The silence that followed Cirrus's chilling question—"Who are you supposed to be?"—was heavy, a tangible weight that pressed down on the Lost Lounge. In the upper sections, where the air was thick with the scent of aged demon-wine and ancient power, the Thirteen Crowns and other influential demons leaned forward. Curiosity and excitement rippled through the elite. They knew the opposing demon, his lineage, and the terrifying difficulty of defeating a member of his house.
Across from Cirrus, the guardian of the young Phenex demon—a towering figure with a jagged scar across his cheek—wore a smug, knowing grin. His eyes were fixed on the boy, his expression practically screaming: Show them what the Phenex family is all about. He had no doubt that the musician would soon be a charred smudge on the floor.
Lord Belial, his imposing figure casting a long shadow, turned to Sullivan with a sharp, calculating glint in his eyes. "Well, Sullivan," he rumbled, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. "Let's see what your grandson is truly made of. Let's see if his combat talent is on par with that music of his. Or is he merely a pretty bird in a gilded cage?"
Sullivan didn't flinch. Instead, a proud, almost predatory smile spread across his face. His eyes sparkled with an excitement that bordered on the manic. He knew exactly what Cirrus had been doing in those long hours with Opera. He knew the steel that lay beneath the silk. "Oh, Belial," Sullivan chuckled, his voice light but his mana pulsing with anticipation. "I think you'll find my grandson is full of… surprises. I can't wait for him to shine."
Beside him, Opera stood like a statue of composed lethality. Their cat-ears were perfectly still, their gaze fixed on Cirrus. There was no worry in their eyes, only a quiet, focused interest. They had been the one to forge Cirrus's combat instincts, to temper his dream-like nature with the cold reality of the battlefield. They knew better than anyone that Cirrus was far from defenseless.
---
Below the upper section, the young generation of demons watched with varying degrees of intensity.
Azazel Ameri, the daughter of Azazel Henri, stood with her arms crossed, her vibrant orange hair catching the light of the chandeliers. Her brow was furrowed in irritation. She had been enjoying the music, the way it had briefly brought a sense of peace to the chaotic lounge. To see it interrupted by such a loud-mouthed, arrogant brat made her blood boil. If that musician loses, she thought, her fingers twitching toward the hilt of an invisible blade, I'll beat that arrogant demon myself for ruining the performance.
Nearby, a demon with striking white hair and tan skin watched with a wide, toothy grin. This was Belialberry Raz Berry, the grandson of Lord Belial. His eyes darted between Cirrus and the Phenex demon, his tail twitching with a restless energy. He was a grandson of a Great, just like Cirrus, and the prospect of seeing one of his peers—a potential rival—in action was exhilarating. He practically vibrated with the urge to jump into the fray himself.
In another corner, Leviathan Leiji, the grandson of Lady Levi, watched with a serious, almost disapproving expression. His light blue hair was perfectly styled, and his posture was a mirror of his grandmother's discipline. So undisciplined, he thought, his gaze lingering on the Phenex demon. To destroy such a beautiful peace for a petty grudge… Yet, his eyes remained on Cirrus. He recognized the quality of the music he had heard earlier. He was already calculating, thinking that if the boy survived, he would make an excellent personal musician for the Leviathan household.
Asmodeus Alice, his white hair gleaming and his expression indifferent, leaned against a pillar. He knew the Phenex demon's reputation, but he wasn't impressed. His eyes were cold, calculating. He was curious, in a detached way, to see what the legendary Phenex flames could actually do against someone who seemed so… unbothered.
And all around them, dozens of other young demons from various families—each a potential future leader or warrior—watched the confrontation, their breaths held in anticipation.
---
The young demon in front of Cirrus was no longer in fear. The initial shock of Cirrus's gaze had been replaced by a boiling, incandescent rage. He felt humiliated, exposed in front of the most powerful demons in the Netherworld.
"I am Phenex Ignis!" he roared, his voice cracking with fury. "And you will regret ever opening your mouth!"
The surrounding young demons whispered in hushed, shocked tones. *A Phenex?* The name was synonymous with immortality. To carry the favor of a Phenex meant you were practically unkillable; their flames were known to possess extraordinary healing powers that could knit flesh and bone back together in seconds. Cirrus, they thought, was incredibly unlucky to have provoked such a monster.
Cirrus, however, remained utterly indifferent. He didn't even flinch at the name. "Phenex Ignis," he repeated, his voice as calm as a still pond. "And? What about it? Are you so grand and great that you think you have the right to stop me from doing my thing? I genuinely don't know your family. Should I be impressed?"
Ignis froze. He was shocked, his mouth hanging open for a split second. *Why isn't he afraid? Why isn't he kneeling?* He had spent his entire life being feared and respected because of his name. To be met with such genuine, effortless indifference was more insulting than any curse.
"Our family is the pinnacle of the healing arts!" Ignis shouted, his voice rising in a desperate attempt to regain his footing. "Our ancestors were the personal physicians to the ancient Demon Kings! Our flames can restore even the most grievous wounds! We are the guardians of the eternal flame! We are—"
"So your family is that big and has a huge influence, huh?" Cirrus interrupted, his voice soft but cutting through Ignis's boast like a knife. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes still closed. "But they are them, and you are you. If your family is your power, what are you without them? If your ancestors didn't work hard, didn't grow the family as it is now… if they didn't do all of that, what are you, Phenex Ignis, without them?"
The question was a direct strike to Ignis's soul. His patience, already frayed to the breaking point, snapped completely. A guttural roar tore from his throat, and his back began to bulge. Two magnificent, fiery wings erupted from his shoulder blades, showering the floor with sparks. "DIE!" he screamed, launching himself forward.
---
Cirrus didn't move until the last possible second. With a subtle flick of his wrists, the guqin in his lap vanished into motes of light. He stood up, his posture shifting from a relaxed musician to a coiled spring of lethality. He didn't use magic to attack; instead, he met Ignis's charge with his bare hands.
Unlike other fire users who relied on long-range spells, Ignis was a brawler. He used his flames to augment his physical strength and speed, relying on his near-instant regeneration to ignore any damage he took. It was a brutal, relentless style of hand-to-hand combat.
Cirrus moved like a ghost. He parried a flaming fist, his hands glowing with a faint, silvery light. He didn't just block; he redirected. Every time he made contact, he was calculating.
*His fighting style… it can't compare to Opera's,* Cirrus thought, his mind a cold, analytical machine even as he dodged a kick that shattered the floor beneath him. *This is my first time fighting to the death. If Opera before was making sure I'd survive, this time I need to be serious.*
He watched Ignis's movements with his "inner eyes." *His rhythm… it's not consistent. Sometimes he has explosive power, then seconds later, it returns to normal. I see. During those seconds of explosive power, he consumes a massive amount of stamina and physical strength. But his flames… they regenerate his body, allowing him to keep going.*
Ignis was relentless. He threw punch after punch, his flames roaring with every strike. Every time Cirrus landed a counter-blow, the wound would vanish before the blood could even hit the ground. Ignis had a smug, crazed look on his face. He was "unkillable," and he knew it.
During one particularly close exchange, as Ignis's flaming fist grazed Cirrus's shoulder, Cirrus's hand brushed against Ignis's chest. A faint, shimmering mark appeared on the Phenex's skin, a ripple in reality that quickly faded. Dream Veil. It was a mark that couldn't be shaken off, enveloping the target in an invisible shroud of mana.
Cirrus met Sullivan's gaze for a fleeting second. He saw the expectation there, the pride. *I won't embarrass you, Grandfather,* he thought.
The fight intensified. To the observers, it looked like a toe-to-toe struggle. Cirrus was dodging and defending just in time, his movements becoming a blur of grey and white. But Ignis was starting to get frustrated. He couldn't land a solid hit, and his own awareness was starting to feel… fuzzy.
Cirrus saw his opening. As Ignis lunged forward, Cirrus transformed his left arm. In a flash of mana, it became a powerful, cloud-white wing. The feathered edge, as sharp as any blade, sliced through Ignis's defense and carved a deep cut across his chest, revealing the inner flesh.
Ignis roared in pain, but the wound knitted shut almost instantly. "That won't work!" he screamed, his wings flared wide. "This is payback for insulting the Phenex family!" He gathered all his mana, his body glowing with a blinding, explosive light as he prepared for a final, devastating charge.
---
Ignis charged, a literal meteor of fire. But as he reached Cirrus, his movements were suddenly… sluggish. His reaction time was off. His awareness of his surroundings was crumbling.
"Didn't you notice you were slowing down?" Cirrus's voice was a whisper in the wind.
Ignis skidded to a halt, his flames flickering. "How? Since when?" He tried to remember, his mind feeling heavy, as if filled with lead. He recalled the moment he had been bombing Cirrus with punches, the adrenaline rush… and then he remembered the spell.
"Dream… Veil?" he slurred, his voice sounding like he was underwater.
Dream Veil—a spell Cirrus had developed specifically to induce drowsiness. It weakened reaction time and awareness, a slow-acting poison for the mind.
With Ignis's defenses crumbling, Cirrus didn't hold back. He launched a barrage of deadly attacks he had learned from Opera. Every strike was precise, hitting vital spots with surgical accuracy. He punched through Ignis's guard, his fists creating holes in the demon's torso. Every time a wound opened, Cirrus cast another spell: Slumber Thread.
The threads were so thin they were invisible to the naked eye. They snaked into the open wounds, weaving themselves into Ignis's very mana system. The Phenex flames were still healing him, but they couldn't burn away the threads that were now anchored deep inside his body.
As the final thread connected, Ignis's eyes rolled back. He remained standing, his fiery wings still flickering weakly, but his consciousness was gone. He had been pulled into his own inner world—a place of dreams and hopes, but also of the nightmares Cirrus was now weaving.
Slumber Thread—a spell that conjured invisible threads to pull a target into a deep sleep. Combined with the Dream Veil, it stripped away the target's awareness, making them a puppet in their own mind.
Through the threads, Cirrus peeked into Ignis's memories. He saw the training, the technique—Burst Ascension. He understood it now. The explosive power came at the cost of physical prowess, but the flames allowed for a constant cycle of destruction and rebirth.
Cirrus stood before the unconscious demon, his breathing steady. He had used four basic spells, and he could feel his mana reserves sitting at about 60%. He had been careful, calculating. But he knew this wasn't enough to end it permanently. The Phenex flames would eventually wake him up.
He looked up at the Thirteen Crowns, his expression indifferent to the shock and awe on their faces. He had one more thing to show them. An advanced spell.
"Rest now," Cirrus whispered, his fingers beginning to weave a new, more complex pattern in the air. "The dream is only beginning."