An erratic knock echoed against Lucien's bedroom door.
Not the crisp, formal cadence of a servant. Nor the alert rhythm of a guard.
This knock was hesitant. Human. Fragile in a way that made every sound feel like it was holding its breath.
Lucien stirred where he sat cross-legged on his bed, shadows still clinging to his thoughts. The weight of recent events—his awakening, the summoning, the peerage bond—lingered like fog. Kuroka lay upside down on the chaise with her legs hooked over the top, tail lazily twitching through the silence. Yamato sat polishing her kanabo with practiced ease, while Ghislaine leaned against the window, eyes narrowed at the shifting violet hues of the Underworld sky.
The knock came again—quieter this time. Almost like the one knocking wasn't sure they had the right to.
Kuroka's ears twitched. "Nya~? That's not a maid or a soldier. Who knocks like they're asking permission to breathe?"
Lucien stood and crossed the room. He wasn't sure why his heart felt heavier with every step.
He opened the door.
And froze.
Standing there, dressed not in the cold armor of the Lucifer Queen but a flowing silver-gray dress that shimmered like starlight, was Grayfia Lucifuge. Her hair—usually immaculate—hung a little loose, as if she'd run her fingers through it too many times. Her pristine poise was still there… but the eyes told the truth.
She looked tired. Not physically. Emotionally. As if something deep and sacred inside her had been stretched far too thin.
"Lucien…" she breathed, her voice softer than he'd ever heard it. "You haven't left this room in over a day. You didn't come to dinner. You didn't even touch the tray I brought last night."
The room behind him stilled.
Even Ghislaine, the feral warrior who faced down monsters without flinching, straightened instinctively—alert, respectful. The Ice Queen was here. And she was showing emotion.
Kuroka slowly peeked over the back of the chaise, her usual lazy smirk gone. Her golden eyes widened faintly at the sight—Grayfia's trembling arms, her unguarded voice.
"…I've seen her crush traitors without blinking," she whispered. "But I've never seen her like this."
She slowly sat up, eyes distant—haunted by a memory.
"When Shirone and I ran… I always wondered if anyone in the high clans knew what it meant to choose love over duty. I thought the answer was no."
She looked at Lucien, then at Grayfia.
"Maybe… I was wrong."
Yamato's hand paused over her weapon, kanabo halfway through a polished motion. She blinked, as if trying to reconcile the woman in front of her with the legend she knew.
"She looks like she could freeze heaven itself… but she's… worried?" she murmured, voice almost reverent. "Is this… what a mother's love is supposed to look like?"
Lucien swallowed, guilt rising in his throat. "Sorry, Mom. I didn't mean to scare you. I just… needed time to think. Everything happened so fast."
Grayfia didn't wait for the rest. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, firm and grounding. There was no etiquette here. No noble distance. Just a mother pulling her son back from whatever lonely edge he had walked to.
"I'm not angry," she whispered, holding him tight. "But don't do that again. If you're in pain, if you're overwhelmed… come to me. You don't have to carry this alone, Lucien."
His arms slowly came up around her, surprised by the tremble in her frame. Grayfia—the unshakable Queen of Ice—was shaking in his arms.
"I won't," he murmured. "I promise."
When she finally stepped back, the mask of control had begun to return to her face, but her eyes still held the residue of fear.
She looked past him, to the figures standing in his room. "These are the ones you summoned?"
Yamato bowed immediately. "Yamato, ma'am. It's an honor to stand at your son's side."
Ghislaine grinned with pride. "Ghislaine Dedoldia. I see where Lucien gets that steel spine of his."
Grayfia blinked once. "Compliments from warriors carry weight. I accept."
Then came the final voice—silken and smug.
Kuroka stretched, now fully seated, tail flicking like a banner of mischief. "And I'm the one with seniority~ Don't worry, Lady Grayfia. I'll make sure your little prince stays warm at night."
Lucien choked on air.
Grayfia's left eye twitched. A glacier might have cracked somewhere in the distance.
But instead of unleashing the full fury of Lucifuge frost, she simply gave her son a long, flat look.
"Breakfast. Now."
And then, with terrifying grace, she turned and walked down the hall, trusting he would follow.
He did.
And so did the weight of her worry.
Gremory Estate – Dining Hall, 15 Minutes Later
The grand table was laid out with care, a morning feast worthy of a noble household: baskets of fresh bread still warm from the oven, spiced meats sizzling gently on enchanted platters, exotic fruits from the Agreas markets sliced into jeweled perfection, and delicate tea brewed from Yggdrasil leaves whose steam shimmered with faint green motes of life.
Lucien and his peerage sat near one end—Kuroka half-curled in her seat with her tail draped over one thigh, Yamato sitting with military posture but eyes flicking between the silverware like she wasn't sure which utensil was for which dish, and Ghislaine already devouring meat with wild, unapologetic grace.
Across from Lucien, Grayfia sat composed as ever, carefully slicing a piece of honey-glazed ham onto his plate—like he was still ten and she refused to let propriety override motherhood.
She set down the knife, folded her hands, and looked across the table with the same icy clarity she used to end negotiations.
"Now that you've decided to return to the land of the living," she said dryly, "I have questions."
Lucien straightened instinctively. "About?"
"You," she replied coolly, "and your new peerage."
Her gaze flicked first to Ghislaine, lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary.
"Ghislaine Dedoldia. Mercenary. Exiled warrior. Famed for defecting from three noble houses and breaking a devil duke's jaw during a peace talk."
Ghislaine swallowed a bite and grinned wide. "All true. I hit harder when nobles talk too much."
Grayfia's lips twitched. Barely. "…Noted."
Then to Yamato, whose back stiffened like a soldier before review.
"Yamato. Last survivor of a shattered realm. Wields divine weaponry and once stood alone against a hydra of the Styx. Records say your willpower burns brighter than your blade."
Yamato inclined her head. "I serve with purpose, Lady Grayfia. Lucien gave me one."
Grayfia said nothing for a long moment, but her eyes held a flicker of something—approval, or perhaps recognition.
And finally, her gaze landed on Kuroka.
"You I know," Grayfia said simply.
Kuroka shrugged, not even pretending to be surprised. "And yet you still let me in."
"I did," Grayfia replied. "But only because my son believes in second chances. If you betray that—"
"I won't," Kuroka said quickly, ears lowering. "Not again."
A moment of stillness passed between them, heavy with unspoken truths. Grayfia's expression didn't change, but her next words were softer.
"Good."
Then, as she poured herself tea, she added offhandedly, "Your fiancée stopped by last night."
Lucien nearly knocked over his cup. "…She what?"
Grayfia's tone turned sharp as a needle dipped in frost.
"Yes. She introduced herself while you were locked in your room, ignoring your meals and responsibilities." She sipped her tea with regal precision. "Flawless etiquette. Impeccable breeding. Terrifying loyalty. And she called me Mother-in-law with a straight face."
Lucien blinked slowly. "She… what?"
"She asked if she could start preparing your formal quarters," Grayfia continued, as if reading a shopping list. "Mentioned wanting to reorganize your closet. Also said she'd skin a dragon alive if it interrupted your sleep again. Polite. Very clear."
Even Ghislaine paused chewing. "That one sounds like a keeper."
"Possessive," Yamato muttered.
"Yandere," Kuroka whispered with admiration. "Nya~ I like her already."
Grayfia ignored the commentary, though her expression twitched once at the corner. Her eyes turned back to Lucien—measured, assessing.
"You'll speak with her today."
Lucien nodded quickly. "Right. Of course."
Across from them, Grayroad—looking every inch the indigo-haired, sleep-deprived teenager he pretended not to be—grunted between bites of mochi. "You got louder."
Lucien blinked. "Louder?"
"In the shadows," Grayroad muttered. "Your Lucifuge magic. It's humming like a second heartbeat now. It was faint when we sparred last month. Now it pulses. Like it wants to grow teeth."
Grayfia set her teacup down gently. "He's correct."
Her voice softened, but there was no loss of weight in her words.
"Your shadow sigils have matured. They're reacting even when you're unaware. Your control is instinctual—but incomplete. You move, and they answer."
She leaned closer, studying him like a scholar examining an unstable enchantment.
"Your growth is unnatural. Even among the Lucifuge."
Lucien shifted uneasily. "That… doesn't sound reassuring."
Grayfia's gaze warmed—just enough.
"It's not a warning, Lucien. It's a sign. You are more than Sirzechs' heir. The darkness in you isn't a flaw—it's a legacy. One I intend to make sure you master… not get consumed by."
Ghislaine leaned back in her seat, tearing through a skewer of meat. "So he's got flame from his father, and shadow from his mother?"
Grayroad smirked. "Yeah. And if he survives puberty, he'll be terrifying."
Lucien groaned. "Great. Thanks for the confidence."
Grayfia, for once, didn't scold. She simply cut another slice of ham and placed it on his plate.
"You'll need your strength."
Gremory Private Training Grounds
The sun in the Underworld cast a golden-violet sheen over the Gremory estate's private training grounds, its radiance dulled by the eternal twilight sky. The courtyard—ringed with obsidian pillars and arcane wards—was alive with energy.
At its heart stood Lucien, crimson hair matted with sweat, shirt torn at the collar, his breath steady but heavy. Power radiated from him in controlled pulses. The air shimmered with heat and something older—a pressure not born of fire, but shadow.
Circling him were his new peerage: three warriors from different worlds, bound now by blood, purpose, and instinct.
Ghislaine Dedoldia prowled like a warhound off leash, arms coiled, eyes locked on Lucien. Her savage grin widened every time he deflected one of her bone-crushing punches or twisted out of a grapple with a burst of shadow.
"You're reading me better," she said with a fang-baring smirk. "I'll stop going easy then."
Beside her, standing tall as a myth reborn, Yamato danced through the battlefield with graceful brutality. Her kanabo sang through the air, its force cracking against wards. Each movement was a storm—white hair flowing like a battle banner, divine energy laced with draconic fire trailing behind her strikes.
From a sun-warmed boulder nearby, Kuroka lounged like a queen on her throne, golden eyes tracking every exchange with lazy amusement.
"Nya~ I like this little family," she purred, tail flicking. "But I still get top cuddling rights, right, Master?"
Lucien laughed mid-dodge. "You're all lethal and slightly unhinged. I must have impeccable taste."
Kuroka's grin sharpened. "Took you long enough to figure that out."
A gust of wind scattered the sweat off his brow as Lucien twisted midair, avoiding both Yamato's downswing and Ghislaine's sweeping kick. He dropped into a low stance—and shadows exploded outward.
Black sigils ignited beneath him in a spiral of shifting ink, ancient Lucifuge glyphs glowing with umbral light. Tendrils surged from the dark, ensnaring Ghislaine's arms and wrapping around Yamato's leg just long enough to halt their advance.
Then—vanished.
At the edge of the arena, Grayfia stood beside Grayroad, arms folded. She had not spoken for several minutes.
Until now.
"His control…" she murmured, voice quiet but sharp. "He's already anchoring the third circle. Without formal seals."
Grayroad gave a low whistle, his slouch straightening ever so slightly. "And not collapsing the construct. That's rare. At this rate, he'll breach the Veil Arcana by the next lunar cycle."
He glanced at her sideways. "When Sirzechs hears this, he's going to panic. And then gloat."
Grayfia didn't reply right away. Her expression remained composed—but her eyes shimmered. Not just with pride.
With calculation.
And something close to awe.
"He's condensing the core too early," she finally said. "But he's adapting. It's… alive in him. The Lucifuge legacy didn't awaken—it recognized him."
Across the grounds, Lucien dropped to one knee, shadows peeling away like smoke. His breath came in slow pulls, but his body was steady.
Then he spoke, quiet but firm:
"System."
"Initiate task integration. I want to accelerate the Lucifuge core."
[Acknowledged, my King. Syncing shadow reserves with current mana flow… Lucifuge inheritance ratio: 47% and rising. Initiating shadow harmonization.]
Lucien rose, and the sparring resumed.
Ghislaine charged in with a roar. Yamato followed with an overhead strike that turned the air to mist. Kuroka joined with a flurry of spells, laughing as she danced around the chaos.
Off to the side, Grayroad crossed his arms. "He's making them better just by standing in the ring. That's Devil King-tier charisma."
Grayfia watched in silence for a long moment. Then, quietly, almost reverently:
"He's becoming what I feared… and what I hoped."
The air around the Gremory estate pulsed—not just with magic, but with something ancient.
Flame. Steel. Fang… and shadow.
And at its center stood the child of Crimson and Midnight.
A prince not only of name—but of power.
Father and Heir
After training ended and his peerage dispersed to rest or eat, Lucien paused just outside the estate's inner hall to compose himself.
His clothes were fresh—dark velvet trimmed in silver, his crimson hair loosely tied back, and a subtle aura of power clung to him like a second skin. He didn't hide it.
Let them feel it.
He walked through familiar corridors lined with ancestral portraits, each gaze a silent reminder of legacy and expectation. Enchanted sconces burned with cold flame, flickering in shades of violet and blue. Servants paused mid-step as he passed—no longer with idle curiosity, but a calculating kind of deference.
At the grand double doors of his father's study, he stopped.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
He knocked once.
"Enter," came the voice—measured, calm, unmistakable.
Lucien pushed open the doors.
The study was vast and steeped in quiet majesty. Shelves of moonwood stretched floor to ceiling, cradling tomes of history and forbidden knowledge. A domed window overlooked the Underworld's distant horizons, its glass etched with constellations that no longer existed. Arcane sigils glowed faintly at the corners, pulsing in time with some unseen rhythm.
At the room's heart sat Sirzechs Lucifer—no armor, no ceremonial robes, just an obsidian tunic with sleeves rolled up, his crimson hair tousled and eyes rimmed with fatigue. He sifted through parchments layered in magical glyphs, the room humming softly with sealed power.
Behind him, Grayfia poured tea into crystal cups. Her expression remained composed, but her silver gaze flicked toward Lucien with subtle intensity.
Sirzechs looked up and smiled, warm but tired. "Lucien. To what do I owe the visit? Please don't tell me you blew up another training dummy."
Lucien chuckled, stepping inside. "Not this time."
Sirzechs gestured to the seat across from him. "Sit. Drink."
Lucien obeyed. The tea was a rare Underworld blend—aged bark, honeyroot, and a hint of spiced moss. Earthy, smoky, grounding. After a few sips, Lucien leaned forward and folded his arms across the table.
"I want to know about my territory."
That got both of his parents' attention.
Sirzechs arched an eyebrow. Grayfia's hands stilled on the teapot.
"Oh?" Sirzechs leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "You're not even officially declared a Duke yet."
"Not officially," Lucien said, voice level, "but the moment I activated the Evil Pieces and brought in a peerage with stories, powers, and presence that make nobles whisper, the rumors started. I'd rather steer the narrative. Let them see a young Lord forging his own House—not a reckless heir hiding in his family's shadow."
A slow smile curved Sirzechs' lips. He didn't answer right away.
Instead, he waved a hand over the obsidian inlay of the desk, summoning a glowing sigil. A map of the Underworld burst to life above the table, shimmering with layered enchantments. Toward the eastern edge of the known territories, a mountainous region pulsed in soft crimson light.
"That is Ebonwild," Sirzechs said. "A pocket realm. It was fractured during the last dimensional collapse and only partially restored. Untamed. Dangerous. But rich in mana veins and forgotten vaults. It borders the Wastes—raw land filled with ancient echoes and chaos."
Lucien studied the region with narrowed eyes. "That's no noble estate. That's a war frontier."
Sirzechs nodded. "Exactly. You'll build from nothing—a fortress, a banner, a city if you have the vision. You'll defend it. Rule it. Name it. The Council approved the claim—barely. Most hoped it would keep you too busy to stir the political waters."
Lucien smirked. "They've clearly never played chess against Rias or Sona."
"Or cards against Grayfia," Sirzechs added with a grin.
Grayfia stepped forward, her voice smooth and cool. "Construction is already underway. Your teleportation gate will link directly to this estate and Kuoh. Your keep will be completed within the month."
Lucien leaned back with a faint grin. "So… it's a fixer-upper."
"Let's call it a blank canvas," Sirzechs offered.
Then Grayfia's voice turned sharp. "Once you're settled, contact both of your betrotheds."
Sirzechs coughed into his hand, clearly suppressing a laugh.
Lucien blinked. "Right… I'll reach out. To both of them. And invite them to move in after I'm settled."
Grayfia arched a brow, her tone edged. "You better."
Sirzechs chuckled, but his voice held a touch of sincerity. "Dracarys may need more… finesse. She won't bow to titles. But if you earn her loyalty, she'll scorch your enemies before they know they've been judged."
Lucien thought briefly of the golden-eyed hybrid with fire in her blood and chaos in her smirk. "She'll be interesting."
He finished his tea and rose to his feet.
"I'll start packing."
As he turned to leave, Grayfia's voice stopped him. Quiet. Measured. But undeniably maternal.
"Lucien."
He paused.
She stepped closer, just enough that her words were for him alone.
"The noble houses are watching. You have raw power and a bloodline that threatens tradition. The more you shine, the darker your shadows will grow."
Lucien met her gaze. "So… slow down?"
"No," she said. "Just don't trip over your ambition. You carry Lucifer's flame… and Lucifuge's shadow. You don't get to ignore either."
Lucien hesitated—then smiled softly.
"I won't do anything too crazy."
Grayfia's expression didn't change, but her eyes glinted. "That's what your father used to say. Right before we blew up a castle."
Sirzechs coughed. "That was one time."
Lucien turned to the doors, adding over his shoulder with a wry grin, "Thanks, Mom. Dad. I'll try not to outshine you… just yet."
Sirzechs laughed, leaning back. "Try your best, son."
Grayfia's smile didn't quite reach her eyes—but in her silence was approval, pride, and warning.
They weren't blind.
Just patient.
And Lucien, heir of flame and shadow, was finally stepping into the storm he was born to command.
After Lucien Leaves
The moment the door clicked shut behind Lucien, the warm glow of the hearth dimmed, as if the fire itself sensed the shift in mood. A hush settled over the study—no longer the silence of peace, but of reflection… and concern.
Sirzechs Lucifer exhaled slowly, reclining into his chair with the weight of generations behind his eyes. He swirled the remaining tea in his cup, watching the dark liquid settle with a faint tremor.
"He's grown sharper," he said at last, his voice thoughtful. "In power. In poise. Like someone preparing for more than building a domain."
Grayfia stood by the tall, arched window, her arms folded across her chest, silver hair catching the dancing light. She said nothing at first, her gaze fixed on the shimmering illusion of the Underworld's sky—a mirror of stars that never changed.
"I thought it was the burden of expectations," she said finally. "But it's more than that."
Her eyes narrowed.
"He fights like someone who's been there before. Not trained through drills. Not honed by tutors. But forged through actual war. Real blood. Real stakes."
Sirzechs nodded solemnly. "And his peerage… that's where the seams begin to unravel."
"Ghislaine Dedoldia," Grayfia said, turning. "She shouldn't be capable of what she displayed. The Sword of Light—it's not demonic magic. It's an ancient discipline, taught in the fading age of gods. Her form was flawless. She locked into a grounded stance, centered everything, and when she struck—"
"The blade bent with velocity," Sirzechs finished, sitting upright. "She was accelerating it past the normal threshold."
Grayfia nodded. "It was close to the true form of the technique. If she had pushed just a little further, she could've torn through sacred-grade armor. And she did it like it was routine."
Sirzechs let out a low breath. "That technique wasn't supposed to have any surviving practitioners."
"And Yamato," Grayfia continued, pacing slowly. "Her strength wasn't raw magic. It was something deeper. When she fought, she hardened her skin—not through transformation, but through sheer will. She didn't defend with barriers. She braced with spirit. Her sword moved like an extension of her purpose."
"Martial will," Sirzechs murmured. "Maybe a refined variant of Ajuka's theoretical soul pressure. Though this felt… older. More visceral."
"She blocked a spell by angling her arm and letting it slide off," Grayfia said, her tone flat. "Not a counterspell. Not deflection. Just mastery of intent and motion. She made magic seem like a suggestion."
"And still," Sirzechs noted, "they kneel to Lucien without hesitation."
Grayfia turned to him with a faint, tired smile. "Because to them, he's not just their King. He's their origin."
They stood in silence for a long, heavy moment—two devils who had seen too much of war and far too little of peace.
Then Grayfia's voice dropped.
"They don't feel native to this world. Their names, their expressions, their phrasing—it's too precise. Too stylized. Like they stepped out of a storybook."
Sirzechs tilted his head. "You think… he summoned them from another world?"
"I think," Grayfia said, folding her hands behind her back, "they belong to another world. And that our son—knows it. He just hasn't decided whether to trust us with the truth yet."
Sirzechs scratched his chin, his gaze distant. "Could be a coincidence. Remember during the banquet, before they received their Evil Pieces? I showed Lucien and Rias that old portrait of Albedo from the Archivium archives. They both said she looked like a character from some human series called Overlord. They practically said the name in sync."
Grayfia's lips thinned. "It's not the first time. I did some digging. The likenesses of Ghislaine and Yamato match characters from light novels and manga Rias and Lucien used to read as children."
She crossed the room, retrieving a black lacquered folder. "And Lucien—he owns the rights to those properties in the Underworld. Manga. Light novels. Even adaptation contracts."
Sirzechs raised a brow. "So you're saying he somehow brought them here, from fiction? Or… they were real all along, and our world only remembered echoes?"
"Possibly either. Possibly both," Grayfia said grimly. "But the only being ever recorded to summon across dimensions was Lilith, and her rituals were erased by the Four Satans during the purge. That kind of magic doesn't just come back."
"Unless it never left," Sirzechs murmured.
There was a long pause, and then he added, "Maybe one of those human authors struck a deal with him. Like the Vermeil Clan did with that human horror writer. Or like Serafall did—she literally commissioned a magical girl manga starring herself and got three sequels."
Grayfia pinched the bridge of her nose. "Yes. And plushies."
Sirzechs grinned. "Still sleeps with one."
Then, more serious: "But you're right. This isn't normal. And it's not just about mystery. It's about responsibility."
Grayfia nodded, her expression sharpening. "I'm assigning Grayroad to quietly watch him. Lucien trusts him, and he's strong enough to keep up. If something goes wrong… I want someone who can protect him. Not just observe."
Sirzechs rose from his seat and faced the window, watching the starlit illusion beyond.
"Good. He's not just our son anymore."
Grayfia stepped beside him, voice lower now. "He's a symbol. And symbols draw shadows."
A long silence stretched.
Then, quietly, Grayfia said, "I hope Ghislaine and Yamato teach him to use the powers they've shown. That he learns whatever truths they brought with them."
Sirzechs gave a thoughtful nod. "If he's going to bear a kingdom on his shoulders… he'll need every edge."
They stood in the quiet of the Luciferian study—one forged from marble, blood, and will. The fire at their backs crackled faintly, like the breath of a resting dragon.
Because somewhere, beyond the reach of their protection…
Their son was already carving a legacy the world had never seen and legends never sleep.
The Queen of Mist and Mischief
The day had waned into twilight, and a quiet stillness settled over the upper floors of the Gremory estate. The corridors, once alive with the footfalls of servants and soft voices of peerage members, now lay hushed—an interlude of peace before the next ripple in Lucien's carefully spun plans.
Lucien moved through the halls with quiet purpose, his presence cloaked in residual shadow magic. He passed the portraits of Gremory ancestors and paintings enchanted to shimmer with faint glimmers of light, only half-aware of their watchful eyes. His mind lingered on the conversation with his parents—the weight of it pressed against his chest like invisible chains.
His father's pride had been subtle but unmistakable.
His mother's warning… far less so.
You carry both Lucifer's flame and Lucifuge's shadow. Remember what either costs.
They weren't blind. They had seen the way Yamato's blade vibrated with will beyond steel. They had seen Ghislaine channel ancient sword techniques that hadn't surfaced in the Underworld for centuries. His summons weren't just powerful—they were too perfect, too precise. Like characters born from myth… or memory.
Lucien reached his chambers and entered without fanfare. With a soft wave of his hand, the door shut behind him, muffling the estate's world in one gentle click.
The room was bathed in a soft amber glow from a floating crystal lantern suspended near the high ceiling. Velvet curtains danced with a phantom breeze. On the darkwood desk, the Queen Piece glimmered—black and red, flecked with violet. Beside it lay the summoning scroll, etched with layered Lucifuge runes and complex system-forged magic that pulsed faintly, as if breathing.
Lucien exhaled, untying the ribbon in his hair and letting the silver strands fall loosely. He rolled his shoulders and walked to the desk, fingers brushing the Queen Piece as his thoughts swirled.
So far, only Kuroka knew the truth—and even then, not all of it.
Rias would be next. She deserved that.
But his parents?
His gaze flicked toward the window, where the mirrored sky of the Underworld reflected constellations no human would ever see.
They probably already know, he admitted to himself. They're just waiting for me to say it.
Lucien sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees.
"I could tell them," he murmured. "Everything. The system. The summons. Even my memories…"
But the thought made his chest tighten.
They were powerful—yes. But they were still his parents. He didn't want them dragged into something that wasn't meant for them. Not yet. Not until he knew what the system wanted… and what it would cost.
"System," he called silently.
A familiar voice responded in a smooth, feminine tone, like a whisper traced through silk.
[I am listening.]
"How much… am I allowed to tell them?"
[You may disclose the existence of your summons and that your Evil Pieces enable you to pull entities from beyond this world. However, you may not reveal your knowledge of this world's future or key narrative events that have yet to unfold.]
Lucien let out a slow breath. It wasn't everything—but it was enough.
"Alright. Good. But you need a name. I'm not calling you 'System' for the rest of my life."
Names flickered through his thoughts—Athena. Freya. Morgana. But none quite fit.
Then one rose from deep in his memory.
Lilith.
The First Woman. The Queen of the Night. The shadow in myth and the fire behind rebellion.
He smiled.
"Your name… is Lilith."
[Designation accepted: Lilith. Your interface has been updated, my King.]
"Much better. Now I don't sound like a software patch."
[A wise choice. Shall we proceed with your next objective?]
Lucien rose and walked to the summoning scroll.
"Yes," he said. "It's time for my Queen."
[Warning: Queen-class summon will destabilize local power fields. Expect dimensional pinging and astral harmonics. Do you accept the risks?]
"I do. Let them ping. They already suspect something."
[Summoning initiated.]
The Queen Piece glowed fiercely, rising from the table into the air.
The Lucifuge sigils around the scroll flared to life—black mist swirling outward like smoke from a memory. The room grew colder. Shadows stretched unnaturally. Arcane syllables rang through the space, not spoken, but felt.
A pulse of pressure burst outward. Then silence.
A moment later, the mist condensed—flesh and form taking shape as golden hair flowed from the shadows like sunlit silk.
Her curves were impossible to miss, her attire scandalous in any dimension—yet beneath it all was a wild grace, and in her eyes, the glint of a seasoned warrior. The scent of plum wine, sakura blossoms, and battle hung in the air.
Rangiku Matsumoto stepped forward from the mist, one hand on her hip, the other lazily tossing her hair back.
"Well, well," she purred. "Took you long enough, darling."
Lucien arched a brow. "Welcome to the Underworld, Queen of Mist and Mischief."
Rangiku smiled—a slow, teasing thing that promised chaos.
"Let's make some trouble."
Bonds Forged in Steel and Silk
The morning sun of the Underworld bathed the Gremory estate in a muted, ethereal glow. Soft gold spilled through the canopy of enchanted trees, their violet leaves rustling with every whispering gust. The private training grounds, a circular arena carved into stone and magic, carried the scent of scorched sigils and ozone—a battlefield steeped in history, and now alive with present potential.
At its heart stood Lucien, his crimson hair damp with sweat, skin humming with contained magic. Each breath he took fogged faintly in the air, as if the heat of his training warped even the Underworld's cool breeze. Shadows curled at his feet—not cast by sunlight, but conjured from will. They flickered like sentient ink, tugging gently at his heels as if awaiting command.
Surrounding him were four women—each as different as fire and ice, steel and silk—and each a testament to the force he was becoming.
They were not a peerage.
They were a court.
⸻
Ghislaine Dedoldia, the Lioness of Dedoldia, stood like a fortress of muscle and instinct. Her sleeveless black gi clung to her sculpted form, the faint shimmer of warding enchantments tracing its seams. Her arms were crossed, but her feet shifted lightly, ready to strike. Golden eyes tracked Lucien's every movement with predatory glee.
Each time he redirected her fierce strikes—using precise footwork, flickers of Lucifuge shadows, or the subtle economy of motion—her grin grew sharper.
"You've gotten sharper," she growled approvingly, her voice like gravel and smoke. "Still not fast enough to land a clean hit, though."
Lucien rolled his shoulder, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Give it time."
⸻
Yamato, regal and radiant, danced along the perimeter with her massive kanabo slung across her back. Her black and crimson yukata was modified for battle—flowing, open-sleeved, with side slits to accommodate powerful lunges. Her long white hair shimmered like strands of polished moonstone, catching the light with each graceful spin.
"Your center of gravity's improving!" she called out, eyes gleaming with challenge. "That means I don't have to hold back anymore!"
She pivoted in a graceful arc, her club crashing into a summoned boulder—shattering it into dust.
Lucien coughed into his fist. "You've been holding back?"
"She says while wielding a club the size of a horse," Kuroka muttered from her perch.
⸻
Kuroka lounged atop a sun-warmed rock, looking as relaxed as a housecat after a feast. Her twin tails flicked lazily behind her, golden eyes half-lidded in amusement. She wore a sleeveless black qipao embroidered with silver roses—traditional, alluring, lethal.
Her posture was carefree, but her aura pulsed beneath the surface like a coiled serpent in tall grass.
"Nya~ I like this team," she purred. "But I still get top cuddling rights, right, Master?"
Lucien, wiping sweat from his brow, let out a breathless laugh. "You're all lethal and completely insane. I must have excellent taste."
Kuroka grinned wide, showing sharp fangs. "Took you long enough to figure that out."
⸻
And then, there was Rangiku Matsumoto, leaning with casual elegance against a broken training dummy.
She was the newest flame in his circle—a Queen in more than just title. Her strawberry-blonde hair cascaded over one shoulder, glinting like rose gold. A high-slit black-and-white kimono, sleeveless and fitted, flowed around her with a tailored sensuality. She sipped from a conjured sake gourd, one arm draped loosely across her waist.
Ice-blue eyes watched the chaos with detached amusement.
"You know," she murmured between sips, "I expected more blood. Or at least a dramatic declaration of eternal love. This is almost… civilized."
Yamato turned toward her, scandalized. "You're drinking during training?!"
"I'm hydrating," Rangiku said smoothly. "Spiritually."
Kuroka snorted. "I like her."
Lucien, chest heaving, finally let himself relax—just enough to admire the dynamic taking root around him.
What began as recruitment had evolved into something deeper. These weren't just allies. They were anchors. Mirrors. Steel and silk, chosen and bound.
And as he closed his eyes to center his breath, the shadows around him pulsed once, then stilled.
⸻
Elsewhere in the Estate: Shadows Stir
In a far wing of the manor, high atop a moonlit balcony framed by black marble, Grayfia Lucifuge froze mid-stride.
She had been returning from the estate's war room—scrolls tucked neatly beneath one arm—when a ripple of power brushed her senses like a whispered name.
A Queen piece, but not like the others. This one moved like perfume through a ballroom, scented with laughter, layered with intent.
Her heartbeat slowed.
Velvet silk. A wine-drenched dusk. Mischief with teeth.
Her silver eyes narrowed.
"She's summoned," Grayfia whispered.
Within seconds, she appeared beside Sirzechs and Grayroad, already waiting on the west-facing balcony that overlooked the training grounds.
Below, Lucien was standing tall among his peerage, aura flashing with deliberate power. Shadows moved like water at his command, undulating in perfect rhythm with his intent.
Sirzechs nodded as his wife joined him. "You felt it too?"
"She doesn't feel like a noble-born," Grayfia said slowly. "But her presence… it's refined. Playful. Dangerous in all the right ways."
Sirzechs chuckled softly. "She reminds me of Magrisa the Veiled Dawn."
Grayfia turned to him with a flick of silver hair. "The devil who seduced an entire enemy court mid-war and danced through their ranks like a waltz of daggers?"
"She had the same balance of silk and fire."
Grayroad tilted his head. "You think she's a reincarnation?"
"No," Grayfia said, her voice low. "But I wouldn't be surprised if she was born of a myth like Magrisa's. Lucien… he's not just summoning. He's weaving."
Sirzechs leaned forward. "And the boy who used to fear the dark is now building an empire of it."
⸻
Back on the Field: The Final Test
Lucien opened his eyes.
The air around him vibrated with expectation. Four auras flared around him—Kuroka's sleek menace, Yamato's burning resolve, Ghislaine's honed steel, Rangiku's liquid confidence.
"Alright," Lucien said, raising one hand. "Let's finish with one last test. All four of you. Against me. No killing blows."
Kuroka stretched, her tails curling lazily. "Ooh~ I love team-building exercises."
Ghislaine cracked her knuckles. "Let's see if you can finally knock me back."
Yamato smirked, flipping her kanabo into both hands. "I'm going to hit you so hard, your shadow will flinch."
Rangiku, now without her sake, stepped forward with that half-lidded look of danger wrapped in silk. "You'll regret inviting all your wives to attack you at once, handsome."
Lucien grinned, and his shadow responded—tendrils rising like a silent army.
"Then show me," he said, his voice low and sure.
"Why I deserve to be your King."
The battle erupted with flash and fury.
Four storms converged on a crimson flame.
And the Underworld watched its heir forge bonds deeper than blood—tempered in steel and sealed in silk.