised his left arm.
And let the blade strike him.
The sound echoed dryly.
Metal against something too solid to be flesh.
The blade ricocheted.
Balan felt the vibration travel up his arm, tearing to his shoulder. His eyes widened.
"I-it can't be…"
Balan's hesitation lasted less than a second.
It was enough.
Kael took a step forward.
The Gravitational Vortex collapsed, as if it had never existed.
Kael gripped Balan's wrist with his left hand.
There was no excessive violence. Only sheer force.
Balan tried to break free.
No response.
The fear came in full force.
Raw.
Ancient.
Not the fear of death.
But the fear of facing something that keeps coming back.
"I warned you," Kael said, his voice low, too close. "He who speaks too much… opens himself up to error."
Lostvayne vibrated within its sheath.
Hungry.
In the dome, Lord Agares exhaled slowly.
He didn't smile.
He didn't seem satisfied.
He seemed… attentive.
"Keep watching," he ordered. "Keep all eyes on him."
He paused.
"Something like this doesn't come around twice."
End of Chapter 7
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Sorry for the delay, writing on my phone is the hardest thing in the world. I had already finished 4 chapters, and something happened that didn't save them. I'll let you know when I finish saving the money to fix my computer; there will be more chapters more frequently then.