Max
Max pushed open the heavy doors of the library, breathing in the scent of dust and cured leather. The room was vast, lined with towering shelves that seemed to hold the collective magical wisdom of Orario—or at least, whatever Freya Familia felt like collecting.
He didn't waste time browsing all the aisles. He moved with purpose, scanning the spines for titles he needed. Foundations of Magic, The Theory of Spell Crafting, Racial Magic vs. Acquired Magic, Limitations of the Vessel, and Introduction to Healing. He grabbed the stack, tucking the books under his arm.
"Should be enough," he muttered, turning back toward the door.
He made his way back to the executive floor, moving quietly through the velvet-carpeted corridors. When he slipped back into his suite, the silence of the soundproofed room greeted him like an old friend.
Kairu was resting on a cushion near the window, his form slightly flattened and vibrating with the slow rhythm of deep rest. The slime looked absolutely drained—apparently, trying to biologically clone yourself via mitosis was tiring work.
"Good effort, buddy," Max whispered, deciding not to disturb him.
He set the books on the ornate desk, but instead of sitting down immediately to read, he turned his attention to the massive four-poster bed dominating the center of the room.
"Right," he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck where Trent had landed a particularly solid elbow earlier. "The circle."
He really should have done this the moment he walked in last night after the duel with Ottar. It would have saved him the anxiety of not having a safe point in the city. But between the adrenaline crash, the mental fatigue of the Falna ritual, and the sheer physical toll of fighting a Level 6, he had practically gone comatose the second his head hit the pillow, completely forgetting his plan to secure a return point.
"Really blanked on it, huh," he muttered, wincing as he stretched.
He looked down at his hands—they were steady, but he could feel the deep-seated fatigue in his bones. The Baptism had been a meat grinder. His body was screaming at him to just collapse onto that silk mattress and sleep for twelve hours.
But looking at the stack of books on the desk, Max steeled himself.
"I'm already staying up to read," he reasoned, rolling his shoulders to work out the stiffness. "If I'm going to suffer through the night to learn magic theory, I might as well embrace the full grind. Sleep is for the weak—or at least, for the ones who aren't trying to break the game mechanics in a week."
Pushing through the fatigue, he walked over to the bed. It was heavy, solid oak, but with his status-enhanced strength, Max lifted the frame with one hand and slid it aside without making a sound.
"Perfect spot."
The floor beneath was pristine marble—a blank canvas hidden from the world.
Max knelt, channeling his demonic power into his palm. It hummed with familiar warmth, answering his will instantly. He pressed his hand against the cold stone, focusing on the image of his teleportation circle.
Crimson light bled from his fingers, etching the complex sigil directly into the floor. The circle spread outward, expansive and precise, covering a six-by-six foot square. It pulsed once, a heartbeat of deep red light, before settling into the stone as if it had always been there.
Max stood back, wiping his hands. "Just like the Occult Research Club."
He closed his eyes, extending his magical senses. He reached out for the connection to the circle.
Ping.
The response was immediate and clear. A stable anchor.
Satisfied, Max grabbed the bed frame and slid it back into place, completely concealing the crimson circle. To anyone entering the room—even Freya—it would look like nothing had changed. But for Max, he now had a backdoor to his room.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. 8:15 PM.
"Since it's not too late," he mused, forcing his tired body into the plush leather armchair by the fireplace. "Let's see what this world knows about magic."
He cracked open the first book, Foundations of Magic.
An hour later, Max closed the first volume, resting his chin in his hand.
"To say I'm disappointed is a big understatement," he muttered.
The book had been a slog through introductory concepts that, while informative, confirmed his suspicions about the rigidity of this world. It drew a hard, unyielding line between Congenital Magic and Acquired Magic.
Congenital Magic was race-based—powers one was born with, biological and fixed. Dragon breath, Spirit magic, and, ironically, his own Devil traits like Demonic Power and the Power of Destruction fell squarely into this category. It was inherent, instinctual, and rare.
Acquired Magic was the system of the gods—spells granted by the Falna. It relied on Excelia, status, and the intervention of a deity. Max recalled his status in his mind; currently, he had none. Not that it mattered much with his Ars Magna, but the distinction was rigid.
"Fine, basics established," Max grumbled, picking up the next text, The Theory of Spell Crafting. "Let's see the mechanics."
This book was far more technical, and far more frustrating. It explained the nature of Mind—the mental energy required to cast spells. Use too much, and you suffer a Mind Down, collapsing unconscious.
But the real meat of the text was about Chants and Magic Circles.
Casting magic requires chanting, and longer chants mean stronger magic.
It was the fundamental law of this world. To shape magic, one needed a focal point. Words acted as the blueprint, guiding the Mind into shape. Short chants created quick, weak spells. Long arias created devastators.
"Inefficient," Max critiqued, flipping a page. "Tell that to Aizen or Megumin. Style points aside, forcing a poem for a nuke is a massive handicap."
The book went on to explain Magic Circles. A Mage could construct one to better focus their magic, stabilizing and cutting magic drain for high-output spells. However, it came with a dire warning. If a mage lost focus, or if the magic circle destabilized during the chant...
Ignis Fatuus.
A magical self-detonation. The spell backfiring right in the caster's face.
"That keeps everyone on edge," Max mused. "One slip of the tongue and you blow your own arm off. No wonder mages here are so high-strung."
The text then moved to Aptitude. This was the depressing part for the average adventurer. Not everyone could learn magic. It wasn't about studying hard; it was about the body.
"Limits on how many spells you can have," Max read, his eyes narrowing.
Most adventurers were lucky to get one Magic Slot. Mages usually stopped at two. Unlocking a third slot was considered the mark of a high-tier caster, a feat of extreme difficulty or luck. And many never unlocked a single slot, regardless of how badly they wanted it.
"And finally, types," Max skimmed the final chapter. Elements like Fire and Lightning were common. Abstract concepts like Healing or Curse magic were rare.
Max realized with frustrating clarity that he and this world were operating on completely different wavelengths.
We are literally running different operating systems, he thought, rubbing his temples. They are running DOS, and I'm running a modded version of Windows 11.
His Ars Magna didn't care about slots. It didn't care about the length of a chant unless he wanted it to matter. He didn't risk Ignis Fatuus because he wasn't forcing Mind through a Falna formula; he was imposing his Will on reality.
"At least I know what rules I'm breaking now," Max chuckled, picking up the third text, Racial Magic vs. Acquired Magic.
If the previous books were dry, this one was insufferable.
The entire text felt like it had been written by the Elven High Council to inflate their collective egos. Paragraph after paragraph waxed poetic about how Elves were the "pinnacle of magical evolution," possessing natural affinities for long-chant magic and large Mind pools that other races could only dream of.
The book detailed the racial tendencies in dry, clinical language:
Pallums: Weak physical stats but high dexterity and intelligence; prone to support magic or debuffs.
Dwarves: High physical resistance and strength, generally poor magic aptitude, favoring earth-based solidity if they got magic at all.
Beastfolk: A wide spectrum. The crushing strength of the Boaz and Weretigers, the speed of the Cat People, and the sensory tracking of the Dog People. While Beastfolk can learn magic, they often struggle with complex control compared to Elves.
Max skimmed ahead, speed-reading the rest. Humans got the typical "jack of all trades" treatment—versatile, adaptable, but masters of nothing by birthright. The author basically patted them on the head for being numerous and desperate enough to try anything.
There was also a brief, almost footnote-like mention of Spirits—beings acknowledged as superior even to Elves—but the book dismissed them as relics of the past. "Not seen in recent history," the author wrote dismissively.
"So much arrogance," Max sighed, remembering the haughty glares of the elves at the lake. "I'm really looking forward to putting some of those pointy-eared snobs in their place." He smiled giddily. "And after that, I can happily touch those ears as much as I like."
Finally, he reached for the last book in the stack, the one he actually needed: Introduction to Healing.
"Let's see if we can cheat biology," he muttered.
The book detailed the known types of healing magic in Orario—from simple cures for abrasions to high-tier regeneration spells. It mapped out the human body, explaining common areas where injuries were most prone to happen during dungeon dives: joints, ribs, and magical exhaustion points.
Max leaned in, eager to learn the mechanic so his Ars Magna could replicate it.
"To channel the mercy of the ether, one must align the spirit with the resonant frequency of life..."
Max froze. He read the sentence again.
"The color of empathy must wash over the wound..."
His eyes glazed over. It felt like the author was actively mocking him. It was less of a medical textbook and more of a gatekeeper's manifesto—deliberately written to ensure that no one without a "blessed" Healing Slot could understand the process.
After giving a few useful pointers on anatomy—mostly just listing places you shouldn't get stabbed—the text veered hard off a cliff into the metaphysical significance of the colors of healing mana. It spent twenty pages discussing why green light represented "earthly renewal" while blue light signified "water's embrace," completely ignoring the biological reality of how the flesh actually knit back together.
"This is useless," Max hissed, frustratedly running a hand through his hair. "I don't need to know the 'philosophical weight' of green light. I need to know how to accelerate cellular mitosis!"
Even though he wasn't an aspiring doctor back in his old life, Max knew the basics. He understood the concepts of blood clotting, cardiac arrest, diabetes, and general first aid. He knew that healing was about stopping bleeding, clearing airways, and repairing tissue damage.
And thanks to his anime obsession, he had a library of "impossible" healing concepts in his head: rejecting the phenomenon of injury like Orihime, restoring an object to a previous state like Josuke, or forcefully overriding damage with raw vitality like Hashirama.
"I have the medical basics. I have the magical blueprints from fiction," Max grumbled, shutting the book with a dull thud. "And this guy is trying to teach me how to pray to a color wheel."
It was just another item on the list of "Impossibles" this world tried to enforce. You can't learn magic without a slot. You can't cast without a chant. You can't heal without 'divine empathy.'
"Fine," Max sighed, tossing the book onto the pile. "Looks like I'll have to figure out healing the hard way. Trial and error."
He extinguished the magic lamp and face-planted onto his pillow. Kairu, disturbed by the movement, jiggled indignantly before settling back down.
The grind continued tomorrow.
-◈ -
The next four days passed in a blur of violence and sweat.
Max fell into a brutal routine. He woke up with the sun, skipped the bath—why bother when he'd be covered in dirt within an hour?—ate a massive breakfast with Van. After having his fill, Van turned to Max.
"Do you realise you're becoming insane?" Van said, watching Max pile his plate for the fourth time.
Max grinned through a mouthful of bread and meat. "Insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results. I'm getting my ass kicked creatively."
Van snorted. "Fair point."
After finishing, they headed to the slaughterhouse.
Or rather, the training grounds.
The moment "Baptism" was called, he was public enemy number one.
The initial awe of the Ottar duel had faded, replaced by a collective desire to knock the "Special One" down a peg. All the Level 1s and 2s ganged up on him, forming temporary alliances solely for the purpose of kicking his ass.
And Max loved it.
He fought them with everything he had—minus the magic. He decided early on to handicap himself. No Power of Destruction, no Kidō unless absolutely necessary to prevent a broken bone. Just hands, feet, and a training sword.
The recruits became his guinea pigs.
Left flank collapsing, Max noted on day three, ducking under a mace swing. They leave their ribs open when they group up.
He drove a fist into the attacker's side, feeling the impact resonate up his arm. He was getting stronger. His control over his superhuman physiology was sharpening; he wasn't launching people into orbit anymore, but he was hitting them with surgical precision to wind them, drop them, or disable them.
He learned to deal with the bulk. He learned how to position a Prum shield-bearer between him and an Elven archer. He learned to use their numbers against them, turning the mosh pit into a chaotic dance where he was the only one who knew the steps.
He didn't kill them, of course. But he took them to the brink. By the end of the fourth day, he had knocked out half the lower ranks at least once.
"Get him! He's cornered!"
Max stood with his back to the stone wall, sweat dripping from his nose, chest heaving. Five members—three humans, a dwarf, and a beastman—charged him in a wedge formation.
Then, ten feet away, they stopped.
"I'm taking the lead!" the human swordsman shouted, shoving the dwarf. "I saw the opening first!"
"Piss off!" the dwarf roared, shouldering him back. "I'm the tank! I go first, you flank!"
"You're both too slow!" the beastman snarled. "I'll hit him high!"
Max lowered his guard, watching the cohesive unit dissolve into a bickering mess of egos right in front of him. They were arguing over who got the glory of the "final blow" on the raid boss.
Are they serious? Max thought, a laugh bubbling up in his chest. They do realize I'm still standing here, right?
He wiped the sweat from his eyes, tightened his grip on his training sword, and waited to see if they would finish their debate before he knocked them all unconscious. They didn't.
But Trent was a constant, looming shadow throughout. Just when Max felt he had a moment to breathe—perhaps after knocking out a trio of beastmen or side-stepping a synchronized spear thrust—the Dwarf would charge. Always from a blind spot, always with enough force to pulverize stone.
It kept Max on his toes in a way nothing else could. Paranoia became his best friend. His Awareness wasn't just growing; it was being forcibly stretched by the constant threat of blunt-force trauma.
Max visited the sideline healers at least fifteen times a day. Physical exhaustion was common, but injuries were the main ticket. Embracing the "Madman" moniker the lower levels had bestowed upon him, Max started taking some of the magical attacks head-on. A Fireball to the chest? Tank it. A Lightning spell to the arm? Grit his teeth and punch the caster. He needed to build resistance, and his Devil physiology needed stress to adapt.
But the growth wasn't one-sided.
As the days blurred into a haze of violence, Max noticed a shift in the adventurers. The initial chaotic bickering died down. The Level 1s and 2s, realizing that individual glory was impossible against the "raid boss," began to coordinate. Rivalries for the Goddess's favor were temporarily shelved; they had a common enemy now. They started setting traps, timing their attacks to sync with Trent's charges, and actively baiting Max into bad positions.
They're learning, Max realized on day three, narrowly dodging a net thrown by a supporter while a swordsman aimed for his legs. I'm actually training them to be a better dungeon party.
And then there was Trent with the axe.
As promised, on the second day of the baptism, the Dwarf had discarded his hammer for a massive, double-headed battleaxe and the dynamic shifted as if a switch had been flipped. Trent wasn't just bullying him anymore; he was hunting. But Max could claim he also saw the soft side of the Dwarf.
After a particularly brutal session on day four, Max collapsed against the training ground wall, chest heaving. Blood trickled from a split lip, and his ribs screamed in protest. Trent approached, axe resting on his shoulder, and tossed a leather canteen at Max's feet.
"Drink."
Max grabbed it gratefully, the cool water soothing his parched throat. "Thanks."
Trent grunted, squinting at the recruits scattered across the grounds—most of them nursing their own wounds. "Yer gettin' better at not dyin'. That's somethin'."
Max coughed out a laugh. "High praise coming from you."
"Don't get cocky." The dwarf's gaze sharpened, his tone shifting from mentor to veteran. "Ye fight like a lad who thinks he's immortal. Fast healin' don't mean invincible." He tapped the flat of his axe against Max's shoulder—not hard, but firm enough to make the point. "The Dungeon don't care how quick ye mend. It cares how smart ye are when yer bleedin' out in the dark with no healer in sight."
Max met his eyes, the weight of the words sinking in. "Understood."
Trent held his gaze for a moment longer, then nodded. "Good. Now get yer arse to the healers before that rib punctures somethin' important." He turned, heading back toward the training dummies. "Tomorrow, we work on yer footwork. Ye move like a brawler, not a swordsman."
Max watched him go, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite the pain. The old bastard actually cares.
He hauled himself to his feet and limped toward the medical team, canteen still in hand.
But that didn't mean Trent softened—in contrast, he was more vigorous, more destructive. There was no blunt impact to bruise muscles unless the dwarf was generous; there were only edges meant to cleave. Max suffered more broken bones in those sessions than he had during his duel with Ottar. The old man seemed hellbent on his philosophy of "making him a man from mush," mostly by trying to turn Max into mush first.
Max had to pick a durable rapier from the armory just to survive. He didn't have the time to cast barriers, and he certainly didn't want to explain to the medical team why his arm was flapping like a flag in the wind from his body.
Speaking of the medical team, Max learned their internal nickname during a brief respite: "Cinderellas with full bellies."
Apparently, they were the overworked members cleaning up the mess, but they were "full" because they fed the Familia to ensure they would survive another day.
"Fitting," Max chuckled, rubbing a freshly healed shoulder as he trudged into the dining hall for dinner. He grabbed a tray, thankful for the Cinderella squad, or he wouldn't be walking at all.
However, the grind didn't stop when the sun went down.
While his body recovered, his mind worked overtime. The books on magic theory had been a bust regarding practical application, but Max still had his Ars Magna.
Every night, in the soundproof safety of his suite, he studied anatomy charts. During the day, while Heith or her subordinates patched him up, he observed them with hawk-like focus. He watched the flow of their mana, the way the green light interacted with torn tissue.
He realized there were two main methods. Some healers boosted the body's natural cell division—accelerating the process until a week of healing happened in a second. Others, like Heith, injected raw magical energy that acted as a substitute for biological matter before stabilizing into flesh.
Theoretically, I understand it, Max thought, staring at his hand one evening. I know the biology. I know the mana flow.
He focused, imagining the knitting of flesh, trying to replicate the "white light" he saw Heith use.
A flicker of energy coated his hand. But instead of the soothing warmth of healing, it sizzled. The houseplant he touched wilted instantly, turning brown and dry.
"Dammit."
The problem wasn't the theory. It was the source.
His mana—his Demonic Power—was inherently tainted by his lineage. He was a Devil, and his clan trait was the Power of Destruction. Even when he wasn't actively using PoD, a minuscule trace of that destructive nature permeated his aura. It was like trying to perform delicate surgery with a scalpel made of radioactive waste.
Destruction is the opposite of Creation, Max realized, letting the failed magic dissipate. Every time I try to build tissue, my own mana destabilizes it.
He slumped back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. The frustration gnawed at him—all that theory, all that observation, and he still couldn't make it work.
His aura flickered involuntarily, a brief surge of crimson energy rippling outward before he clamped down on it. The air in the room grew heavy for a split second.
"Ki...?"
Max blinked and looked over. Kairu had stirred from his cushion, the slime's gelatinous form wobbling as he woke. The little familiar jiggled uncertainly, sensing the shift in Max's mood, and began to waddle across the floor toward him.
"Sorry, buddy," Max said quietly, reining in his frustration. "Didn't mean to wake you."
Kairu reached the chair and pressed against Max's leg, his cool, squishy body molding gently against him. The slime vibrated softly—a low, soothing hum.
Max smiled despite himself and reached down to pat the top of Kairu's form. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just... hitting a wall." He scratched the slime's surface, feeling the tension in his chest ease slightly. "You've been working hard too, huh? Mitosis is no joke."
Kairu jiggled proudly, as if to say, I'm getting there!
Max chuckled, the weight of his failure lifting just a bit. "At least one of us is making progress." He leaned back, letting the slime settle on his lap. "Guess I just need to keep grinding, right?"
Kairu vibrated again, a little more enthusiastically this time.
You'll get it too.
Max exhaled slowly, his resolve hardening. Kairu was right. He'd figure it out—he always did. It just might take longer than he wanted.
This presented a second, perhaps more dangerous problem. If his mana naturally leaned toward destruction, any sensor-type adventurer worth their salt—or a sharp God—would feel that "wrongness" coming from him.
If he wanted to use his transformation magic to create effective alter-egos—like Itachi or Rimuru—he couldn't just change his face. He had to scrub his aura. He needed to refine his Demonic Power until he could suppress that trace of PoD entirely, leaving only neutral, colorless mana.
"Fine," Max muttered, his eyes narrowing with renewed determination. He glanced down at Kairu, who was still in his lap. "If I can't learn to heal yet, I'll learn to hide. Step one: Scrub the signature."
Kairu bounced once in agreement.
Max smirked. "You're a good hype man, you know that?"
"Ki ki!"
Placing Kairu down, Max stood, stretching out the stiffness in his shoulders. His mind was already cataloging approaches: meditation techniques to refine mana flow, separation exercises like chakra control from Naruto, maybe even visualizing his demonic energy as a filter he could cleanse...
But before he could dive too deep into theory, Kairu suddenly jiggled excitedly, bouncing away from Max's leg and toward the cushion by the window.
Max frowned. "What's up?"
Kairu stopped on the cushion and began to ripple violently, his gelatinous form distorting and stretching. Max's eyes widened as the slime's body began to split down the middle—slowly at first, then faster, like a cell dividing under a microscope.
"No way..."
With a final, triumphant "Ki ki ki ki!" Kairu split cleanly into two smaller slimes, each one wobbling slightly before stabilizing. They bounced in unison, vibrating with pride.
Max looked at the two Kairus, sensing through their bond. They were... synchronized. Not separate minds, but extensions of the same consciousness split across two bodies. He could feel both of them equally, their experiences feeding back into a unified whole, then broke into a genuine grin. "You actually did it. Mitosis. Five days of effort, and you pulled it off."
The two Kairus jiggled enthusiastically, performing what could only be described as a synchronized victory dance.
Max laughed—actually laughed—for the first time since the week began. "Alright, show-offs. That's impressive." He crouched down, reaching out to pat both slimes. They pressed into his hands, warm and squishy and utterly pleased with themselves.
"You know what?" Max said, standing back up. "If you can figure out biological cloning in four days, I can figure out how to stop leaking murder vibes." His grin sharpened, determination settling back into his chest like a familiar weight. "Challenge accepted."
The two Kairus bounced in agreement, their unified "Ki ki ki ki ki ki!" echoing through the soundproofed suite.
Max turned back to his desk, cracking his knuckles. The grind wasn't over—it was just getting started.
--> Devil in a Dungeon <--
AN:
We see the first glimpses of Max hitting walls with his Demonic Power. I know some of you feel this is kind of unnecessary and just done to drag things, but if healing was that easy to learn for Devils, they wouldn't have regarded Twilight Healing that highly.
If Max is anything that is persistent, I'm sure he is gonna figure something out. No Kurohitsugi yet though, which is a big relief. Though the grind is on!
Do share your thoughts on how the Baptism was and ideas for the Grimoire in a review/comment.
If you'd like to read four chapters ahead, support my work, or commission a story idea, visit p.a.t.r.e.o.n.c.o.m/b3smash.
Please note that the chapters are early access only, they will be eventually released here as well.
Next update will be on Friday.
Ben, Out.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.