Chapter 1
POV: Belathriel Beleth
"What did father say?" Hermon asked, watching him with an openly worried expression.
He had just been summoned by his father, King Beleth, and it seemed his siblings could not wait to hear the outcome, as all of them had been waiting in his chambers. His younger sister, Herodias, lay languidly across his bed with the careless ease of a lazy feline, while their youngest brother sat beside her, legs tucked beneath him, his eyes fixed on him with quiet curiosity.
"He means to pardon him," he replied.
At once, the atmosphere shifted. His younger brother's face hardened, as though all mirth had been abruptly drained from him, while Herodias straightened, abandoning her indolent posture and sitting properly, both of them now focused entirely on him.
"Are you sure?" Herodias asked, her voice edged with restrained fury.
"Why would he do that?" Hermon demanded. "The length of his exile was decreed to be twelve years. It has only been two."
"How would I know," he answered, his voice heavy with a resigned anger born of helplessness. "Apparently, he has been making waves with one of his new inventions, a magical artifact of sorts."
"A magical artifact?" Hermon repeated.
"Yes," he said. "Something involving the use of rings as conduits. Father referred to them as rings of power. From what he explained, these rings possess properties that make them especially attractive to the nobility, such as the ability to manipulate crude demonic energy or influence the flow of Gehenna nodes."
Crude demonic energy was the raw, unfiltered essence permeating the Underworld, wild and volatile, far more unstable than the refined demonic energy wielded by devils or demonic beasts.
It saturated the realm itself, coursing through the ground in what were commonly called Gehenna nodes, a term that served more as poetic convenience than accurate description, for in truth the entire bedrock of the Underworld was steeped in this energy, and the so-called nodes merely marked areas of greater concentration.
Regions where the flow was weak were rare, and it was precisely those lands that proved the most fertile, as demonic energy was inherently hostile to life in all its forms.
"How did father find out about this?" Herodias asked, her fingers resting against her chin in a familiar gesture she adopted whenever she thought deeply.
"Lord Astaroth purchased one of the rings," he replied. "After confirming its authenticity, other nobles, mostly from the lesser houses, have begun currying favor in the hope of acquiring one as well."
"I see," she said after a moment, leaning back slightly, her expression thoughtful rather than angry. "By exiling him from our house, and barring him from Ars Goetia for twelve years, father stripped him of formal authority and influence. But these rings change the equation, because if lesser houses or any of the other great houses gain access to tools that allow them to manipulate demonic energy or stabilize their territories, they become less dependent on the great houses for protection and resources, which in turn gives him indirect power over those who rely on his creations."
She paused briefly, then went on, voice steady and unadorned. "As long as he remains exiled, father gains nothing from this influence, while rival houses may attempt to draw him into their own spheres through patronage or marriage, and that is a risk father cannot ignore, so by pardoning him, even partially, he can bring that leverage back under our banner, claim oversight of the rings' distribution, and present it as a benevolent act of reconciliation rather than a political necessity."
Hermon frowned. "So politics again. How tiresome."
"Yes," Herodias replied calmly. "It is containment, and an attempt to ensure that whatever power these rings create flows upward to House Beleth rather than outward to those who would gladly use them against us."
"Even you do not truly believe that," Belathriel said dryly.
"Perhaps," Herodias conceded. "But that is still preferable to believing that Father would simply forgive him for threatening you, for nearly killing you, as though such a thing were trivial, or that he would so openly value one of his children above the others, as though the rest of us were expendable."
"Assuming?" Belathriel repeated, incredulity sharpening his voice. "Father never made any effort to hide it. He made it clear, again and again, that he was the favorite, and that the rest of us existed only in relation to him, useful at best. It was always Meruem this, Meruem that, spoken with pride and reverence, while the rest of us stood beside him like ornamental pieces meant to complete the picture rather than matter in it. If not for Lord Lucifer's interference, Father would not even have pretended to punish him."
Great Meruem. Brilliant Meruem. Shining Meruem. Peerless Meruem. Unparalleled Meruem. Prodigious Meruem.
These were only a few of the countless epithets that clung to his older brother's name, titles spoken so often and with such reverence that they seemed inseparable from his very existence. Belathriel had grown up in their shadow, measured against them, diminished by them, and constantly reminded that whatever he achieved would always be framed as lesser by comparison.
From Belathriel's perspective, Meruem was not merely talented but monstrously so, a prodigy whose gifts seemed effortless and instinctive, as though the very fabric of demonic energy bent toward him in quiet adoration.
While Belathriel himself had to wrestle, grind, and bleed for every increment of progress, each achievement earned through discipline rather than divine favor, and thus regarded as inferior despite the effort it demanded.
Belathriel, however, was not lacking in ability. He was talented, undeniably so. His control over demonic energy was refined to a degree few of his peers could approach, his efficiency surpassing even those already considered prodigious.
He outperformed Sona Sitri and Seekvaira Agares, devils whose talents were praised openly within Ars Goetia, and he could regulate the flow of his demonic energy with such precision that even an accomplished sensor would fail to notice him approaching from behind.
He was not lazy like many of his peers, devils who waited for power to manifest naturally while indulging themselves in pleasure, luxury, and excess, convinced that status alone would eventually grant them strength.
Belathriel trained relentlessly, to the point of exhaustion, so consumed by discipline that he often forgot to eat, his body pushed far beyond comfort or moderation. Through sheer persistence, he reached the point where he could fight Sairaorg Bael to a standstill, even if he lost more often than he won.
He refined his demonic energy control, honed his hand to hand combat, and cultivated his demonic trait with obsessive care. He sought out the finest tutors in their respective disciplines, purchased ancient tomes filled with esoteric knowledge, and practiced forbidden and obscure rituals designed to extract every possible advantage from his body and soul.
He studied theory relentlessly and tested it through practical application, sparring with seasoned soldiers in their service in order to temper technique with real combat experience rather than sheltered training halls.
Sairaorg once asked him why he trained with such single minded intensity, why he pushed himself as though possessed, what he felt compelled to prove, and what goal could possibly justify refusing the pleasures and indulgences embraced by most of their generation.
Sairaorg himself had been born without the demonic trait of House Bael, the Power of Destruction. As a result had been shunned, ridiculed, and ultimately cast aside by both his clan and society, including his own father, losing his status as heir and driven by raw spite to become the strongest devil alive in order to defy a society that had branded him worthless.
Belathriel, however, did not share that kind of motivation. He was not despised for lacking a demonic trait, nor was he cast aside by society or abused by his family for being weak or deficient.
He was acknowledged as capable, respected as competent, and yet that was precisely the problem, because competence was invisible in a household dominated by brilliance, and respect meant little when it was always secondary, always conditional, always overshadowed by the unspoken truth that no matter how hard he worked, he would never be the one they waited for, praised first, or forgave without hesitation.
So what is it that drives you? Sairaorg had asked.
Belathriel trained until collapse for a single reason, Meruem Beleth. His older half-brother by a year, a devil whose talent rendered the very concept of talent inadequate, a being so profoundly gifted that it felt as though he were blessed by heaven itself, a favored child of demonic energy.
Whatever took Belathriel a week of relentless effort to master, Meruem accomplished in a single day. Manipulating demonic energy, learning new spells, grasping advanced theory, all of it came to him with effortless ease.
He graduated from the academy with the highest possible marks, dominating hand to hand combat and magical combat alike, excelling in magical theory, potions, alchemy, crafting, barrier and ward magic, concealment techniques, aerial combat, runes, weapon mastery, and countless other disciplines, his superiority so complete that comparison itself felt futile.
And yet, while such excellence seemed overwhelming, Belathriel knew that mastery in these fields was not impossible. Though he lacked Meruem's instinctive grasp of demonic energy and his uncanny speed of comprehension, Belathriel believed with unwavering conviction that through sufficient effort, relentless discipline, and uncompromising resolve, he could reach the same heights, and perhaps even surpass him in certain branches.
However, there was one thing that Belathriel could never equal, no matter how relentlessly he trained or how obsessively he worked, and it was the one thing their father valued above all else, the very reason Meruem remained his unquestioned favorite.
Meruem could do as he pleased, break rules and traditions without consequence, insult nobles both great and lesser alike, and his father would never so much as reprimand him. The reason for this indulgence was simple.
Meruem was a miracle child.
The hereditary ability of House Beleth was known as the Shrine of Pride, an inherited authority with three distinct aspects, each representing a facet of the Shrine itself and together forming its complete manifestation.
The first aspect was Pyrokinesis, which granted the user the ability to generate, control, and shape flames freely and with absolute responsiveness to will and intent.
The second aspect was Sovereign Pressure, an authority that allowed the user to impose an invisible force through sheer dominance, enabling them to crush, restrain, repel, or obliterate targets without physical contact, functioning as a form of telekinesis.
The third aspect was the King's Eye, a visual prowess that allowed its bearer to perceive supernatural energy in color and structure, discern its origin and nature, see through certain obstructions, and attain heightened perception that sharpened awareness, reaction speed, and control over the other aspects of the Shrine.
Yet even this power was bound by limits. One of its fundamental conditions was that there could never be more than a single inheritor of the full Shrine of Pride at any given time, meaning that only one person could be born with the ability to wield all three aspects together.
All other members of House Beleth inherited only one aspect of the Shrine. Belathriel and Athaliah, for example, were born with Pyrokinesis alone, while his younger brother Hermon and his younger sister Herodias inherited Sovereign Pressure.
The last individual to possess the full Shrine of Pride had been the elder brother of the current King, who perished during the early years of the civil war more than five centuries ago. For five centuries, no child had been born bearing the full authority, until Meruem Beleth came into the world.
"Well, Meruem is special," Hermon said, his voice neutral.
"And that gives him the right to nearly murder his own brother?" Herodias snapped.
"Half brother," Belathriel corrected.
"What?" Herodias asked, momentarily confused.
"We are his half siblings," Belathriel said. "He never misses a chance to remind us of that."
"I would hope the exile might temper him somewhat," Hermon said quietly.
"As likely as devils breaking bread with angels," Belathriel replied dryly.
"How did Lord Astaroth even manage to purchase these rings of power?" Hermon asked. "Even if Father's decree could be ignored by the other pillar houses, every one of them knows that the true reason for Meruem's exile was Lord Lucifer. To disregard his judgment would invite the wrath of the Crimson Satan, and no matter how gifted our brother may be, I doubt any house, great or lesser, would willingly take that risk."
"There are loopholes," Belathriel said.
"What do you mean?" Hermon asked, unable to imagine how anyone could bypass a Satan's order.
"Queen Morena," Herodias answered, her voice tinged with unease. "Lord Lucifer only exiled Meruem himself. His mother, the fourth queen, chose to follow her son into exile of her own volition. She is still free to return to Ars Goetia whenever she wishes, and the only reason she has not is her pride and her resentment toward the Satans for interfering."
Queen Morena Beleth née Balam, was as proud and unyielding as she was beautiful and cunning. Though officially only the fourth queen and a relatively recent addition, having married King Adrameleth Beleth a century prior, she was in truth the most powerful of the queens and wielded considerable political authority within the court.
Belathriel despised her. She had displaced his mother as the king's favored consort and made it her personal mission to complicate the lives of the other queens and their children, ensuring that her own influence and her son's future remained unchallenged, a ruthless disposition she had passed on to her only child.
"I see," Hermon said slowly. "So she handles the political and commercial dealings while Meruem focuses on invention. Do you think Father is aware of it?"
"I would be surprised if he were not," Belathriel replied bitterly. No matter how much he achieved or how tirelessly he worked, he would always be lesser in his father's eyes for the simple crime of not being born with the full authority of the Shrine of Pride.
"What do we do now?" Hermon asked.
"What we always do," Belathriel answered. "We endure, and we stay out of his path. I have no desire to share Malakh's fate."
Malakh Furfur had been the heir of House Furfur, slain by Meruem on that fateful day, an act so severe that it forced the Satans themselves to intervene and ultimately led to Meruem's exile.
…
The artificial sun of the Underworld glowed, casting its brilliant light across the purple sky in a display of luminous splendor that seemed almost alive. The installation of the sun had always been a subject of debate, yet Belathriel could not help but marvel at its beauty.
In the white stone courtyard, meticulously maintained with sculpted topiaries and vibrant flowerbeds, the royal household stood assembled. The king occupied the center, with three queens to his right, positioned a few steps behind him, and three more to his left.
His eldest daughter, Athaliah Beleth, stood beside him, her younger sister Herodias by her side. On the king's right, Belathriel and Hermon stood silently, absorbing the chorus of cheers that rippled through the city.
All of them were clad in their finest attire, the picture of noble refinement, and the crowd's exultation rose in successive waves, first from the western gate, then street by street, swelling as the news spread.
Prince Meruem was returning home.
The throngs lining the streets stretched as far as the eye could see, their voices mingling in shouts of welcome and joyous acclamation. Clarion trumpets rang out from the upper windows of the surrounding houses, while musicians, harpists, and violinists performed in the streets in celebration.
The capital city of House Beleth's domain, Sheol, rejoiced at the return of their prodigal prince.
Belathriel could make out figures moving through the parted crowd, proceeding with measured calm. He saw a golden chariot, in which two figures sat, waving to the populace with laughter.
The chariot was drawn by two enormous lions, one pristine white and the other pitch black, their massive forms glinting beneath the magical light. Flanking the chariot rode six guards on either side and twelve more behind, leaving the front left deliberately open so that the queen and her son could be fully seen in all their majesty.
"Do you think this was arranged?" Hermon asked quietly, his voice tinged with awe at the city's devotion to Meruem.
"If Queen Morena is involved, always assume it was meticulously orchestrated," Belathriel replied. "She undoubtedly mobilized her spies throughout the city to ensure the rumor of Meruem's return spread, and to prepare the streets for this reception. The people are eager for any glimpse of the miracle child, not to mention their beloved queen."
Though he hated to admit it, Belathriel recognized Queen Morena's exceptional skill in political maneuvering. She had invested in and established multiple businesses across Sheol, quickly earning the devotion of the lower classes while expanding her wealth and influence, advantages that were now fully on display.
Belathriel turned to his father and saw the king gazing with an unmistakable mixture of longing and paternal pride at his approaching son and wife. He could not help but imagine himself in Meruem's place, feeling his father's eyes upon him with such pride and affection for nothing more than existing.
His gaze returned to the approaching chariot, the shouts of the crowd escalating in volume and fervor as Meruem became fully visible. The prince wore finely made traditional garments, white and silver with gold accents, standing tall in the chariot and waving at the cheering crowd, his gesture amplifying their adoration.
Belathriel could now see him clearly: taller than he remembered, with raven-black hair and luminous purple eyes inherited from his mother, features so exquisitely refined that he was momentarily struck by the sheer perfection of his beauty, and a smile that radiated charm and danger equally.
The last two years in exile had only heightened Meruem's aura. Devils were vain and competitive by nature, dedicating significant time to measuring and ranking physical beauty among themselves, and in the most recent published rankings two years prior, Meruem had been declared the most beautiful male devil of his generation.
Standing beneath the resplendent light of the Underworld, it was easy to see why.
Belathriel recalled the affection he had once felt for Meruem, the desire to stand beside him as a brother and equal. Both Jezebel and Hermon had loved him as well; it was impossible not to.
Meruem had been charming, approachable, quick to laugh, and immensely popular before his exile, beloved by many and returning that love freely to others.
Yet for his siblings, he had withheld that affection entirely.
He had never loved any of them.
AN: Yeah, so I've started another fic. It's been on my mind for a while and just refused to go away, so here's hoping I can finally put it to rest by putting it on paper or, well, on a keyboard. Anyway, Merry Christmas to you all.