Surviving in the Demon's Academy as a Human

Aiden and Lilith stepped into the grand Auditorium, their steps swallowed by the plush, endless crimson of the red carpet stretching toward their seats. The moment they entered, thousands of eyes turned to them. The sheer attention made Aiden's skin crawl. He wanted to blend into the background, but with every demon in the room gawking at Lilith—and by extension, him.

The auditorium was a parade of monstrous hybrids. Aiden spotted a group of students with enormous deer horns jutting from their heads, harpy wings awkwardly folded against their backs, and lion-like tails dragging behind them. Another cluster was composed of students with scaly, serpentine necks and tiny bat-like wings attached at their head, whispering as their slit-pupil eyes darted toward Lilith. 

Then there was a towering goat-horned demon with flowing blonde hair and ears so elongated they practically brushed the floor. He strode in with a harem of sycophants hanging off his bulging arms, their simpering laughter echoing unnaturally. Across the room, Aiden caught sight of a demoness leading her reverse harem—a gaggle of pretty boys trailing behind her, each carrying a different piece of luggage, ranging from a jeweled cane to what Aiden swore was an actual throne. Their every move seemed calculated, like performers in some grotesque ballroom dance.

"They walk like peacocks in heat," Aiden muttered under his breath.

Lilith smirked but didn't respond, waving daintily to her "vassals" waiting near their designated seats. Her vassals were eerily similar to her—golden hair, proud horns, and an aura of superiority that could crush mountains. While some had variations, like fiery red eyes or silver-tipped horns, Aiden felt like a broken cog in a well-oiled demonic machine. They acknowledged him with quick nods, their expressions unreadable, but the reserved seats they had marked were clearly a protective barrier from the chaos of the crowd.

As Aiden sat down, he couldn't escape the intense stares drilling into him from all directions. Every gaze was more dismayed than the last, and he could almost hear their collective thought: What is that pathetic human doing here?

Suddenly, the lights dimmed, and a man walked onto the stage. Aiden's breath hitched. The figure was stunning, with flowing golden hair that gleamed like molten sunlight, crimson tattoos coiling across his flawless skin, and a pair of radiant, feathered wings arching dramatically behind him. He was breathtaking, almost otherworldly and his presence alone commanded the room.. He exuded an aura that screamed, bow down, peasants.

"Welcome, my dear students," his voice rang out, melodious yet chilling, "to another glorious year at the Academy of Infernal Excellence!"

"Greetings, my esteemed peers," the man began, his deep, melodious voice echoing through the auditorium. "I am Azazel Valerion Seraphiel Alastor Drakath Infernum, the Third Son of His Infernal Majesty, the Demon King of the Boundless Abyss."

Aiden blinked. "Is that his name or a demon-themed word generator?" he whispered.

Azazel smiled graciously, his teeth unnaturally perfect. "Though born into royalty, my beginnings were humble."

The crowd collectively gasped at how ridiculous the statement is. Aiden raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, I was only given a paltry allowance of ten million gold coins—barely enough to afford my first castle! My struggles were endless. Why, I even had to make the heartbreaking decision to part with half my loyal guards because my first yacht wasn't spacious enough!" His voice cracked as if recounting a personal tragedy. "But I persevered through sheer will and unimaginable sacrifice."

Azazel raised his hands, his voice swelling with emotion. "And yet, through these trials, I ascended to greatness, gaining the respect of my peers and proving my innocence in the baseless eleven assassination attempts against me. I am, as always, a model of humility."

The demons erupted into thunderous laughter and applause, some even looking at the speaker with malice. Aiden gawked as one hulking demon in school uniform sobbed into his claws.

"This is a time of unity, of triumph, and of pride for our kind. For too long, the Gods cast us aside, their chosen beings of light, their so-called 'favored,' banishing us here to wither and die. And yet, look at what we have become!" He spread his arms, his golden locks catching the faint purple glow of the enchanted sky above. "One people. One species. Demons!"

Azazel's tone shifted to one of grim resolve. "Now, let us address the state of our proud society. We are no longer the savage, divided creatures of old! Today, we stand as one—demons united under the blessings of Hell itself! Six months ago," he continued, his tone darkening, "we reclaimed what was rightfully ours. We breached the fragile world of our origin—where the elves, dwarves, and humans dwell under the false light of the Gods. We sent forth our heroes, our armies, to claim our glory and pride."

The crowd chuckled cruelly, but the man wasn't done.

"They sent their warriors, their champions, their so-called 'heroes' to challenge us. But one by one, they fell. Even their 'Messiah'—the hero they prayed for, the one they believed would bring them salvation—failed to defend the Valcrest Kingdom, the human bastion they trusted to withstand the relentless advance of our family's armies."

Azazel's tone grew sharper, his words cutting through the tense silence like a blade. "And as we all know, after we conquered that land..." He paused, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "...our esteemed Crown Prince saw fit to steal the position of our War Master and arrogantly take command of the campaign into the Other Side. Such treachery! Demons who had worked tirelessly, who deserved recognition through medals and promotions, were instead left to die on the battlefield—all so he could bask in glory that wasn't rightfully his."

His crimson eyes scanned the crowd, his disdain palpable. "Yet even after taking on that responsibility, he could not withstand the overwhelming forces of those... savage humans. The territories and treasures claimed for Hell by the War Master were lost as swiftly as they were won—sacrificed to the Crown Prince's arrogance and insatiable greed."

The murmurs in the crowd grew louder, and Azazel leaned forward, letting his voice lower to a venomous whisper that commanded attention. "Now, the inhabitants of the Other Side have united against us. With their hero leading them, they've reclaimed the lands we bled to conquer. And what do we have to show for it? A stalemate on the front lines, countless of our comrades slain, and an elite force reduced to ash, their souls lost forever."

He let the weight of his words hang in the air, allowing the crowd to stew in the grim reality. Every second of silence grew heavier, the atmosphere thick with discomfort and resentment. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Azazel's lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. "This is the price we pay for arrogance, for letting one man's hunger for power eclipse the unity of Hell's armies. Remember this well."

Aiden's jaw dropped. "You've got to be kidding me, my fellow humans are drying on the other side." he muttered.

The crowd murmured uneasily, a mix of laughter, scoffs, and quiet discontent rippling through the auditorium. Azazel smirked, his wings fluttering slightly as he leaned into the moment. "Of course, retreating is nothing to be ashamed of. After all, who among us wouldn't find it challenging to lead when your armies crumble before mere mortals?"

Not everyone was amused. While some demons chuckled or nodded in agreement, others glared at Azazel, their loyalty to the Crown Prince unshaken. Azazel's words were carefully crafted—provocative but veiled enough to avoid outright rebellion. Yet, the cracks in the room were clear: Hell's nobility was anything but united.

Azazel's voice boomed again. "But fear not! For we will overcome these hardships, as we always have! We will claim the glory of Hell and prove that demons are the true inheritors of strength and civilization! And at this very room are the future of Hell," he declared, spreading his arms wide, his wings unfurling majestically. "It is you who will shape our destiny. It is you who will rise above the ashes of doubt and lead our kind to heights unseen."

The crowd was utterly silent, hanging on his every word as he continued. "I vow to you this: when I ascend the throne, Hell will no longer be a fractured land of petty squabbles and outdated traditions. I will unify us, strengthen us, and lead us into an era of unprecedented power and prosperity."

His tone shifted, softer yet somehow even more commanding. "You deserve a leader who sees your worth, who values your ambition, and who will fight for the legacy you are destined to create.

A thunderous applause erupted, horns clashing and wings beating in a cacophony of support. Azazel smiled, his crimson eyes glinting with satisfaction. Although not everyone in this room supported the prince, it was still undeniable that the majority of them is in favor with him. He had planted the seed, and it was already beginning to grow.

Aiden's eyes knew what was happening, he had already read it in a book before. The book told that Demon King had 86 wives and 124 children—officially, anyway. The whispers in Hell, though, suggested there were many more. What stood out most were the shocking details about the brutal internal struggle within the royal family.

Each wife and child had their own motives, alliances, and schemes, all geared towards gaining the Demon King's favor. It wasn't just about power; it was survival. Every year, there would be new favorites, but with it came shifting loyalties and deadly betrayals. Aiden couldn't believe what he was reading—siblings, parents, all vying for the throne. The royal family wasn't a family at all; it was a battleground. Brothers and sisters murdered each other without hesitation, proving their worth and claiming their right to rule.

The killings weren't just acts of violence, they were a twisted form of competition. Each murder was a statement, an assertion that they had clawed their way to the top and survived the challenges Hell's brutal system imposed. The stakes were terrifyingly high: the throne, the ultimate prize, went to whoever emerged as the last one standing. It was a savage game of politics, a deadly contest where only the strongest, the most cunning, and the most ruthless could claim victory.

The applause finally died down as the Headmaster—a skeletal figure wrapped in black, tattered robes—hovered onto the stage. His glowing green eyes radiated an aura of menace, yet his voice quivered with emotion.