A few days had passed since Lucien first stood in his father's study and made his bold request to seek out Kuroka. In that time, the Gremory household buzzed with subtle shifts—quiet meetings behind sealed doors, hushed messages whispered through magical channels, and the faint stirring of old secrets rising like dust from a long-forgotten archive.
Now, deep within the Lucifuge-Gremory archive chamber, the truth was beginning to bleed through the veil of silence.
The chamber was cold—colder than any normal magic-imbued room. Wards layered the stone walls like latticework, humming faintly in defiance of detection or divination. This wasn't a place for casual research. It was a vault for forbidden knowledge.
And today, that knowledge is being unearthed.
Sirzechs stood solemnly at an obsidian console, formal robes hanging like a mantle of gravity. Beside him hovered Serafall Leviathan, her usual hyper charm replaced by the razor-sharp poise of a warrior-commander. Two trusted members of Sirzechs' peerage stood vigil, while the demon Grayroad loomed behind them like a judgment-given form.
A projection crystal pulsed in the air, flickering with once-classified reports decrypted through Serafall's clearance.
Her sapphire eyes narrowed as the horrors unfolded.
"They tried to bury this…"
Her voice was low. Cold. Deadly.
"Unapproved experimentation. Binding seals. Ki suppression. Splicing demon blood into hybrids—children, even."
Sirzechs' jaw tensed, crimson eyes darkening.
"All done under the guise of control," he muttered. "They weren't training devils. They were manufacturing weapons."
Grayroad nodded grimly. "All backed by the Old Satan Faction. The same nobles who resisted the Maou reforms after the Great War."
Another stream of files burst forth: blurred images from a destroyed compound. A photo of Kuroka, barely sixteen, clutching a terrified Koneko as they fled. The ground behind them was strewn with shattered ritual circles, broken suppression collars, and blood.
"She wasn't fleeing justice," Serafall whispered. "She was escaping a nightmare."
Sirzechs' voice was low and haunted. "And her master's death?"
Grayroad zoomed in on a telemetry log. The magical readings were clear.
"He tried to bind her permanently. The kill was reactive. Beast-blooded instinct in a mortal moment. Not premeditated."
Serafall's hands curled into fists, knuckles white.
"We let them make her into a monster… and then blamed her for surviving!"
Sirzechs stared at the image of Kuroka's haunted expression as Koneko clung to her. Something shifted in his gaze—quiet grief and shared failure.
A glowing map shimmered to life, displaying the snow-blanketed Hokubu Mountains in the Underworld's northern territories. Serafall pointed at a flicker of light.
"Faint Senjutsu traces. Subtle, but recent—within the month."
Sirzechs nodded. "It's enough. I'll assemble a covert recovery team."
Serafall's voice hardened. "I'll contact Azazel."
Sirzechs raised a brow. "Can you trust him?"
"I trust that he hates corruption more than he hates us. He has eyes where we don't."
A long silence followed.
Then Sirzechs exhaled, slow and heavy.
"All this time… and we called her a stray."
Serafall's voice came quiet but steady.
"No. She was abandoned. There's a difference."
⸻
Two Weeks Later — Maou High Council Chamber
The ancient chamber pulsed with infernal power, its obsidian dome echoing the tension of devildom's highest authority. The Four Great Satans presided from elevated thrones as nobles filled the circular gallery—old bloodlines, ambitious heirs, and scheming lords gathered like crows before a storm.
Holographic projections shimmered above the chamber—declassified reports, redacted files, hidden truths.
Sirzechs stood before them, posture sharp, voice steeled with tempered authority.
"She didn't run because she was evil. She ran because she was hunted. Because this system—our system—failed her."
Serafall stepped forward, voice slicing like a blade.
"This wasn't simple negligence. It was a sanctioned conspiracy. Rogue nobles turned children into test subjects… and we let them. We hid it."
Murmurs of disbelief turned to gasps. Shock melted into horror.
Falbium Bael, stoic as ever, broke the silence.
"Then the question becomes… what do we do now?"
Another noble stood. "She is still, officially, a stray. What is her fate?"
Sirzechs and Serafall exchanged a long, meaningful glance.
Then, as if on cue, both smiled.
Sirzechs turned back to the council.
"As of this meeting, Kuroka's stray designation is revoked. Her bounty is nullified. She will be placed under the guardianship of my son—Lucien Lucifuge-Gremory."
Pandemonium.
Nobles erupted—shock, outrage, laughter, intrigue.
"You would hand her to a child?!"
"He's no ordinary child…"
"The Crimson Prince takes after his father—powerful, calculating."
"Or reckless."
A younger devil noble leaned to his friend with a smirk.
"Ten-star coins say the kid's got a tail fetish. First a Nekomata, next a fox, maybe a dragon. Little fur-chaser's building a zoo."
Chuckles rippled through the back rows.
Serafall raised her voice.
"Lucien has the strength to face her. But more importantly, he has the will to understand her. That's rarer than any sword!"
Sirzechs added, gaze unwavering:
"And Koneko deserves her sister back. Not as a burden. But as someone who protected her when no one else did."
Silence reclaimed the room.
Not all agreed—but a shift was undeniable. One of reckoning.
Redemption was no longer seen as a weakness.
It was overdue justice.
As the council turned to deliberate, Serafall leaned toward Sirzechs and whispered:
"He's going to have his hands full. That girl bites—literally."
Sirzechs gave a dry chuckle.
"Then I'll be tripling that boy's training."
Serafall blinked, then grinned.
"Now that's the Lucifer I remember. You're finally sounding like a dad instead of a diplomat."
"He's my son," Sirzechs said quietly, eyes distant. "I can't protect him from what's coming… but I can prepare him for it."
⸻
Post-Meeting – Nobles' Lounge
The Maou Chamber had barely emptied before the nobles filtered into the adjoining lounge—an opulent antechamber of obsidian columns, soul-glass decanters, and velvet alcoves perfect for whispered plotting.
A cluster of young heirs laughed near the spirit fire hearth.
"Did you hear that windbag? 'A child's burden is his strength.' What a joke."
"First no peerage members at all, now a stray cat for his first? What's next? A fallen angel concubine?"
"I swear, the fluff level in his peerage is going up with each recruit."
More laughter.
Across the room, Lady Alecta of House Valefor swirled her midnight wine, unimpressed.
Beside her, Lord Galbreath of House Oriax stroked his beard thoughtfully.
"Fools," Alecta murmured. "While they joke about fetishes, they miss the truth."
Galbreath raised a brow. "Which is?"
"That boy's building a faction. And not of pampered heirs or polished prodigies. He's collecting survivors. Fighters. Loyalty born of exile, and power wrapped in rage."
She sipped slowly. "And if even half of them survive what's coming… the next Great War won't begin with a declaration. It'll begin with a whisper from his table."
Galbreath said nothing.
But the flicker in his eyes suggested he was already considering which of his grandchildren he might one day send to that table.