Being a noble wasn't an ideal —it was a function.
A cog in the machinery that sustained a system built upon privilege, hierarchy, and fragile balance. Privilege existed, of course; denying it would be hypocrisy. To be born into an ancient house meant access to resources, knowledge, influence, and power. But what defined a true noble wasn't the ability to enjoy those advantages —it was the discipline to maintain them without breaking the equilibrium that made them possible.
Titles, parties, and polite greetings were merely the surface. Beneath them lay the decisions no one wanted to make: determining which family deserved support, which one would be sacrificed, and which alliances were worth preserving. Every decision carried a price —and when the cost was the stability of an entire house, error ceased to be an option and became a threat.
Rian understood that. Being a Gremory wasn't a luxury; it was a burden wrapped in silk. It wasn't enough to command —one had to do so with elegance, measuring every word, every gesture, every silence. A noble could never afford to lose composure, for even a misplaced smile could become a weapon.
"Duty and privilege are two sides of the same coin," he thought as he stood before the mirror. "The hard part is not spending more than you can afford."
The room was bathed in the golden light of noon. The air smelled faintly of incense and old wood. On the walls, portraits of Gremory ancestors watched him with the stern eyes of those who had never failed.
Rian studied his reflection. The crimson hue of his hair gleamed beneath the light, contrasting sharply with his pale skin. He straightened his collar, brushed a hand through his hair, and tilted his head slightly. He tried a faint smile, then softened it into a shadow across his lips. Turning just enough to catch his best angle, he nodded in approval.
"Yes… looking handsome today," he murmured, satisfied, letting a fuller smile escape.
The reflection returned his gaze just as he noticed a shadow behind him. He froze. At the half-open door, Shirone stood watching him silently, her expression unreadable.
Rian cleared his throat and straightened, his movements effortlessly composed.
"Ah, Shirone."
She tilted her head slightly.
"How do I look?" he asked, as if she hadn't just caught him posing.
"Good," she said simply, without moving.
Rian raised an eyebrow.
"Only good?"
Shirone pursed her lips and looked away, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.
"…Handsome," she whispered, barely audible.
Rian smiled, satisfied, and turned back to the mirror. Adjusting the last fold of his outfit, he drew a steady breath. "Duty and privilege," he repeated inwardly. "Both demand the proper appearance."
Shirone stayed quiet, watching him for another moment before rolling her eyes and walking out toward the main hall.
Rian left the bedroom shortly after. The echo of his boots rang softly against the marble floor as he strode through the main corridor of the residence. The portraits of his ancestors lined both sides, each gaze heavy with the silent expectation of those who had already judged their heir before he could even speak.
In the main hall, his peerage awaited. Akeno was the first to greet him, followed by Kiba and Shirone. Loup, as befitted his position, stood behind them —arms crossed, expression composed, posture firm.
"Good morning, everyone," Rian greeted, taking his seat in the main chair. His voice was calm, but the tone alone was enough to command silence.
He let his gaze travel across the room. It was a young group, but disciplined —a mixture of strength, talent, and loyalty that had learned to move as a single will. He felt proud of them, though he'd never say it aloud.
"I'll be away for a while," he announced finally. "Not long, but long enough that the city will need to stay orderly in my absence."
His words were simple, yet everyone in the room understood their weight. This wasn't just a departure; it was a delegation of authority.
"Akeno, coordinate security. Kiba, handle any supernatural incidents —avoid unnecessary force. Shirone, I want you keeping watch on the districts near the border. And Loup…" —his gaze settled on him— "I trust you to keep balance among them."
"Of course," Loup replied firmly.
Rian nodded, satisfied.
He rose from the seat with deliberate grace —each movement measured, almost ceremonial. Extending a hand into the air, he summoned a small figure descending from above: a pink bat, round as a marble, landing lightly upon his shoulder.
"Time to go," Rian said, a hint of nostalgia in his smile.
The familiar flapped its wings, and a crimson magic circle bloomed beneath his feet. Intricate runes shone with deep scarlet light, pulsing softly. It wasn't ordinary magic —the very texture of the air distorted for an instant, as though the latent destruction within his energy threatened to unravel the circle's shape.
With a flash of red light, Rian vanished.
***
The scenery that greeted him was different. The sky —a deep, endless crimson— stretched above the high walls of Castle Gremory. The ancestral mansion rose imposingly before him, its black towers and golden emblems gleaming beneath the ethereal embers floating through the air.
The guards stationed at the gates straightened immediately at the sight of him.
"Welcome back, young master!" they shouted in unison, bowing their heads.
Rian didn't stop. He walked with steady steps, his cape fluttering in the infernal breeze as he approached the main doors.
Servants bowed as he passed through the corridors, but he paid them little attention. His mind was elsewhere.
Marriage.
The word echoed with the weight of inevitability.
Being part of the nobility meant accepting that love was a tool, and union a strategy. His father had been patient —more than anyone could have expected. Perhaps because, unlike Rias, Rian had already proven his worth. Or maybe because his strength gave the family more leverage than any political contract could.
But even so, tradition was tradition.
As he crossed the grand foyer, memories of his childhood mixed with the echoes of past footsteps. He remembered the receptions, the dances, the displays of talent —occasions where every heir competed to outshine the others before the watchful eyes of the patriarchs.
From an early age, he had learned that attention was a weapon. That reputation, when wielded properly, was a sword.
Rian Gremory —the perfect heir. Natural talent, impeccable poise, discipline, and charm.
A demon who, even before his debut in the Rating Games, had already been called the promise of his generation.
He smiled with a trace of irony and resignation.
Promises, after all, could also become chains.
He stopped before the door of the family office, where a maid bowed gracefully.
"Welcome, Master Rian. Lord Zeoticus is expecting you."
She knocked gently and announced his arrival.
"Come in," came the deep voice from within.
The door opened, and Rian entered.
Zeoticus Gremory awaited him behind the desk.
His father, as always, looked like the living portrait of elegance. His hair shared the same reddish hue as his son's —short, carefully styled— and the thin glasses resting on the bridge of his nose only added to his scholarly refinement. The dark suit he wore was immaculate, pressed to perfection.
Despite his centuries of life, he still carried himself like a man in his prime: strong, composed, and confident.
"Rian," he greeted warmly, standing to his feet. "It's good to see you. Come in, have a seat."
"Father," Rian replied with a polite nod before sitting down on one of the sofas.
A maid entered briefly to serve tea, then left as silently as she had come.
Zeoticus observed his son with genuine interest as he lifted his cup.
"It's been a month since you went to the human world. How have things been? I didn't expect you to request a visit so soon."
"No problems," Rian answered calmly. "I've adapted quickly. The environment's different, but manageable."
They spoke for a few minutes about trivial matters —minor politics of the Underworld, recent magical reports, and the new student transfers at Kuoh. The conversation felt light, almost domestic, until Zeoticus set his cup down with a quiet click.
"Well," he said, meeting his son's eyes. "What brings you here, Rian?"
Rian returned the look without hesitation.
"I've been thinking about marriage."
Zeoticus blinked, surprised for only a moment before letting out a low, amused laugh.
"So the promise to your mother has finally started to weigh on you."
Rian allowed himself a faint, ironic smile.
"I suppose it has."
"I won't lie," Zeoticus continued, chuckling. "You caught me off guard when you made that vow. But I'm even more surprised you've kept it for this long."
"It's been harder than I expected," Rian admitted, one eyebrow rising slightly.
"I can imagine," Zeoticus said with a grin before taking another sip of tea. "So tell me—have you received an answer from the person you had in mind?"
Rian shook his head.
"I see," murmured the older man, genuinely intrigued. "Then… do you plan to marry Akeno?"
"Would you approve if it were her?" Rian asked, the question almost rhetorical.
Zeoticus leaned back in his seat, smiling.
"If you asked it of me, I wouldn't oppose."
Rian remained silent for a few seconds before shaking his head lightly.
"I'll go out with her, yes. But my first marriage needs to bring something meaningful to the house."
Lord Gremory nodded, clearly pleased.
"Sensible. Do you have someone in mind already?"
Rian met his father's gaze with serene confidence.
"Phenex."
Zeoticus's expression froze for an instant.
"Ravel?" he asked, incredulous.
"Yes," Rian confirmed without hesitation.
Zeoticus leaned back further, thinking through the implications.
"An interesting choice. I can't deny it would be a profitable alliance… though an unexpected one. May I ask your reasoning?"
Rian clasped his hands together, his tone firm but thoughtful.
"Most of my childhood friends are direct heirs. Marrying one of them would risk the balance between houses —each family would push to secure their own bloodline, and you know how difficult it is for demons to have children. I'd rather my first wife be someone whose descendants would remain within the Gremory line."
Zeoticus nodded slowly, understanding.
"Furthermore," Rian continued, "our house has no direct connection to the Phenex. They've remained neutral for centuries. A formal union would bring them closer to our faction and strengthen the influence of the Four Satans."
A proud smile formed on Zeoticus's face.
"She's also cute and intelligent," Rian added with a lighter tone. "And she seems like a proper family girl."
Zeoticus glanced sideways at his son, easily catching the sincerity in that last remark.
Rian met his gaze calmly —though in his mind, he finished the thought he wouldn't dare voice aloud. And younger than me.
His father's smile widened.
"You know, son, I think this time your mother won't have anything to complain about."
Rian lowered his gaze, hiding a quiet smile.
"I hope so."
The tea had long since gone cold, yet the conversation remained warm —marked by the respect and subtle complicity only two Gremory men could share.
***
Zeoticus walked beside his son through the castle's main corridor. As they passed, guards bowed respectfully, and the magical torches flickered, casting crimson shadows along the columns. They didn't speak at first; the sound of their footsteps over marble was the only thing that filled the silence.
When they approached the great doors, Zeoticus broke the quiet in his usual tone.
"By the way, Rian. Before you return, I'd like to ask you for a small favor."
"Go ahead."
"A group of bandits has been causing trouble near the eastern border. They're not dangerous, but they've been harassing the merchants passing through the area. You know how these things go —if left unchecked, they start believing they can act without consequences."
Rian nodded without hesitation.
"I'll take care of them before I come back."
"I knew you'd say that," his father replied with a faint smile. "It won't take long."
They stopped before the open doors of the castle. Outside, the crimson sky of the Underworld stretched like a living canvas, with currents of magical energy glowing in the distance like floating auroras. Rian stepped forward until he reached the threshold.
He drew in a deep breath. The breeze, heavy with demonic energy, lifted the edge of his cloak. With a single movement, he unfurled his wings —a pair of black bat-like wings that spread open with a dry sound, wide and perfectly symmetrical, casting his shadow across the stone floor.
Zeoticus watched him, arms folded behind his back.
"Take care of yourself."
Rian looked over his shoulder, smiling with quiet confidence.
His wings beat once. The air compressed under the impact, and a powerful gust swept across the courtyard, making the tiles tremble. The thunderous sound echoed between the towers as he rose sharply into the sky, leaving behind only a swirl of wind and dust.
Within seconds, all that remained was a dark streak vanishing into the crimson horizon.
Zeoticus watched the point where his son had disappeared for a moment, then turned and walked back into the castle toward his office.
However, when he opened the door, he found he wasn't alone. His wife, Venelana, was already there waiting for him.
"Darling!" she said with a charming smile. "When will Ri-chan arrive?"
Zeoticus stopped, blinked once, and let out a quiet sigh.
"Oh…" he murmured.
Venelana raised an eyebrow.
"Oh?"
He pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered something inaudible as he closed the door behind him.
***
The wind of the Underworld struck hard against his wings as he flew at high speed, cutting through the air like a black spear. From above, the lands of the Gremory Territory spread beneath him like an ocean of red and violet hues —a landscape that seemed to burn without ever being consumed.
In the Underworld, everything was structured. Everything had its place. Five ranks divided the demons: low-class, middle-class, high-class, ultimate, and, at the very peak, the Satans. It was a hierarchy as old as their race itself, and although many insisted that power could transcend lineage, the truth was that blood still ruled.
The low-class demons formed the great majority —workers, soldiers, servants. Above them, the middle and high classes moved the wheels of economy, politics, and war. The ultimates were the pieces on the board… and the Satans, the players.
There were exceptions, of course, but never enough to change the rule. Power was law, and talent was the currency that determined the value of every soul.
Even in the human world, it was the same. There, low-class demons could appear as gods, and humans —those fragile, unpredictable creatures— would bow before them. But in the Underworld, those same demons were little more than dust with names.
Rian knew this. He had seen both worlds. And he had also seen how some, unable to accept their place, turned to violence, to pacts, or to despair. The bandits he was about to eliminate were just another example of that: demons who couldn't stand living knowing they would never be more than a footnote in history.
Even so, he couldn't completely blame them. The gap existed —and he himself was living proof of it.
A son born into one of the seventy-two noble houses was, from birth, high-class. His talent or effort didn't matter; his surname alone was enough to raise him above others.
But within that closed circle, there was another level —reserved for those who carried an innate power. The mark of the house. The inheritance that defined their worth. The Sitri ruled water, the Vapula commanded lions, the Agares mastered time… and the Gremory, talent.
Rian smiled with quiet irony.
"Talent." A pretty word used to disguise mediocrity.
Yes, the Gremory were natural prodigies —intelligent, magically stable, admirable in potential. But that was it. Nothing that could truly take them beyond the point where they had been born.
Still, his father had achieved something that changed the family line forever. Zeoticus Gremory, a noble of moderate strength but sharp political vision, had done what few of his generation could imagine: he married a direct descendant of the Bael House. The union between their two lineages brought forth a new power, an inheritance that redefined the name "Gremory" for generations to come.
From that marriage came his brother, Sirzechs Lucifer —the man who bore one of the mightiest titles among their kind.
And then, him.
Rian had been born with talent, status, and prestige —but he knew that in the future, he couldn't rely on those alone.
If he wanted to secure his life and the lives of those who mattered to him, he couldn't afford to depend on anyone.
Not on his surname.
Not on his brother.
Not even on his family.
Only on himself… and on his ability to reduce to ashes anything that stood between him and his destiny.
***
Rian descended slowly, adjusting his flight until the warm currents of the Underworld brushed against his wings. In the distance, the muffled sound of a small explosion broke the silence. A plume of dust rose between the red hills.
He sighed.
"Bandits and their great sense of discretion."
He approached quietly. As he descended, a wrecked carriage came into view —its metal frame still smoking, cargo boxes burst open across the ground. The bodies of merchants lay scattered around, motionless, marked by the chaos of a clumsy battle.
Nearly a dozen bandits were scavenging through the wreckage. Some rummaged through bags, others tore jewelry and fabric from corpses. The air smelled of smoke, blood, and hot iron.
Rian landed softly on a nearby rock. His wings folded without effort. From his vantage point, he could hear every sound.
"…I told you to check the bags first, idiot," one of the bandits growled.
"Shut up. We don't have all day," another replied, kicking a body over. "Grab what's worth something and move."
Their leader —a bulky demon with short horns and a black tattoo on his neck— barked orders with borrowed authority.
"These ones had good cargo. We'll divide the gold later."
Rian tilted his head slightly and let out a quiet snort.
"Honestly… background demons never change."
He stepped off the rock and landed behind the group, his cloak fluttering with the shift in air.
"Can I ask a question?" he said calmly.
The leader turned, irritated.
"Who the hell—?" The words caught in his throat. His eyes widened as the red hair glimmered beneath the scarlet sky.
A murmur spread through the group.
"Red…? No way…"
"A Gremory?"
Rian sighed, resting one hand on his hip.
"What exactly did you expect to happen after causing trouble on Gremory land? A medal?"
The silence was absolute. For a moment, the leader hesitated. Then he growled, trying to recover his authority.
"Don't just stand there! Kill him!"
The air shifted.
Rian didn't even move.
The bandits raised their hands, gathering demonic energy around them. Flames, lightning, dark spheres —an improvised storm of magic.
That was how demons fought. Unlike humans, they needed no formulas, no invocations. Magic obeyed imagination. If they could picture something —and had the mana to sustain it— they could give it form.
And so, the sky filled with multicolored light as the ground trembled beneath the barrage of projectiles fired in his direction.
The thunder echoed across the hill. Smoke and dust surged upward, forming a dense curtain around them. The leader laughed, satisfied.
"Idiot. He really thought he could—"
The words died mid-sentence.
A wave of pressure swept across the area —light, yet impossible to ignore. And in the next instant, the leader's upper body simply ceased to exist.
The others froze, unable to process what they were seeing. As the smoke cleared, Rian still stood there —untouched, immaculate. Not a single speck of dust clung to his coat.
Around him, the ground shimmered faintly with the glow of red and black energy, flowing like liquid fire across the surface. It was the Power of Destruction —the Bael inheritance— alive, tangible, erasing even the air it touched.
"Seriously… what were you counting on by coming here?" he asked, sounding genuinely tired.
The silence grew unbearable. One of the bandits, trembling, drew his sword and charged. The steel vibrated as it came down in a desperate swing.
Rian's hair shifted slightly. A thin streak of crimson darkness flashed through the air, and the blade disintegrated into nothing. The invisible cut continued forward, carving through stone far beyond.
The bandit stared, speechless, at the empty hilt in his hand. Before he could react, Rian raised his fist.
There was no sound. No impact. No resistance. The bandit's head simply dissolved into dust —erased by the energy radiating from Rian's body.
The rest stumbled back, pale with terror. Some dropped their weapons; others fell to their knees, shaking. Rian looked at them one by one, unhurried. That alone was enough to make a few collapse entirely.
"M-Mercy… please…" one of them managed to stammer.
Rian cut him off with a sigh.
"Spare me the speech."
***
The air still smelled of ash. The traces of his power remained etched into the ground —dark, clean, like freshly carved scars. Rian walked among the ruins of the carriage without haste. He didn't expect to find survivors; the attack had been too chaotic.
The only sounds were the crackle of burning wood —until something caught his attention through the smoke: a dark metal cage, toppled on its side, its magical seals still faintly active. It wasn't the bandits' doing —it belonged to the carriage itself. The insignia of a merchant guild was engraved at the base, scorched black by fire.
Inside, curled up, was an unconscious young woman.
Rian raised an eyebrow.
"A cage? So they were trafficking people… charming."
He approached slowly. As he knelt beside it, the firelight revealed her face. Pale skin, soft features, hair of faint bluish white. She slept with a calm expression, almost angelic.
For a moment, Rian simply looked at her.
She was beautiful —that much was certain.
In fact, so beautiful that he instantly understood why she'd been locked away.
"Well, at least they have taste," he murmured, resting one elbow on the cage.
A crooked smile formed on his lips.
"A first-class beauty… almost as good as mine." He nodded, satisfied with his own remark.
He studied her again, more closely this time. Something about her seemed familiar —the hair, the face, even that peaceful look.
It took a few seconds for his mind to piece it together.
With a gesture, he leaned back and formed two circles with his fingers, holding them before his eyes like glasses.
"Let's see, let's see…" he muttered. "Where have I seen you before?"
Then it clicked.
The hair, the voice, the smile —from a screen in another world.
"…Keroli Crocell?" he said aloud, unable to help himself.
He exhaled a faint sound of genuine curiosity —a mix of intrigue and surprise. He hadn't expected to see anyone from Iruma-kun's world here. Until now, no one from that universe had ever appeared.
But his smile faded as the name repeated itself in his mind.
Crocell.
The thought stopped there.
Crocell.
Weren't they extinct?
There weren't supposed to be any pure-blooded demons of that lineage left. But… this girl didn't feel like a hybrid.
Rian ran a hand through his hair.
"Great… now what am I supposed to do with you?"