Part I: Morning in the Frozen City
The first light of the Underworld's perpetual crimson dawn filtered through the frost-covered windows of the Eastern Marches estate—though to call it an "estate" anymore was laughable understatement.
What had once been a modest, forgotten manor was now the centrepiece of something far more ambitious.
A city.
Caelan Lucifuge opened his eyes at precisely 6:00 AM, as he had every morning for the past seven years. No alarm. No magic. Just the cold, mechanical precision of a body that had long ago stopped requiring such mundane things as "adequate sleep."
He sat up in bed—a massive four-poster affair carved from black ice that never melted, enchanted to remain solid and comfortable despite its composition. The sheets were silk, temperature-regulated by magic to remain just warm enough for human(ish) comfort, purchased from the finest tailors in the human world.
Money could buy comfort, even if it couldn't buy warmth.
Caelan swung his legs over the side and stood, his bare feet touching the crystalline floor without so much as a flinch. The cold didn't bother him.
It was him.
He walked to the mirror—an ornate thing, floor-to-ceiling, framed in silver—and examined his reflection with the clinical detachment of a scientist observing a specimen.
Twenty-three years old.
The boy who'd been invisible was gone. What remained was something else entirely.
At 5'9", he wasn't exceptionally tall by devil standards—Lucien had him beat by three inches, a fact he noted with zero emotional investment—but his build was lean and efficient. No wasted muscle. No bulk. Just the kind of streamlined physique that spoke of someone who'd trained for precision rather than power.
His face, though...
God, that face.
It was a problem, honestly.
Sharp. Ethereal. Almost painfully beautiful in a way that transcended gender entirely. High cheekbones. A delicate jawline that somehow still managed to look masculine. Lips that were just full enough to be distracting. And those eyes—silver, cold, framed by long lashes that any woman would kill for.
His hair had grown longer over the years. He'd stopped cutting it around year three, letting it fall to his shoulders in a cascade of silver-blue that seemed to shimmer with its own inner light. The blue streaks—remnants of his absolute zero transformation—had spread, creating an almost artistic pattern through the silver.
He looked like winter personified.
Or, as one particularly bold servant had stammered before fleeing: "Like an ice princess, my lord."
Caelan had fired that servant. Not out of anger—he didn't do anger anymore—but because the comparison was annoyingly accurate and he didn't need it repeated.
The mist of Cocytus spiralled around him like it always did in the mornings—Khione's Shadow stretching after a long night's rest, manifesting as translucent white smoke that coiled around his bare torso possessively.
"Good morning, child of winter," the ancient presence whispered directly into his mind. "You slept poorly again. The dreams of warmth still plague you."
"I don't dream," Caelan said aloud, his voice flat.
"Liar. You dreamed of the silver-haired woman again. The one who left you."
He didn't dignify that with a response.
Morning Routine: The King's Domain
Caelan dressed with efficient precision. Custom-tailored suit—midnight blue, nearly black, with silver accents. Expensive. Subtle. The kind of clothing that whispered "wealth" without shouting it.
He'd learned, over the past seven years, that presentation mattered. Not because he cared what people thought of him—he'd long ago stopped caring about that—but because power was as much about perception as reality.
And Caelan Lucifuge, the forgotten son, the broken King, the boy who didn't matter...
Had become very, very powerful.
He descended the grand staircase of his manor—renovated extensively, now a proper seat of power—and stepped outside into his domain.
The Eastern Marches had changed.
What had been a desolate, forgotten territory on the edge of Gremory lands was now a thriving settlement. Not large by Underworld standards—perhaps five thousand residents—but prosperous. Unnaturally prosperous.
The town spread before him in neat, organized blocks. Stone buildings with ice-crystal reinforcements that made them nearly indestructible. Shops. Markets. A central plaza with a massive fountain (currently frozen solid, because of course it was). Even a small arena for Rating Games practice.
And everywhere—everywhere—the temperature was noticeably colder than the rest of the Underworld.
Not uncomfortably so. Caelan had learned to regulate his field, to keep it at a level that was merely "brisk" rather than "lethal." But the cold was omnipresent, a constant reminder of who ruled here.
"Your kingdom grows, little king," Khione purred. "Soon they will not be able to ignore you."
"I don't want them to notice me," Caelan replied, descending the manor steps. "I want them to stay exactly where they are. Comfortable, Complacent and Unaware."
"And yet you build. Why?"
"Because I can."
He walked through the town's main street, and the reaction was immediate.
Devils—lesser nobles who'd been granted permission to settle here, middle-class families seeking opportunity, even some low-class reincarnated devils—stopped what they were doing and bowed.
Not out of fear.
Out of respect.
"Good morning, Lord Lucifuge."
"My lord."
"Lord Caelan, the shipment from the human world arrived—"
He acknowledged them with small nods, his expression never shifting from that perfect, cold neutrality.
Seven years ago, these same devils had tried to ignore him. Had looked at the "defective Gremory twin" with pity or contempt or, worst of all, that bland non-acknowledgment that said he wasn't worth their attention.
Then he'd started... building.
Flashback.
Year One (Age 16):
The Eastern Marches estate had been a dump. Literally. The previous Lord who'd lived here had let it fall into disrepair before dying without heirs.
Caelan had taken one look at it and seen potential.
He'd used his human-world fortune—carefully laundered through shell corporations and cryptocurrency exchanges—to begin renovations. Hired the best architects. The finest craftsmen. Paid triple the going rate for silence and speed.
Within six months, the manor was transformed.
Within a year, he'd started building around it.
Year Two (Age 17):
Word spread that the "forgotten Gremory" was actually a genius.
Not in magic—his magical reserves were still pathetic by devil standards.
But in everything else.
Economics. Urban planning. Infrastructure. He'd studied it all during those lonely years in the library, and now he put it to use.
He offered tax incentives to devils willing to relocate. Provided jobs. Created opportunities. Built a marketplace that rivaled some of the Pillars' territories.
And he did it all without using the Gremory name.
Just "Lucifuge." The servant clan. The forgotten bloodline.
Year Three (Age 18):
The first Rating Game arena opened. Nothing fancy—a small pocket dimension, modest by Underworld standards. But accessible. Low-class devils could train here. Practice. Improve.
Sairaorg Bael—the one Pillar heir Caelan actually respected—had visited once. Took one look at the setup and grunted approvingly.
"You're building a meritocracy," he'd said.
"I'm building what works," Caelan had replied.
They'd never spoken again, but Sairaorg had sent resources. Quietly. Anonymously.
A strange sort of respect between two outcasts.
Year Four (Age 19):
Caelan incorporated his business interests formally. Used a proxy—an old, fallen devil from a defunct Pillar house called Marchosias—to serve as the "public face" of his operations.
Lord Aldric Marchosias was... perfect.
A haggard old man whose clan had fallen to near-extinction during the Civil War. His Sacred Gear—Midas Manifestation—could create gold and precious gems, which had made him wealthy but also a target. He'd gone into hiding, living as a hermit in the outer territories.
Caelan had found him. Made him an offer.
"Be my face. I provide the strategy, the capital, the infrastructure. You provide the legitimacy and the public presence. In exchange, protection, wealth, and your clan's name restored."
Aldric had looked at the teenage devil with those rheumy eyes and laughed.
"You're the Gremory boy. The defective one."
"I'm the one offering you a future."
Aldric had agreed.
Within two years, "Lord Marchosias" was known as one of the wealthiest devils in the Underworld. His "investment firm" had fingers in everything—entertainment, sports, technology, even Rating Game sponsorships.
No one knew the real power behind the throne was a twenty-one-year-old "failure" with a broken King piece.
Year Five (Age 20):
Cryptocurrency.
Caelan had seen it coming in the human world—the rise of digital currency, decentralized finance. He'd positioned himself early, buying when it was cheap, selling when it peaked, reinvesting in blockchain infrastructure.
By age twenty, he had effective monopoly over digital money in certain sectors.
Not all of it. That would draw attention. But enough. Enough to be worth billions in human currency. Enough to make him one of the richest beings alive, even if no one knew it.
Year Six (Age 21):
The Eastern Marches became a recognized territory. Officially still under Gremory domain, but functionally independent. The residents paid their taxes to the Gremory clan, but they answered to him.
And they were loyal.
Fiercely, genuinely loyal.
Because he'd given them something no other noble had: opportunity.
Year Seven (Age 22):
Caelan Lucifuge sat in his private study and realized he'd built something that rivaled minor Pillar territories in prosperity.
And his family had no idea.
Present Day:
Caelan pulled out his phone—a custom model, encrypted six ways from Sunday—and checked his accounts.
Liquid assets: €847 million (human world currency)
Cryptocurrency holdings: Fluctuating, but conservatively €2.3 billion
Underworld business interests (via Marchosias proxy): Estimated value of 40,000 Phenex Tears equivalent
Real estate: Four properties in the human world, full ownership of the Eastern Marches development
He scrolled through notifications.
Stock alerts. Business updates. A message from Aldric about a new venture in the human world's entertainment industry—something about sponsoring an esports league.
He approved it with a single tap.
Money was no longer about survival. It was about power. The kind that didn't require magical strength or destructive abilities.
The kind his family would never see coming.
He pocketed the phone and continued his walk.
Meanwhile, in the Gremory Estate...
Grayfia Lucifuge stood in the grand dining hall, her expression perfectly neutral as she oversaw the final preparations for tonight's dinner.
It wasn't a formal state affair. No visiting dignitaries. No political manoeuvring.
Just... family.
The concept still felt strange after all these years.
Lord Zeoticus sat at the head of the table, his crimson beard neatly trimmed, his expression jovial.
Lady Venelana sat to his right, elegant and poised as always.
Sirzechs occupied his usual seat, still wearing his Maou regalia despite being "off duty." And Rias...
Rias Gremory, now eighteen years old and in her final year at Kuoh Academy, sat across from her brother, her crimson hair cascading over her shoulders, her blue-green eyes bright with excitement as she recounted her latest adventure.
"—and then Akeno accidentally zapped the entire student council room!" Rias was saying, barely containing her laughter. "Sona was furious. She spent an hour lecturing us about proper magical control in school environments."
Sirzechs chuckled. "That sounds like Serafall's sister."
"I still can't believe you let her go to the human world," Venelana said, though her tone was more amused than disapproving. "Kuoh Academy, of all places."
"It's good experience," Sirzechs replied. "She needs to understand how to interact with humans. Build relationships. The old ways of isolation don't work anymore."
Grayfia remained silent, pouring wine with mechanical precision.
Twenty-three years.
The thought intruded unbidden.
Twenty-three years since she'd given birth to twins. Twenty-three years since one of them had been celebrated and the other... forgotten.
She pushed the thought away. Again. As she always did.
"Grayfia, are you alright?" Rias's voice cut through her thoughts. "You seem distracted."
Grayfia's professional mask didn't crack. "I'm fine, Rias-sama. Simply ensuring everything is perfect."
"Everything is always perfect with you," Rias said warmly. Then, with a mischievous grin, "Though I did notice you've been checking the intelligence reports more frequently lately. Anything interesting?"
Sirzechs raised an eyebrow. "Intelligence reports? Grayfia, are you expecting trouble?"
"No, my lord," Grayfia replied smoothly. "Simply maintaining awareness of... emerging economic factors in the Underworld."
"Economic factors?" Zeoticus perked up. "You mean that Marchosias fellow?"
Rias nodded enthusiastically. "Lord Aldric Marchosias! He's become incredibly influential over the past few years. His investment firm is sponsoring several Rating Game teams, and there are rumors he's backing some kind of entertainment venture in the human world."
"New money," Venelana said with a sniff. "His house fell during the Civil War. I'm surprised he has the resources for such... ambitions."
"That's what's interesting," Rias said, leaning forward conspiratorially. "No one knows where his money comes from. He has that Sacred Gear—the one that creates gold—but the quantities he's producing would require constant use. And yet, he's rarely seen actually using it."
Sirzechs frowned. "You think he's a front?"
"Maybe?" Rias shrugged. "Sona mentioned it during one of our strategy sessions. She's been tracking his business moves for a class project on Underworld economics. The patterns are... strange. Too efficient. Too well-timed. Like someone with perfect information is making the decisions."
"Insider trading?" Zeoticus suggested.
"Or something else," Rias said. Then, hesitantly, "There's... there's also a rumor. Probably nothing, but..."
Grayfia's hand froze mid-pour. Just for a fraction of a second.
"What rumor?" Sirzechs asked.
Rias bit her lip. "Some of the lower-level devils in the Eastern Marches have been talking about a 'Silver King.' Someone who actually runs the territory. They say Marchosias is just the public face."
Silence.
Grayfia resumed pouring as if nothing had happened, but her mind was racing.
Eastern Marches.
Silver.
No. It can't be.
"The Eastern Marches?" Venelana frowned. "That's... isn't that the old Lucifuge territory?"
"Technically," Sirzechs said slowly. "We assigned it to—"
He stopped.
The table went very quiet.
Grayfia could feel their eyes on her, though she kept her gaze fixed on the wine bottle.
"We assigned it to Caelan," Sirzechs finished, his voice carefully neutral. "Eight years ago."
The name hung in the air like a curse.
Rias looked confused. "Caelan? Who's—"
"Your nephew," Venelana said quietly. "Sirzechs's... other son."
"I have another nephew?!" Rias's eyes went wide. "Why didn't anyone tell me?!"
Another silence.
Grayfia set down the wine bottle with perfect precision and clasped her hands behind her back, her expression revealing nothing.
But inside, something cold and terrible was twisting.
I haven't thought about him in years. Haven't allowed myself to think about him.
"It's... complicated," Sirzechs said finally. "He's not been part of the family for a long time."
"How long?"
"Since he was fiften."
Rias's expression shifted from confusion to something else. Something uncomfortable. "fiften? You mean—"
"It was a mutual arrangement," Zeoticus said gruffly. "The boy needed space. Independence. We provided him an estate and—"
"Father, he was teen," Rias said, her voice sharp. "What kind of 'mutual arrangement' involves exiling a fiften-year-old?"
"He wasn't exiled—"
"Then what was he?"
No one had an answer.
Grayfia spoke, her voice cutting through the tension like ice. "If I may, Lord Sirzechs, the rumours about the Eastern Marches warrant investigation. Regardless of... personal matters, we should confirm whether Lord Marchosias is operating independently or if there is indeed a secondary power structure in that territory."
Sirzechs looked at her, his crimson eyes unreadable. "You're suggesting we send someone to investigate?"
"I'm suggesting," Grayfia said carefully, "that it would be prudent to have someone visit the Eastern Marches. Officially, to conduct a routine inspection of the territory's development. Unofficially, to determine the truth behind these rumours."
"And who would you send?" Venelana asked.
Grayfia met her husband's gaze. "I will go myself."
Another silence.
"You?" Sirzechs raised an eyebrow. "Grayfia, that's not necessary. We can send—"
"I am the Strongest Queen and your primary administrator," Grayfia interrupted smoothly. "If there is a question of territorial management or unauthorized economic activity, it falls under my purview. Additionally..." She paused. "The Eastern Marches are Lucifuge lands. It is appropriate that a member of the Lucifuge clan conduct the inspection."
Sirzechs studied her. "This isn't about Caelan."
It wasn't a question.
"This is about ensuring proper oversight of Gremory territories," Grayfia replied.
Liar, a small voice whispered in her mind. You want to see him. You want to know what he's become.
She crushed the voice with iron discipline.
"Very well," Sirzechs said finally. "You'll leave tomorrow. Take a small retinue. Make it official. If Marchosias is operating legitimately, we'll confirm it and leave him be. If there's something else going on..."
"I will determine the truth," Grayfia said.
Rias was watching her with those sharp blue-green eyes. Too perceptive for her own good.
"May I come with you, Lady Grayfia?" she asked suddenly.
Everyone turned to stare at her.
"What?" Rias said defensively. "I'm curious! I have a nephew I didn't know existed, and apparently, he's been living alone in some forgotten territory for years? That's..." She struggled for words. "That's messed up!"
"Rias—" Venelana started.
"No, it is! And if there's a chance he's involved in whatever's happening there, I want to meet him. I want to understand—"
"Absolutely not," Sirzechs said firmly. "You have school."
"It's almost summer break!"
"You have Rating Game practice."
"I'll make it up!"
"Rias."
The single word, spoken in his "Maou" voice, ended the argument.
Rias slumped in her chair, pouting. "Fine. But you have to tell me everything when you get back."
Grayfia inclined her head. "As you wish, Rias-sama."
Part III:
Caelan stood on the balcony of his manor, overlooking his city, and felt... nothing.
No pride. No satisfaction. No sense of accomplishment.
Just cold.
The mist coiled around him, Khione's presence a constant companion.
"They will come soon," the ancient entity whispered. "The ones who abandoned you. They will come seeking answers."
"Let them come," Caelan said quietly. "They won't find what they're looking for."
"Won't they? You've built a kingdom, little king. A domain of winter and wealth. They will see the power you've gathered and wonder how they missed it."
"They missed it because they never looked."
"And when they look now? What will you show them?"
Caelan's expression didn't change. "Nothing. They'll see Lord Marchosias. They'll see a prosperous territory. They'll see exactly what I want them to see."
"And if she comes? The silver-haired woman who bore you?"
For the first time, something flickered across Caelan's face.
Not pain. Not anger.
Just... cold acknowledgment.
"Then she'll see what she created," he said softly. "A son who doesn't need her. Who never needed any of them."
The mist purred, satisfied.
Below, in his city, life continued. Devils went about their business, unaware that their quiet, brilliant lord was about to receive visitors from the family that had forgotten him.
Caelan turned and walked back inside.
He had preparations to make.
After all, if his mother was coming to visit...
He should at least make sure she was comfortable.
Even if he felt nothing at all.