The air in Cirrus's chambers on the day of the Deviculum was thick with anticipation, a tangible hum that even his usually placid senses couldn't entirely ignore. Sullivan, in his boundless enthusiasm, had taken it upon himself to personally oversee every detail of his grandson's presentation. This, for Cirrus, translated into a morning-long ritual of adornment that felt less like preparation and more like a theatrical production.
His spacious room, usually a sanctuary of quiet contemplation, was now a whirlwind of silk, velvet, and shimmering accessories. Garment racks, laden with outfits of every conceivable style and hue, lined the walls. Each piece, Cirrus knew, was a masterpiece of demonic tailoring, woven from rare materials and imbued with subtle enchantments.
There were suits of midnight black that seemed to absorb all light, robes of deep crimson that pulsed with a faint, internal glow, and ensembles of sapphire blue that mimicked the depths of the Netherworld's oceans. Sullivan, his eyes gleaming with a manic delight, flitted between them, holding up various options with the gravitas of a high priest presenting sacred relics.
"Ah, Cirrus, my boy! This one, perhaps?" Sullivan would exclaim, holding up a coat of iridescent green, its lapels embroidered with intricate, vine-like patterns that seemed to writhe with a life of their own. "It would complement your nature magic beautifully! A subtle nod to your origins, yes?"
Cirrus, seated patiently on a plush velvet stool, would offer a small, polite nod. He didn't particularly care for the fuss, but he understood the importance of indulging his grandfather's whims. Besides, Opera was there, a steady, calming presence amidst Sullivan's effervescence. Opera, with their usual unflappable efficiency, moved with silent grace, helping Cirrus into each outfit, adjusting cuffs, smoothing fabrics, and offering concise, insightful critiques. Their cat-ears would occasionally twitch, a tiny tell of their own amusement or exasperation, but their expression remained perfectly composed.
As Cirrus tried on each ensemble, Sullivan, armed with a surprisingly advanced demonic camera, would snap picture after picture. "Smile, my Cloud! A little more… gravitas! Yes, perfect! This will show those old fogies what true elegance looks like!" Cirrus would oblige, offering a faint, almost imperceptible curve of his lips, his eyes, for the camera, remaining closed in his characteristic thoughtful pose. He knew these photos would end up in Sullivan's private album, probably shown off to anyone who would listen, a testament to his grandfather's boundless pride.
After what felt like an eternity, a decision was finally made. It wasn't the most flamboyant or the most overtly powerful outfit, but one that perfectly encapsulated Cirrus's refined, understated elegance. It was a formal suit of deep, smoky grey, almost the color of a storm cloud just before it breaks, with subtle silver embroidery that mirrored the delicate patterns of frost on a winter leaf. The fabric, a rare blend of shadow-silk and mana-infused cotton, seemed to flow around him, emphasizing his slender build without clinging. A high-collared inner tunic of pristine white provided a stark contrast, and a single, perfectly cut obsidian brooch, shaped like a stylized cloud, fastened at his throat. It was an outfit that spoke of quiet power, of hidden depths, and of an undeniable, almost regal, presence. It fit his color scheme and, more importantly, his temperament, like a second skin.
---
The carriage ride to the Deviculum was a surprisingly comfortable affair. It wasn't a typical, ornate demon carriage pulled by monstrous beasts, but a sleek, almost minimalist vehicle, its exterior crafted from polished obsidian that absorbed the twilight glow of the Netherworld. Opera sat at the reins, their posture ramrod straight, their cat-ears occasionally flicking as they navigated the bustling demon city streets. Inside, Sullivan and Cirrus sat on plush, mana-cushioned seats, the soft hum of the carriage's enchantments a soothing backdrop to their conversation.
Sullivan, still buzzing with excitement, regaled Cirrus with tales of past Deviculums, of political intrigues and grand displays of power. "You'll see, my boy," he chuckled, a wide grin splitting his face. "It's quite the spectacle. All the young demons, preening and posturing. Just remember, you don't need to try too hard. Your mere presence is enough."
Cirrus listened, a faint, amused smile playing on his lips. He offered a few thoughtful comments, mostly to keep Sullivan engaged. He appreciated these quiet moments with his grandfather, moments where the weight of their respective positions seemed to lessen, replaced by genuine affection. Opera, though silent, occasionally offered a subtle nod or a soft hum, indicating their participation in the conversation.
Minutes later, the carriage slowed, then came to a complete halt. Cirrus, his curiosity piqued, leaned forward and peered out the window.
What he saw made even his calm demeanor falter for a fraction of a second.
Before them stood not a grand entrance, but a colossal portal, shimmering with an otherworldly energy. It wasn't a static archway; it seemed to be alive, its surface swirling with iridescent colors that shifted and pulsed like a living nebula. Strange, amorphous creatures, unlike anything he had ever seen in his studies, drifted near its edges, their forms indistinct, their purpose unknown. They seemed to be guardians, or perhaps simply manifestations of the portal's immense power. The air around it crackled with raw mana, making the hairs on his arms stand on end.
"The entrance to the Lost Lounge," Sullivan announced, his voice tinged with a hint of reverence. "Only known to the Thirteen Crowns. A secret location, constantly shifting, constantly guarded. A fitting venue for such an important gathering, wouldn't you agree?"
Cirrus simply nodded, his eyes, still closed, taking in the sheer scale of the magical construct. He could feel the immense power radiating from it, a power that dwarfed even some of the ancient demon trees he communed with. It was impressive, he conceded, in its own way. They disembarked from the carriage, Opera leading the way, their movements precise and unhesitating. Sullivan, with a proud grin, placed a hand on Cirrus's shoulder, guiding him toward the pulsating maw of the portal. As they approached, the strange creatures seemed to part, their forms dissolving into the shimmering energy, allowing them passage. Cirrus felt a momentary tingle, a sensation of being stretched and compressed, and then, with a soft pop, they were through.
---
They were no longer outside. The air was different here—richer, heavier, scented with exotic perfumes and the faint tang of mana. They had been instantly teleported into a vast, magnificent hall, a place that truly lived up to its name: the Lost Lounge. It was a cavernous space, carved from what appeared to be solidified starlight and ancient, petrified magic. Crystal chandeliers, each one a small galaxy unto itself, hung from an impossibly high ceiling, casting a soft, ethereal glow over hundreds of demons. The murmur of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the distant strains of orchestral music filled the air, creating a symphony of high society.
Cirrus, his eyes still closed, took a moment to process the sheer density of demonic presence. He could feel the overlapping mana signatures, the subtle currents of power and ambition that permeated the room. He opened his eyes, taking in the scene. The lounge was indeed magnificent, a testament to the wealth and influence of the Thirteen Crowns. Intricate carvings adorned every surface, depicting ancient demon lords and mythical beasts. Servants, moving with silent efficiency, offered trays of glittering drinks and exotic delicacies.
Sullivan, ever the showman, scanned the room with a practiced eye. His gaze quickly settled on a raised platform that overlooked the main floor, accessible by a series of elegant, winding staircases. On this upper section, Cirrus noticed, stood a select few—the Thirteen Crowns themselves, along with other high-ranking demons whose mana signatures pulsed with undeniable authority. Belial, his imposing figure radiating power, stood conversing with Levi, whose elegant posture spoke of ancient lineage. Amaymon, his usual jovial demeanor replaced by a more serious expression, was deep in conversation with Baal, whose presence, even from a distance, sent a faint shiver down Cirrus's spine. It was a subtle, almost instinctual reaction, a memory of his mother's suffering.
"Ah, there they are!" Sullivan exclaimed, his voice filled with a theatrical flourish. "The true power players. You see, Cirrus, that upper section is reserved. Only adults, or demons with a minimum rank of six, are permitted there. It's a clear demarcation, a visual representation of our society's structure. The higher your rank, your status, your power, the more authority you wield, the more freedom you possess, the more you can truly do anything you desire."
Cirrus listened, his expression unreadable. He understood the concept of hierarchy, of course. It was ingrained in the very fabric of the Netherworld. But hearing it articulated so bluntly, seeing it so starkly displayed, left him… unimpressed. He felt no envy, no burning desire to ascend those stairs. Instead, a quiet, almost dismissive thought formed in his mind: I could reach that place in one day if I truly wished. It wasn't arrogance born of ignorance, but a calm, self-assured assessment of his own burgeoning power. He knew what he was capable of, and the artificial barriers of rank seemed almost quaint to him.
Sullivan, oblivious to Cirrus's internal monologue, beamed. "Come, my boy! We must greet our esteemed colleagues!" With a proud arm around Cirrus's shoulder, he began to make his way toward the winding staircase, Opera following silently behind. As they ascended, Sullivan began to brag, his voice carrying just enough to be heard by those nearby. "My grandson, Cirrus! A prodigy! You simply must hear him play! A true master of the guqin! And let me show you all the cute pick of my grandson!"
---
Once Sullivan and Opera had disappeared into the upper echelons of the Deviculum, Cirrus found himself momentarily free. He looked around the main floor, his eyes, now open, scanning the faces of the young demons. Most were close to his age, some a little older, some younger. They were all dressed in their finest, their expressions a mix of excitement, nervousness, and thinly veiled ambition. He remembered Sullivan's earlier explanation: this party was for them. To make connections, forge alliances, meet peers, identify rivals. It was a way for the older demons to brag and showcase their young ones, a display of future power.
If he could, he would leave this place immediately. The sheer volume of raw, unrefined ambition, the subtle currents of jealousy and competition, were almost suffocating. He preferred the quiet honesty of the garden, the straightforward desires of the plants and animals. Here, everything felt… complicated.
His gaze drifted, and then, a solution presented itself: the food sections. Long tables laden with an astonishing array of delicacies stretched across one side of the lounge. Without a word, Cirrus began to walk, his movements fluid and unhurried, weaving through the clusters of chattering young demons. He sampled everything: sweet, candied demon fruits that exploded with flavor on his tongue; savory pastries filled with spiced meats; delicate, shimmering jellies that tasted of starlight. He ate until he was comfortably full, the simple act of satisfying a basic need a welcome distraction from the social pressures of the event.
After he had eaten his fill, Cirrus sought refuge. He found a quiet corner, tucked away behind a towering, enchanted fountain that cascaded with liquid mana. It was a space largely ignored by the other guests, who were too busy networking or showing off. Here, the hum of the crowd was muted, the air a little cooler, a little calmer. He sat down on a low, ornate bench, his back to the wall, and closed his eyes. He took a deep, calming breath, letting the lingering energy of the food settle within him.
Then, with a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture, he raised his arms. A faint shimmer of mana, barely visible to the naked eye, coalesced in the air before him. And then, as if plucked from the very fabric of reality, his guqin appeared, resting perfectly in his lap. He didn't use his Eight Celestial Demonic Chords; those were for moments of profound expression, for shaping worlds. Tonight, he just wanted to play. Casually. For himself. To find a moment of peace amidst the chaos.
His fingers, long and elegant, found the strings. He began to play a simple, haunting melody, a tune he had composed himself, inspired by the quiet beauty of a moonlit forest. It was a gentle, flowing piece, without grand flourishes or dramatic crescendos. It was just… music. Pure and unadulterated. The notes drifted through the air, weaving around the fountain's gentle spray, creating a small pocket of serenity in the bustling lounge.
---
As Cirrus became immersed in his playing, a strange phenomenon began to occur. The gentle melody, though not powerful enough to reshape the environment like his Boundless Overworld, possessed a subtle, almost magnetic quality. Heads began to turn. First, it was a few young demons nearby, their conversations faltering as the music reached their ears. Then, more and more, the murmur of the crowd began to subside, replaced by a growing quiet.
Even in the upper sections, where the Thirteen Crowns held court, conversations began to dwindle. Belial, mid-sentence, paused, his sharp ears catching the unfamiliar, yet captivating, sound. Levi, usually engrossed in her own thoughts, looked down from the balcony, her gaze searching for the source.
Sullivan, who had been in the middle of a particularly effusive monologue about Cirrus's talents to Paimon, noticed the shift. A proud grin spread across his face. "Ah, there he is! My grandson! A true artist, wouldn't you agree?" He began to brag even more, his voice echoing slightly in the sudden lull. "He's only nine, you know! And already a master of the guqin! A prodigy!"
Belial, however, scoffed, his deep voice rumbling. "Playing a pretty tune is one thing, Sullivan. But what can he do? What power does he wield beyond a good music? My heir, for instance, is already mastering advanced combat spells." His words, though directed at Sullivan, were meant to dismiss Cirrus's talent as mere parlor tricks. Levi, ever the disciplinarian, chimed in, her tone sharp. "Indeed. He seems… undisciplined. Unlike my Leiji, who trains rigorously every day. Talent without discipline is merely wasted potential." Their words, though spoken softly, carried the weight of their rank, a subtle challenge to Sullivan's pride.
Cirrus, though his eyes remained closed, felt the shift in attention. He felt the gazes, the judgments, the dismissive comments. He felt the subtle currents of envy and skepticism. But he didn't let it disturb his playing. He simply continued, the melody flowing from his fingers, a quiet defiance against the noise of their expectations.
Minutes later, as he was still immersed in his music, a shadow fell over him. The gentle melody faltered, then stopped. A young demon stood directly in front of him, blocking the faint light from the fountain. The demon was tall, with an air of cultivated arrogance, his posture designed to impress. His hair was a vibrant, almost aggressive shade of crimson, swept back from a sharp, angular face. His eyes, a piercing gold, held a glint of challenge and a touch of disdain. He wore an elaborate, almost ostentatious outfit, clearly designed to draw attention.
"Isn't this a music party for you to suddenly play a music?" the young demon sneered, his voice laced with a condescending amusement. "Or do you think you're the only one here with talent?"
Cirrus slowly opened his eyes. His blue-green gaze, usually so calm, now held a depth that seemed to swallow the light. He looked at the demon in front of him, taking in every detail. He saw the expensive fabric, the carefully styled hair, the forced bravado. But then, his Dream element and connection with all beings, his innate ability to perceive beyond the surface, kicked in. He saw deeper. He saw the arrogance, yes, but also the desperate need to brag, to assert dominance, to look cool and impress the masses. He saw the fear of being overlooked, the hunger for recognition.
And as Cirrus's gaze met his, the young demon felt it. He felt naked, exposed. He felt as though he was being watched by a predator, not a demon his own age. A cold dread seeped into his bones. He felt small, insignificant, as if he were being observed by something ancient, something vast, something truly great that saw through all his carefully constructed facades. His golden eyes widened, his confident smirk faltering, replaced by a flicker of genuine fear.
After a long, silent moment, Cirrus slowly closed his eyes again, the subtle glow in their depths receding. His voice, when it came, was soft, almost a whisper, yet it carried an undeniable weight, a chilling indifference that cut through the demon's bravado. "Who are you supposed to be?"