After the Rating Game, he did not linger in the coliseum to bask in the adulation or face the scrutiny of the crowd. He simply left, his departure as swift and decisive as his victory. For him, actions spoke louder than words, and his actions in that arena had just delivered the most thunderous statement imaginable. He had no interest in the panicked questions of reporters or the wary, calculating looks from other clan lords. He had a far more critical engagement to prepare for. His meeting with Zekram Bael.
As he exited, the stadium behind him erupted into a cacophony of sound, but it was the whispered conversations that carried the furthest. Whispers about his terrifying, unprecedented power and how he had completely and utterly crushed Sona Sitri's peerage without even breaking a sweat spread through the demonic aristocracy like wildfire. Some people, their voices filled with awe, were already calling him the strongest devil of the new generation, a title that carried immense weight and danger.
Simultaneously, another, more calculated rumor began to circulate, originating from the associates and vassals of the Bael clan. They spoke in hushed, deliberate tones, not of a Phenex, but of a Bael born a Phenex. The narrative was being expertly shaped. Why would the Bael clan spread these rumors? The reason was transparently strategic. They wanted to claim him, to weave him into the fabric of their legacy. They wanted him to become a part of the Bael clan officially. His value was incalculable. He possessed both the Power of Destruction, their clan's signature might, and the near-immortality of the Phenex's powers. If cultivated rightly, nurtured with the clan's vast resources and ancient knowledge, he would be without a doubt the strongest of his era, a guaranteed Satan-class devil. He represented the future of their bloodline's dominance.
When he arrived at the Bael clan manor later that evening, the difference from the Phoenix estate was immediately palpable. Where the Phoenix home was opulent and showy, the Bael manor was a fortress of understated, immense power. It was built not for beauty, but for endurance and intimidation, a physical manifestation of a clan who reserved power above everything, above gilded decorations or gaudy displays. Anything other was considered a frivolous distraction.
He had brought Izuku with him. The green-haired young man, ever observant, walked a step behind, his eyes taking in every detail of the formidable compound. When they reached the grand, reinforced doors, Izuku moved ahead and opened the door for him, a gesture of respect that also served a practical purpose, allowing him to make an uninterrupted entrance.
Lord Bael, the current patriarch and the one he had humiliated in the council chamber, was already there with a contingent of servants and high-ranking clansmen, assembled formally to welcome him. The lord's expression was tightly controlled, a mask of forced civility over simmering resentment. Behind Lord Bael, seated slightly to the side in a high-backed obsidian chair, was Zekram Bael himself, ancient and immovable as a mountain. His eyes, blood-red and depthless, observed everything without a flicker of emotion. Beside Zekram stood a man in his middle years, Lord Bael's son and Zekram's heir, who regarded the young Phenex with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.
As he stepped across the threshold, he decided his greeting would set the tone for the entire negotiation. He did not speak. Instead, he allowed his spirit to radiate outward. A visible wave of pressure, an immense and tangible Conqueror's Haki, erupted from him. It was not a violent outburst, but a controlled, deliberate expansion of his will, a declaration of his inherent right to dominate.
The effect was instantaneous. The lesser servants, those of low and mid-class power, were forced onto one knee by the overwhelming spiritual pressure, their heads bowing involuntarily. The Haki was precisely targeted. It washed over Lord Bael but did not force him to his knees. Whether his will did not affect him out of choice, or the Lord's own power and will were simply too great to be overcome so easily, was left deliberately ambiguous. It was a sign of respect, or perhaps a challenge.
One servant, an Ultimate-class devil acting as the head of security, remained standing, though his body trembled with the strain, his teeth gritted as he fought against the compulsion to submit. As he continued his slow, deliberate walk toward Lord Bael and Zekram, the pressure he exerted began to increase incrementally, like a deep-sea diver feeling the water pressure mount with every meter descended.
The air grew thick and heavy. The intricate glass windows in the hall vibrated with a faint, dangerous hum. The servants who had been forced to their knees now began to sway, their eyes rolling back into their heads as one by one, they succumbed to the pressure, sliding into unconsciousness. The Ultimate-class devil servant, his muscles straining and veins bulging on his forehead, fought a heroic but losing battle. His knees began to buckle, shaking violently. With a final, shuddering gasp, his will broke, and he was as well forced to kneel, his head hanging low, his body drenched in a cold sweat of defeat.
Why did he not affect Lord Bael? The message was multifaceted. It was a show of power to the entire household, demonstrating that their guest commanded a force that could humble even their strongest warriors. But by specifically excluding the clan lord from the effect, he was sending a simultaneous message of respect. He was showing that even though he was stronger, he still respected his seniors and the authority of the clan, so long as they did not go overboard and disrespect him in turn. It was a masterful display of political cunning wrapped in an exhibition of raw power.
Lord Bael's expression shifted subtly. The tightness around his eyes eased, and a look of grim approval, even grudging admiration, replaced it. He felt, in that moment, quite happy with the demonstration. The boy was not a mere blunt instrument. He was a strategist. He had shown the power to command respect from even the most hostile audience and the strategical mind to know how to wield that power without making permanent enemies unnecessarily.
Zekram, however, did not react at all. His ancient face remained carved from stone, his blood-red eyes fixed on the young Phenex with an intensity that would have shattered lesser wills. But beneath that stillness, something stirred. A flicker of recognition, perhaps, or the first spark of genuine interest. The boy had presence. The boy had control. These were qualities Zekram valued above raw power.
As the pressure abruptly vanished, the servants who had fainted woke up groggily, and the powerful servant on his knees got up, his face a mixture of shame and newfound wariness. Without a word, and with a newfound respect in his demeanor, Lord Bael gestured for him to follow. He was to be taken directly to meet with Zekram and his father, the elder Bael who was also, through his mother's diluted bloodline, his grandfather.
When they arrived in a private, sound-proofed chamber deep within the manor, the atmosphere was heavy with history and power. Zekram Bael and his son were seated, their presence filling the room. The pleasantries they shared were brief and formal, a dance of courtesy between powers that acknowledged each other's strength.
Zekram spoke first, his voice a low rumble that seemed to come from the walls themselves. "You have caused quite a stir, young Phenex. Or should I say, young Bael." He let the words hang, watching for a reaction.
He did not flinch. "I am what I am, Lord Zekram. The blood of both houses flows in my veins. The question is not what I am called, but what I choose to become."
Zekram's eyes gleamed. "And what is that?"
"A force," he replied simply. "One that cannot be ignored. One that will reshape the Underworld."
Zekram's son, the man who would be his uncle by blood, leaned forward. "Bold words. But words are cheap. You have power, yes. We saw that in the arena. But power without direction is a wildfire that consumes its wielder."
He met the man's gaze. "Then provide the direction. Or get out of my way." The room grew cold. Izuku, standing silently by the door, tensed, his hand twitching toward his side. But no attack came.
Zekram raised a single hand, silencing his son. "Enough." He turned his full attention back to the young man before him. "You did not come here to beg. You came to negotiate. So negotiate."
After the ritualistic cup of tea was sipped, Zekram Bael cut to the heart of the matter. His voice, though aged, was laced with undeniable authority. He spoke of legacy, of power, of destiny. He formally asked him to join the Bael clan, to shed the name of Phoenix and embrace the bloodline that truly defined his power. He meticulously detailed the benefits over the Phoenix clan. Access to the most ancient and destructive techniques, the political might of the Underworld's most feared family, resources beyond imagination, and the training to truly harness his dual heritage to its maximum potential.
He listened intently, his expression unreadable. Beside him, Izuku remained still, but his eyes moved constantly, cataloging every face in the room, every potential threat. The boy had learned well. When Zekram finished, he spoke.
"I will join the Bael clan." His voice was calm and firm. But his acceptance was not unconditional. He immediately laid out his conditions.
"I want the Bael clan's full support if I decide on something. My methods and my goals will be my own. I will not be a puppet for the clan's political machinations. When I move, I will require your unwavering backing, whether you personally agree with the action or not. In return, I will elevate the name of Bael to heights it has not seen since the Great War. My victories will be your victories. My power will be the clan's power."
He paused, letting the weight of his demand settle in the silent room. Zekram's son shifted uncomfortably. Lord Bael, standing behind Zekram's chair, exchanged a glance with his own advisors. But Zekram himself did not move.
"One more condition," he added, his gaze never wavering from Zekram's ancient eyes. "I will make myself the heir apparent. Not immediately, but through my actions. And when that time comes, it will be undisputed."
"And a second," he continued, the air crackling with his ambition. "My peerage is mine alone. Their loyalty is to me, and their command is mine. The clan will have no authority over them. They are my sword and shield, and they answer to no other."
He leaned back, his terms laid bare on the table between them. The ball was now in the court of the ancient kings. He had not come to beg for inclusion. He had come to negotiate a merger of powers.
Silence stretched between them, long and heavy. Zekram's son opened his mouth to speak, but Zekram silenced him with a look. The old devil leaned forward, his blood-red eyes boring into the young Phenex's royal purple gaze.
"You ask much," Zekram said slowly. "Full support without oversight. The promise of heirship without guarantee of obedience. Your own private army outside clan authority." He paused. "What assurance do we have that you will not simply take what we offer and then discard us when it suits you?"
He met the challenge without flinching. "Because I am not a fool, Lord Zekram. Power is built on alliances, not betrayals. The Bael name opens doors that the Phoenix name never could. I need you as much as you need me. Perhaps more." He allowed a thin smile. "And because I keep my word. Ask those who serve me. Ask Izuku."
Izuku stepped forward, his voice quiet but firm. "He has never broken a promise to any of us. Not once."
Zekram studied the young man for a long moment, then turned back to his would-be heir. "You have your grandfather's fire," he said, and for the first time, something like warmth entered his voice. "And your mother's steel. Very well. We have an agreement in principle. But the details will be hammered out over many meetings. There will be tests. Trials. The clan will not simply hand you its legacy because you demand it."
He inclined his head. "I expect nothing less."
Zekram rose, and the room rose with him. "Then we understand each other. For now, you are a guest of the Bael clan. Treat this house as your own. But remember," his eyes hardened, "a guest who overstays his welcome or forgets his place becomes an intruder. And intruders are dealt with."
He met the old devil's gaze without blinking. "I would expect nothing less."
As he turned to leave, Izuku falling into step behind him, he felt the weight of a hundred eyes on his back. The Bael clan had just accepted a wolf into their den. Whether they would tame him or be devoured by him remained to be seen. But one thing was certain. The game had entered a new phase. And he intended to win.