The sudden revelation of Shax's true, terrifying form—the hybrid Seraphim and Primordial Demon—had barely lasted a minute before Sullivan clapped his hands together with the decisive finality of a theater curtain closing.
"Well now!" Sullivan declared, his expression moving instantly from analytical shock to doting grandfather. "We simply can't have my little grandson looking like the apocalypse every time he gets a change of clothes! We need to settle down before the house staff has a collective heart attack."
With another, more focused snap, a ripple of calming magic passed over Shax. The crushing wave of black mana receded, and the icy golden light faded. The enormous, imposing wings of the Fallen Seraphim dissolved into shadow and were pulled back into his body, leaving only the tears in his expensive new academy jacket. The swirling vortex in his eyes settled, leaving them a startling, deep crimson.
Only one feature remained stubbornly visible: the flawless, asymmetrical **obsidian horn** that curved gracefully around the side of his skull, a silent statement of his demonic ancestry.
Shax, now breathing easier, felt the agonizing internal battle between the two power types—order and chaos—slow to a painful simmer. He still felt like he was hosting a perpetual natural disaster, but at least he wasn't actively cracking the floor tiles anymore.
"Much better!" Sullivan chirped, producing a freshly tailored, perfectly black, undamaged academy blazer out of thin air. "Now, about your name! You can't go to Babyls Academy as 'Shax Suzuki'—too human, too boring. I've always loved the sound of **Noir**. Yes! From this day forward, you are **Noir Sullivan**, my precious grandson!"
Shax, or rather, Noir, blinked, accepting the new name without argument. He had been Shax Suzuki only in necessity; a new, grander name seemed appropriate for the magnitude of his current existence.
"Right then, Noir," Sullivan said, patting his arm. "It's late, but there's someone you absolutely must meet tonight. He runs the castle and manages my… idiosyncrasies."
Sullivan led Noir through the sprawling, opulent halls of the sky castle. They came to a magnificent dining hall where a single figure stood waiting silently by a vast, empty table.
This figure was tall, lean, and utterly immaculate. He wore the standard formal attire of a butler—stiff collar, spotless gloves—but his appearance was distinctly demonic. He possessed sharp, feline eyes, long, pointed ears, and his movements were economical and graceful, exuding an aura of profound capability and lethal competence. He was, to all appearances, the polar opposite of the chaotic, cheerfully overwhelming Sullivan.
"Opera!" Sullivan called out, beaming. "Come meet my new grandson!"
The butler—Opera—gave a curt, almost imperceptible bow. His expression remained totally neutral, but his feline eyes flickered up, taking in the scene: the overly cheerful Demon Lord, the new black-and-purple-clad boy, and the distinct, unnerving presence emanating from the child.
Opera's gaze lingered on the single, perfect obsidian horn twisting around Noir's head, and then on the tattered remains of the first jacket Sullivan had conjured.
"A new ward, Lord Sullivan?" Opera's voice was low and precise, like the sound of polished steel.
"More than that, dear Opera! This is my grandson, Noir Sullivan!" Sullivan swept an arm toward Noir, then, unable to resist, winked conspiratorially. "Isn't he a handsome one? We just sealed the pact, and now we must prepare him for Babyls!"
Opera stepped closer to Noir, his scrutiny intense. He didn't seem surprised by the situation itself—Sullivan's unpredictability was clearly legendary—but by *Noir*.
"The air around the young master is… contradictory," Opera noted flatly, circling him once with unnerving smoothness. "The concentration of mana is high enough to generate spatial distortion, yet his physical form is barely holding it in check. And the horn… a mark of the ancients."
Opera stopped directly in front of Noir, who stood rigid, trying to maintain his composure under the intense, analytical stare.
"Young master Noir," Opera said, tilting his head slightly. "Is there a reason you are concealing your aura so poorly? It is quite obnoxious."
Noir felt a spike of frustration. *Concealing it poorly? I'm holding back the internal combustion of two divine forces!*
"I… I just acquired it," Noir admitted, his voice still carrying the unintended, resonant echo of ancient power. "I haven't had time to adjust."
Sullivan, suddenly serious, placed a comforting hand on Opera's shoulder. "Opera, he's… well, he's a miracle. We didn't exactly have a manual for someone who is simultaneously a Fallen Seraphim and a Primordial Demon. The energies are fighting."
Opera's neutral expression finally cracked—not into shock, but into a deep, considering frown. He studied the boy again, his gaze piercing. He looked down at the floor, where the stone still held faint, spiderweb cracks from the earlier power surge.
"I see," Opera murmured. He looked back at Noir. "Young master. For the integrity of this castle, and your future enrollment, you must immediately suppress that aura completely. Please reveal your full form to me now, just for a moment, so I may assess the scale of the required training."
Noir hesitated, dreading the pain. But Sullivan nodded encouragingly, and Opera's demand was clearly non-negotiable.
Taking a deep, painful breath, Noir released the spiritual restraints he had imposed.
With a muffled **WUMPH**, the internal dam burst. The obsidian horn darkened further, pulsing faintly. His eyes flashed crimson and gold again. Though the wings remained thankfully internal, the atmosphere in the room *screamed*. The floor vibrated beneath them, and the gentle, magical light fixtures overhead flickered violently, struggling against the chaotic pressure.
It was not a controlled, powerful aura; it was raw, agonizing output. The sheer density of the fighting divine and abyssal mana was sickening, threatening to dissolve his physical body at the cellular level.
Opera took one precise step back. He didn't flinch, but his eyes widened, confirming Sullivan's analysis.
"An eight-winged hybrid," Opera stated, his voice now laced with profound gravity. "The scale of this output is... inappropriate for a residence. Suppress it, now."
Noir quickly pulled the chaotic power back, wincing as the spiritual dam slammed shut again. The mana was overwhelming, trying to escape his skin like steam from a sealed boiler. The air grew heavy and thick around him, the tell-tale sign of contained, overflowing power. The obsidian horn, however, remained.
"The horn must stay, I understand," Opera noted, seeing the difficulty. "But the aura must not leave your skin."
Opera stepped forward again, his demeanor shifting from butler to instructor.
"Young master Noir, your problem is not a lack of power, but an excess of it without a corresponding spiritual vessel capacity. You are trying to contain an ocean in a teacup. The horn is a funnel, but the cup is still full."
Opera raised a gloved hand and tapped Noir gently on the center of his chest, precisely where his core resided.
"The mana from the heavens and the abyss clash because they seek different spiritual pathways. They are fire and water—you cannot mix them; you must separate their flow within you."
He then lifted his hand and began to draw complex, invisible sigils in the air near Noir's head—a lesson in spiritual cartography.
"You must create two separate, parallel rivers in your soul. One for the golden, cold energy—the pathway of Order. The other for the deep, hot darkness—the pathway of Chaos. They must never touch, but they must draw from the same well: your core."
Opera's gaze was relentless. "This is the fundamental principle of advanced demonic energy control: **Separation and Discipline**."
He instructed Noir to close his eyes and visualize his internal self. Noir, using his unique system awareness, focused inward, seeing the chaotic, vibrant clash of gold and black at his spiritual core.
"Now, pull the golden energy upward, into a clean, demanding channel toward your head. That is the Seraphim's way. Feel the cold light and the need for **Judgment** guiding it."
Noir groaned, forcing the golden energy to move. It was like trying to separate oil and water that had been violently mixed. The effort was immense, causing beads of sweat to form on his brow.
"Good," Opera pressed. "Now, simultaneously, pull the black energy down, into a vast, heavy channel toward your feet. That is the Demon's way. Feel the crushing gravity and the demand for **Submission** guiding it."
The conflicting forces nearly tore him apart. Noir gasped, falling to one knee. This was more difficult than surviving forced labor or even fighting off a giant frozen tuna block. This was fighting the foundations of his very existence.
"Hold!" Opera commanded, his voice sharp and penetrating. "Do not let the golden energy infect the black, and do not let the abyssal darkness choke the light. Keep them distinct!"
For a few torturous seconds, Noir managed it. He saw the two ribbons of power flowing internally—parallel, contained, and completely separate. The agonizing, outward pressure immediately subsided. The heavy, thick air around him cleared, and the obsidian horn stopped pulsing. He was still overflowing with mana, but it was *controlled* mana.
He was a hurricane split into two distinct, manageable storms.
Opera nodded once, satisfied. "That is the state you must maintain at all times, young master. The Seraphim seeks order; the Demon seeks chaos. You must use your human will to impose **Balance**."
Opera helped Noir to his feet. "This basic principle—the maintenance of **Duality's Balance**—will be your private training with me. Until you can maintain it effortlessly, you will be prone to catastrophic outbursts. Do you understand?"
Noir, exhausted but triumphant, adjusted the collar of his new blazer. The immense power was still singing beneath his skin, but it was no longer screaming.
"I understand," Noir replied, his voice still deep, but now steady, without the terrifying ancient echo.
Sullivan, watching the intense, quiet lesson with rapt attention, clapped again. "Oh, that's wonderful! Opera, you always know best! Now that Noir's power is safely contained, we can finally discuss his education! He's going to Babyls Academy tomorrow!"
Opera merely gave another curt bow. "Very well, Lord Sullivan. I shall prepare the enrollment paperwork—with the necessary security adjustments for a student of his… unique disposition."
Noir, now keenly aware of the cataclysm he carried, finally accepted his new life. He was no longer Shax the survivor, but Noir Sullivan, the hybrid catastrophe, preparing for demon school under the watchful, terrifying eye of a butler