The Demon Realm did not sleep.
Ash drifted endlessly through the air like falling snow, settling on jagged stone towers and scorched earth alike. The sky burned in shades of red and black, clouds rolling slowly as if the heavens themselves were wounded. Asaemon stood at the edge of a long obsidian bridge, fingers clenched in the white fabric of his robe, his breath shallow.
Three days.
He had been here for three days, though time felt warped, stretching and collapsing in on itself. His wings ached constantly, feathers dulled and heavy, as if the realm itself was pressing down on them. Each step he took felt wrong, like walking against the grain of reality.
This place hated him.
"Move."
The voice behind him was sharp, impatient. Asaemon flinched and hurried forward, nearly stumbling as the demon guard shoved him along. Iron chains no longer bound his wrists, but the weight of judgment still clung to his skin.
They led him into the heart of the capital—into the Demon King's domain.
The palace was carved from black stone and volcanic glass, its spires clawing toward the bleeding sky. Heat radiated from the ground beneath Asaemon's bare feet, seeping into his bones. He swallowed, heart pounding, as massive doors groaned open.
Inside, it was colder.
The contrast sent a shiver through him.
The throne room was vast and dark, lit by hellfire braziers that cast flickering shadows across the floor. At the far end, upon a raised dais of obsidian, sat Mikail.
The Demon King.
Asaemon had sensed him before he saw him—an overwhelming presence, heavy and suffocating, like standing beneath a collapsing mountain. Mikail leaned back against his throne, one long leg crossed over the other, black wings half-spread behind him like a warning.
His icy gaze locked onto Asaemon immediately.
"So," Mikail said at last, voice low and calm, yet carrying effortlessly across the room. "This is Heaven's mistake."
Asaemon's knees buckled before he could stop himself. He knelt, bowing his head deeply, white hair spilling forward. "I—I am Asaemon," he said softly. "Former angel of spring."
A faint curl of hellfire danced around the throne. Mikail's eyes narrowed.
"Former," he echoed. "You fell far for something so fragile."
The word fragile stung more than Asaemon expected. He pressed his hands into the heated stone floor, steadying himself. "I did not break Heaven's laws," he whispered, though no one here cared. "But I will accept my punishment."
That earned him a quiet, humorless laugh.
"Punishment?" Mikail rose from the throne in one smooth motion. The sound of his boots echoed as he descended the steps, stopping directly in front of Asaemon. The air grew thicker, heavier, making it hard to breathe.
Asaemon dared to lift his eyes.
Up close, Mikail was terrifying—sharp jawline, horns gleaming obsidian, eyes like frozen steel. And yet… there was something else beneath the cruelty. Loneliness. Control forged so tightly it had become part of him.
"You're not here to be punished," Mikail said. "You're here to be useful."
Asaemon's breath caught. "Useful…?"
"Heaven doesn't throw away its treasures lightly," Mikail continued. "An angel capable of restoring life doesn't belong rotting in the wastes."
He reached out suddenly, long fingers closing around Asaemon's chin, forcing his face up. Asaemon gasped softly, golden eyes wide, wings twitching instinctively.
The contact burned—yet not painfully. It was wrong, unnatural, but not cruel.
Mikail's grip tightened ever so slightly. "You will serve me," he said calmly. "Directly."
The room seemed to tilt.
"M-me?" Asaemon stammered. "Serve… the Demon King?"
"Yes." Mikail released him, stepping back as if the touch meant nothing. "You'll tend to my chambers. My gardens." A brief pause. "Such as they are."
Asaemon blinked. Gardens? He had seen the Demon Realm's land—dry, cracked, poisoned. The idea felt almost mocking.
"If you try to flee," Mikail added, tone utterly dispassionate, "I'll tear your wings from your back."
Silence followed.
Asaemon bowed deeply again, heart hammering. "I understand."
That single sentence sealed his fate.
Mikail's private chambers were quieter than the rest of the palace, though no less dark. The walls were smooth obsidian, etched with faint glowing runes. Asaemon was led inside and left alone with a single instruction: clean.
He stood awkwardly near the entrance, hands clasped, uncertain where to begin.
Everything smelled of ash and old fire. There were no plants. No color. Only stone, steel, and shadows.
Swallowing his fear, Asaemon knelt and placed his palm against the floor.
"I'll just… try a little," he murmured.
He let a thread of his magic slip free.
Warmth bloomed briefly beneath his hand—golden light seeping into the cracks of the floor. For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then a small sprout emerged.
It was black.
Its stem twisted unnaturally, thorns forming instantly, and when its bud opened, a dark crimson flower bloomed—beautiful and wrong. Thick liquid, glowing faintly, dripped from its petals and hissed when it hit the stone.
Asaemon recoiled with a soft cry, clutching his chest. His breathing came fast, wings trembling.
"That's… not right," he whispered, horrified.
A presence filled the room.
Mikail stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching intently. He hadn't made a sound.
"That," he said, "is Hell answering you."
Asaemon looked up, tears gathering in his eyes. "I didn't mean to corrupt it," he said earnestly. "I only wanted to make something live."
Mikail approached slowly, crouching beside the twisted flower. He reached out, brushing a finger through the glowing venom without harm.
"It lives," he said. "Just not the way you're used to."
His gaze shifted to Asaemon. "If you keep using your power like that, you'll die."
Asaemon stiffened. "Then I'll stop."
For the first time, something flickered in Mikail's expression—irritation? Or something closer to unease.
"You don't get to decide that," he said. "You belong to this realm now."
Asaemon lowered his eyes, nodding obediently.
And somewhere deep within the Demon King's chest, something ancient and dangerous stirred—because for the first time in centuries, Hell had grown something new.
And Mikail found he did not want to destroy it.