The Demon King's "garden" was nothing like the lush fields of Heaven. It sat on the far side of the palace—an open courtyard surrounded by jagged stone walls, its soil blackened and cracked under the constant heat. No wind ever stirred here. No life dared exist.
It was a graveyard of earth.
Asaemon stood at the entrance, hands pressed to his chest, wings tucked tightly in worry. The guard who escorted him left without a word, the iron gate slamming shut behind him.
He swallowed hard.
This place felt… hungry.
Shadows clung to every corner like living things, curling up the walls and sinking into the ground. The air carried the faint scent of sulfur and something sharp, like dried blood.
"I'm supposed to… tend this?" Asaemon whispered softly.
He stepped forward, his bare feet moving over dust and brittle stone. Each step sent faint cracks outward in delicate spiderwebs. The realm felt different here—heavier, pressing against his skin as if testing him.
He knelt beside the barren soil and touched it gently.
Cold.
Dry.
Empty.
His heart tightened. Even in harsh places in the mortal realm, nature still tried to survive. But here… this wasn't death.
It was absence.
A void where life had never been allowed.
Asaemon bowed his head. "I don't know if I can help," he whispered. "But I'll try."
He closed his eyes and allowed a tiny thread of magic to slip from his fingertips. His light sank into the soil, trembling like a candle flame in a storm.
For a moment, the ground stirred.
A faint pulse.
Then—
—something slithered up from the earth.
Asaemon flinched violently, falling back on his wings as a thin, vine-like tendril emerged. It curled upward, trembling, before its surface split open and jagged thorns unfolded like teeth. A crimson bud formed at its tip, throbbing faintly like a heartbeat.
Asaemon gasped.
Not a flower… but a living, pulsing thing.
A creation of his magic, twisted by Hell.
Behind him, a quiet voice spoke.
"Your power spreads quickly."
Asaemon whipped around.
Mikail stood by the gate, arms relaxed at his sides, wings folded neatly behind him. His expression held neither anger nor approval—only a cold, assessing calm.
"K-King Mikail… I didn't mean—"
"I know." Mikail approached slowly, his boots silent on the broken stone. "Hell shapes everything to its nature. Even you."
Asaemon lowered his gaze. "I'm trying. I really am."
A slight pause. Mikail's shadow fell over him.
"You misunderstand," he said. "You're not failing."
Asaemon blinked up at him, startled.
Mikail gestured toward the newly formed plant. "This place has been barren for centuries. Even demons cannot force it to grow. But you…" His eyes narrowed slightly. "You bring life—even if Hell corrupts it."
Asaemon's wings drooped. "But it's wrong. Twisted. It's not how life is meant to be."
Mikail crouched beside him, bringing them eye to eye.
"Then stop expecting Heaven's rules to follow you," he said quietly. "Hell is what it is. If you try to force it to be gentle, it will devour you."
The words weren't cruel—they were blunt, but almost… warning.
Asaemon's throat tightened. "I don't know how to… change. I don't know how to exist here."
"You will learn." Mikail stood and turned away. "Because I have commanded it."
He began walking toward the palace again, but paused after a few steps.
"And because," he added softly, almost reluctantly, "this realm reacts to you. That alone makes you… intriguing."
Asaemon's breath caught.
He wasn't sure the Demon King meant it as kindness—but it felt like the closest thing to it he had heard.
As the days passed, Asaemon settled into a rhythm of tasks: sweeping the ash from Mikail's chambers, preparing simple meals, washing armor darkened by hellfire. He moved quietly, careful not to draw attention, always folding his wings close in tight spaces.
But the garden became the hardest part.
Each time he used his magic—even a little—something grew. Not plants, not truly, but shapes resembling life: twisted vines, thistle-like blooms glowing faint red, small black mushrooms that pulsed weakly.
Each creation took something from him.
His wings lost a few more feathers each day. His skin paled. His breaths grew soft and shaky.
But he didn't stop.
One evening, exhausted, Asaemon sat on the cold stone beside a cluster of dark blooms he had unwillingly created. His fingers trembled too much to weave his hair back behind his ear.
He didn't notice Mikail approaching until the king's shadow fell over him.
"No light today?" Mikail asked.
Asaemon shook his head weakly. "I'm tired."
Mikail studied him for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he knelt—one knee on the stone, bringing himself level with Asaemon's slumped form.
"You're using too much magic," he said. "You will burn out."
Asaemon gave a small, helpless smile. "I just want to be useful."
Mikail's expression darkened. "To who?"
Asaemon opened his mouth… but no answer came.
Because he didn't know.
To Heaven?To Mikail?To himself?
Mikail reached out and gently—shockingly gently—took Asaemon's hand. His fingers were warm, steady.
"Do not break yourself," he said, voice low. "Not for this realm. Not for anyone."
Asaemon's breath trembled.
It was the first time Mikail had touched him without force.
The first time the king's voice held something other than command or cruelty.
And Asaemon felt something warm and dangerous flicker in his chest.
Hope.
And fear of it.
Asaemon's fingers rested limply in Mikail's grasp. The warmth of the Demon King's hand was startling—solid, grounding, nothing like the cold cruelty Asaemon had imagined when he first fell into this realm.
Mikail seemed to realize what he was doing.
His fingers tightened for a single heartbeat.
Then he released Asaemon abruptly, standing in one fluid motion, expression shuttering behind his usual calm.
"Get up," Mikail said, though his voice lacked its usual edge. "You'll stay in my chambers tonight."
Asaemon blinked. "I—I will?"
"You're exhausted," Mikail said. "If you collapse in the garden, the lesser demons will tear you apart before anyone notices."
Asaemon's wings curled close to his body. "Oh… I see."
He rose shakily, nearly stumbling. Mikail stepped forward to steady him, but stopped himself halfway through the movement, hand dropping to his side instead.
"Walk," Mikail ordered, turning toward the palace.
But Asaemon caught the hesitation.
He followed, wings dragging slightly behind him.
The Demon King's private chambers were shrouded in darkness except for a faint glow of hellfire simmering in the walls. The temperature shifted strangely here—warm enough to be comforting, but never overwhelming.
Mikail lit no torches; he didn't need to.
When Asaemon entered, the door closed behind him with a heavy thud.
"Sit," Mikail said.
Asaemon obeyed immediately, lowering himself onto a cushioned bench near the center of the room. His wings drooped, feathers scattered lightly around him.
Mikail took in the sight silently, his jaw tightening.
"You lost more feathers today," he observed.
Asaemon looked down, ashamed. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" Mikail's voice sharpened. "For your nature?"
Asaemon hesitated. "For being… troublesome."
"You are not troublesome."
The words came fast—so fast that even Mikail seemed surprised by them. His eyes narrowed as if trying to retract them, but he said nothing more.
Instead, he walked toward a tall cabinet carved into the wall and retrieved a small obsidian jar. Without explanation, he approached Asaemon again and knelt in front of him.
Asaemon's breath caught.
"K-King Mikail?"
Mikail opened the jar, revealing a thick, dark salve. "Hellfire balm," he said simply. "It prevents your feathers from falling to ash."
He dipped his fingers into the mixture and reached for Asaemon's wings. Asaemon flinched instinctively, the pain of magic exhaustion making his feathers sensitive.
Mikail paused.
"May I?" he asked quietly.
The gentleness in his tone stole Asaemon's breath.
"I… yes," Asaemon whispered.
The Demon King's fingers brushed the base of his wing, spreading the balm with slow, deliberate motions. It was warm—strangely soothing. Asaemon's eyes fluttered shut, shoulders relaxing for the first time since his fall.
"Your wings weren't meant to exist here," Mikail murmured. "Hell tries to consume everything pure."
Asaemon shivered. "I'm not pure."
"You are," Mikail replied immediately. "Painfully so."
Asaemon's cheeks warmed. He tried to hide it, lowering his head. Mikail continued applying the balm, each touch careful, almost reverent.
"You don't have to do this," Asaemon whispered.
"I do," Mikail said.
Asaemon opened his eyes, puzzled. "Why?"
A long silence followed.
Then—
Mikail answered without looking up:
"Because you are mine now. And I do not break what is mine."
The words struck Asaemon deeply—equal parts frightening and comforting.
His heart fluttered.
"M-Mikail…"
"Don't speak," Mikail said.
He finished with the balm and stood, wiping his hands clean. Asaemon flexed his wings gently. They felt stronger… lighter.
"Thank you," Asaemon said softly.
Mikail looked away sharply, as if the gratitude burned him more than any flame. "Rest. Do not use any magic tomorrow."
"But the garden—"
"Will survive one day without your presence," Mikail replied. "You will not."
Asaemon lowered his eyes.
Mikail stepped closer, his shadow falling across Asaemon's face.
"You are fragile," he said. "And it infuriates me."
Asaemon blinked, startled. "I… I'm sorry?"
"You shouldn't be." Mikail looked away again.
A strange warmth spread through Asaemon's chest.
Here, in the heart of Hell, the most feared king alive was tending to his wings… and worrying over him.
As his exhaustion deepened, Asaemon curled slightly on the bench, wings wrapped around himself like a fragile cocoon.
Mikail stood near him, silent, watchful.
"Sleep," the Demon King said quietly. "I will be here."
And Asaemon believed him.
For the first time since falling from Heaven…he felt safe.