Through the delicate, almost imperceptible connection of the Slumber Thread, Cirrus's consciousness slipped past the physical boundaries of the Lost Lounge and into the chaotic, fiery landscape of Ignis Phenex's inner world. Here, the air was thick with the scent of burning ozone and the oppressive heat of ambition. It was a realm built on pride and the relentless pressure of a legendary bloodline.
Cirrus, a calm, grey-suited phantom in this inferno, drifted through the swirling mists of Ignis's subconscious. He wasn't here to destroy; he was here to dissect. He sought the core of Ignis's power, the foundation upon which his arrogant certainty was built. He bypassed memories of childhood scuffles and grand banquets, diving deeper until he found it: the memory of Ignis mastering the Burst Ascension.
In the Dream World, time was a malleable construct. What felt like seconds in the physical realm stretched into hours here, moving at a pace ten times slower than reality. Cirrus watched, detached and analytical, as a younger Ignis pushed his body to the breaking point, his flesh tearing and burning under the strain of the technique, only to be instantly healed by the Phenex flames. He watched the grueling repetition, the pain, the eventual triumph as the technique was perfected.
Because Ignis was deeply submerged in sleep, his mind clouded by the lingering effects of the Dream Veil, he offered no resistance. His mental defenses were down, his inner sanctum laid bare. Cirrus observed the precise flow of mana, the specific emotional trigger, the exact sequence of thoughts required to ignite the bloodline ability.
And then, Cirrus began to weave.
He recalled his extensive training sessions with Momonoki-sensei, the hours spent theorizing about the nature of dreams and memory. Memory is but a past dream, Cirrus had hypothesized. If I can manipulate a dream, I can manipulate a memory. Together, they had developed a terrifyingly precise application of his Dream element, testing it on condemned criminals in the deepest dungeons of Babyls. They called it Severed Reverie.
The process was intricate. First, Memory Extraction: Cirrus identified the specific thread of memory—the exact moment Ignis learned to activate his bloodline flames.
Next, Dream Encapsulation: Cirrus conjured a thick, grey fog of dream-mana, wrapping it tightly around that specific memory thread, isolating it from the rest of Ignis's consciousness.
During their experiments, Cirrus and Momonoki had discovered the terrifying efficiency of Cognitive Erasure. The mind, when faced with a missing piece, auto-corrects. It rationalizes the absence. Skills tied to the memory degrade or vanish entirely, and the victim cannot even notice or question the missing gap. Finally, Seal Binding: Cirrus anchored the encapsulated memory deep within his own personal dream space, locking it away.
As the grey fog fully enveloped the memory of the Phenex bloodline activation, the delicate balance of the Dream World shifted. The sheer force of the extraction, the sudden void in Ignis's core identity, acted as a violent shock to his system. The Dream Veil and Slumber Thread shattered under the strain, and Ignis was violently forced out of the Dream World.
---
In the physical realm of the Lost Lounge, Ignis's eyes snapped open. He gasped, a ragged, desperate sound, as if he had been drowning. He stumbled backward, his hands flying to his chest. His body was fully healed, the physical wounds inflicted by Cirrus completely erased by the lingering effects of his flames.
But something was wrong. A profound, terrifying emptiness echoed within him.
He glared at Cirrus, his golden eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and rising panic. He reached inward, grasping for the familiar, comforting inferno of his bloodline magic. He tried to summon the flames, to ignite the power that defined his very existence.
Nothing happened.
He tried again, harder, his face contorting with effort. Still nothing. Not even a spark. The connection was gone, severed as cleanly as a cut thread.
"What… what did you do?" Ignis yelled, his voice cracking, the arrogance entirely stripped away. He looked at his hands, then back at Cirrus, sheer terror dawning on his face. "Why can't I… why won't my flames appear? What did you do to my bloodline magic?!"
The uproar in the Lost Lounge was instantaneous and deafening. The murmurs of the young generation erupted into shouts of disbelief. In the upper sections, the Thirteen Crowns leaned over the balconies, their expressions ranging from shock to intense scrutiny.
Bloodline magic was the cornerstone of a demon's identity. It was their heritage, their power, their defining characteristic. To lose it was unthinkable. It was, as the whispers in the crowd suggested, like plucking a bird of its wings, leaving it grounded and defenseless.
Cirrus stood perfectly still, his eyes closed, his expression a mask of innocent bewilderment. He tilted his head slightly, his voice carrying clearly over the din. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, his tone light, almost conversational. "How can a bloodline ability simply disappear? That's impossible."
It was, of course, impossible to truly erase a bloodline. The potential, the genetic coding, was still there within Ignis's body. But the knowledge of how to access it, the memory of the feeling, the specific mental pathway required to ignite the flames—that had been severed. Ignis hadn't lost his magic; he had simply forgotten how to use it.
A slow, chilling grin spread across Cirrus's face. "But," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register, "guess what I do know?"
Before Ignis could react, Cirrus moved. He didn't use his graceful, flowing martial arts. Instead, his mana flared, mimicking the exact frequency and flow he had observed in Ignis's memories. He activated Burst Ascension.
---
Cirrus exploded forward with terrifying, concussive speed, the sheer physical force of the movement cracking the floor tiles beneath his feet. He closed the distance in a fraction of a second, his fist connecting with Ignis's jaw with the force of a falling boulder.
Ignis, operating on pure instinct, tried to defend. He recognized the technique—it was his own, the very move he had used to try and crush this musician. He braced himself, expecting his flames to absorb the impact and heal the resulting damage.
But the flames didn't come.
The backlash of the Burst Ascension—the immense physical toll it took on the user's body—hit Ignis without the protective buffer of his regeneration. Bones cracked. Muscles tore. He was sent flying backward, crashing into a beautifully carved pillar, the stone splintering upon impact. He crumpled to the floor, coughing up blood, his body unable to recover from the devastating blow.
Cirrus didn't stop. He activated the technique again, his body a blur of grey and white. He was face-slapping Ignis with his own pride, demonstrating the fatal flaw of relying solely on an inherited power. He targeted vital points, his strikes precise and deadly, exploiting the openings created by Ignis's inability to heal. A strike to the ribs, a sweeping kick to the knee, a devastating blow to the solar plexus. Ignis was a broken doll, entirely at Cirrus's mercy.
Cirrus raised his hand, his fingers forming a rigid spear, aiming for a final, lethal strike to Ignis's throat. He was fully prepared to end it.
"That is enough, young master."
The voice was calm, crisp, and carried an absolute authority that cut through the adrenaline of the fight. Opera stood a few paces away, their posture relaxed but their presence undeniable.
Cirrus froze, his hand inches from Ignis's neck. He held the position for a second, the violent energy of the Burst Ascension slowly dissipating from his frame. Then, he simply nodded. He lowered his hand, the chilling grin fading back into his usual, placid expression. He stepped back, the fight instantly forgotten.
He opened his eyes, the soft blue-green pools focusing on the broken demon at his feet. In Ignis's eyes, Cirrus saw a chaotic maelstrom of emotions: fear, raw and unfiltered; anger, burning hot and desperate; a deep-seated thirst for revenge; and a stubborn, bruised determination.
During his brief foray into Ignis's memories, Cirrus had seen the pressure the young demon was under. The head of the Phenex family had demanded that Ignis make a name for himself, to assert their dominance at the Deviculum. Ignis was arrogant, yes, but he was also a pawn, acting out a script written by his elders. Cirrus knew Ignis was, in a twisted way, innocent of true malice toward him; he had simply picked the wrong target to impress his family. But, as Cirrus thought with a cold detachment, that's not my problem.
With a subtle, almost imperceptible flex of his mana, Cirrus deactivated the Severed Reverie. The encapsulated memory, held in his dream space, was released, snapping back into Ignis's consciousness like a stretched rubber band.
Instantly, the familiar, comforting warmth of the Phenex flames erupted around Ignis. The fire engulfed him, slowly but surely knitting his broken bones and torn muscles back together. The healing was semi-fast, hindered by the sheer extent of the damage, but it was working.
Cirrus looked down at him, his voice devoid of sympathy. "You rely too much on your bloodline ability," he stated, a simple matter of fact. "You just charge in like a bull, a mindless berserker. If you want revenge… just come at me anytime."
He turned away, dismissing the legendary Phenex as if he were nothing more than a minor inconvenience. He looked toward Opera, his posture relaxing completely. "I'm hungry," he announced, his tone light and entirely unbothered by the violence that had just occurred.
Opera's cat-ears gave a tiny, satisfied twitch. "Let us return to the food sections, then," they replied smoothly.
---
As Cirrus and Opera walked away from the ruined pillar and the slowly recovering Ignis, the atmosphere in the Lost Lounge shifted. The silence was no longer heavy with anticipation, but with a profound, almost fearful awe.
Cirrus could feel the weight of hundreds of gazes pressing against him. From the youngest heirs to the ancient Thirteen Crowns, every eye was fixed on the slender, white-haired boy in the grey suit. He opened his eyes, his Dream element allowing him to scan the emotional currents swirling around him. He felt fear, respect, intense curiosity, and a healthy dose of wariness.
He ignored the crowd and looked up toward the balcony. He sought out Sullivan, his gaze asking a simple, silent question: How did I do?
Sullivan was practically vibrating. His smile was so wide it threatened to split his face. He looked incredibly happy, fiercely proud, and overwhelmingly excited. He gave Cirrus a subtle, yet emphatic nod, his chest puffed out as he basked in the reflected glory of his grandson's absolute victory. Cirrus smiled back, a genuine, warm expression that he reserved only for his family. Knowing his grandfather was happy, feeling that immense pride radiating from him, was the only validation he truly cared about.
He then glanced at Opera, walking silently beside him. How did I do? his eyes asked again.
Opera didn't break stride, their gaze fixed straight ahead. "Good," they replied, their voice carrying a rare, dry hint of humor. "It seems my training wasn't entirely wasted on you."
Cirrus let out a genuine, relaxed laugh. He closed his eyes again, shutting out the stares of the crowd. He didn't need to see them. He just wanted to feel the warmth of Sullivan's pride and Opera's quiet approval. That was his reality; the rest was just noise.
Opera expertly navigated the stunned crowd, leading Cirrus back to the pristine food tables. With practiced efficiency, they began to serve him, selecting the finest cuts of meat and the most delicate pastries, as if the brutal combat of moments ago had been nothing more than a mild distraction before dinner.
---
The aftermath of the fight sent shockwaves through the Deviculum.
Among the young generation, the reactions were intense. Azazel Ameri stood frozen, her irritation entirely replaced by a wide-eyed shock. She had been ready to step in, to fight the arrogant Phenex herself. But this musician… he hadn't just defeated Ignis; he had dismantled him, physically and psychologically. She felt a sudden, burning desire to test her own strength against him, to see if her martial arts could break through that calm exterior.
Belialberry Raz Berry was practically bouncing on his heels. His toothy grin was wider than ever. He's strong! he thought, his competitive spirit igniting like a bonfire. A grandson of a Great, just like me! I have to fight him! I have to see what else he can do!
Leviathan Leiji, however, was deep in thought. His serious expression had deepened into a profound frown. He had wanted to recruit Cirrus as a musician, but now… now he saw a monster hiding behind a guqin. The sheer ruthlessness of using an opponent's own technique against them, the terrifying implication of erasing a bloodline ability, even temporarily… it was undisciplined, yes, but undeniably effective. He realized that Cirrus was not someone to be commanded, but someone to be carefully managed.
Asmodeus Alice, still leaning against his pillar, had lost his indifferent facade. His eyes were narrowed, his mind racing. He had seen the flames fail. He had seen the absolute terror in Ignis's eyes. He didn't understand the magic Cirrus had used, but he recognized absolute superiority when he saw it. He made a silent vow to keep a very close eye on the white-haired demon.
Up on the balcony, the Thirteen Crowns were equally affected.
Belial, who had mocked Cirrus's musical talents moments before, was silent. His imposing figure seemed slightly less dominant as he stared at the boy casually eating pastries. He turned to Sullivan, a grudging respect in his eyes. "It seems," Belial rumbled, his voice low, "that your bird has talons after all, Sullivan."
Sullivan merely chuckled, taking a sip of his wine. "I told you, Belial. My grandson is full of surprises. And he's only just beginning to spread his wings."
The Deviculum continued, the music resumed, and the conversations started anew. But the atmosphere had irrevocably changed. The young demons no longer looked at Cirrus as just a musician or a pampered grandson. They looked at him as a predator, a silent storm that could strip away their very identity with a touch.
Cirrus the Seer had arrived, and the Netherworld would never be the same.