POV: Meruem
"You certainly took your time," his mother said the moment he stepped out of the bathroom. He was still wearing his bathing robe, the damp fabric clinging to his shoulders, yet Queen Morena did not seem to care.
She lounged on a velvet sofa with a book resting lightly in one hand. She wore a formal blue dress threaded with black accents, the fabric catching the light like polished sapphire, and a crown sat neatly upon her head.
On the table before her stood a luxurious tea set of worked gold. The kettle was tall and slender with engraved sigils spiraling around its body, its spout shaped like a curling serpent. Two teacups rested on matching saucers, their rims traced with delicate filigree, each handle inlaid with tiny crimson gems that glimmered softly in the room's light.
"All Rossweisse's fault," he deflected quickly. "She said bathing is a sacred act that need—"
"I never said that," Rossweisse protested loudly, her face burning.
"Are you calling your king a liar?" Meruem teased.
Rossweisse hesitated, clearly unsure whether she should accuse him in front of the queen.
"Stop torturing the poor girl, Meruem," Morena said neutrally. "And you, Rossweisse, do not let him bully you like that. He will devour you if you do not stand up for yourself."
"Hey, why are you saying that like I am a beast," he replied, genuinely offended.
His mother snorted. "Rosie, my dear," she added softly, "go change into something presentable. That is no way for the queen of a prince to be clothed."
"Understood, your majesty," Rossweisse said, bowing. "By your leave."
When Rossweisse left the room, Morena gestured for him to sit opposite her. He did so calmly and met her gaze. She reached for the kettle with practiced grace, tilting it just enough that the tea flowed in a thin golden stream.
She filled his cup first, the steam rising in lazy coils, then poured her own with the same measured care. She lifted his cup with both hands and offered it to him before taking hers. Every movement was elegant, as though the simple act of serving tea were part of a long rehearsed ritual.
He took a sip. The taste was exquisite.
"Delicious, isn't it?" his mother said with a gentle smile. "It is a rare herb imported from the Chinese pantheon. Usually it is reserved for ceremonies of gods and emperors. It cost a fortune to acquire, especially for a devil."
"I can imagine," he replied, savoring another mouthful. The flavor seemed to deepen with every sip.
"The first step of your return is complete," she said suddenly.
Of course she would turn his homecoming into a sequence of carefully staged acts. Everything in her life was theater.
"Is that what the whole debacle with the crowd was earlier?" he asked.
"Was it not to your liking?" she said, a trace of worry slipping into her voice.
"I liked it better than the party."
And he meant it. During the welcoming march he had not needed to speak or perform. He had simply basked in the joy of the city.
"I noticed," she said, smiling. "But the celebration was an important stage as well."
"Really?" he replied flatly.
"Yes," she answered, taking his answer seriously. "Your return to the city was the opening act. You were seen by the lower classes in the streets of your birth, welcomed by the voices of ten cities. They needed to witness that their prince had returned to his rightful place, unbroken by exile and acknowledged by the king. That image will live in them forever."
She took another measured sip of tea before continuing.
"The celebration that followed was the second act. It was meant for the nobility. They were to see that exile had not diminished you. That you stood stronger than before, at ease among peers, untouched by weakness. Even the wrath of Satan only adds to your greatness."
The only logical consequence to growing up hearing all these things said unironically is a spoiled narcissist - ergo the original Meruem.
"Okay," he said. "What is the third act then?"
"The third act," his mother said calmly, "begins now. The stage is yours, and no one may play your part for you."
"Paraphrasing Shakespeare?" he asked, chuckling. "You really are a big nerd."
Her cheeks colored faintly. "I did not know you read any of his works," she said, avoiding his gaze.
Is she embarrassed at being caught? he thought. How cute.
"Don't worry, Mother," he said sagely. "Your scandal is safe with me."
She laughed lightly. "And I assume I must do you a favor in return?"
"Naturally," he said. "But since you ensured I survived this evening intact, I would say we are even."
"Too bad," she said, locking her gaze with his, eyes playful. "I was prepared to pay for the favor in another manner."
What is wrong with her? he wondered, taken aback. He did not know whether she spoke seriously or teased him, and he was far too scared to find out.
"Rosie said you wanted to speak with me?" he asked, steering the conversation away.
She nodded and produced a parchment. On it were the names of multiple noble houses, meticulously written.
"This," she began calmly, "is the list of events you are invited to over the next three weeks. I have organized it by the rank of the houses and the importance of each event."
He frowned slightly, wondering how he could possibly attend all of this in three weeks.
"Ignore them all," he said, uninterested. "Tell them I am occupied. I have no interest in attending any of these events."
"Are you sure?" she asked, a trace of disappointment in her voice. "Would you not consider going at least to the banquet at the House of Bael or Agares?"
"Absolutely not," he replied. "This way, the other houses have no reason to complain. Now do they?"
My political genius. It's almost frightening, he thought.
"Since when do you care what the other houses think?" his mother asked dryly.
"Since today, and only for this instant," he said, unbothered.
"You cannot always ignore these matters, Meruem," she said, exasperated. "You will have no allies with such an attitude."
"Don't be a hypocrite, Mother," he said, boredly. "You yourself said that the only thing that matters to the lords of Hell is power and value. I have both. Whether they like it or not, they will grovel for any attention from me."
"I know that," she said with a sigh. "But I still wish for you to have friends your age, which you can find more easily at these gatherings, dull as they may be."
"I do have friends my age," he countered. "You have certainly met Rossweisse and Kuro of the Two Tails."
His mother fixed him with a flat stare. "They are your servants, Meruem. We are not the Gremory, who cuddle with their servants. You need friends befitting your station."
The House of Gremory was an exception, treating their servants with the dignity of humans. Meruem had come to know just how true that was. Most of the nobility looked down on the Gremorys, mocking them for their courteous treatment of those beneath them.
To his mother, it was simply natural: peerage members could not be friends with their subordinates, for the power imbalance made it impossible. There was some logic to it, but Meruem did not care. Rossweisse was his friend, and that was enough.
"Mother," he said, annoyed, "I would appreciate it if you kept your outdated worldview away from me. We have discussed this already, and I will not repeat myself."
"Very well," she said, her tone betraying that this conversation was far from over. "You know I am only trying to look out for you. It's just… you are so different these days. Is there something you want to tell me, son? You know you can trust me."
There was a vulnerability in her voice that she rarely displayed. He could see the toll his change had taken on her, the effort of pretending that everything remained normal even though nothing was normal. Ever since taking over Meruem's body, he had not even attempted any pretense of being the original.
He used to roll his eyes at the fanfiction he read in his previous life, where a protagonist would suddenly transmigrate into another body and somehow imitate the original person perfectly without raising suspicion. No matter how complete the inherited memories were, pretending to be someone else was absurdly difficult. Acting so flawlessly that family and friends failed to notice anything was wrong bordered on fantasy. Because of that, the idea of imitating the original Meruem had been discarded almost immediately.
He understood the futility of it and had no desire to live a life pretending to be someone he was not for the sake of others' reactions.
It also helped that he was powerful enough that, if matters ever turned dire, he could simply walk away and survive on his own. With his mastery of magic, carving out an independent life would be effortless.
He would be unapologetically himself, no matter the cost.
"Nothing in particular," he said evenly. "I have simply had a change of… perspective, if you will."
"If you say so," she replied, though her tone could not fully conceal her hurt. "And are you going to keep that ridiculous name for Kuroka?"
"Whom do you mean by Kuroka?" he asked, eyebrows raised. "Surely not the criminal who killed her master, right? It is a common mistake to confuse her with Kuro of the Two Tails due to certain similarities. They are entirely different people, I assure you."
He had hunted down Kuroka and reincarnated her into his peerage. To better disguise her identity, he had chosen the alias Kuro of the Two Tails, much to the disbelief of his mother and Rossweisse. Kuroka herself found it hilarious, so they allowed it to stick.
"Of course," his mother said with a strained smile, her patience thinning. "It is easy to mistake her when she is the spitting image of the infamous criminal."
He gave her a confused look at the absurdity of her comment.
"My mistake, of course," she corrected herself. "I forgot to mention that her eyebrow is a different color than Kuroka's."
He nodded, pleased with himself, while his mother closed her eyes as if praying for patience.
"In any case," she continued, finally moving on, "we need to discuss your betrothal."
"I imagine you have someone in mind?" he asked calmly.
"Several," she replied. "We have received hundreds of proposals ever since it became known that you were born with the full Shrine of Pride. Some I would consider worthy of being your wife, others your concubine."
Of course she has, he thought.
"And?" he prompted.
"But before that," she continued, "do you have someone you specifically want? I noticed that the Stiri heir was the only one with whom you requested a dance. Is she to your liking?"
"Yes," he said. "But I imagine it would be difficult to arrange, given her status as the heir."
Both Meruem and Sona were heirs to their respective houses, meaning anyone marrying them would also be marrying into their family.
"There are loopholes," she said thoughtfully, "but she cannot be the head wife. You will need someone else for that role. Perhaps if she renounced her claim to favor a cousin, which I very much doubt."
"I see," he said, disappointment creeping into his tone. He had enjoyed his time with Sona.
"Now, for other candidates," she continued. "You have met Latia Adsatroth. Lord Astaroth is interested in a match between you two. She is competent in politics and obedient. She also has an interest in rune magic, if I recall correctly, which I know intrigues you as well."
His mother went on, dissecting the strengths and weaknesses of each potential match, some critiques harsh, others complimentary.
She evaluated them with the precision of a merchant appraising wares at a bustling bazaar, weighing qualities and potential as if each candidate were a commodity to be bargained over.
…
Meruem lounged in a grand chair designed for pedicure and manicure treatments, its soft leather cushions embroidered with gold thread, adjustable backrest and leg rests that molded perfectly to the body, each armrest lined with velvet and equipped with delicate holders for tools and oils.
Two beautiful devils dressed in crisp French maid outfits attended him, one carefully working on his nails, the other massaging and grooming his feet with meticulous attention. He had never received such care in his previous life, yet he found himself surprisingly fond of these sessions. They allowed him to relax, to let his mind wander and think calmly.
His thoughts drifted to the future, to what he wanted to do. The invention of the rings of power guaranteed his involvement in various political machinations, both from his family and from the rest of the underworld nobility. The potential of his rings made them all salivate like a group of teenagers watching a lass with a fat ass walk by.
One of the great problems the underworld faced was the lack of fertile ground to sustain its population. The natural demonic energy of the land was too chaotic to grow crops reliably, forcing territories to rely on imports from other factions, such as the yokai.
He had at first wondered why the devils did not simply make deals with human nations and import goods through teleportation. To some extent, noble houses already did that. There were complications, however. The human world was governed by various pantheons, most of which disliked devils and refused them entry.
Sure deals could be made directly with gods, but the cost was immense. Even then, gods rarely offered arrangements that would significantly benefit the underworld. Rias's territorial oversight in Japan was only possible due to intricate deals negotiated by the houses of Gremory and Stiri, backed by a Satan.
Logistics presented another problem. One might ask why logistics matter to a race capable of teleportation. Teleportation, however, was neither cheap nor efficient. Teleporting a single person required a significant expenditure of demonic energy, and the cost increased exponentially with the number of people. Beyond a certain threshold, even a magic circle could not support the teleportation.
Transporting food or inanimate objects added further strain, as these items had no inherent demonic energy and required supplemental energy to move. The expense and energy cost makes large-scale teleportation impractical.
Efficiently transporting resources into the underworld thus became essential and a lucrative business. Noble houses controlled much of this through specialized logistics companies, often using trains linking the underworld to the human world. Controlling food was a major source of wealth and influence.
The second significant issue was beast tides. Crude demonic energy concentrated in specific areas, known as Gehenna nodes. These nodes attracted enormous numbers of demonic beasts in migratory surges. The beasts destroyed and consumed everything in their path, leaving it to the lord of the affected domain to defend their territory against both beasts and other evil spirits drawn to the nodes.
His rings of power could solve both problems. With sufficient will, anyone with a ring could guide the flow of demonic energy into specific areas, lowering it in one region and increasing it in another, creating fertile land. Simultaneously, they could manipulate the formation of Gehenna nodes, positioning them optimally and preparing defenses for the inevitable beasts. Hitting two birds with one stone.
These rings alone would grant him unimaginable wealth and influence. It was no wonder nearly every pillar house, including Lord Bael, had come to celebrate his return. Everyone wanted a piece of the pie, willing to forgive past grievances if profit was to be had. Even House Furfur, whose heir he had slain, could not resist the potential advantage of pardoning him.
He had no fear of other houses attempting to reverse-engineer the rings. The original Beelzebub had implemented layers of encryption, and Meruem had added his own protections. Anyone short of Ajuka Beelzebub would be unable to decrypt his creations, and he doubted the Satan would care to meddle in the inner politics of the pillars.
So now, what is it that I want to do?
His past life had been nothing particularly remarkable, not in the sense that it lacked events or milestones, but in the far more corrosive way that it had been shaped by expectations that arrived before he ever learned how to refuse them. A childhood mapped out in advance by well-meaning parents who decided on a respectable profession while he was still learning how to write his own name.
A school career that unfolded with mechanical efficiency until he earned a scholarship to a good university, which everyone praised as proof of his diligence even though it felt less like an achievement and more like the last seal on a contract he had never consciously signed.
He remembered the lecture halls with their stale air and identical slideshows, the way entire years passed in a blur of deadlines and exams that no longer even frightened him, while this routine simply hollowed him out through repetition, each morning a rehearsal of the one before it, each evening collapsing into a tired sleep that erased whatever faint impulses he had felt during the day.
It was in those years that he had first begun to suspect that he was not living toward anything but merely sustaining momentum, as though motion itself had become the sole justification for existence.
There had been moments when he tried to imagine a different trajectory, a version of himself who pursued some buried fascination or abandoned the prescribed route entirely, yet those thoughts never survived contact with the quiet pressure of normality, the subtle coercion of relatives who asked about grades and future prospects, the peers who all seemed to be sprinting down parallel lanes toward indistinguishable offices and mortgages, the culture that celebrated fitting in while pretending that it meant fulfillment.
By the time he graduated and stepped into the early shape of the career prepared for him since childhood, he knew it meant only a continuation of the same dull procession of tasks that filled the hours without leaving a mark on his inner life.
And he began to understand that the greatest cruelty of monotony lay in its ability to disguise itself as safety, because nothing overtly wrong ever happened to him, no dramatic disaster or scandal that would have justified a scream or a rebellion. Only a slow accretion of days that made him feel as though he were being quietly archived while still breathing.
In a way, his untimely death had been a wake-up call. Only then did he grasp how deeply he had despised the narrow corridors of the life he once lived. The sheer ordinariness of that path had felt like a denial of agency so complete that it erased even the language required to protest, leaving him compliant, exhausted, and empty.
This time he would make his life enjoyable on his own terms. He would try the things he had never dared to attempt before, pursue the interests he had once abandoned, and live in such a way that he would not resent reliving it a thousand times.
He needed a goal so vast that it could consume eternity, something where the destination mattered less than the struggle itself. A pursuit that would never grow stale, never dull his edge.
I am going to become the emperor of Hell. The sole authority before whom even the Satans must bow.
The great game was an endless war of power and influence between the Pillar Houses, a labyrinth of schemes where a single misstep meant death. A life balanced on a razor's edge. Exactly what he needs.
To win it, he would need to surpass them all. Stronger than Serafall Leviathan. Stronger than Falbium Asmodeus. Stronger than Ajuka and Sirzechs.
He would do it in his own way, in a way he could enjoy.
He would become the greatest.
AN: this story is three chapters ahead on patreon with more coming. Consider supporting me there: patreon.com/abeltargaryen?