Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The nether world is a cruel place; that is a fact no demon can deny. It is survival of the fittest and it is why demons have evolved the way they have. Tough outer skin, sharp nails and teeth that can pierce through anything, and most importantly: their wings. While there may be demons without sharp talons or intimidating horns, they will always have a pair of wings. They allow demons to have the ability to fly, access new food sources, escape predators, migrate to favorable habitats,find mates, and soar to new heights. Truly, a demon without wings is--

The professor stops his lesson as he feels his student’s back… he is shocked to say the least when he feels nothing on his back. He tries to pick up where he left off but…

“A demon with no wings is…” isn't a demon. Is as good as dead. He can't bring himself to say that now that he feels this fledgings back. Balam is sweating profusely and there is a class waiting for him to continue. His hand trembles against the students back, Iruma if he remembers the name correctly, as he recalls the harsh truths of the netherworld. The professor abruptly grabs Iruma and throws him on his back. “Class is dismissed!” he shouts as he hurriedly leaves the class room. He can hear the students cheer for the class being ended so soon, but he also hears two other students shout to Iruma. No matter, Balam has other, more important, things to worry about.

The gargoyle runs through the halls of Babyls until he finally makes it to his destination. He slams the door open to the teachers lounge catching the attention of the staff inside.

“THIS CHILD HAS NO WINGS!!”

The room is silent before Robin speaks up: “are you sure?

Another teacher, Stoles, chimes in “That is a big accusation to throw, yis! You need to be certain of this, yis yis!!” Balam shakes his head and continues with urgency “The fledgling has no wings! I felt it, look!!” and before giving Iruma any time to prepare or predict what was to happen, he feels the cool breeze against his back. He stops squirming and feels his blood freeze over. His back,,, is exposed in a room filled with demons and he panics in fear of them finding out about his humanity.

He starts squirming in the teacher's grasp again trying to escape but pauses after he hears a gasp.

“Oh my devi…” he hears someone say.

“This is terrible.. ” Iruma begins to worry again when the room begins to be filled with silent murmurs. While Iruma is internally panicking, the teachers share the same sentiment as they gaze upon the scars littering his back. Each scar tells a haunting story, painting his skin as if it were a canvas, with the scars serving as paint decorating his back. Where his wingroots should sit, lay a large patch of scar tissue. His skin is taut and stretched, a painful sight that makes it difficult for the teachers to look away.

“I think I’m going to be sick…”

“He is just a fledgling…and to be grounded at such a young age…” Iruma hears one of the teachers mumble. He nervously looks back at the teachers “uh.. C-can I be put down now?” he stutters out, his voice is wobbly. Balam's eyes widened and gently put Iruma down.

“Ah, I'm sorry about that Iruma it’s just…” he trails off as he looks intently at Iruma. The younger is pulling on his shirt a bit before moving his arms to comfort himself and make himself look smaller. The poor fledgling… he had been through so much, and Balam is certainly not helping with this added stress. Iruma stares back at the teacher before his eyes move onto the rest of the staff in the room. They all share the same horrified expression on their faces.

One of them steps up, he is a tall man-- definitely taller than Iruma, he has shoulder length hair and two sharp horns extending from the top of his head. “You may not know me yet, but I am Professor Marbas,” he introduces. Iruma looks at him, confusion clear on his face as he waits for the professor to continue.

“I am the teacher for the Torture Arts, a class you will have in your second year.” he pause struggling to find the right thing to say “Iruma, if you don’t mind, do you know how you got those scars? Who gave them to you? Was it your grandfather?”

Iruma bluescreens… Grandpa? Why would they think that? Iruma purposely shakes his head with urgency, “No!! Grandpa could never!! I had them from… before i moved in with him” Marbas glances toward Balam, and the ladder nods his head. Iruma watches but chooses not to comment on anything. “Well, that's good I suppose. Did your parents do that? Ground you, that is.”

Iruma doesn’t answer. ‘Did they?’ he wouldn't say that they gave them to exactly, but technically they did with all the odd jobs he was given growing up. Apparently, his silence was an answer as he heard the adult in front of himself take a deep intake. He turns to the others in the room “someone get professor Kalego”

“on it, boss!” said Robin. Iruma hears his feet patter against the tiled floor before he hears the door open and shut.

Iruma halts, his back going rimrod straight “Well that’s unnecessary don’t you think? Besides, isn’t being grounded normal?! Like as a punishment?” He is sweating, he doesn’t want to cause any more trouble than what he’s already caused; but clearly, he had said the wrong thing.If Iruma thought the room was tense before, he’s at a loss for how to describe the atmosphere now. One teacher takes a seat, while another gasps, covering their mouth in shock.

Okay.. so being grounded is something entirely different in the netherworld… good job Iruma!

Balam hurriedly steps forward, ignoring the warnings of the other teachers. Before Iruma could even think about scrambling away, the professor grabs him by the shoulders with his eyes wide. Even with his mask on, the horror in his eyes speaks volumes.

“Iruma, being grounded is not normal! It’s the removal of one's wings! It strips a demon of their livelihood-- rendering them helpless to the netherworld!!” He has a frantic look in his eyes while he tries to drill in the significance of the situation. Iruma looks at him and opens his mouth, only he can’t bring himself to say anything. He is way out of his depth, besides he isn’t even a demon! He doesn’t even know what is going on anymore! He is confused, overwhelmed and just wants to go home and lay in his bed and rot.

Marbas moves forward and pries Balam off of the student and clears his throat to get control of the situation. “Balam, I think you should go with robin and help him look for Kalego” “But-!”

“You're scaring him! If you keep this up, I wouldn't be surprised if he entered his wicked phase!” he tells Balam, frustration and worry intertwined in his voice. Balam looks back and forth from Marbas and Iruma before slouching and leaving the room. The torture arts teacher clears his throat once again before turning back to Iruma.

“Being grounded— it’s the removal of a demon's wings—is not just a punishment, Iruma” he says with a gentle yet stern voice. “it is a deeply frowned upon and outlawed form of discipline. It represents not only a brutal form of torture but also a complete rejection of a demon's identity and their ability to thrive.”

“It strips away what it means to be a demon.”

Chapter Text

“It strips away what it means to be a demon.”

Iruma feels the world around him freeze. “...what?” Professor Marbras licks his lips before continuing “Iruma, a demon prides themselves on their wings. I don’t think you understand the situation you're in,” and he doesn’t. Iruma is more lost than he ever had been as he stands in front of this teacher. He doesn’t know what to say or do to get out of this situation, because, to him, this is all blown out of proportion. 

What does it even mean to be a demon? Why does something he’s never had feel be the very essence of their identity? As the silence stretches on, Iruma’s heart races, his thoughts a tangled mess of emotions. The room feels stifling, each tick of the clock echoing his rising panic.

Time almost slows down as Iruma stares at the professor. He wants to say something, he has to but he can’t. His heart beats a hundred times per second, a frantic rhythm that drowns out all rhyme and reason. The air feels heavy, like he’s trapped in a suffocating bubble, and he can’t help but wonder: Why do they care so much? They're just a few scars painting his back, and while he guesses he can understand the cultural significance of him “losing” his wings, he just cannot wrap his head around the care these teachers are showing. He feels like an outsider, a human in a world that operates under rules he can’t comprehend. Why do they care? 

Professor Marbras watched Iruma's internal struggle ‘ The poor kid…’ Just as he was about to speak up and help the student, the doors are slammed open for the second time that day. Professor Kalego almost rushes in, his voice echoing throughout the silent room. “What is that I hear about one of my student's being grounded?!". His eyes dart around the room before they meet the sight of blue hair and that stupid fucking cow lick he's grown to be fond of despise . 

“ You. ”

“M--me?” Iruma, for the nth time that day, stares at a professor with his eyes wide. His day couldn't get any worse.

“Turn around, let me see your back” “Kalego don’t you thi—” “SILENCE, Shichiro, I need to see this with my own eyes.” Ah, just my luck… Well, Iruma has to show his back, and so he does. As the professor makes his way to Iruma, the boy turns to show his back and hesitantly lifts his shirt to show his marred back. He’s clenching his shirt and squeezing his eyes shut. The weight of their gazes presses down on him, making him feel ridiculed and isolated. 

He shouldn’t be feeling this way.  

He has been through worse—he knows this, what with being sold off to the circus once—but these stares are different. Back then, those were the eyes of strangers staring at him, indifferent to watching a child being spun on a wheel while getting knives hurled at him. Back then people watched him for entertainment not knowing or caring for who he is. Now, these stares feel personal. He feels as though he is being peered under a microscope, as if a spotlight is shining down on him and highlighting all of his vulnerabilities. 

Silence fills the room , thick and suffocating, and Iruma decides to take a nervous peek at his homeroom teacher. Their eyes meet, and he sees a mixture of concern and something else—something deeper, something he has never seen in an adult before. At least, never directed towards him. But why?

Kalego clears his throat. “You can put your shirt down” and Iruma gladly goes so, the fabric falling back into place, but the moment leaves him feeling exposed. The weight of the world still hangs heavily on his shoulders, yet he senses a shift in the atmosphere. 

“Iruma,” Kalego starts, his voice softer now, “this is not just about the scars… If I am to assume correctly, from what I heard, your parents gave them to you?” He stares intently at his student as he waits for an answer. 

“No professor”

“No?” He raises an eyebrow and turns back to professor Balam. The professor makes a so-so motion and Kalego sighs again. Iruma can already see his teacher’s hair graying.

“Then, pray tell, how did you get those scars?”

Iruma hesitates. His teacher is looking expectedly at him, and everyone else in the room is waiting for an answer with baited breath.  That feeling comes back again, the one he knows he shouldn’t be feeling but does. The question is left hanging in the air and Iruma just stares and his teacher stares back at him. The question feels personal, but he has to answer.  He has no choice, he was asked and he has to comply.  Kalego catches onto his internal struggle and Iruma watches as his teacher sighs and something about that encourages Iruma to tell him.

This isn’t judgement; it feels like a genuine inquiry, a chance to reveal a part of himself he’s kept hidden for so long (albeit, for his own safety.) Iruma doesn’t feel as if he is in danger in this current moment of time, so he doesn’t see the harm in telling the truth, or- at least a part of it. Iruma takes a deep breath before looking his teacher in the eye. 

“I worked a lot growing up…”

“You.. worked?”  another teacher asked, Iruma looked back at them. He thinks that was professor Dali but he’s blocking most of the teachers out and looks back at his homeroom teacher. “Yeah, I worked a lot… the scars are from… Well, accidents . Training mishaps. Sometimes a wild animal. It just depended on the job I guess…”

A murmur ripples through the room, a mixture of disbelief and concern. Iruma can feel the weight of their stares, and the questions running through their minds. He steels himself, pushing down the urge to retract his statement. That’s all he can do right now. He has to push through. He has to. 

“What kind of work were you doing?” Kalego presses gently, his tone more inquisitive.

“Everything I guess…?” Iruma shrugs. “Like i said it just depended on what my parents sent me off to do.” he fiddles with his fingers trying to ignore the overbearing weight of the stares he is receiving from the babyls staff. “I was a live bait to hunt down a rare… wild beast. Another time I was helping to, uh- collect   loans, another time I was sold off to the circus… ” he lists off. He finds now that he started he can’t stop himself from listing off a few of the jobs he was sent off to do. The more he speaks the more the atmosphere gets thick and uncomfortable. A tense silence follows, the implications of his words sinking in. He looks up from his fiddling hands and looks around the room. Iruma’s heart pounds in his chest as he watches the expressions of his teachers shift. His teachers look absolutely mortified and yet Iruma cannot comprehend as to why they are looking at him like that. This is normal. This is all he had known up until now and he doesn’t understand why the adults are looking at him like that. They never did that back home.(?)

“A circus?”

“Live bait??”

“A LOAN SHARK?”

The room abrupts to angry teachers, all mad on the behalf of Iruma. He doesn’t understand. 

“You worked multiple jobs?” Kalego repeats, his voice heavy with disbelief. “And they allowed you to work and risk your own safety ? ”

Iruma nods, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. “They asked me to.”

Kalego’s eyes narrow, and Iruma can see the wheels turning in his teacher’s mind. “That’s unacceptable. No child should have to endure that kind of life just because their parents asked them to.” Iruma shifts uncomfortably under the weight of his concern. “But I survived,” he insists, desperation creeping into his voice. “I’m still here. I’m okay .”

“Being okay doesn’t make it right, Iruma!” Kalego exclaims, frustration lacing his words. And frankly, your parents are a disgrace ! Every demon knows that fledglings are sacred things that are to be protected!”  He moves closer to Iruma and grabs his face so that the boy is looking at him. “You should not have gone through that,” he says. His eyes are filled with an emotion Iruma had never seen ever be directed towards him before. He closes his eyes and leans into his teacher's hold.

He opens them when his teacher lets go, a look of anger returns to his face. “And where the hell was the chairdemon! For someone to claim to love  his grandson you would think he would take him out of a situation like that!”

“Grandpa didn’t know!”

“And how could he not?!” Kalego exclaims. He is breathing heavily and he can feel a wicked phase coming on. 

“I wasn’t in his custody until then! My parents made a deal with him and he took me in!” Iruma exclaimed desperately, trying his best to defend his grandfather. He is now also breathing heavily before he slaps his hands in front of his mouth realizing the gravity of what he had just said.

“Some fetch the Chairdemon,” Kalego commands, his authority ringing in the air.

“Kalego, you should calm down—” another teacher interjects, trying to temper the escalating situation.

“I do not care! Someone get the chair demon now ” Kalego’s voice leaves no room for argument. The teachers in the room scramble to leave, either for their next class or to follow the command of the very ticked off teacher. As the teachers slowly tickle out of the room Kalego, Iruma, Balam and Marbras are the only ones to remain in the room. The atmosphere is thick with tension. Iruma can feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him, a mix of anxiety and anticipation swirling in his chest. He wishes the ground would just swallow him whole so he can escape.

The three teachers begin to talk amongst themselves, making the pressure in Iruma’s chest become heavier. He feels the room closing in on himself while he himself is becoming smaller.  Sweat trickles down his skin, and he can hear his heart pounding in his ears, each beat echoing louder than the last.

Everything around him is both quiet and loud at the same time, a cacophony of emotions swirling in his mind. He can feel his stress consuming him, the familiar sense of being overwhelmed creeping in. Why can’t I handle this? he thinks, frustration bubbling beneath the surface . I usually do well under pressure!

What’s happening to me? he wonders. He hates this feeling.

“Iruma, are you okay?” Balam’s voice breaks through his thoughts, gentle yet filled with concern. Iruma opens his eyes to see Balam watching him intently, the kindness in his gaze grounding him slightly.

“I’m fine,” Iruma lies, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. “Really, I am.” But inside, he feels anything but fine. He feels like a storm is raging just beneath the surface, waiting to burst forth. Balam grunts and looks back at his colleagues. 

He steps closer, his expression softening. “I am sorry to have put you through so much Iruma, but you must know that I had” Iruma nods and decides to take a seat at the nearest chair while he waits for his grandfather. He takes deep breaths and lets his mind fill with static. 

His teachers look at him with a worried expression but he ignores them in favor of the static and numbness that takes over. Anything is better than being here and he just wants to go home. Home with his grandpa and Opera. Home, where he doesn’t have to be this stressed.

He wants to go home.

Chapter Text

Iruma sits on a chair in the corner of the teachers lounge. He is dead to the world around him and how it interacts with him. All he focuses on is the silence and the slight mummerings between the three teachers in the room. He can’t really hear or understand what they are saying but he would rather keep it that way. It probably isn't something good anyways… it never is good whenever it revolves around him. He is shaken out of his thoughts when the doors slam open… They've been doing that a lot today. 

Iruma looks up and sees a flash of purple and pink barreling into him.  His heart skips a beat as he’s swept up in a warm embrace.

“Oh my beautiful precious grandsoooooon!! ” his grandfather exclaims, his voice filled with exuberant joy that cuts through the tension in the room like a ray of sunshine. Iruma knows he can always rely on his grandfather. His own face starts to brighten as he returns his grandfather's hugs and mirrors his smile. His face now filled with joy as he feels all his past worries melt away. “Grandpa!” Iruma exclaims as he giggles when he keeps hearing Sullivan's blabberings about him. 

“Oh my dear iru-kins!!! Your dear grampys heard you've been distressed oh my poor dear. If only I was here to swoop you away and take you from this terribly dreary room!!!” Iruma laughs a bit, the weight in his chest that was there previously now finally leaving as his grandpa keeps on talking. He's safe now. Someone clears their throat and the two of them turn towards the direction of the sound. There stands the red-headed cat demon, Opera.

“Sullivan,” they start “I do believe we were called into the lounge for a reason” they remind him while gesturing to the three teachers in the room. One of which is fuming. The air crackles with tension as Sullivan, oblivious to the seriousness of the situation, continues to shower Iruma with his affection. "Oh, Opera, my dear boy, I was just checking on my precious grandson! He's been through a lot, and I need to make sure he's alright!!" 

Opera sighs, his gaze shifting to the three teachers. "Sullivan, while I understand your concern, perhaps we should address the situation at hand." 

Kalego, who has been watching the exchange with growing impatience, finally explodes. "Sullivan, are you even aware of the events that led to this meeting?" He glares at Sullivan, his voice laced with anger and a hint of accusation.

Sullivan, however, remains unfazed. "Of course, my dear Kalego! I'm aware of everything, afterall word travels pretty quickly between the staff.  And I'm here to make sure my grandson is safe and sound." He throws a protective arm around Iruma, pulling him closer.

“With that said,” his demeanor quickly changes and the temperature in the room freezes. “I don’t appreciate how you had put my dear grandson in distress”

“Wha-” the chair demon quickly cuts him off by quickly turning to his guard demon and putting Iruma down. “Opera, can you escort Iruma off of Babyls and make sure he makes it home safely? And please do stay with him as well.”

“You can just dis-”

“As the headmaster of this school I can do as I please.” Sullivan pats Iruma on the top of his head before getting on one knee to get onto his level. “Grandpa is going to be a bit busy, but I'll make sure to see you home soon.” He grabs Iruma's head and gives him a kiss on his forehead. Iruma can feel his face warm with embarrassment and he gives his grandpa one last hug before following Opera. 

The teachers watch as Iruma and Opera leave the room. The door closes and it is now four of them at a standoff. The room is still cold from Sullivan's change in demeanor. Kalego decides to start off the meeting. 

“We need to talk,” the guard dog states. He stares intently at the chair demon and has to restrain himself from summoning Cerberus and sicking him on the demon. High ranking or not, Sullivan had hid crucial information about one of his students and he cannot stand for that. He  clenches his fist. Kalego fist goes white with how tightly he has them, his nails drawing blood from his palm and he can feel the slight droplets of blood seeping out from the indents.

“What is there to talk about?” he replies, feigning ignorance. The room is silent.  Kalego wants to rip the chairdemons head off. 

“Did you know?” Two powerful demons staring at each other. Balam takes a step forward and places a hand on the other's shoulder. Kalego shrugs his hand off and questions Sullivan again.

“Sullivan, did you know?” he asked accusatory 

Sullivan stays silent, not showing any emotion or insight into what the higher ranked is thinking. “About what?”

“You know damn well what I'm talking about,” Kalego spits out, his frustration boiling over. “Did you know about Iruma being grounded? Have you seen how scarred the poor boy is?”

The two demons stare at each other, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Sullivan finally opens his mouth, letting out a tired sigh.

“I did know,” he admits, his voice heavy. “Or rather, I knew the boy couldn't fly. I knew nothing of the scars until today from word of mouth,” he confesses. Kalego feels his eyes twitch. He turns to Balam, who throws him a thumbs up. “He’s telling the truth.”

Kalego scowls. “How can you not know of the scars?! He is your grandson!”

They walk the empty halls of Babyls and Iruma is stuck in own thoughts. I wonder how Azz and Clara are doing…? He misses his friends and wishes to be in class with them. His friends occupy his mind and he can't help but long for them. He wishes to be back in classes with them, he wishes to hear Clara's excited squeals and Azz telling her off. He wants to share laughter and stories with them. Instead, he finds himself walking the barren halls of the school, lost in his own thoughts a pang of loneliness twisting in his chest. He's pulled out of his thoughts when he feels a gentle hand rest on his shoulder.

“Iruma, we’re here.” Iruma shakes out of his haze and looks up to see that, yes, he is in fact in front of his home. When did this happen? He was just at the school a while again, he couldn’t have walked home this quickly. 

As he stands there, the weight of the day still lays heavy in his chest. He sighs and gives opera a nod before heading off into his room and finally rests. The thought of being home, where he feels safe and loved, should bring a smile onto his face, and yet, he can't bring himself to do so. Today has been a whirlwind of emotions and he wants not to do but lay in the darkness of his room and recharge. Iruma takes a deep breath, feeling the familiar sense of loneliness wash over him. He knows that he should be used to this feeling at this point. He was practically raised with this feeling, and yet, he cannot let the feeling roll off of him like he used to. Iruma now finds himself on his bed under the covers feeling numb. 

Under his covers, he pulls out his hand to look and marvel at the glutenous feeder ring. The golden band catches on the light peeking through his curtains, making it look even more magical. He stares at the ring, the same one that has allowed him to use magic (albeit borrowed.)  The ring, to him, serves as a reminder of the power that lies within him, and yet, a constant reminder of his borrowed existence.He sighs and lets his hand fall back onto his chest. The band glows and Iruma can see a small shadow in his peripheral vision. 

Ali.

“I'm sorry”

“For what? You didn’t do anything…”

The shadow demon gets closer and now sits on Iruma's side. “Exactly… I panicked when that brute of a teacher grabbed you… I could have saved you from so much distress” Ali's words, filled with a mixture of guilt and concern, pierce through Iruma's numb state. His heart, which felt like a heavy stone, begins to soften.  

"Ali, it's okay," he says, his voice barely a whisper. "You didn't know what to do. It's not your fault." He can’t blame Ali for being just as lost as he is. Iruma should really count his lucky stars and be glad the teachers came up with their own conclusions. The only issue with this though is that they think he was tortured . They believe him to be abused when that isn't the case. He grew up in a loving family, he had a roof over his head and had food every once in a while. Sure, the love was more conditional, and sure the roof that he had was that shabby old tent he lived in, but that was home. He survived, he worked and he survived and now he's here.  Iruma understands Ali's guilt, but he also recognizes the reality of his own past. It wasn't a fairytale, but it was his. He survived, he adapted, he learned to find strength in the face of hardship. His past, though not ideal, shaped him into the person he is today.

He knows that the teachers are trying to help, but their assumptions about his past are based on a misunderstanding. They saw the scars, the fear, the vulnerability, and they jumped to conclusions.  Ali jumps down and floats to sit in front of Iruma’s direct eyesight. “Come on Iru, tell dear old Ali what’s going on in that head of yours. ” Ali's words, laced with concern and a touch of playful teasing, breakthrough Iruma's quiet contemplation. Ali's presence is a comfort, a reminder that he's not alone in his struggles.

Iruma hesitates, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him. He knows that sharing his thoughts could help free him from the pressuring weight weighing down him, but the act of doing so feels vulnerable.  But he also knows that Ali is someone he can trust, someone who will listen without judgment. Iruma takes a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. "It's just..." he begins, his voice a low murmur. "It's just that... they think I was abused. They think I was hurt. But that's not true. I mean, it wasn't easy , but..."

He trails off, struggling to find the words to explain the complexities of his past. The love he received was conditional, the roof over his head was a flimsy tent, but it was home. He survived, he adapted, he learned to be strong. 

“But weren't you?”

“What…?” Iruma sits up and looks intently at the demon. What does he mean by that? Why would he also think that? Iruma doesn’t get it! 

“Ali I-I don't think y—”

“No Iruma, I don't think you get it,” ali pauses thinking of what he is going to say next. “I don’t know how it is up there in the human realm, but parents don’t typically let their children get hurt just for a quick buck.”

“But they didn't have a choice! I didn’t have a choice!!”

Ali stares at Iruma, truly at a loss for words. He’s being given the same look the teachers gave him back at school and Iruma… hates it. He doesn't need it nor does he deserve that soft pitying look. He doesn't understand why they keep giving him that look. All because of what exactly? Just because of a few pitiful arrays of scars that paint his back? He doesn't get it, it’s not important and never has been. No one ever questioned it back then when he was working, no one helped tend to his wounds or wrap them up, so why is it an issue now? He's breathing heavily now, he unknowingly balled his fists and can feel his nails dig into his skin. It’s almost a relief, a reminder of earth, almost. 

He’s never felt like this before and it is almost a refreshing feeling. Anger, he thinks this is what it is. It's a raw and ugly feeling, one that paints his vision red, and anything outside of his direct eye contact begins to blur as he feels himself breathing heavily.  He's not just angry at the teachers, but at the entire situation, at the assumptions being made and thrown at him, and the sympathy he feels—knows he doesn't deserve. 

For the first time in his life, Iruma feels a surge of something. It's not fear or self-doubt. It's anger . Something he's never felt and it is almost exhilarating. It’s like a fire that was lit within him, like nothing he has ever felt or bare witness to before. He feels a sense of freedom and liberation. It is a dangerous feeling, one that could easily consume him, but he does not feel the need to care. It is a powerful feeling, one coursing through his veins, urging him to force others to listen.

“I’m not broken ” His words are sharp, cutting through the air like a hot knife. 

Ali stumbles a bit, both figuratively and literally. “Iruma that is not what I meant!”

“Then what do you and the others mean!” he shouts. If Iruma had been like the others, like an actual demon, he probably would've been thrown into his wicked phase ages ago. And then he stops.

Ali is out. Ali is able to give him a wicked phase. The last time he woke from it, sure, he didn’t remember much from it, but he does remember waking up refreshed and calm. That's what he needs right now. 

Now that the idea had entered his mind he can't seem to stop himself from entertaining the idea. The idea of a wicked phase, of unleashing something primal and powerful within him, is both frightening and alluring. It's tempting to use it as an escape from the overwhelming emotions he is feeling.

The last time he entered a wicked phase, he achieved something big, unlocking the royal one, and that memory shines brightly compared to everything else he did while under the effect of the spell Ali casted. He wants to be heard and understood, but the only way he can even fathom doing something like that is by unleashing something he doesn't fully understand. Maybe, just this once, he can be selfish. He is supposed to be a demon after all...

"Iruma?"

Lighting flashes and highlights the room. It is a standoff between Sullivan and Kalego. The question floats in the air and Sullivan sighs for what feels like the hundredth time today. 

"Unlike you and the rest of the staff," Sullivan said, his voice laced with a weariness that belied his usual calm, "I respect Iruma's privacy. But I do see the oversight on my end." He removed his glasses, wiping them with a silk cloth before returning them to his face.

Marbras steps up finally having something to say. “With all due respect Chairdemon,” he began, his voice low and steady, "this type of... torture should have been known to the staff."

Another pause stretches in the air one thick with an   unspoken accusation.

“Yes, yes, the proper paperwork will be done to take care of the situation, but I would like to note that I did mention something about him not being able to fly to Kalego before his test”

 Kalego stutters to defend himself before he feels all the fight leave him, his words dying in his throat. He feels drained and defeated. He can vaguely remember the small note that he had dismissed. It was insignificant at the time. It was a mere suggestion, a scribbled line on Iruma's file: " My dear grandson is afraid of heights ." How was he supposed to know the boy was grounded? There was nothing in his medical records that said he could not fly, nothing official. Yet he ignored the note. The weight of this oversight is crushing down on him. He had almost actively killed one of his students, choosing to push him off of that damn cliff instead of asking for clarification.

The memory of Iruma, trembling and sweating, staring down the cliff, almost as if he were afraid of dying, flashes before his eyes. A wave of nausea washes over him, and he feels the urge to flee with his tail tucked in between his legs. Instead, he chooses to remain silent and simply nod, his mind numb with guilt. He wants nothing more than to flee and disappear like the cowardly dog he is. He takes a step back and lets Shichiro hold on to him. He can allow himself to be comforted by his just friend this once. 

“I would also like for Iruma to speak with the school counselor and have a physical done on him as well,” Marbras adds.

Sullivan nods. “Very well, I will have it so that is done. Is there anything else that needs to be discussed, gentlemen?”

“No sir.” all three teachers reply.

“Very well then," Sullivan said, turning towards the exit of the teachers' lounge. He pauses at the doorway, his gaze lingering on Kalego for a moment. Then, a mischievous glint returns to his eyes.

 "Oh, and Kalego? I'm cutting your salary again!" His voice was light and cheerful, and he skips out of the room, his footsteps echoing with a mix of amusement and anticipation. He cannot wait to see his precious and beautifully beloved grandson again! 

Chapter Text

The door shuts with a soft click, leaving the room in an unsettling silence.  Marbras, his brows now furrowed, feels a knot of unease form in his stomach.  The meeting with the Chair Demon had been as fruitful as a barren desert.  He sighs, his gaze drifting back to his colleagues.  

"Well...that was definitely a meeting," he mutters, his voice heavy and tired with the events of the day.

Kalego stares straight ahead, his jaw clenched, while Balam remains silent, his eyes downcast.  Marbras knows the guilt gnawing at them both.  Kalego was unaware of Iruma's predicament, and Balam, a dedicated teacher, had only reported what he believed to be a worrying situation.  But now, guilt is a luxury they cannot afford.  

"We need to get our heads together," Marbras says, his voice firming.  "The whole staff.  We need to figure out what to do about Iruma."  He pauses, a troubled frown worming its way onto his face.  "I don't want to isolate him from his studies, his allies...but teaching a fledgling without wings is something we’ve never done before."

"You're mumbling," Kalego snaps, his voice laced with frustration.  "Speak up, you imbecile! There are others in the room."

Marbras winces.  He's been trying to break the habit of retreating into his thoughts, and his sister had even assured him he'd kicked it.  But the stress of the situation has brought his old demons ( hah! ) back to haunt him.  He clears his throat, taking a deep breath to regain his composure.

"There's a lot we need to do," he repeats, his voice steady now.  "We need a plan."

The room is heavy with the weight of their shared concern.  Kalego, his anger barely contained, continues to fume.  " Obviously , that damn chair demon was being smug," he growls, yellow electricity crackling around his fists.  "He left a note saying Iruma is afraid of heights!  He didn't say the poor boy couldn't fly!"

Balam, finally breaking his silence, clears his throat.  "Well, as teachers of Babyls, there is only one thing we really can do, and that is to assure him."

Marbras, his shoulders slumping, groans.  "Well, that's easy to say.  Let's just hope that if he comes to school tomorrow, that we check up on him.  Maybe send him to Professor Murmur for a check-up or something."

"We can only do so much with the end of Terminus approaching," Balam points out, a hint of worry in his voice. “We can’t keep him from his studies.”

"Devi knows the poor boy needs it. I'll make sure to keep an eye out on him during our homeroom study session," Kalego says, his tone softening slightly.

Marbras, his mind racing, blurts out, "Right, and I'll look into some torture rings and look into other torture methods."  The other teachers stare at him, their expressions a mix of confusion and disbelief.

"...he had more scars other than the grounding ones," Marbras continues, his voice dropping to a whisper.  "Sure, he said he did some odd jobs, but there's no devi way that that was it."

Kalego sighs, his frustration evident.  Balam looks distraught, his face etched with concern.  "I suggest you wait for that physical, Marbras."

"I suppose you're right..." Marbras concedes, his voice laced with defeat.

Kalego hums, his anger simmering down.  "We should continue this meeting with the rest of the staff," he says, his voice regaining its authority.  "That way we can have a plan."

The other teachers nod in agreement, their hearts heavily weighing down on them.  They file out of the room, each carrying the burden of Iruma's secret and the weight of their responsibility.  They are teachers of Babyls, and they are determined to do everything they can to help Iruma grow. 

--

It happened again and Opera doesn’t know what to do, which is saying a lot since they like to view themselves as a pillar in the Sullivan household. But at this moment, they do not know what to do. They feel as though they had failed the young master as they are serving him his breakfast. 

Opera is watching as Lord Sullivan weeps, his voice choked with despair as he cries about his grandson being tarnished and overwhelmed with stress. Iruma, however, remains stoic, ignoring his grandfather's cries. Something had happened in the short time that Opera had left him alone in his room. They had thought solitude would be beneficial, a chance for him to unwind, but it seems their good intentions have backfired. Their young master has entered his wicked phase once more, and this time, it feels different, more intense, and uncomfortably close to the last one. It's a dangerous escalation, and Opera fears for his well-being.

"My sweet Iruma oh how they’ve ruined you ," Sullivan sniffles, his words laced with despair. 

"You've been through so much, and now this...this wicked phase...it's tearing me apaaaaaarrrrrt!!" Opera watches, their heart sinking, as Iruma tsks and rolls his eyes at his grandfather, and in turn makes him cry harder. They are truly at a loss for words not knowing what to do other than stand behind the lord of the house and watch on. It confuses Opera, Iruma is a human, he should not be able to enter a wicked phase, and yet here he is. Opera recalls the human fables the boy once shared, tales warning against consuming something ‘otherworldly.’ Perhaps, like those characters, Iruma is becoming more demon-like. Could it be that, like Pershophone, Iruma is now bound to the netherworld? Opera realizes this is something they would have to discuss with Lord Sullivan. They are shaken out of their own thoughts when they hear the deafening screech of Iruma’s chair.

“Prepare the carriage,” Iruma commands, his tone clipped with his phone in hand as he leaves the dining room, presumably off to get his belongings before leaving for school. The tension in the air is thick as Opera watches as the young master leaves. They sigh and prepare the carriage for Iruma.  Sullivan dries his tears and jumps up from his hunched position, jolly and determined expression now painting his face.

 “Anything for my dear grandson!” He exclaims as he excitedly skips to get the carriage with Opera. “Oh he rarely uses the carriage!! I’m so excited for him to use it like the sweet little prince he is!!” Opera sighs and shakes their head. 

As they return to the front with the carriage in tow, a scene unfolds like a vibrant tapestry of friendship and excitement. Iruma stands there, surrounded by his friends, a faint smile displayed on his face despite being thrown into his wicked phase.

Asmodeus, ever the enthusiastic companion, beams with delight as he is given the opportunity to hold Iruma’s belongings once again. His eyes sparkle with admiration, relishing the chance to support his friend. “I’ve got it, Master Iruma! Anything for you, you can always rely on me, Master!” he exclaims, his voice filled with warmth and excitement.

Meanwhile, Clara dances around like a lively butterfly, her energy infectious. “Iruma-chi! Iruma-chi! You look different again! It’s like you’ve transformed into a super cool version of yourself!” she chirps, her excitement bubbling over. Clara’s innocent enthusiasm brings a momentary lightness to the air, a stark contrast to the weight of Iruma’s internal struggles.

As Iruma listens to his friends, he feels a mix of emotions. Their joy is infectious, yet he can’t shake the feeling of being an imposter in his own skin. His wicked phase looms in the back of his mind, a shadow that threatens to overshadow the happiness of the moment. Instead he smiles and gestures for his friends to enter the carriage with him.

As he settles into the plush seat, he takes a deep breath, letting the familiar scent of leather and polished wood soothe his senses. It has been a while since he had ridden inside the carriage, and he can't believe he'd refused to use it most of the time. It's nice, a luxurious contrast to the usual walk. He glances out of the window, watching the world pass by in a blur of colors and motion. It all feels so close and distant to him at the same time, a strange duality mirroring his own internal struggle.

He can barely hear his friends' voices, their chatter a distant hum. He feels bad for somewhat ignoring them, but he can’t bring himself to pay attention. The stress from the day before is still eating at him, and the thought of returning to school and facing the teachers who made him feel this way angers him.

“Master Iruma?” oh, it seems he had worried Azz. His friend cuts through his thoughts. Iruma turns to face Asmodeus, a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“Yes Alice?" Iruma smirks as he sees his friend's face flush when he calls home by his first name. “Are you alright?” Asmodeus asks, face still flushed.

“Yeah iruma-chi!! You’ve been all broody moody and sad!!” Clara pipes in with her usual cheriness, this time tinged with a bit of worry.

He knows he should tell his friends, his soulmates, about the turmoil brewing inside of him. They are his anchors, his safe haven in the storm of his life. But he cannot bring himself to fully care at this moment. He is not in the mood for more pitying looks or  their well-meaning advice. He is feeling a bit wicked, feeling more like a storm than a gentle breeze. More demon than human. 

"I'm fine," he says, his voice flat and devoid of its usual warmth. His smile, usually soft and warm, is now sharp and predatory. "Just a bit tired." It's not fully a lie, of course. He is tired, but he is also exhausted . But of course, he's not going to burden them with his problems. He’s better than that, and his friends deserve more than him just unloading his issues to them. They have better things to worry about, especially with finals- or End of Terminus around the corner. 

His friends exchange glances, their concern evident in their furrowed brows. They know him well enough to recognize the facade, but they also know better than to force it out of him, lest they want him to shut down. They can’t say they've seen him like this before. The last time he was in his wicked phase he was still Iruma, just more confident. This time though, it feels different, more sharp and dangerous. 

Iruma watches them, a feeling he doesn’t know bubbles in his chest causing a bitter taste in his mouth.  He doesn't like the way his friends are looking at him with concern. He doesn’t like the look of discomfort and worry in their eyes, he doesn't like the way Clara shrinks back under his gaze, and he hates the silence that fills the carriage.

The carriage continues its journey, the silence thick with unspoken tension. Iruma leans back against the plush seat, his eyes closed, silently seething. This wicked phase feels different. It's not the playful confidence he had last time, the surge of energy that made him feel invincible. This is something darker, something sharper, something that feels like a blade twisting in his gut.  He can guess what’s causing it, but he knows it's fueled by something deeper, something he can't quite grasp. 

Iruma hates the silence and it makes him want to lash out, scream and throw something. He wants to make his friends understand. He is the same Iruma. Instead, he holds it back, his anger turning inward, burning his chest

"This is ridiculous," he mutters under his breath, his voice a low growl.  

He can't wait to get to school, to be surrounded by the familiar chaos of Babyls and the rest of the misfits.  He needs the distraction, the challenge, the opportunity to prove himself.  He needs to show them all, his friends, his teachers, even his grandfather, that he's not just a human pretending to be a demon.  He's more than that.  He's going to become a demon, a true demon. 

He's going to climb the ranks, he's going to earn respect, he's going to prove to his teachers that he is not weak and that he is more than those damned scars. Iruma can vaguely feel something flicker in the back of his mind and he promptly ignores it. He is not going to let something as small as a small flicker distract him. He's going to be a force to be reckoned with.

The carriage lurches to a stop, and Iruma throws open the door, his anger a palpable force.  He steps out, his eyes narrowed, his jaw set.  He's ready to take on the school, and heads off to the Royal One with his friends in tow. 

Chapter Text

Whispers and mummers are heard throughout the school all surrounding Iruma as he steps foot on campus. Iruma smirks at the attention he is receiving. He barely acknowledges the students, his gaze fixed ahead as he strides toward his classroom. Asmodeus and Clara, ever loyal, trail behind him, their faces a mixture of concern and admiration.

It takes a while, navigating through the halls of Babylus and the students lingering in the halls, but they finally make their way into the classroom. Most of the misfits sit slumped over their desks and class work miserable. Iruma saunters in and tsks at the display of students in front of him.

“What is wrong with you, lot?” he asks, his voice carrying a subtle edge of amusement. Heads snap up, eyes widening as they take in the sight of the honor student and his friends . A wave of déjà vu washes over the class. They can recognize the signs. He was in his wicked phase . Again. The familiar dark aura, the phantom touch of crows and feathers, the intense, almost predatory fire in his gaze – it was all there. Any prior groaning ceased instantly as the class collectively focus on the three figures at the entrance. Iruma surveys them, his head tilting slightly, a single eyebrow arched in question. “Well?” he prompts, his pointer finger tapping a rhythmic beat against his arm, a silent demand for an explanation.

Iruma's demeanor, this time, was different. It is a subtle shift, yet prominent. The class recognizes the change immediately. An undercurrent of apprehension runs through the room; the silence laced with a palpable tension. Asmodeus, ever the loyal guardian, steps forward, his frustration boiling over. "Are you not going to answer Master Iruma?!" he exclaims, his voice echoing through the hushed classroom. The atmosphere thickens, heavy with unspoken anxieties and a sense of an impending doom.

Finally, Lied, with a flushed face, breaks the silence. "Well, it's just… uh… well, we're doomed, y'know?" he mumbles, scratching his cheek nervously, the weight of their collective academic failure pressing down on him. A sigh escapes his lips. "I tried cramming last night," he continues, his voice barely above a whisper, "but…"

Jazz finishes his sentence, his own voice tinged with defeat. "I couldn't get anything to stick." The words hung in the air, a stark testament to their shared plight. The unspoken truth—that they (and most of the class ) were utterly unprepared for their finals.

Clara tilts her head, Asmodeus scoffs and Iruma stays silent, moving deeper into the classroom, his two friends following close behind. Asmodeous, one to never mince words, speaks up. "Couldn't you have found a more organized way to study? Find someone more capable to teach you?’

Leid repeats the last few words before jumping and asking for Asmodeus to tutor him. His hopes were swiftly dashed. Asmodeus had already dedicated to tutoring Iruma, and had neither the time nor the inclination to help anyone else that isn’t Iruma. Clara is flitting amongst her peers jumping from one person to another talking about the upcoming exams. Her gaze frequently returns to Iruma, a silent look of worry.

Iruma stays behind watching his friends and the rest of the class interact, stuck in his own mind. The air around him seemed to shimmer with an invisible energy, a warning that kept others at bay, especially during his "wicked phase." He watched, he listened, and was only roused from his reverie by the abrupt arrival of their professor.

" Silence !" Kalego's voice, sharp as a whip, cuts through the low murmurs. "There's no point in fantasizing about summer vacation if you're incapable of passing your exams."

Every head in the classroom swiveled towards the imposing figure of their professor. The previously dissipated tension instantly returns, the room once again a silent, intimidating space.

A smirk, tinged with a hint of wicked amusement, played on Kalego's lips as he continued, "And, as a delightful bonus, I shall be your examiner for these tests."

A collective groan ripples through the classroom, followed by a resounding thud from the back row – the sound of someone slamming their head against their desk. Iruma scoffs, drawing Kalego's attention. The professor's eyes narrow, a flicker of concern – almost imperceptible, yet present – hidden beneath his usual stoic mask. A concern that went unnoticed by the rest of the class, but not by Iruma.

Teacher and honor student lock gazes, the rest of the class holding their breath, acutely aware of the silent battle of wills unfolding before them.

Finally, Kalego sighs, muttering something about yet another staff meeting. Iruma, seemingly unmoved, rolls his eyes and casually swings his legs up onto his desk, a gesture of nonchalant rebellion. Asmodeus and Clara are quick to resign behind Iruma and take their seat next to him.

“Looks like we won’t be able to cheat this time…” Jazz mutters. Iruma cocks his to Jazz, in a go on gesture and the other continues 

“Professor Kalego always manages to catch cheaters on the tests he’s overlooking” he simply explains. Iruma nods before a chilling sensation washes over him, and he wasn't alone in that.  A collective shiver seemed to ripple throughout  the classroom, a sudden drop in temperature that even the most oblivious of students couldn't ignore, a sense of dread settling over them.

A single, piercing shriek shatters  the uneasy silence, reverberating through the Royal One. Every eye snapping towards the entrance, faces a mixture of terror and utter confusion.

Balam swore to himself that he'd leave the boy alone. He tried. He really did. But the pull was too strong, a gravitational force of guilt forcing him to follow the boy. He promised himself that he wouldn't, yet he finds himself, despite his best intentions, standing outside of The Royal One , watching Iruma intently. The guilt was a relentless, gnawing force, dragging him to the classroom. Ever since the whispers started, the rumors of Iruma slipping into another wicked phase, the weight of responsibility had settled upon Balam's shoulders, a crushing burden he could barely bear. 

After all, hadn't he been the one to push Iruma? To expose his vulnerabilities, to rip open his emotional scars and lay them bare for the world to see? He had, in essence, humiliated the boy, practically shouting from the rooftops, " You are not a demon! " 

The memory echoes in his mind, a cruel reminder of his own failings as an educator and caretaker of Babylus.  He was the catalyst, the architect of Iruma's descent. The realization was- is a crushing burden, a constant, heavy weight on his conscience. He had promised himself to not follow the boy and to give him space. 

He thought he was being subtle, but how subtle can a large gargoyle be when he's attempting to hide behind a door, spying on his students? The answer, it seemed, was not very.

“WHAA-?!” a student shrieked, their voice trembling.

“HUH?!” another echoed, their eyes darting around frantically.

“SCARY!!” a third whimpered, instinctively shrinking back.

“Professor Balam!?” a voice, barely audible above the rising panic, finished the chorus of shocked exclamations.

Balam, startled by the sudden attention, almost jumps out of his skin. Before he could even think about attempting to cower away with his wings tucked tightly against his back (a feat even Iruma could probably manage—oh, devi, he can’t ! He doesn't have wings, he’s not safe, he's in constant danger! How can he liv- ), Kalego emerges from the classroom, a look of exasperation etched on to his face.

“Professor?!”

Balam, caught off guard, straightens up, attempting a semblance of composure. He greets his fellow teacher and… well, partner , with a clumsy fist bump, before finally turning to the bewildered class.

“I must've scared everyone, huh?” he began, his voice a little too loud, a touch apologetic. He winces, then turns back to Kalego, a silent plea in his eyes. “Can I, uh , can I borrow Iruma for a quick second?”

Kalego stares at Balam for a long moment, then sighs, a sound that seems to carry the weight of the world. He nods his head, a silent permission granted. He faces the class and, with a curt gesture, calls for Iruma. 

Balam watches as the two exchange words. His eyes zeroed in on Iruma, who, to his utter dismay, scoffed and rolled his eyes, a gesture of annoyance that sent a fresh wave of guilt crashing over him. Balam was confused, his eyes still following the student as he turned and took his leave, exiting the classroom without a backward glance.

Iruma, as he passed the door, looked back, his expression a mixture of annoyance and… something else, something Balam couldn't quite decipher. He scoffs again, the gesture a clear sign of his displeasure. And then, the truth hit Balam like a physical blow: Iruma should never look like that. The casual dismissal, the underlying irritation, it was all wrong . He barley knew this student, and yet he knew the look painting  his fac e is nothing but wrong. This was his wicked phase, a glimpse of a darkness that Balam feared he had helped to cultivate and bring to light. The weight of his actions is pressing down on him, a heavy burden he couldn't seem to escape.

“Do you want to talk or not?” Iruma had practically spat out the words, venom lacing his voice, each syllable a stark reminder of Balam’s guilty conscience. He wants to shrivel up, to disappear into the shadows, consumed by the crushing weight of guilt and the bitter disappointment that he felt in himself. He could practically feel his partner’s low growl rumbling behind him, a warning to the honor student. Balam is quick to reassure Kalego with a small nod, a silent promise of " I'll be alright, go teach your class ." The words felt hollow even to his own ears and a silent ring that only he can hear. It’s a lie his bloodline ability mockingly tells him.

Kalego gives him a look, a mixture of concern and exasperation, before sighing tiredly. He then turns and, with a practiced air of professionalism, went back into the classroom, resuming his duties as if nothing had happened.

Balam turns back to the exit, his heart heavy in his chest. He follows Iruma, his footsteps echoing the turmoil within him. He quickened his pace, taking the lead and guides the boy towards a secluded area, a quiet space where they could finally, hopefully, talk. Balam needs to apologize, to somehow bridge the chasm that had opened between them. He needs to try to fix this, and build trust with his student.

He is a teacher of Babylus after all, it is his job to build trust and nurture the future generation of the netherworld.

Chapter Text

The halls are empty except for student and professor, their footsteps echoing in the oppressive silence—tap, tap, tap, tap…a rhythm that mirrored the frantic beat of Iruma’s heart. The atmosphere is thick and tense and Iruma would rather be anywhere else than here.  He wasn't one for anger, he never held any grudges, typically. But the sight of this man, this demon, ignited a burning resentment within him, a fire that threatened to consume him. He could almost taste the bitterness, the lingering resentment that coated his tongue. It wasn't just anger; it was a profound sense of violation, a feeling of having been betrayed by someone he had once, perhaps foolishly, trusted.

Yet, deep down, Iruma knew he couldn't fully blame the teacher. Professor Balam was simply doing his job—caring for what he perceived to be an adolescent demon. What a cruel, joke.

They continued down the silent corridors, the silence amplifying the unease, until Professor Balam slowly came to a halt. The abrupt stillness was almost more unsettling than the preceding quiet.

“Mythical zoology requires contemplation,” he began, his voice a low rumble, “and after I… touched your back…” He turned, his gaze locking onto Iruma's. Their eyes met, and Balam's gloved hands rose to his face, a slow, deliberate movement that stole the air from Iruma's lungs.

A click echoed in the stillness, and Iruma realized his teacher was removing his mask. He instinctively took a step back, a primal instinct screaming at him to flee or prepare a defensive spell. The uncertainty was paralyzing.

“I began to contemplate that you were ill—or, worse, grounded—and I truly hoped you were simply sick,” Balam continued, taking another step closer, his hand gently resting on Iruma's shoulder. The touch, despite its gentleness, sent a jolt of electricity through Iruma's veins. “I just needed to know.” His voice was barely a whisper, strained with a palpable nervousness.

With a decisive movement, he threw his mask aside, revealing a face far different from the terrifying visage Iruma had always imagined. Before him stood a nervous demon, sweat beading on his brow, a massive scar marring his face, his fangs bared in a grimace that was more fear than aggression. Balam nervously licked his lips – a gesture Iruma instinctively recognized as a sign of deep anxiety. “D-does this make us even?” he asked, his voice trembling.

Iruma wanted to scoff, to scream, to laugh, to cry—all at once. The overwhelming emotional torrent threatened to shatter him. Of course, the fearsome demon rumored to conduct questionable experiments on his students was, in reality, a gentle giant, burdened by his own anxieties and, perhaps, his own past traumas. The universe had a twisted sense of humor.

The pair stood in the empty hallway, the atmosphere thick, and all Iruma could do was scoff at his professor. The initial shock was wearing off, replaced by a simmering annoyance.

“Yeah, sure, whatever, we’re even,” he muttered, crossing his arms and looking up at the demon. Iruma wasn’t one to hold grudges, not typically. But that didn't mean he couldn't be upset, which was a surprisingly new realization. He was upset.

Balam sighed, the sound echoing in the stillness. He crouched to pick up the mask he'd thrown aside, his movements slow and deliberate. He glanced up at Iruma, a tentative, almost pleading look in his eyes.

"Was that all you wanted to do?" Iruma asked, his voice sharper than he intended it to be. The question hung in the air, laced with a mixture of curiosity and lingering resentment.

Balam couldn't help but sigh again, fiddling with the mask that was now clutched in his hands. The gesture seemed to amplify his nervousness. "I suppose... it- it wasn't right of me to expose you the way I did, and I am truly sorry..." His voice was barely a whisper, the weight of his apology evident.

Now it was Iruma's turn to sigh. He rolled his eyes, the gesture betraying a hint of his own vulnerability. He was still trying to process everything, and the awkwardness was almost unbearable. Before responding to his professor, he took a deep breath. "It's fine. Don't worry about it, Teach," he offered a strained smile, trying to project a casual indifference. "It's fine. Though I'd rather we don't make a big deal about my, uh, my grounding." He hoped to change the subject.

His teacher stared at him, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, after a beat of silence, he hesitantly nodded his head, the movement slow and heavy, as if carrying a burden of its own. The mask remained in his hand, a silent testament to the unspoken emotions between them.

 “Can I go back to class?" Iruma asked, breaking the silence. The tension was suffocating.

His professor nodded, his gaze still fixed onto his mask, a silent acknowledgment of Iruma's request. Iruma didn't wait for a second invitation. He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. He could feel Balam's gaze on his back, a weight that followed him until he rounded the corner and was out of sight.

Balam should be ashamed of himself, he thought. What kind of professor sends a student into an evil cycle? He did. The realization hit him like a physical blow, a wave of shame washing over him. Balam sighs as he raises his hand, the gloved fingers trembling slightly as he reaches for his mask. With a decisive click, it snaps back into place, the familiar sound tethering him back to the world around him. He watches his student turn the corner, disappearing from his view, and makes his way back into the Royal One.

Balam stood there for a moment longer. With a deep breath, he turned and began to walk back towards his own classroom. He needed to prepare for his next lesson, to regain some semblance of control. But the image of Iruma's face, the one filled with confusion and terror from that day will forever be ingrained into his memories, serving as a constant reminder of his failings as a teacher.