Devil magic works through the power of imagination, a powerful thing one would think. Yet most devils can not utilize it properly. Because it requires willpower, supernatural focus, attention to detail, and a fair bit of power.
And most devils, from what I've seen over the centuries, tend to lack at least one of those.
It's all well to imagine a fiery Phoenix descending on your enemies, but if you didn't keep every detail of that Phoenix in your mind, how the wings moved, how hot the fire was, how it interacted with oxygen - then it would either fail spectacularly, or fully drain you of demonic power as what you lacked in imagination, your power would have to fill in.
The clearer your image was, the more you knew about every facet of a spell - the less it would cost you.
Now imagine trying to do all that, while also keeping track of enemy fire, your own movements, your allies - while trying to not think of pink elephants, or - SHIT! That's a sword coming for my balls!
Despite how amazing the power of imagination sounded for a magic system, that complexity was the reason why most devils mostly stuck to simple things, like a solitary fireball, spikes of earth or ice, a wave of water.
Things they could easily imagine without spending much thought on it.
I, who never got much opportunity to grow, to practice magic, still managed to become more than the average devil, my mind endlessly going over ideas for spells, obsessing about their every detail, burning them into my mind. Not like I had much else to do in isolation.
As for focusing in any battle going forward… I had gotten...used… To disassociating my mind away from my body even while in action… A necessity in my life…
So moving, fighting, while crafting fully detailed spells in my mind, was of no particular difficulty. The power of imagination was powerful in my hands.
My isolation helped me grow even as it broke me down. Shaved away more of the person I had been, making me more of an accursed devil as my humanity withered.
Yet, demonic energy could only grow so much by just aging, while not able to properly train it. My small stolen moments were not enough to make me grow to the requisite reserves to fully utilize my ability in a quick time-frame.
Hence, four hundred years…
Those first twenty years in isolation built my foundation for my future strength, my mind fractured in the dark, but not wholly broken yet.
Magic prevented me from just ending it during those days, my cell not allowing self harm. My master didn't want his toy to break completely after all…
And then I was released, and served with only minor bouts of disobedience for decades, before I made the horrendous mistake of falling in love.
She had been kind. A maid in the House of Shax, nothing more. A flicker of warmth in an existence of cold. Someone who'd extended a hand to a lonely, broken man.
Stolen moments. Brief kisses. Hugs that chased away the cold that had seeped into my very being.
Nothing more than that.
I had not been capable of having a sexual relationship with her at the time, my body not truly my own.
She had never judged me for it. Her understanding had been a balm on my shredded soul.
I no longer have the same issue, four centuries of hedonism have removed any hesitation about most carnal acts, even if I do remain straight. Yet… I do sometimes miss that small kernel of humanity I had still held with her.
And then, only years in, we were discovered, had perhaps grown lax in our sneaking. Another member of the peerage ratted us out for the chance to be the favored pet for a brief moment.
Very brief.
As I killed her for it before my punishment. The first kill I made without regret. My master didn't even care, his anger came from my 'cheating' by developing feelings for a maid.
For that betrayal, I was given a hundred years in darkness.
A century.
With my fair maids body to keep me company until there was nothing but bones left…
My master had made me watch as the entire peerage broke her unto death.
Her last words were apologizing to me, for making me suffer through that.
That girl had been too kind for a devil. The one anomaly in the race.
I hate that I no longer remember her name… That girl, that devil, who allowed kindness to rule even in a house of horror.
In that abyss, the hundred years of madness, I achieved much now that I could train freely, even as my mind slowly broke. Mastery of Touki, the vital aura, the usage of my own life force to enhance myself, or Ki as it was called as well, was one such accomplishment. With endless time and nothing but my physical form to refine, I pushed the boundaries of my endurance. Madness became a companion, a crucible that tempered my resolve even as I lost more of myself for every year.
By the time I was released, I was a different man. Stronger in body, stronger in essence and power, my demonic energy vitalized by my much improved body, and I was also utterly, completely broken.
So insane I had turned right back around to sane.
For a given value of the word.
But I learned.
I played the part. I became what my master expected. I bowed when I was meant to bow, smiled when I was meant to smile, obeyed without hesitation. Even when I wanted to curl up and die.
And all the while, I waited. Prepared.
And now, here I am.
Four hundred years for this single moment.
I exhale slowly, my gaze sweeping the room once more. The nobles are still preening, still showing off, still utterly ignorant of the reality they exist in.
They will never understand.
I close my eyes for a moment, steadying myself.
To clandestinely undertake the high-class promotion test. Lord Shax's permission was forged and submitted - the only reason I stand here now. A reincarnated devil could not get here on his own - a patron was needed.
Victory today is within my grasp; of that, I am certain. Yet, the repercussions from my Lord will be severe unless my gambit succeeds.
Death would be a mercy for forging his signature, stealing his seal…
I would suffer for a millenia for that insult.
Four centuries for this singular opportunity.
If Lucifer denies my petition for an audience...
Returning would be a fate worse than death.
"Levi Strauss, servant of House Shax," A voice calls, cutting through the din. "They are ready for you in the arena."
I open my eyes.
My fists clench.
Now or never.
Do or die.
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