The cavernous hall, once vibrating with the low thrum of devil aristocracy and simmering political tension, had plunged into an eerie, suffocating quiet. The abrupt cessation of sound felt less like silence and more like the vacuum preceding an explosion. At the epicenter of this stillness stood Lord Bael, a tempest of barely contained fury incarnate. As the current patriarch of the mighty Bael lineage and grandson of the legendary Zekram Bael, the perceived slight against his family's honor was an intolerable poison coursing through his veins. He was beyond incensed, a volcano on the verge of catastrophic eruption. Muscles coiled like steel springs beneath his formal attire, he surged to his feet, his very posture radiating lethal intent. Raw, destructive power, the terrifying signature of the Bael clan, a force synonymous with annihilation, visibly crackled around his clenched fists, coalescing with the singular purpose of engulfing him, the audacious youth whose actions had delivered such profound humiliation to their ancient house.
Yet, the space between intent and execution became an uncrossable chasm. Before the devastating wave of power could fully manifest, Hawkeye Mihawk moved. It was not merely speed. It was a negation of intervening space. The rasp of steel leaving its scabbard was a chilling punctuation to the silence. Yoru, one of the fabled Twelve Supreme Blades, bared its cold, unforgiving edge. In the infinitesimal blink of an eye, Hawkeye was no longer a subordinate figure at his periphery. He had materialized directly before the towering Lord Bael, the impossibly sharp point of Yoru resting with deceptive lightness against the patriarch's exposed throat. The lethal contact was absolute, undeniable.
"Don't move." The words, spoken by Hawkeye, were delivered with a chilling, almost conversational casualness, yet they slammed into the assembled devils with the force of a physical blow. They were not a request, but an immutable command forged in ice and honed steel. Those two syllables acted like invisible hands, instantly constricting not just Lord Bael's breath, but the collective respiration of the entire chamber. The hall, merely silent a moment before, now plunged into an eerie silence so profound it seemed to absorb sound itself. This was the silence of impending war, thick with the ozone tang of violence barely averted.
Attacking and killing a mere servant was, within the brutal hierarchy of devil society, a regrettable but ultimately minor transgression. To attack a Lord of a Great Clan, however, especially the head of the preeminent Bael clan, was tantamount to signing one's own death sentence. It was an act that invited annihilation, not just for the perpetrator, but potentially for their entire lineage. Yet, the universe had tilted on its axis. The figure delivering this ultimate threat, holding the patriarch of the Bael clan at literal sword-point, was a servant. The sheer, unthinkable humiliation of it burned through Lord Bael's aristocratic composure like acid. His eyes, wide with disbelief and volcanic rage, became bloodshot, the whites vanishing under a tide of furious crimson. Raw, primal fury screamed within him, a tempest demanding release, but the cold, unwavering reality of Yoru's kiss against his jugular held him in agonizing stasis. What could he do? He was utterly pinned, a lion trapped by a viper's strike.
Tobirama's keen gaze, sharp as the blade Hawkeye wielded, flickered almost imperceptibly toward Lord Phenex, his ostensible patriarch. The emotion that flashed within Tobirama's usually impassive eyes was not surprise, but profound disappointment. It was a confirmation of what he had long suspected, what Tobirama himself had meticulously observed. Lord Phenex was no different from the circling vultures in the room. He saw him not as a true heir, but as a potent tool, a weapon to be leveraged for his own clan's advancement, his own personal power. He had long figured him out. The position of heir was a gilded cage, a nominal title masking Lord Phenex's true desire: a puppet, another Riser Phenex, pliable, controllable, devoid of inconvenient ambition. While the Bael clan's overt aggression provided a convenient smokescreen, he understood the deeper game. Lord Phenex was the real mastermind, maneuvering behind the scenes, his ultimate goal being his removal from the line of succession, likely through disgrace or destruction disguised as misfortune. This intricate web of betrayal, however, was a matter for another time, a puzzle to be solved later. Right now, in this pressure-cooker of a council chamber, another immediate threat required Tobirama's vigilant attention.
His analytical eyes, sharp and assessing, fixed unwaveringly on Serafall Leviathan. His earlier instructions had been explicit, echoing in Tobirama's mind: Strike if you see anyone as a threat. The subtle shift in Serafall's posture, the minute tensing of muscles, the focus radiating from her, it signaled clear readiness to interfere. Yet, assessing the delicate balance, Tobirama calculated the risk. Hawkeye had the Bael lord contained. Zekram's intervention was imminent. It was not necessary yet. His hand remained near his own concealed weapon, a silent promise held in reserve.
"Haha." The sound, rich with ancient amusement and undeniable authority, shattered the taut silence like a stone thrown through glass. "Young people nowadays possess quite the temper. My apologies, Kael-san." The voice belonged to Zekram Bael, the Great King himself, a figure whose very name resonated with millennia of power and conquest. His intervention was not arbitrary politeness. It was a strategic masterstroke born of profound perception. He had not interfered merely to prevent bloodshed within the council, though that was a factor. No, he had seen something in that child's eyes, his eyes, as he faced down his grandson's wrath. There was no fear. Not the barest flicker. Every high-ranking devil inherently represented one of the cardinal sins. Zekram's was Pride. Not the petty arrogance of the newly powerful, but the deep, unshakeable pride of a being who had earned his dominion through eons of unmatched strength and cunning. And this youth, this eighteen-year-old devil radiating power at the Ultimate-class, Zekram acknowledged he had every right to arrogance. How did Zekram know his true rank? Lord Phenex himself had boastfully revealed it earlier, hoping to elevate the Phoenix clan's standing by association. But Zekram saw past the clan banner. He saw him, a singular, incandescent force, a rising star whose brilliance eclipsed the fading light of his supposed house. A lord without spine, without vision, like Lord Phenex, did not deserve to stand beside such potential. Such a lord should kneel. The thought was fleeting but absolute. His head, Zekram decided internally, should be bowed in recognition of true power.
"I should be the one apologizing, Zekram-sama," he replied, his voice calm, resonant, cutting cleanly through the lingering tension. "My peerage acted rashly." His words were a carefully measured counterpoint to Zekram's geniality. The gathered devils, nobles, clan heads, and even the impassive Satans, had been profoundly stunned by Zekram's unexpected apology. His response, deferential yet devoid of groveling, deepened the shockwaves. But the true tremor, the moment that seemed to fracture the reality of the chamber, came next. He bowed. It was a movement executed with impeccable precision. Not too low to imply submission or weakness, not too high to convey disrespect or defiance. It was perfect. A calculated gesture of acknowledgement to power, retaining his own formidable dignity.
Zekram, the ancient king, was momentarily taken aback, a flicker of surprise crossing his weathered features. But his eyes, sharp and all-seeing, instantly deciphered the subtext. He was not bowing out of fear or obligation. He was giving him face, acknowledging Zekram's authority in this space, offering a graceful exit from the confrontation his grandson had instigated. The insight was profound. A person who possessed immense power but lacked the brains to wield it strategically was ultimately doomed, destined to fall prey to stronger predators or their own hubris. But a devil who possessed both power and intellect, such a being could navigate the treacherous currents of their world and live long, perhaps even ascend to its very pinnacle. Zekram gave a slow, deliberate nod, an unspoken acceptance of his gesture and the dangerous potential it represented.
"Very well, Kael-san," Zekram's voice rumbled, the geniality returning, now laced with unmistakable interest. "But I find myself quite intrigued by you. It would be a distinct pleasure if you would join me for dinner tomorrow evening." The invitation hung in the air, heavy with implication. Dinner with Zekram Bael was not a social call. It was an audience, a potential alliance, a test.
"Thank you for the generous invitation, Zekram-sama," he responded smoothly, his expression unreadable. "I would be honored to attend on Friday. Tomorrow, as you may be aware, is occupied by my scheduled Rating Game match against Sona Sitri." The casual mention of the match, the polite deferral, it landed like another subtle shock. The onlookers, still reeling from the near-death experience of a clan lord, the intervention of the Great King, and his unnerving composure, exchanged bewildered glances. How had the trajectory of this gathering veered so wildly from imminent lethal combat to a dinner invitation? And his calm acceptance, his effortless rearrangement of the legendary devil's schedule, the sheer, audacious normalcy of it was staggering.
The Satans, seated in their positions of supreme authority, radiated palpable displeasure. Sirzechs Lucifer's crimson eyes were thoughtful, assessing. Ajuka Beelzebub's expression was inscrutable, but his fingers steepled with unusual tension. Serafall Leviathan's usual playful demeanor was notably absent, replaced by a sharp watchfulness. They were not fools. They saw precisely what Zekram saw. Potential. Not just Ultimate-class potential, but the nascent flicker of something far greater, the raw makings of a Satan-class devil. Zekram Bael, the ancient king, was making his opening move, subtly extending his influence, attempting to recruit this unpredictable, powerful young phoenix before he could become a threat or fall into another faction's orbit.
A brief, almost ritualistic exchange of courtesies followed between him and Zekram, a verbal dance masking immense strategic calculations. Then, with a subtle, almost imperceptible tilt of his head, he signaled to Hawkeye. The silent command was instantly obeyed. With the same lethal grace with which he had drawn it, Hawkeye removed Yoru from Lord Bael's throat, the blade vanishing back into its sheath in a seamless motion. Released from the blade's immediate threat, Lord Bael drew a sharp, ragged breath, his face contorting with renewed fury and humiliation. He opened his mouth, doubtless to unleash a torrent of threats or curses, but a single, piercing look from Zekram, a look that carried the weight of millennia and unquestioned authority, silenced him instantly. The words died unspoken, choked by the greater power in the room. The servant whose life he had extinguished earlier, the initial spark for this conflagration, was already an afterthought. His corpse had been efficiently cleared out during the confrontation, his existence forgotten as completely as yesterday's dust. Power, as always, dictated memory.
"Now that rather unfortunate matter is settled," Sirzechs Lucifer's calm, melodious voice flowed into the void left by the tension, effortlessly commanding attention once more, "let us return to the primary purpose that convened us. The formal discussion regarding the cancellation of the arranged marriage contract between Kael Phenex and Sona Sitri."
"Before we proceed further on that point," Lord Sitri interjected smoothly, rising to his feet. His demeanor was composed, almost urbane, belying the undercurrents swirling beneath. "I feel compelled to offer clarification. The initial rejection of the arrangement, I must stress, was a decision made by impetuous youth, swept up in momentary passions. I have since taken the liberty to discuss the matter thoroughly with my daughter, Sona, imparting the necessary perspective. I am pleased to inform the assembly that she has seen reason and no longer harbors any opposition to the union." His words were delivered with practiced diplomacy.
The statement was not met with gasps, but rather with a ripple of grim understanding that passed through the assembled nobility. Greed was as fundamental to devil nature as blood and magic. Lord Sitri had witnessed the raw power he commanded, power confirmed not just as Ultimate-class, but demonstrated at the very peak of High-class during the earlier confrontation. He had also seen the terrifying efficiency of his peerage and the chilling, calculated intellect behind his actions. This was no longer merely about an alliance. It was about securing a dynastic asset of immense, unpredictable value. Lord Sitri, ever the pragmatist, saw him not as a troublesome youth, but as the perfect opportunity suddenly fallen back into his lap. Zekram subtly swirled the wine in his untouched glass, his ancient eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. His own nascent plans for him, his desire to draw the young devil into the Bael sphere, were being directly challenged. Lord Bael, observing the interplay, noted his grandfather's reaction but wisely held his tongue, the sting of Hawkeye's blade still fresh in his mind.
His gaze, cool and analytical, found Tobirama's. A silent communication passed between King and Bishop, a language forged in shared battles and unwavering loyalty. He did not need to speak. Tobirama understood the unspoken command. With a fluid motion, the Bishop reached into the folds of his attire and produced a small, intricately inscribed memory scroll, a potent magical artifact capable of capturing and replaying events with perfect fidelity. Activating it with a pulse of demonic energy, Tobirama projected its contents upward. A shimmering holographic projection materialized above the center of the chamber, large enough for all to witness. The scene was unmistakable: a previous gathering, perhaps days prior. Within the luminous image, Lord Sitri's own voice, clear and resonant, rang out through the present silence. "I give my solemn word to honor the arrangement between Sona and Kael. The Sitri clan stands by this commitment."
The silence that followed was absolute, thicker than before. For a devil, especially a Lord of a Great Clan, reputation and sworn word were currencies more valuable than territory or treasure. To be caught in such a blatant contradiction, exposed before the assembled might of the Underworld's leadership, was a devastating blow to credibility. The holographic evidence was irrefutable. Lord Sitri did not speak another word. The color drained slightly from his face as he slowly, deliberately, sat down, his earlier composure fractured. He offered no defense, no explanation. There was none to give.
"Kael-kun," Serafall Leviathan began, her voice attempting its usual lilting quality but edged with a sharpness that betrayed her agitation. She leaned forward slightly, her gaze fixed on him. "The power displayed by your peerage is undeniable. Forcing Sona to face you under normal Rating Game rules seems excessively harsh. Surely, victory for you is a foregone conclusion." Her tone was ostensibly conciliatory, masking an attempt to manipulate the terms.
"Then she should save herself the inevitable humiliation and concede the match outright." His interruption was swift, cold, and devoid of compromise. He met Serafall's gaze directly, his expression impassive.
Serafall's carefully constructed mask shattered. Her eyes widened momentarily, then narrowed into slits, her expression curdling into one of pure, icy rage. The Leviathan power within her seemed to roil, causing the ambient light to flicker subtly. Before she could unleash her fury, Ajuka Beelzebub, the genius Satan, smoothly interjected, his voice calm and logical. "Perhaps, then, we might consider imposing specific conditions upon the match to ensure a more balanced and informative contest. Restrictions on peerage deployment, perhaps. Limitations on certain abilities." His suggestion hung in the air, a seemingly reasonable proposal.
His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, his gaze shifting from Serafall to Ajuka. He saw the gambit immediately. "Fine," he stated, the single word dripping with icy contempt. "I accept conditions. I, Kael Phenex, and Tobirama, my Bishop, shall fight Sona Sitri and her entire peerage. Just the two of us against her full force." He paused, letting the sheer audacity of the proposal sink in. His voice hardened further, becoming a blade. "If you now seek to layer more conditions upon this, if you demand further handicaps, then it reveals your true intent. You wish not for fairness, but to persuade me, or force me, to deliberately lose. You seek to orchestrate my defeat solely to preserve your sister's fragile ego, Serafall Sitri." The deliberate omission of her Satan title, Leviathan, and the pointed emphasis on Sitri was a masterstroke. It hung in the air like a physical accusation, painting her intervention not as a Satan ensuring fair play, but as Serafall Sitri acting solely in her clan's interest, leveraging her position for familial gain. The calculated insult struck home. Rage mottled Serafall's face, a visible tide of crimson rising from her neck. Her knuckles whitened where she gripped the armrests of her chair, the air around her crackling with barely contained Leviathan power. She looked ready to unleash hell itself upon him.
Before the volatile Satan could erupt, before the fragile peace could shatter entirely, a voice cut through the thickening miasma of anger. It was calm, serene, yet carrying the undeniable weight of ultimate authority. "Tomorrow," Sirzechs Lucifer declared, his voice resonating with finality, "the Rating Game match between Sona Sitri and Kael Phenex will proceed as agreed. I expect a contest worthy of the occasion. I wish both competitors the finest of luck." His pronouncement was a command, a line drawn in the sand. It acknowledged his terms while shutting down further debate.
He acknowledged Sirzechs with a single, curt nod. The matter was closed. Without another word, without waiting for further discussion or dismissal, he turned sharply on his heel. His peerage, Hawkeye a silent shadow, Tobirama falling into step beside him, moved as one. But just before he crossed the threshold, exiting the chamber heavy with intrigue and hostility, he paused. His head turned slightly, not toward the furious Serafall or the calculating Ajuka, not toward the humiliated Lords Sitri or Bael, but toward the ancient figure seated in quiet observation. His gaze, sharp and inscrutable, lingered for a heartbeat on Zekram Bael. It was a look devoid of deference, yet heavy with unspoken recognition, the acknowledgment of a predator recognizing another, the understanding that their game had only just begun. Then, he was gone, striding into the corridor beyond, leaving behind the echoing silence and the weight of promises made, challenges issued, and battles yet to come. The path to tomorrow's match, and whatever lay beyond Zekram's dinner invitation, stretched before him, fraught with peril and possibility. The Underworld held its breath.