**The Underworld's Fragile Peace**
The Underworld had never truly recovered from the Great War.
When the Biblical God fell and the Four Original Satans perished in that cataclysmic conflict, the Devil race was left shattered—bleeding and broken, clinging to survival. The Civil War that followed was even more brutal, pitting brother against brother, house against house, as the Old Satan Faction fought desperately to preserve the purity of their bloodlines while the Reformists sought evolution through the Evil Piece system. In the end, the new Four Great Satans emerged victorious: Sirzechs Lucifer, Ajuka Beelzebub, Serafall Leviathan, and Falbium Asmodeus. They brought with them a new age—one of tentative peace, political maneuvering, and the quiet understanding that another war would mean extinction.
Yet beneath the glittering façade of devil nobility, old prejudices festered like wounds that refused to heal. Pure-blood supremacy still whispered through the halls of the 72 Pillars. The Bael clan sneered at reincarnated devils. The fragments of the Old Satan Faction lurked in the shadows, bitter and waiting. And at the very top of this precarious pyramid stood House Gremory and House Lucifuge—bound together not just by political alliance, but by the marriage that symbolized the new order itself.
Sirzechs Lucifer, the Crimson Satan, the strongest devil alive, had taken as his Queen the woman known as the Strongest Queen—Grayfia Lucifuge. Their union was more than love; it was a statement. The servant clan and the Maou, the old guard and the new power, joined as one. And now, on this night in the depths of the Gremory estate, that union was about to bear fruit.
**The Gremory Mansion**
The Gremory manor stood as a monument to old-world devil aristocracy, a sprawling estate of crimson stone and obsidian pillars that rose like spears toward the perpetual twilight sky of the Underworld. Grand towers spiraled upward, their windows glowing with the warm amber light of magical flame, while vast gardens of night-blooming roses spread in every direction—blood-red petals that never wilted, never died. The mansion itself was a fortress and a palace in one, its architecture blending gothic grandeur with an almost oppressive sense of power. Every inch of it spoke of legacy, of bloodline, of the weight of history pressing down upon those who called it home. Tonight, however, the usual quiet dignity of the estate was replaced by a tense, electric energy. Servants rushed through the corridors with hushed urgency. Guards stood at attention, their expressions grim. And in the east wing, in a chamber prepared months in advance, the future of two great houses was about to be decided.
**The Birthing Chamber**
The room was vast yet intimate, draped in rich crimson fabrics embroidered with the Gremory crest and the silver sigils of House Lucifuge. Magical circles etched in silver light pulsed gently along the walls, monitoring spells woven by the finest devil physicians in the Underworld. The air itself seemed to hum with concentrated demonic power, thick enough to taste—protective wards, healing enchantments, and layers upon layers of magic designed to ensure nothing went wrong.
At the center of it all, upon a massive four-poster bed carved from ancient darkwood, lay Grayfia Lucifuge.
Even in labor, she was a vision of controlled perfection. Her long silver hair, usually immaculate, clung to her sweat-dampened forehead, but her expression remained stoic—jaw set, teeth clenched, her ice-blue eyes focused with the same unwavering discipline she brought to everything in her life. She wore a simple white gown, now damp with perspiration, and her hands gripped the bedsheets so tightly that the fabric threatened to tear. Yet she made no sound beyond controlled breathing. No screams. No cries. She was Grayfia Lucifuge, the Strongest Queen, and she would endure this as she endured everything else—with absolute, unshakable composure.
Around her, the room was filled with presence and power.
Lord Zeoticus Gremory stood near the hearth, his crimson hair and beard perfectly groomed, his aristocratic features tight with barely concealed worry. Beside him, his wife Lady Venelana—elegant and poised as always—kept one hand pressed to her lips, her maternal instincts warring with her noble training. Sirzechs Lucifer himself stood at Grayfia's side, one hand clasping hers, his usually playful expression replaced by something far more serious. The Crimson Satan's crimson hair seemed to glow in the magical light, and his power—normally suppressed—radiated from him in waves, a subconscious response to his wife's pain. He murmured to her softly, words of encouragement, of love, though his jaw was tight with the helplessness of a man who could destroy armies but couldn't take away her suffering.
Two devil physicians worked with practiced efficiency, their hands glowing with diagnostic magic. A midwife—ancient and weathered, a devil who had overseen noble births for centuries—stood between Grayfia's legs, her expression calm but focused. And in the corner, silent and watchful, stood Grayfia's younger brother, the head of the Lucifuge house guards, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword as though expecting an attack at any moment.
"Push, Lady Grayfia," the midwife commanded, her voice firm but respectful. "The first child is crowning."
Grayfia's eyes narrowed, and with a sound that was half-exhale, half-growl, she bore down.
**The Birth of Lucien**
The first cry that filled the room was strong.
Loud.
**Alive.**
"A boy!" the midwife announced, her voice carrying the weight of centuries of tradition. She lifted the squirming infant, still connected by the umbilical cord, and the entire room seemed to hold its breath.
And then—light.
Crimson light erupted from the child's tiny body, a burst of raw, uncontrolled Power of Destruction that crackled through the air like miniature lightning. The protective wards flared in response, absorbing the excess energy before it could damage anything, but the message was clear. The physicians gasped. Lord Zeoticus stepped forward, his eyes wide with wonder. Even Grayfia, exhausted as she was, managed a small, proud smile.
"By the Satans..." one of the physicians breathed. "His power—it's already manifesting! I've never seen anything like this—not in a newborn!"
The midwife quickly severed the cord and wrapped the child in a blanket embroidered with the Gremory crest before handing him to Sirzechs. The Crimson Satan cradled his firstborn son with the kind of reverence usually reserved for holy relics, his eyes shining with an emotion he rarely showed—pure, unfiltered joy.
The boy was perfect. Crimson hair, just like his father. Strong lungs. And even now, barely minutes old, his tiny fists clenched and unclenched as if already eager to grasp power. His aura—barely formed, still wild and untrained—radiated potential. Not just potential.
**Destiny. **
"Lucien," Sirzechs said softly, his voice thick. "Lucien Gremory."
"He'll be extraordinary," Lord Zeoticus said, stepping closer to peer at his grandson. His usual stern demeanor cracked, replaced by grandfatherly pride. "That power... Sirzechs, he's going to surpass even you. I can feel it. The Power of Destruction is already so strong—"
"A prodigy," Lady Venelana agreed, her hand clutching her husband's arm. "Our bloodline has never produced a child with such early manifestation. He'll be a pillar of the new generation."
One of the physicians was already running diagnostic spells, his hands glowing as he examined the infant. "Demonic power reserves are off the charts for a newborn. Magical circuits are perfectly formed—no defects, no blockages. If he trains properly, he could reach Satan-class by his second century. Perhaps sooner."
"My son," Sirzechs murmured, his usual playful mask completely gone. He looked down at Lucien with an expression that was almost vulnerable. "You're going to carry our legacy forward. You're going to be everything we dreamed of."
The room was filled with warmth, with hope, with the kind of joy that comes when a noble house sees its future secured. This was the child who would inherit the Gremory name. The child who would one day stand beside the Four Great Satans—or perhaps even surpass them.
But then—
"My Lord," the midwife said, her voice cutting through the celebration. "There's another."
**The Silent Birth**
The atmosphere shifted.
All eyes turned back to Grayfia, who had gone pale—paler than usual, her breathing labored. Sirzechs immediately handed Lucien to his mother, Lady Venelana, and returned to his wife's side.
"Twins," one of the physicians said, surprise evident in his voice. "The second child is coming now."
Grayfia pushed again, her strength clearly waning. Sweat poured down her face. Her hand crushed Sirzechs' with enough force to break a lesser devil's bones, but he didn't flinch. He simply held her, murmuring encouragement.
Minutes passed.
Then—
Silence.
The midwife caught the second child, and the room went deathly quiet.
No cry.
No light.
No power.
The infant lay limp in the midwife's hands, his skin a sickly pale color—not the healthy flush of a newborn, but the gray-white of something barely clinging to life. His hair was silver, like Grayfia's, but it seemed dull, lifeless. His eyes were closed. His tiny chest didn't move.
"No..." Grayfia breathed, her voice cracking for the first time.
The midwife quickly severed the cord and began rubbing the child's back, stimulating him, trying to provoke any response. The physicians rushed forward, their hands glowing with diagnostic magic, healing spells, anything that might help. Nothing.
"His magic..." one physician whispered, horror creeping into his voice. "There's... there's almost nothing. His demonic power reserves are nearly nonexistent. And his body—"
"He's not breathing," the other physician confirmed, his hands trembling as he cast spell after spell. "His heart is barely beating. This child is... he's dying."
"No," Sirzechs said sharply. "Save him. Do whatever it takes—"
"My Lord, his body is too weak. Even if we stabilize him now, without demonic power, without magic, he won't survive infancy. This is... this is a stillbirth waiting to happen."
Lord Zeoticus' expression had gone cold. He stared at the limp infant with something that looked disturbingly like disgust. "A twin," he muttered. "And a defective one at that. How is this possible? The Gremory bloodline has never—"
"He's not defective," Grayfia said, her voice barely above a whisper but carrying absolute authority. "He's my son."
But even as she said it, her eyes betrayed her. There was pain there. Confusion. And something that might have been... disappointment.
The midwife wrapped the child—he was so small, so frail compared to his brother—and placed him in a bassinet beside the bed. The physicians continued their work, but their expressions said everything. This child would not last the night.
Lady Venelana, still holding Lucien, looked between the two infants. The contrast was stark. Lucien, now peacefully sleeping, radiated warmth and power even in slumber. The other child lay like a corpse, silent and still.
"What will you name him?" she asked quietly, though her tone suggested she wasn't sure there was a point. Sirzechs looked down at the dying child—his son, his blood—and something flickered in his eyes. Not love. Not hope.
**Resignation. **
"Caelan," he said finally. "Caelan Lucifuge."
Not Gremory.
Lucifuge.
The name of the servant house.
The room understood the implication immediately. Even before the child had taken his first breath—if he ever would—he had been separated from his brother's legacy.
## **The First Breath**
Hours passed.
The celebration that should have filled the Gremory estate was muted, confused. Lord Zeoticus had already begun sending announcements to the other noble houses:
*The Crimson Satan's heir has been born.
Lucien Gremory, prodigy of the next generation.*
There was no mention of a second child.
In the birthing chamber, Grayfia had fallen into an exhausted sleep, Lucien cradled in her arms. Sirzechs sat beside the bed, his hand on hers, but his eyes were on the bassinet in the corner. The physicians had left. There was nothing more they could do.
The child—Caelan—lay motionless.
His skin was still that deathly pale. His chest still didn't move. For all intents and purposes, he was gone.
Sirzechs stood, walking slowly to the bassinet. He looked down at the tiny, broken thing that was his second son, and for a moment, his expression was unreadable.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry you were born into this world only to leave it. I'm sorry I can't—" And then
**Inhale.**
It was so small, so quiet, that for a moment Sirzechs thought he'd imagined it.
But then it came again.
A tiny, shuddering breath.
Caelan's chest rose.
Fell.
Rose again.
His eyes—silver, like his mother's—flickered open for just a moment.
They stared up at nothing, unfocused, barely aware. But they were **alive.**
Sirzechs stumbled back, his hand flying to his mouth.
"He's breathing," he breathed.
"He's—physician! Someone get a physician!"
The door burst open as guards and medical staff rushed in. They surrounded the bassinet, their diagnostic spells lighting up the room.
"Impossible," one physician gasped. "His demonic power is still almost nonexistent, but his life force—it stabilized. Somehow, he's alive."
"Will he survive?" Sirzechs demanded.
The physician hesitated. "I... I don't know, my Lord. His body is still incredibly frail. His magic reserves are less than a tenth of what they should be. He'll need constant care, constant monitoring. And even then..."
"But he's alive."
"Yes. Against all odds... he's alive."
Grayfia stirred, waking at the commotion. Her eyes immediately found the bassinet, and for the first time since the birth, something like hope flickered across her face.
"Caelan?"
"He's breathing," Sirzechs said, though his voice was strange—caught between relief and something else.
Something heavier.
The Crimson Satan looked between his two sons.
Lucien—strong, powerful, glowing with the Power of Destruction even in sleep.
The perfect heir.
Caelan—weak, frail, barely clinging to life with almost no magic to speak of.
The **mistake.** And in that moment, though no one spoke it aloud, the future was already written.
One son would be celebrated. The other would be **forgotten. **
But Caelan Lucifuge had taken his first breath. And he would not be so easily erased.