The morning after the High Council's historic decision dawned in hues of crimson, streaking through the enchanted stained-glass windows of the Gremory estate. The air in the Underworld felt different—sharper, heavier. As if the very realm were holding its breath.
Whispers of the council's revelations still clung to the noble halls like cobwebs of old sins exposed. But Lucien didn't have time for politics today.
His real trial had only just begun.
⸻
The Ice of Discipline — Training with Grayfia
"Again," Grayfia commanded, her voice sharper than frostbite. The air around them shimmered with glacial magic, sigils of ice crackling beneath their feet.
Lucien's muscles screamed in protest from the earlier drills, but hesitation had long since been beaten out of him. As a barrier snapped into place—angular, precise—it was no longer instinct, but relentless repetition.
The air tasted of cold iron.
Grayfia struck.
A cascade of elemental punishment surged toward him—fire laced with freezing mist, threads of nullification that sought out every flaw in his shield work. She circled him like a predator.
"Control, not chaos," she said, each word a dagger of winter. "A storm means nothing if it cannot be aimed."
The line cut deeper than any spell.
Lucien's hands trembled slightly as he reinforced his barriers, repeating the line silently. Control, not chaos. Aim the storm.
Two hours blurred into something timeless. Transmutation matrices. Teleportation anchors. Temporal stutters. Spells that twisted the laws of space and magic.
Lucien collapsed to one knee, chest heaving. His body begged for mercy, but his eyes—gods, those eyes burned.
Grayfia noticed.
A brief nod, the barest crack in her icy mask.
He's not just surviving, she thought, a flicker of warmth in her frost. He's learning.
"You're improving," she admitted. Then softer, a hint of something almost… human. "But remember—this war doesn't forgive mistakes. And neither will your enemies."
Neither will I, Lucien thought, not daring to speak it aloud.
Behind her, for just a moment, she paused and placed a hand over her stomach. She dismissed it quickly—but a single glance passed between her and a nearby maid. A secret left unspoken.
⸻
The Flame of Legacy — The Power of Destruction with Venelana
Where Grayfia was precision and discipline, Venelana Gremory was passion and unrelenting fury.
The training courtyard blazed beneath the crimson sun, obsidian tiles radiating with heat. Venelana stood barefoot, her fingers wreathed in the raw, red-black energy of the Power of Destruction—primordial, volatile.
"You carry our blood, Lucien," she murmured, voice like velvet draped over a dagger. "But inheritance isn't worth it. Prove you belong."
He called the power.
It flooded him, searing through nerves and bone like liquid fire. For a breath, it threatened to consume him, to strip him down to ash.
But it didn't feel foreign.
It felt like it had always been his.
He held.
Venelana hurled a torrent of destruction.
Lucien didn't think. He moved. A spherical barrier of matching crimson erupted around him, crackling, then imploded outward, redirecting her assault and vaporizing a line of enchanted practice dummies.
The power sang in his blood. Dangerous. Beautiful. His form of Destruction didn't flicker or snarl like hers—it pulsed rhythmically, like a living force choosing to obey.
Venelana's laughter rang out, unrestrained and wild.
"That's my grandson."
His pulse pounded. But it felt… right.
She eyed him carefully, lips curling. His control is deeper than mine was at his age. And that resonance… no, he's not just channeling our blood. He's evolving it.
⸻
Steel and Fire — Training with Souji and Surtr Second
By midday, his magic reserves were spent, barely running on fumes. His body ached, bruises blooming beneath his skin. But his trials weren't done.
Souji Okita waited by the dueling ring, two wooden blades resting on his shoulder, a familiar smirk on his face.
"Let's see if the heir can back up that title," Souji teased.
Lucien charged.
Wood met wood in a blur of movement. Souji moved like a whisper, parrying effortlessly. Every strike Lucien landed was turned aside, every advance countered. But with each clash, Lucien adapted. Faster. Sharper.
Souji made him dance.
And then the ground trembled.
Surtr's Second's heavy footfalls echoed as he stepped into the ring, firelight dancing along his horns and teeth-bared grin.
"You've had finesse," the demon rumbled. "Now let's test force."
Lucien barely raised his guard before Surtr was upon him.
Each strike rattled his bones, jarring through muscle and marrow. A crack at his ribs sent a flash of pain through him, but Lucien gritted his teeth, refusing to fall. Bones felt like they'd splinter. So what. He moved anyway.
He blocked. He dodged. He took hits that would flatten most devils and kept moving.
Souji had made him dance. Surtr made him survive.
One final clash, and Lucien's training blade cracked down the center, turning to ash in his grip.
No one went easy on him.
Because no one else would.
And that was exactly what he needed.
⸻
Evening — Gremory Gardens
Under the falling petals of a sakura tree in full bloom, Koneko Toujou sat alone on a stone bench, small hands folded, gaze unreadable.
Lucien and Rias approached, exhaustion in every step, shadows of bruises beneath their clothes. Rias cradled a small cloth-wrapped bundle.
"You look like you got stomped by a dragon," Koneko said flatly, without looking up.
"Feels about right," Lucien muttered, rolling a sore shoulder.
Rias sat beside her and unwrapped the bundle. Freshly baked cookies, still faintly warm. Koneko's nose twitched, betraying her.
"Thought you might want a snack," Rias said softly.
Koneko hesitated, then wordlessly took one. A small, silent truce.
The garden's gentle hum, the scent of earth and old magic, filled the space between words.
Rias broke it first, her voice soft. "Koneko… we need to talk. About your sister."
Koneko didn't move. But Lucien caught the slightest tightening of her fingers on the stone.
He took a breath, steady and sure.
"I know about the experiments," he said. "The sealed records. The orders that never should've been given. I know she didn't leave you. She shielded you. There's a photo… covered in blood. She's in front of you. Protecting you, not running."
He gently placed a file on the bench beside Koneko—a red-inked, system-stamped dossier with the Gremory seal. One she hadn't seen before.
"She didn't abandon you," Lucien finished. "She saved you. And now… we're going to find her."
A long silence followed. The kind that knots your chest.
"…If you're wrong," Koneko whispered, "I'll never forgive you."
"I wouldn't expect you to," Lucien said quietly. "But if I'm right?"
She looked at him, then looked away.
"…Then she'll need someone to bring her back."
Lucien offered a faint, tired smile. "I already had someone in mind."
Koneko didn't reply.
But for the first time since she arrived at the Gremory estate, her eyes didn't look quite so alone.
⸻
Midnight — Maou War Room
In the heart of the Maou war chamber, a crystalline map hovered over an obsidian table, pulsing softly with arcane light.
Sirzechs stood beside Serafall and Azazel, their expressions grim, sharpened by urgency.
"There," Azazel pointed, tapping a flickering signature near the Hokubu Mountains. "She's masking her aura with Senjutsu. But not perfectly. Fractures in the weave—signs of trauma."
Serafall frowned. "She's bleeding magic. If we wait too long—"
"We won't," Sirzechs cut in, steel in his voice.
Azazel smirked. "Got a team in position. No contact unless I call it. They're the good ones."
Serafall arched a brow. "You sure your good ones won't spook her?"
Azazel shrugged. "If they do, I'll fire them myself."
A flicker of grim amusement passed between them.
Then Serafall's gaze flicked toward Sirzechs, a more calculating light behind her grin. "Assuming Lucien succeeds, you realize what this means for your house's standing. A future heir with Gremory, Lucifuge, and possibly Nekomata bloodlines in his circle? Combined with certain other political marriages pending approval—"
Sirzechs' lips twitched.
"I didn't raise a son to follow," he said quietly. "I raised one to lead."
And in that silent war room, illuminated by the flickering image of a hunted sister, the next move of a Crimson Prince was already set in motion.