Chapter Text
"Fuck."
The word left Iruma's lips in a breathless, guttural whisper as his vision cleared. His eyes darted upward to the canopied ceiling above his bed—familiar, disturbingly so. The old velvet canopy, deep maroon with gold trimmings, hung just slightly askew to the left, exactly how it had always been during his first days in the Netherworld.
He sat up sharply. The heavy blanket draped over him was the same soft, finely-woven fabric he hadn't felt in years. His fingers clutched it instinctively, trembling, because he knew exactly where he was. Not just geographically. Temporally.
This was Sullivan's manor. His room. His first room, before the remodel. Before the demon king's insignia was branded into his soul. Before everything—before the world learned his name, before they feared it. Before he had to become him.
He scrambled off the bed, the polished floor cold against his feet. As he stumbled toward the ornate mirror mounted on the opposite wall, he caught sight of the boy staring back.
Wide indigo eyes. Soft, rounded face. Unscarred hands. Shorter. Thinner. There was still baby fat on his cheeks.
Fourteen. He was fourteen again.
He staggered back, gripping the frame of the mirror. He tried to speak, but nothing coherent came out. His heart thundered like a battle drum.
No, no, no—this wasn't possible. This couldn't be some dream, could it? Some twisted hallucination brought on by magic? A curse? A side-effect from the confrontation with Baal?
"Iruma-chan!" a warm voice called cheerily, muffled by the door.
He froze.
No...
The door burst open with the usual theatrical flair, and there stood him: Sullivan. Towering, beaming, radiating more joy than one soul should be allowed to carry. He looked just as he had then—gilded robes flowing, long white hair cascading behind him, eyes brimming with affection.
"Iruma-chan!" Sullivan cried again, voice sing-song. "Did you sleep well? I made breakfast! ( It was Opera actually) Three layered stacked pancakes with syrup shaped like smiley faces! You must be starving, my sweet boy!"
Iruma blinked rapidly. "You..."
The old demon's brows lifted. "Me?"
Iruma swallowed hard and forced a smile, years of deception instinctively rising like a mask. "Y-Yeah. Just... you're really energetic today."
Sullivan laughed—a full, hearty sound that made the manor walls tremble with joy. "As if I'm not always energetic when it comes to you! Now, come on, come on! Opera already said they won't reheat the pancakes more than once, so if you dawdle, I will eat yours, and you'll be left with a sad, syrupless fate!"
Iruma laughed, too, albeit weakly. He followed Sullivan down the winding staircase, each step a hammerbeat of memories pounding through him. Every detail was identical. The paintings lining the walls. The lingering scent of demon cherry wood polish. The gleaming chandelier above the great hall.
He should've felt comforted.
He wasn't.
As they passed a window, he risked a glance outside. The manor grounds looked untouched by time—neatly pruned hedges, pale lavender sky. Even the minor devi-crows fluttering about in the gardens moved like clockwork memories.
They reached the dining room. Opera was there, poised by the sideboard, arms crossed, eyes sharp as ever. The butler's gaze flicked to Iruma as he entered, then narrowed faintly.
"I see you slept in," Opera said. "That's unusual for you, young master Iruma."
Iruma hesitated. "I guess I was... more tired than I thought."
Opera studied him for a long moment. "Hmm."
The plate waiting for him was piled high with pancakes just as Sullivan had promised. Iruma stared at them, the golden butter slowly melting into the syrup, steam rising gently.
Everything felt too real. Too solid.
He reached for a fork.
What if this was real?
What if he had actually gone back? Not a dream. Not an illusion. But something far more dangerous—a reset.
He couldn't let anyone know. Not yet. Not until he understood what was happening. If he said too much—if he hinted at the future—it could unravel everything. Alikred, Baal, even the existence of the Six Fingers. None of that had happened yet. No one even knew Alikred existed. Not even Sullivan.
So he bit his tongue. Ate his breakfast. Nodded when spoken to. Laughed, gently, when Sullivan told a joke he hadn't heard in over a decade.
He wasn't fourteen anymore. Not really.
He was the Demon King. He had bathed in chaos, ruled through rebellion, outwitted divine puppets, and watched comrades die and rise again in his name.
And now... he was back here.
After breakfast, he returned to his room under the pretense of needing to gather notebooks for class. Sullivan was too delighted to argue. Opera only raised one curious brow but let him pass.
Back in the solitude of his chambers, Iruma locked the door and collapsed onto his bed. His legs trembled again.
"...Why?" he whispered to himself. The ring—still bound to him—felt dormant. Quiet. Just as it had been in those early days.
He ran a hand through his hair, heart hammering.
Was this a second chance? A punishment? A test?
Whatever it was, he would find out. Quietly. Carefully.
Until then, he had to play the role. The naive human boy, helpless and adorable, still finding his place in the demon world. He would befriend Clara again. Argue with Asmodeus. Struggle in class. Play his part.
Until the truth came out.
And when it did?
He would be ready.
Again.