The following three years were not characterized by the grand, sweeping gestures of war, but by the agonizingly slow grind of refinement. In the heart of the Obsidian Citadel, within a chamber reinforced by layers of anti-divination runes and dragon-scale insulation, Alexandros was learning the most difficult lesson of his second life: how to be nothing.
At eight years old, Alexandros had grown taller, his features sharpening into a youthful elegance that mirrored the Queen's, though his eyes remained a distinct, unsettling shade of silver-grey. Across from him, his brother Castor sat cross-legged, surrounded by floating candles that flickered not with flame, but with raw, pulsating mana.
"Again," Castor commanded. "Your presence is still leaking. To a human sensor, you currently smell like a bonfire in a dark forest. You need to smell like the forest itself—quiet, damp, and utterly unremarkable."
Alexandros closed his eyes. He reached into his core, touching the vibrating silver threads of his unique mana. For most demons, mana was an external projection, a roar of power. For Alexandros, it was a fabric. He began the painstaking process of internal weaving. He took the silver threads and tucked them into the folds of his own soul, creating a recursive loop that kept his power spiraling inward rather than radiating outward.
Slowly, the candles around Castor stopped flickering. The oppressive weight in the room lifted. To any magical observer, the space where Alexandros sat was now a void—a hole in the world.
"Better," Castor admitted, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. "But the moment you cast a spell, the veil will tear. We need to work on Micro-Channeled Casting. You must learn to release only the exact amount of energy required for a task. Not a drop more."
"It's like trying to water a single flower with a dam break," Alexandros muttered, his voice dropping an octave as he matured.
"Then build a better faucet," Castor snapped, though he looked exhausted.
Their training was interrupted by the sound of heavy, rhythmic thuds. The reinforced doors groaned as Lyca, now a lean and muscular nine-year-old, burst through. She carried a massive, blood-stained sack over her shoulder and wore a grin that was far too wide for a child her age.
"Lulu! I found them!" she barked, dropping the sack at his feet. A dozen severed heads of Shadow-Stalkers—vicious, mid-tier monsters from the lower caves—rolled across the pristine floor. "They were nesting in the eastern tunnels. They were planning to ambush your carriage during tomorrow's parade. I handled it."
Alexandros looked at the carnage, then at Lyca, who had a smear of dark blood across her cheek. She approached him, her tail wagging with such force it created a literal draft in the room. She leaned in, sniffing his neck aggressively.
"You've gone quiet again," she growled, her golden eyes narrowing. "I hate it when you hide. It makes me feel like you've vanished. How am I supposed to protect a ghost?"
"That's the point, Lyca," Alexandros said, reaching out to pat her head—a gesture that would have cost anyone else their hand. She leaned into the touch, purring like a landslide. "If the humans can't find me, they can't kill me."
"I would like to see them try," she hissed, her claws extending instinctively. "Mother Hécate has granted me access to the Royal Armory. I've chosen a chain-scythe made of star-iron. I've been practicing. I can decapitate a dummy from thirty paces while blindfolded."
"Lovely," Alexandros sighed. "Exactly what every young prince wants in a childhood friend: a pint-sized engine of destruction."
The "Daily Life" of the Citadel was becoming increasingly surreal. While Alexandros spent his mornings learning to suppress his god-like potential, his afternoons were consumed by the bizarre domesticity of the Demon Court.
Later that evening, the family gathered for a "casual" dinner. In the Demon Realm, dinner was a tactical exercise. The table was a fifty-foot slab of black marble. At the head sat Hécate, looking radiant in a gown that seemed to be woven from captured starlight. To her right was Araxès, who was currently eating a leg of behemoth meat with his bare hands. To her left was Castor, who was reading a scroll while a magical hand fed him grapes.
Alexandros sat at the far end, with Lyca crouched on a stool behind him, acting as his "taster."
"My Lulu," Hécate cooed, her voice echoing through the vaulted ceiling. "I have heard wonderful things from Castor. Your progress in stealth is... acceptable. However, I worry you are becoming too dull. A Prince of Érébos should have flair! I have commissioned a new wardrobe for you. It uses the silk of the Void-Spider. It is pitch black, but it glows violet when you are angry."
"I'm rarely angry, Mother," Alexandros said, cutting into his steak.
"You will be," Araxès grunted, spitting out a bone. "The human envoy arrived this morning. They are pushing for the 'Common Curriculum.' They want you to take history classes taught by human scholars. They want to teach you that our ancestors were 'monsters' who emerged from the mud to slaughter their 'innocent' saints."
The air in the room grew heavy. Hécate's glass of wine began to frost over.
"They wish to brainwash my son?" she whispered. The chandeliers rattled. "They wish to tell the son of the Night that the Light is his master?"
"It's a provocation," Castor added calmly. "They want us to refuse, so they can claim we are violating the treaty. It gives them an excuse to mobilize their Holy Knights along the border."
Alexandros watched the shadows dance on the walls. He saw the way his mother's power pulsed—a rhythmic, suffocating tide. He realized that the "Peace Treaty" wasn't just a political document; it was a cage that both sides were trying to turn into a trap.
"I'll take the classes," Alexandros said clearly.
The table went silent. Araxès stopped chewing. Hécate turned her gaze toward him, and for a moment, the "Gaga Mother" was gone. In her place was the Sovereign of the Abyss, a being whose gaze could turn souls to ash.
"You would listen to their lies, Alexandros?"
"I want to know how they think," he replied, meeting her gaze with his steady silver eyes. "If I am to live among them, I need to know the shape of their hatred. You can't defeat an enemy you don't understand, and you can't manipulate a world you only see through a telescope."
Hécate stared at him for a long beat. Then, she let out a peal of laughter that rang like silver bells.
"Oh, he is mine! Do you hear him? So cold, so calculating! He isn't even ten, and he's already talking like a grand inquisitor!" She leaned over the table, her eyes sparkling with pride. "Very well, Lulu. You shall take their classes. But I shall send a 'tutor' of my own to sit in the back of the room. Just to ensure the human scholar doesn't lose his... focus."
"I'll be the tutor," Lyca barked from behind Alexandros. "I'll sit on his desk. If the human says a bad word about the Prince, I'll eat his tongue."
"See?" Hécate beamed. "Problem solved."
Alexandros put down his fork. He knew this was only the beginning. The "Daily Life" of a demon prince was a constant tightrope walk between a mother who wanted to conquer the world for him and a world that wanted to bury him.
As the dinner continued, a servant entered, bowing low. "Your Majesty, a message from the Holy See of the Humans. They have appointed a 'Peer-Study Partner' for the Prince's arrival at the Academy. A girl of the same age. They call her the 'Chosen of the Sun'."
Alexandros felt a strange vibration in his silver mana. A ripple in the threads of fate.
"The Holy Maiden," Castor whispered, his brow furrowing. "They are sending their most precious asset to meet ours. This isn't a school enrollment anymore. It's a summit of monsters."
Hécate's smile didn't falter, but the marble table beneath her hand began to spiderweb with cracks. "A Chosen of the Sun, you say? How charming. I look forward to seeing how well she burns."
Alexandros looked at Lyca, who was already sharpening her claws on the back of his chair. Then he thought of the "Chosen of the Sun"—the yandere saint who, according to his concept of this world, would eventually want to "purify" him in the most obsessive way possible.
Two years to go, he thought, his mind racing. I need to get much, much stronger. Or I need to find a way to make them all leave me alone.
But deep down, he knew the truth. In a world of demons and saints, there was no such thing as "alone." There was only the predator and the prey, and he was tired of being the latter.