Hierarchy (1)
‘...He is gone.’
Left behind in the suddenly vacant room, Aigokeros stood frozen, his mind racing as he struggled to process what had just unfolded.
What on earth had happened?
Faust—no, his Master—was not a demon by birth. Aigokeros had assumed the Lord knew nothing of the customs and habits of demonkind, which was why he had asked such shockingly elementary questions. Or so he had believed.
Yet he had been completely mistaken.
His Master had invoked the exact spatial magic demons used when answering a mortal's summoning, departing for the soul-contractor's location with practiced, effortless perfection.
“O Demon, please... You may take as much of my soul as you wish, just please save my mother...”
‘...Only now does it reach my ears.’
To think his Master had intercepted the mortal's plea and departed before the telepathic resonance had even registered with Aigokeros—how could such a thing be possible?
When a mortal offered their soul in exchange for a wish, that desire resonated outward, broadcasting telepathically to several nearby demons. Every fiend within range received the transmission at the exact same fraction of an instant. It was an immutable law of the world; no one could cut in line. If a demon wished to claim the contract for themselves, their only recourse was to overpower their rivals through sheer force of will and magical pressure.
Yet how had his Master heard the prayer before anyone else?
Naturally, as an archdemon who bent space to his whim, he might possess some esoteric method unknown to ordinary fiends... but even so, it was astonishing. And to think he had feigned complete ignorance of how summonings worked just moments before. Had he been testing him? No, that hardly seemed like the Lord's style. Aigokeros shook his head in bewilderment.
‘Truly, an inscrutable being.’
For an entity of such overwhelming might to respond to so wretched a petitioner defied all comprehension. Without even scrutinizing the quality of the soul, the mere content of the wish made it abundantly clear: the contractor was some powerless, destitute brat.
Why in the world would his Master demean himself by answering such a summons? The mana expended to teleport and fulfill the request would far outweigh the negligible value of whatever meager soul the contractor possessed. Was he so voracious for souls that he paid no heed to the deficit of magical energy? Even if that were true, Aigokeros certainly would never have bothered. Well, whatever the reason, the Master surely had his own unfathomable designs.
Squirm, wriggle...
"..."
Aigokeros's brow furrowed. Now what is this?
A flowerpot suddenly pushed its way up through the floorboards, and from its dark soil sprouted a plant with a thick, winding stem. No—not a mere plant. Though it masqueraded as flora, a terrifying concentration of demonic energy radiated from within. More importantly, no ordinary flower could writhe and coil with the deliberate grace of a predator.
Squelch.
Drip, drip.
"...Hmph."
Needle-like fangs erupted from the edges of its petals, the central corolla splitting wide like the gaping maw of a carnivorous worm. Saliva dripped from its jaws as grotesque tumors bubbled and multiplied across its stalk, mutating its silhouette into something thoroughly repulsive.
Whatever purpose drove it, there was no mistaking its immediate hostility.
"A magical beast mimicking a flower? No... a created monster. What business do you have with me?"
Whether it was a creature woven purely from magic or a natural beast mutated by dense miasma was difficult to tell, given the labyrinthine complexity of its mana pathways. Still, it leaned toward the former. A mundane beast warped by ambient mana rarely possessed such staggering reserves—it rivaled his own.
"Grrrrr..."
"...No intention of speaking, I see."
A monster of this caliber should have been capable of speech, yet it chose to offer only guttural, beastly snarls. It clearly looked down on him. The moment he let his guard down, that blossoming maw would lunge straight for his throat. Well, if it sought violence, he would gladly oblige. To think a mere summoned creature dared to bare its fangs before—
[Junior, you show an utter lack of courtesy toward your senior.]
"...?"
Aigokeros blinked. He had anticipated telepathic communication, but certainly not such bizarre nonsense.
Junior? Senior? What kind of drivel is this?
[I served Lord Faust long before you did. Therefore, I am your senior.]
"..."
I see...
The mention of their Master made everything fall into place. The room had been so saturated with the Lord's aura that Aigokeros hadn't noticed at first, but this creature reeked of Faust's magi. No, it wasn't merely imbued with it—its signature was an exact match. Judging by the density and composition of the magic, this was undeniably a familiar created directly by the Master's hand.
[Show proper respect to your senior.]
Preposterous.
Bow his head to a potted weed simply because it had arrived first? Him?
Aigokeros had knelt before Faust because the Lord possessed absolute, godlike power. But to demean himself before some overgrown vegetation just because of chronological precedence? Besides, his loyalty lay with the Master, not the Master's menagerie.
"To determine hierarchy by order of arrival—I have never heard of such idiocy," Aigokeros scoffed, sneering with aristocratic disdain. "Rank among our kind is decided by strength, not a queue. Allow me to teach you your place and become your senior instead."
First come, first served? Among demons? Laughable. Better to be the head of a snake than the tail of a dragon; he would claim the highest seat among the Master's retainers. Naturally, being forged from the Lord's magi made it formidable, but in the end, it was merely an artificial beast. Against an Archdemon such as himself, it was—
Rrrrriiiip!
"—Gaaaah?!"
Before he could even register the movement, the flower surged forward and tore his arm clean from his shoulder like a sheet of wet paper. It met no resistance whatsoever, tearing through flesh as if shredding well-roasted meat.
He hadn't even seen it move. One blink, and his arm was simply gone.
What in the world...?!
He possessed no mortal, physical vessel—how could a simple physical bite inflict such ruin upon a spiritual construct?
Drip, drip.
‘Blood...?’
Dark crimson fluid poured from the ragged stump. For a body woven entirely of demonic energy to bleed... Was he hallucinating? Worse still, the severed limb refused to regenerate. No matter how much magi he desperately channeled into the wound, the bleeding only quickened—Wait. Is my magical power being converted directly into blood?!
Ptooey!
The flower spat the severed arm onto the floor. The limb was riddled with deep puncture wounds from those needle fangs, but it remained largely intact; the creature hadn't bothered to chew.
[Mind. Your. Manners.]
Beneath its grotesque and unrefined exterior lay a monster of horrifying power. Had that gaping maw aimed for his core instead of his arm... Dammit. He had no choice.
"...Greetings, Senior."
[Splendid.]
To think an Archdemon would be brought low by a potted plant... What had his life become? Hah...
“S-Sob... Thank you... Thank you so much...!”
“Never dare pray to a demon again.”
Ugh, my head...
Faust massaged his temples. If the summoner had called upon him for something petty—like lusting for wealth or craving raw power—he had fully intended to give the fool an earful. But the plea had been far too pure, far too genuine to punish. A dying mother was something no helpless child could ever fix on their own.
‘Still, praying to a demon? What on earth was the kid thinking?’
Had any other demon answered the call, tragedy would have been inevitable. Both he and the original Faust were in complete agreement on that front. The child had simply wished for his mother to live; an ordinary demon would have twisted that phrasing without hesitation, raising her as a shambling undead monstrosity or binding her soul to a rotting husk in a state far worse than death. Dragged across space though he had been, it was a blessing that he was the one who arrived.
‘...Wait a second.’
Looking at it from this angle, wasn't this actually not so bad?
He had been thoroughly irritated by being yanked into random summoning circles against his will, but if he hadn't been pulled, another demon would have answered. Viewed through that lens, enduring a brief bout of motion sickness and annoyance meant he was effectively intercepting summonings and saving desperate mortals from horrific fates.
Throb.
‘...?’
Faust's chest twinged sharply.
A sudden ache gripped his heart—a surge of raw, suffocating sorrow, accompanied by profound empathy and bitter remorse. These were emotions no demon should ever be capable of feeling.
‘Could it be...?’
Even after possessing this body for roughly two years, he still hadn't gained full manual control over it. His speech was locked behind that cold, haughty cadence, and his posture was permanently fixed in that unnecessarily regal stance. If that were true... what if his speech and posture weren't the only things eluding his control?
‘Back when I tried to subdue the Holy Order... I never aimed for their throats, yet the magic went straight for their necks.’
When the priests had been accidentally decapitated, he had wondered if his magical calibration was off, but subsequent testing had proven his aim was flawless. At the time, events were moving so fast he simply chalked it up to bizarre bad luck. Looking back, however, it was deeply suspicious.
What if, just like his speech and posture, the original Faust's lingering will was asserting itself whenever he cast magic?
Everything clicked into place.
No matter how wicked those priests had been, he had personally wanted to spare their lives. But Faust—the original entity—wanted them dead. So the trajectory of the spell had forcibly corrected itself toward their throats, overriding his intent just as the body overrode his voice.
‘Faust’s core character lore... He bargained with a demon, and when the demon maliciously twisted his wish, he fell into despair and corruption.’
Since the expansion was scheduled to release two years down the line at the earliest, the intricate details hadn't been fully finalized. But that foundational backstory was etched in stone: a brilliant human mage who turned to a demon in desperation, only to fall into darkness when his wish was ruined.
Connecting his loss of fine motor control, the sudden phantom heartache, and Faust's canonical lore led to one inescapable conclusion:
“You simply refuse to let anyone suffer the same fate as you.”
Whenever someone prayed to a demon in desperation, Faust had been preempting the call, beating every other fiend to the threshold.
So that no demon could lay their claws upon the petitioner.
So that no victim would ever be ruined by an evil bargain again.