Eight years after the miracle of his birth, Revas Gremory walked through the manicured nightmare of the Astaroth family's "Pleasure Garden."
The gathering of young Underworld nobility was Sirzechs Lucifer's initiative - a subtle, diplomatic effort to foster connections among the next generation. Held at the neutral, opulent Astaroth estate, it was a carefully curated display of power, lineage, and burgeoning ambition. For Revas, it felt like walking through a beautifully arranged battlefield.
He stood out immediately, though not in the way traditionalists expected. While other young heirs like Sona Sitri (sharp-eyed and impeccably dressed in a miniature version of her future uniform) or the brooding Sairaorg Bael (already radiating intense, barely contained physical energy) projected carefully cultivated personas, Revas simply... was. He wore fine clothes, yes - deep crimson velvet edged with silver, the Gremory crest discreetly embroidered - but they lacked the ostentatious flair of Diodora Astaroth's shimmering silks or the intimidating, archaic armor favored by the Bael contingent. His posture was relaxed, his unusual violet eyes taking in the grotesque topiaries and shimmering, poisonous blooms with open curiosity rather than calculated appreciation. He looked less like a predator staking territory and more like a scholar visiting an exotic greenhouse.
Grayfia Lucifuge, an iceberg of composed authority amidst the youthful throng, walked a precise step behind and to his left. Her presence was both shield and reminder: Revas was under the Lucifer's direct, albeit distant, protection. Her ice-blue eyes scanned the crowd, noting alliances, tensions, and potential threats with cold efficiency. Her gaze lingered a fraction longer on Diodora Astaroth, the host's nephew, whose smile was a little too wide, his eyes a little too eager as they tracked the younger heirs.
"Revas Gremory," a smooth, cultured voice announced. Lord Zephyron, a senior Astaroth and Diodora's uncle, approached. His smile was practiced, reaching nowhere near his eyes. "Welcome. A pleasure to finally meet the young heir whose... unique entrance into the world is still whispered about." The implication - the one who suppressed his own destructive power - hung heavy in the air.
Revas offered a small, polite bow, flawlessly executed despite his youth. "Thank you for hosting us, Lord Zephyron. Your gardens are... very intricate." His voice was clear, calm, devoid of the arrogance or false modesty common in his peers. He sounded genuinely observant.
Zephyron's smile tightened slightly. "Intricate, yes. A testament to control and design. Qualities highly valued." He gestured towards a group gathering near a fountain sculpted from weeping obsidian. "The other young luminaries await. Do mingle, Heir Gremory. Grayfia, a word on security protocols, if you please?" It was a clear dismissal of the child.
Grayfia gave a minute nod to Revas, a silent permission and instruction to proceed cautiously, before turning her glacial attention to Zephyron. Revas walked towards the fountain, the unnatural hush of the Astaroth garden momentarily replaced by the murmur of youthful voices and the unsettlingly melodic trickle of dark water.
He approached the group. Sona Sitri stood slightly apart, observing a carnivorous plant snap shut on a glowing insect with detached interest. Sairaorg Bael, radiating palpable frustration, stood with arms crossed near his designated Bael cousins - heirs who sneered openly at his lack of inherent demonic power. Diodora Astaroth held court near the fountain, regaling a few sycophantic heirs with a story that involved a captured lesser fairy and its "musical" screams. His eyes flickered to Revas, widening with predatory interest.
"Ah! The Gremory scion graces us!" Diodora announced, his voice dripping with false warmth. He swept a theatrical bow. "Revas, was it? We were just discussing the virtues of... direct acquisition. How does the Gremory heir prefer to amass his future treasures? Through careful planning," he smirked, "or perhaps... fortuitous finds?" The emphasis on "fortuitous" was laden with mocking disbelief.
Revas met Diodora's gaze, those violet eyes unnervingly steady. "Treasure?" he asked, his tone genuinely curious, not defensive. "I find the patterns on this stone fascinating." He gestured not to the ostentatious fountain, but to a worn, moss-covered stepping stone beside it. "Look how the moss grows in spirals. It seems... peaceful."
A stunned silence fell over Diodora's little group. Sona Sitri's head turned sharply, her analytical gaze fixing on Revas. Sairaorg's scowl deepened, but a flicker of something else - surprise? - crossed his features. Diodora blinked, his smile faltering for a microsecond. Peaceful? Moss? What kind of devil heir noticed moss?
"P-Peaceful?" stammered one of Diodora's followers, a young heir from a minor snake-like lineage. "It's just... dirt and weeds, Lord Gremory."
"Is it?" Revas knelt, ignoring the pristine state of his trousers. He gently traced a finger along a damp, green spiral. "It lives here. It finds a way. Isn't that interesting?" He looked up, his violet eyes sweeping the group. "Much more interesting than hurting something small that can't fight back." His gaze settled calmly on Diodora as he said it.
Diodora's face flushed. The implied rebuke, delivered with such innocent curiosity, was more cutting than any direct challenge. "How... quaint," he managed, his voice losing some of its smoothness. "A philosopher heir. How... unconventional." He spat the last word, his smile turning venomous. "Tell me, does your famous Gremory Luck make the moss grow faster? Or perhaps it helps you find the prettiest stones?" His laughter was brittle.
Revas stood up, brushing a speck of non-existent dirt from his knee. He didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he offered Diodora a small, serene smile. "Luck is just... things happening as they should, sometimes. Like this." He pointed upwards.
A large, iridescent dragonfly, a species known for its razor-sharp wings and predatory nature, had been darting erratically near the fountain. As Revas pointed, it suddenly altered its chaotic flight path, dipping down in a smooth, controlled arc. It landed delicately, not on a poisonous bloom or a shrieking captive insect, but on the exact moss-covered stone Revas had been examining. It perched there, its wings shimmering in the dim light, utterly still and incongruously peaceful for a moment.
The group stared. It was a small thing, easily dismissed as coincidence. Yet, the timing, the precision, the sheer unlikeliness of the predatory insect choosing that specific, mundane spot at that exact moment after Revas spoke... it felt significant. It felt like... Luck. Sona Sitri's eyes narrowed, calculating probabilities. Sairaorg grunted, a sound that could have meant anything.
Diodora's smirk vanished entirely, replaced by a flicker of unease he quickly masked with disdain. "A bug. How... fortunate."
Revas simply watched the dragonfly, his expression calm. "It's beautiful," he stated simply.
The moment shattered as a commotion arose nearby. One of the younger Bael heirs, a boy radiating inherited power but lacking control, had been trying to impress his cousins by attempting to ignite a small, controlled burst of flame near a cluster of volatile Shadow-Orchids. His focus slipped. A spark, hotter and larger than intended, shot sideways not towards the fire-resistant orchids, but towards a delicate cage holding a flock of tiny, crystalline song-sprites - creatures prized for their ethereal melodies and extreme fragility.
A collective gasp went up. The Bael boy paled, realizing his mistake too late. Sona instinctively stepped back, calculating blast radius. Diodora watched with detached amusement. Sairaorg tensed, but he was too far, his power not suited for such delicate interception.
Revas acted without thought. He didn't shout, didn't summon power. He simply moved. Not with supernatural speed, but with a surprising, fluid grace. He stepped into the path of the errant spark. Not to block it with his body - that would be futile - but to reach the cage. His hand shot out, not towards the flame, but towards the cage's delicate latch.
Flick.
The simple mechanism released under his touch a fraction of a second before the spark would have hit the cage bars. The door swung open. The terrified song-sprites, sensing freedom and imminent death, burst out in a panicked, glittering cloud just as the spark struck the now-empty cage, warping the delicate metal but harming nothing living.
Revas staggered back from the minor heat wash, blinking. The song-sprites scattered into the safer upper foliage of a nearby Darkwood tree, their panicked tinkling fading. The cage smoldered harmlessly. The Bael heir stared, dumbfounded and ashamed.
Silence descended again, heavier this time. Revas looked down at his hand, then at the unharmed sprites flitting in the tree. He didn't look triumphant. He looked... relieved. "They're safe," he murmured, mostly to himself.
Sona Sitri broke the silence, her voice cool but laced with newfound respect. "A remarkably efficient solution, Heir Gremory. Prioritizing the objective - the creatures' safety - over brute force interception. Logically sound." Her gaze was sharp, reassessing the unconventional heir.
Sairaorg Bael let out a slow breath, the tension leaving his shoulders. He gave Revas a curt, almost imperceptible nod. It wasn't camaraderie, but it was acknowledgment. An heir without destructive power recognized a different kind of effectiveness.
Diodora Astaroth's face was a mask of icy fury barely concealed beneath a thin veneer of amusement. "How... convenient," he hissed, the word dripping with venom. "Your Luck certainly manifests in... peculiar ways, Gremory. Opening cages instead of wielding power. Admiring moss. Truly, a new breed of devil." His words were meant to belittle, to isolate.
But the damage was done. The image was seared into the minds of the young heirs: Revas Gremory, moving with calm purpose, using not destructive might but quick thinking and an uncanny sense of timing to save fragile life when a Bael heir's power threatened it. His "unconventional" approach had yielded undeniable results. His quiet charm - the genuine curiosity, the calm demeanor, the focus on preservation over predation - stood in stark, uncomfortable contrast to Diodora's cruelty and the Bael heir's careless arrogance.
Grayfia, having concluded her discussion with Zephyron, reappeared silently at Revas's side. Her gaze swept the scene - the smoldering cage, the Bael heir's shamefaced expression, Sona's thoughtful look, Sairaorg's nod, Diodora's barely contained rage. Her expression remained impassive, but as her eyes met Revas's violet ones, there was the faintest softening around them. Not a smile, but a subtle approval, a silent acknowledgment: You navigated the thorns.
"Come, Heir Gremory," Grayfia stated, her voice cutting through the tension. "Your presence is requested elsewhere." It was a clear extraction.
As Revas turned to follow her, he cast one last glance back at the mossy stone. The iridescent dragonfly was gone. But the impression remained. In the garden of thorns and predatory ambition, Revas Gremory had walked his own path. He hadn't conquered with force; he had disarmed with curiosity, saved with quickness, and exposed the hollowness of traditional cruelty with quiet action. His Luck wasn't just fortune; it was the subtle alignment of possibility towards preservation and calm. And for the first time, the other heirs - some with grudging respect, others with seething resentment - truly saw it. The untraditional heir had arrived, and the whispers about him would now carry a new, unsettling weight. The thorns had drawn blood, but it wasn't his.