The training hall was a testament to neglect.
Dust coated the weapon racks lining the walls. Training dummies stood like forgotten sentinels, their surfaces unmarred by practice strikes. The vast space—easily fifty meters across with ceilings that stretched impossibly high—felt more like a mausoleum than a place of growth.
Algernon stood at the center, surrounded by all this wasted potential, and understood immediately why it had been abandoned.
Devils didn't train. Not like this.
Why would they? Their power grew with age, accumulated passively like interest on an investment. A century of existence would grant more strength than a decade of grueling practice. The cost-benefit analysis was clear: patience trumped effort every time.
'Which means every devil who matters is complacent,' Algernon thought, a grin tugging at his lips. 'And complacency is an opportunity.'
He had eight years. Eight years before canon began, before the true threats emerged. He couldn't afford to wait for passive growth.
The theoretical knowledge from yesterday's study session was still fresh in his mind. Now came the hard part: application.
Algernon closed his eyes and turned his focus inward, searching for the core of demonic energy that every devil possessed. It took a moment—like finding a muscle you'd never consciously flexed—but then he felt it.
A warm pulse deep in his chest, slightly left of center. Not a physical organ, but something that existed in that liminal space between body and spirit. His magic core.
According to the texts, bloodline abilities manifested as distinct colors and properties in one's core. The Gremory Power of Destruction appeared as crimson energy. The Sitri water affinity as deep blue. Each bloodline left its unique signature.
His core was different—pure demonic energy. Not colorless or empty, but the fundamental power that all devils possessed before bloodline traits specialized it. Raw, primal, versatile.
Most would see it as a disadvantage, lacking the concentrated power of a bloodline ability. Algernon saw potential.
'Pure demonic energy is the foundation everything else is built on,' he thought. 'No specialized path means unlimited versatility. I can develop in any direction I choose.'
He began the process described in the more advanced magical texts—ambient energy absorption. The underworld's atmosphere was saturated with demonic power, free-floating magic that permeated everything. Most devils absorbed it unconsciously over time.
Algernon reached out consciously, willing the ambient energy toward his core.
It was like trying to breathe through a straw. The energy came, but slowly, reluctantly. His core accepted it in tiny increments, each addition barely noticeable. Minutes passed with agonizing gradualism.
'This is why devils rely on age,' he realized, frustration building. 'At this rate, it would take decades to see meaningful growth.'
But he persisted. Every drop of power mattered. Every fraction of increased capacity was progress.
After ten minutes of focused absorption, he opened his eyes. The gain was marginal—maybe a one percent increase in his total reserves. At this rate, doubling his power would take literal years of constant meditation.
"Not good enough," he muttered to the empty hall.
Physical training, then. That was the other avenue.
He recalled what little he knew about Sairaorg Bael—the future heir who had become legendary despite being born without his family's Power of Destruction. The man had compensated through sheer physical conditioning and the development of Touki, a technique that wrapped the body in demonic energy to enhance strength, speed, and durability.
The books in the Branch House library hadn't covered Touki. It wasn't a common practice among devils, who preferred pure magical combat. But Algernon had read between the lines, pieced together hints from combat theory and energy manipulation principles.
If demonic power could be projected externally for attacks, it could be circulated internally for enhancement. The question was how.
He started with something basic—channeling energy to his legs. Not releasing it, but compressing it into the muscles, forcing his body to adapt to the increased density of power.
The sensation was immediate and uncomfortable. His calves burned as if injected with liquid fire. The muscles spasmed, rejecting the foreign energy.
Algernon gritted his teeth and maintained the flow. His legs trembled under the strain, but he didn't stop. This was the principle behind forge—deliberate stress to force adaptation.
When the burning became unbearable, he released the energy and took several deep breaths. His legs felt simultaneously weak and strangely solid, as if the muscle fibers had been compressed and rearranged at a fundamental level.
"Again."
He repeated the process, this time including his arms and core. The pain multiplied, but so did his determination. Each cycle of compression lasted longer than the one before. Each rest period felt shorter.
Then he added movement.
Push-ups with energy-compressed arms. Squats with enhanced legs. Sit-ups while maintaining pressure throughout his entire torso. Every motion was agony, his body screaming in protest, but something was definitely happening. He could feel it—subtle changes in muscle density, incremental increases in strength.
Sweat poured down his face. His breathing came in ragged gasps. The demonic energy in his core was depleting rapidly, far faster than the meditation had filled it.
But he kept going. One more rep. One more cycle. One more—
The headache hit like a sledgehammer.
Algernon's vision blurred. The room tilted sideways, or maybe he did. His knees hit the floor hard, the impact barely registering through the sudden, overwhelming pressure in his skull.
It felt like his brain was trying to expand beyond the limits of his skull. Each heartbeat sent fresh waves of agony through his head. Nausea churned in his stomach.
'What—'
His magic core was empty. Completely drained. And his body was still trying to pull more, creating a horrifying vacuum that manifested as physical symptoms.
"Stupid," he gasped, clutching his temples. "Stupid, stupid—"
This was magical depletion. The books had mentioned it in passing—a dangerous state that occurred when a devil exhausted their reserves completely. Most never experienced it because their instincts prevented them from pushing that far.
Algernon, in his enthusiasm and ignorance, had blown straight past those warning signs.
He collapsed onto his back, the cool floor offering no relief. The pain was incredible, all-consuming. For a moment, he genuinely wondered if he'd permanently damaged something.
'Can't... move...'
Minutes crawled by. Or maybe hours. Time lost meaning in the haze of pain.
Gradually—agonizingly slowly—the symptoms began to ease. The pressure in his head receded from "imminent explosion" to merely "severe migraine." His vision cleared enough to see the ceiling's intricate carvings.
Most importantly, he could feel his core beginning to regenerate. Not from conscious meditation, but automatically. His body was pulling ambient energy to refill the depleted reserves, a survival mechanism kicking in.
The process was glacial, but it was happening.
Algernon lay there for what must have been an hour, simply breathing, letting his body heal itself. When he finally had enough strength to sit up, the headache had diminished to a dull throb.
He checked his core's status carefully.
And froze.
His reserves were larger. Noticeably so.
Not by a huge margin—maybe ten percent more capacity than he'd started with. But that was more growth than weeks of passive accumulation would have provided.
'Depletion and recovery,' he realized, his analytical mind pushing through the lingering pain. 'Like muscle tears healing make them stronger. My core expanded to accommodate the demand I placed on it.'
This was the secret. This was why training mattered, why pushing limits produced results that passive growth never could.
It was also incredibly dangerous.
"I almost knocked myself unconscious," Algernon muttered, slowly getting to his feet. His legs were shaky, his body exhausted, but there was a new solidity to his movements. The physical training had worked too.
He made his way to the training hall's edge and sank down against the wall, thinking through the implications.
Complete depletion was too risky. The symptoms were debilitating, and if he'd been in actual danger during that vulnerable period, he would have been helpless. He needed to find the edge—the point where he pushed his limits without crossing into dangerous territory.
'Eighty percent depletion,' he decided. 'Drain my reserves to about twenty percent remaining, then stop and meditate to recover. Repeat.'
It would still be painful. It would still be exhausting. But it would be sustainable.
And more importantly, it would work.
The sun had set by the time Algernon finally left the training hall. His body ached in places he didn't know could ache. His magic reserves were still recovering, hovering around sixty percent.
But he was smiling.
In one day of actual training, he'd grown more than he would have in weeks of passive existence. The path was clear now: deliberate stress, careful recovery, constant repetition.
It would hurt. It would be exhausting.
But pain was just information, and exhaustion was temporary.
'Eight years,' he thought, looking up at the twilight sky of the underworld. 'Eight years to reach Ultimate-Class from Low-Class Peak. Most devils would call that impossible.'
His grin widened.
"Good thing I've never been most devils."
[System Notice]
Host has discovered an effective training methodology. Accelerated growth detected.
Estimated time to Mid-Class Devil (Physical): 1 months at current training intensity.
Estimated time to Mid-Class Devil (Magical): 1 month at current training intensity.
Algernon laughed at the system's warnings and projections.
Two to three months to reach Mid-Class. Most Low-Class devils took decades.
"Let's get to work," he said to the empty hallway.
Tomorrow, he'd push himself again. And the day after. And every day for the next eight years.
The journey to supremacy had truly begun.
(END OF CHAPTER)
chapters are released early and uncut on Patreon, ahead of public publication along with exclusive NSFW works.
If you wish to walk ahead of the world…If you want to see the Empire rise before history records it—
You know where to stand.
patreon.com/xxSUPxx
Or you can buy me a coffee at:
buymeacoffee.com/xxSUPxx
Special thanks to all my EPIC members and,
MYTH: Asaf Montgomery
MYTH: Dutchviking
MYTH: Robert Hernandez
MYTH: Kevin Boutte jr.