Surviving in the Demon's Academy as a Human

Aiden's life had always been a cycle of quiet misery. His earliest memories were of his mother's warmth, her gentle voice singing lullabies to him as he drifted to sleep. But that warmth always felt at odds with the cold, heavy presence of his father—a man who had once been full of promise but had long since succumbed to bitterness and failure.

Aiden didn't know why his mother had married his father. Whenever he asked, she would only smile faintly and say, "He wasn't always like this, Aiden. He was kind once, and he loved us. Life… it just broke him."

But Aiden couldn't see the man his mother described. All he knew was the man his father had become—a drunkard who spent what little money they had gambling and wallowing in his own self-pity.

The debt collectors came frequently, their voices loud and demanding at the front door.

"Mrs. Shaw, this has gone on long enough! Pay up, or we'll have to take more drastic measures!"

His mother would stand firm, her voice shaking as she argued with them. "I told you! I'm working on it! Just give us more time!"

But their voices carried through the neighborhood, and Aiden could feel the stares of their neighbors from behind their curtains. His face burned with shame every time he heard the whispers.

One evening, the shouting reached a new level. His mother, exhausted from work, had come home to find Aiden facing the debt collectors alone.

"You sent our son to deal with them?!" she screamed at his father, who lay sprawled on the couch, an empty bottle in his hand.

His father barely opened his eyes. "What's the big deal? He's old enough to handle it."

"Old enough? He's a child!" she snapped, her voice trembling with fury. "You don't do anything but sleep and drink while we struggle to survive!"

"I don't need this right now," his father muttered, sitting up unsteadily.

"Well, you're going to hear it!" She stepped closer, her fists clenched. "You've ruined this family, and you don't even care! Look at what you've done to Aiden!"

"Don't blame me for your failures!" His father staggered to his feet, his face twisted in anger. "I'm not the only one who's messed up!"

The argument escalated quickly. His father, in his drunken state, shoved her hard enough to make her stumble. Aiden's vision blurred with rage.

"Don't touch her!" he yelled, stepping between them. Without thinking, he swung his fist, catching his father across the jaw.

The older man stared at him in shock before grabbing his coat and storming out of the house. "You'll regret this," he muttered before slamming the door.

But he never came back.

The strain of constant work and stress began to take its toll on his mother. It started with little things—exhaustion, persistent headaches, and occasional moments where she'd pause mid-task, gripping the edge of the counter to steady herself. Aiden thought it was just fatigue.

"Mom, you should rest more," he'd tell her, noticing the dark circles under her eyes.

"I'll be fine," she'd reply with a tired smile. "There's too much to do. We can't afford for me to take it easy."

But it only got worse. The coughing fits started, deep and rattling, sometimes leaving her breathless. Her skin grew paler, her movements slower, and her once-bright eyes became dull and clouded. Aiden finally convinced her to see a doctor, though she protested about the cost.

She had chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD), a slow and insidious illness that crept into their lives and took over everything. Her days were filled with medications, nebulizer treatments, and long periods of rest, while Aiden busied himself with caring for her and holding down jobs to cover the relentless tide of medical bills.

From that moment, Aiden's life became a blur of endless work. He dropped out of school without a second thought, determined to cover the mounting medical bills and keep them afloat.

His first job was at a local convenience store, working the late-night shift. It was grueling, standing for hours on end under harsh fluorescent lights, stocking shelves, and dealing with drunk or irritable customers.

In the mornings, he worked as a janitor at a nearby office building, scrubbing floors, emptying trash bins, and cleaning bathrooms. The work was dirty and thankless, but it paid just enough to make it worthwhile.

Afternoons were spent at a small diner washing dishes. His hands were constantly red and raw from the hot, soapy water, and the clatter of plates and pans never seemed to end.

On weekends, he picked up shifts at a construction site, hauling heavy materials and cleaning up debris. The physical labor left his muscles aching, but it was the most lucrative of his jobs.

Occasionally, he worked as a delivery boy for a local grocery store, biking through the streets with heavy bags strapped to his back. The tips helped, but the long hours in the heat or rain left him utterly drained.

Despite all this, the money never seemed to be enough. The hospital bills piled up, and the debt collectors still came knocking.

From time to time, Aiden would visit her in the evenings to check on her condition. But every time he saw her, she seemed just a little frailer. Her voice was softer now, the sharp humor he remembered from his childhood dulled but not extinguished. She still told stories, mostly about her life before meeting Aiden's father.

"You know," she said one evening, her voice rasping as she leaned back in her recliner, the oxygen tubes tugging slightly against her nose. "Before your father came along, I used to think I'd conquer the world. I wanted to be an artist. Did I ever tell you that?"

"Yeah, a few times," Aiden replied, forcing a small smile as he adjusted the blanket over her legs. "You could've been one. Your sketches are amazing."

She laughed softly, a sound that quickly turned into a hacking cough. Aiden jumped up, ready to fetch water or help her sit up, but she waved him off. "I'm fine. Just...a little tickle in the throat. That's all." She smiled weakly. "But you, Aiden...you're my masterpiece. I'm so proud of you. No mother could ask for a better son."

Those words gutted him. He wanted to scream that she deserved better—better than this tiny apartment filled with the hiss of oxygen machines, better than an illness that chained her to the confines of her chair, better than the son who couldn't save her. But he didn't. He just nodded and squeezed her hand.

The reality of her condition weighed heavily on him. COPD wasn't something you cured. You managed it, delayed the worst of it, but you couldn't stop it. The doctors had explained it clinically, but the truth hit harder each time he saw her struggle for breath, each time he watched her shoulders slump in defeat after trying to walk across the room.

He felt his world crumbling around him. The medical bills were relentless, and their health insurance company had long stopped answering his calls. His mother's smile, once so warm and full of life, had become a ghost of its former self. And all he could do was stand by and watch as the woman who had raised him—who had given him everything—slowly slipped away.

"Don't overwork yourself, Aiden," she whispered one evening, her voice barely audible over the hum of the hospital machines. "You're still so young. You have a life to live."

"Stop saying that," he replied, his voice thick with emotion as he gripped her frail hand. "You're going to get better. You have to."

But deep down, he knew the truth.

Her final days were quiet, marked by soft conversations and shared memories.

"Aiden," she said softly, her voice trembling as she mustered the strength to speak. "Promise me you'll live. Don't let this darkness consume you. You… you deserve happiness."

Aiden's mother passed. He tried to do what his mother had told him—to find joy, to keep moving forward. At first, he adapted. He pushed himself but over time, the weight of her absence bore down on him. He became unmotivated, his ambition fading into nothingness.

No matter what he did, he couldn't find the happiness his mother had wanted for him. Every attempt felt hollow. He resented the world for taking her away, but most of all, he felt a simmering rage toward his father—the man who had abandoned her when she needed him most. Aiden swore that if his father ever dared to step foot in their home, he would kill him without hesitation.

The home that had once been filled with love and laughter had decayed into a reflection of Aiden's mental state. The walls were streaked with grime, mold crept across the ceilings, and garbage piled up in corners. Dishes sat unwashed in the sink, and the smell of neglect permeated every room. Aiden barely noticed the mess anymore.

Debt collectors pounded on his door almost daily, their shouts muffled through the walls. He ignored them, sitting on the couch with his phone in his hand, staring blankly at the screen. Social media, games, messages—it didn't matter. Nothing held his attention for long. His coworkers called and left worried voicemails, but he didn't answer. Their words felt empty, their concern a nuisance. He stopped caring about keeping up appearances or maintaining relationships. Everything felt like a hassle.

His diet became as bleak as his surroundings. He subsisted on instant noodles—the cheapest food he could afford. He bought them in bulk and ate them in silence, each bite as flavorless as the last. His body grew weaker, malnourished from the lack of proper nutrition. He rarely went out during the day, preferring to roam the streets at night when the world was quiet and the darkness matched his mood.

One such night, as he wandered aimlessly, he found himself crossing a street without even looking. His mind was elsewhere, lost in the haze of apathy that had consumed him. He didn't hear the roar of the engine until it was too late. The headlights blinded him, and before he could react, the impact came.

Pain exploded through his body, and everything went black. The last thing he remembered was the cold, hard ground beneath him and the distant sound of someone shouting.