Surviving in the Demon's Academy as a Human

This was supposed to be a demonstration of his strength, a show of dominance to remind everyone of their place beneath him. It was what he had done countless times before—discipline, as his family had called it. From a young age, Zepharion had been molded to believe that struggle and pain were the crucibles of greatness. Discipline was the foundation of his life, ingrained in him since childhood by the harsh lessons of his family.

"Overcome," his father had always said. "Rise above the weak, or be consumed by them."

He as taught how to be cunning as a necessity, even encouraging him to go as far as stealing items in his brother's room to get what he wants; however, if he gets caught, he is punished—not for the act of stealing, but for being careless enough to get caught. This practice aimed to cultivate discipline, cunning, and self-reliance, essential qualities for Zepharion at a younger age.

His relationship with his brother was shaped by this ambition. He didn't hate his sibling—there was no malice in their rivalry. To Zepharion, it was a competition, a contest to determine who was most suited to lead their family. Winning the title of heir was the ultimate goal, and all the planning and maneuvering between them was simply part of the game.

Because of this mindset, Zepharion had risen. The brutal trials during the infernal festivals, every yearly competitions that left him battered and broken, were all meant to forge him into the man he was. Every challenge, every grueling contest, he had faced them all and emerged victorious.

But with ambition came paranoia. Zepharion knew all too well how precarious power could be. He'd seen it in the eyes of those he had defeated, in the demons he'd crushed underfoot. They despised him, cursed his name, and waited for the moment he would falter. He understood their hatred, even sympathized with it in a twisted way. After all, he had been in their position once. He knew what it felt like to be on the losing side, to endure the short end of the stick.

Still, even in his darkest moments of doubt, he had always imagined his downfall in one specific way. If he were to fall, he wanted it to be in battle. An honorable defeat at the hands of a worthy opponent. A loss that would affirm he had fought to the best of his abilities but simply wasn't destined to triumph. He could accept that. What he could not accept was the humiliation of what had happened.

Never in a million years had he thought he would fall like this.

He glanced down at his new body, at the curves and contours that hadn't been there before. The gazes of the other demons, some filled with awe, others with barely concealed perverted gazes. He shifted uncomfortably under their lecherous stares. The transformation Hell had inflicted on him had not only robbed him of his power but also left him in a form that invited attention he had never experienced before. The demons were whispering, their voices low but not low enough to escape his sharp ears.

He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms as he struggled to contain the flood of emotions.

He had honed his body to perfection, cultivated his abilities through years of relentless effort, and earned the resources his family had poured into him. He had worked for everything, bled for everything. And now, all of it was gone. He flexed his fingers, trying to summon the familiar surge of his power, but there was nothing. It was as if the very essence of his strength had been ripped from him, leaving him hollow.

He gritted his teeth, his eyes narrowing as he studied Aiden. The human stood tall, his glowing yellow eyes piercing through the dim light of the museum. There was an undeniable confidence in his stance, a stark contrast to the timid figure Zepharion had dismissed earlier. The crimson aura that surrounded him was alive, pulsing with a strength that seemed to mock everything Zepharion had believed about humanity. A sickening realization crept over him: the power he had lost now resided in the human. The years of effort, the countless sacrifices—everything that had defined him—had been handed to someone unworthy.

Zepharion's fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms so hard that it bled.

As Aiden's unconscious body fell, Zepharion's despair was briefly replaced with a flicker of hope. Perhaps, if he acted now, he could end this nightmare. Perhaps killing the Human would undo it all, restore his dignity and strength. Even as he wrestled with his conviction, a deeper part of him recognized the absurdity of this hope. Hell itself had blessed the Human. Killing him would mean defying Hell—a sacrilege so profound that even Zepharion's disciplined upbringing balked at the thought.

But the discipline that had been etched into his soul by his family was rooted in something deeper: reverence for Hell's will. As Seraphina cradled Aiden's limp form, Zepharion moved toward them, his body coiled with tension. His mind screamed for him to strike, to finish what he had started, but something within him rebelled. His legs trembled, his arms refused to obey. He tried to summon his strength, to push past the invisible barrier, but it was no use.

And then it hit him—the realization that crushed whatever pride he had left. His body had betrayed him, not out of weakness, but because it no longer belonged to him. Hell itself had branded him as Aiden's property. The thought sent a fresh wave of despair crashing over him. He was no longer a prince of his own destiny, no longer the master of his fate. He was bound, a slave in the truest sense.

The crowd's eyes bored into him, their gazes a mixture of curiosity, pity, and disdain. His feminine body, unrecognizable and alien, felt like a cage. He couldn't even straighten his back under the weight of the humiliation. The chains binding him to the Human were invisible, but their presence was undeniable. His mind screamed in rebellion, but his body remained frozen, a silent testament to his defeat.

For the first time in his life, Zepharion wanted to run. He wanted to escape, to claw his way out of this nightmare. But there was no escape, no way to undo what had been done. Hell had spoken, and its judgment was final.

If Hell no longer wanted him, then he would reject this reality.

Zepharion stood and moved through the crowd, his steps deliberate and heavy. Despite his transformation, the demons parted for him as he walked, a sign of the lingering respect—or perhaps fear—of his former status. He was still a candidate for the heir of one of Hell's most powerful noble families, after all. Their whispers followed him, a chorus of speculation and pity that he tried to block out.

He emerged onto a balcony, the cold wind of the abyss washing over him. The museum, with its castle-like grandeur, stood on an island floating in an endless expanse of fog. Below the balcony, the fog swirled ominously, hinting at an infinite descent into nothingness. Zepharion approached the edge, his breaths ragged and uneven.

He stared into the abyss, his mind racing. This was the only way to reclaim some semblance of dignity. If he ended his life here, perhaps he could still be remembered as Zepharion Vexarias d'Raventhorn—the talented heir, the outstanding warrior who had risen despite his youth. Not the broken, humiliated figure he had become.

His foot stepped out into the air, the other still planted on the edge of the balcony. He closed his eyes, ready to let go, ready to disappear into the fog below. But then—his body refused to move. His remaining foot would not leave the ground, no matter how much he willed it.

"WHY? WHY?!" he screamed into the void, his voice raw with frustration and despair. His fists trembled at his sides, and tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. His body betrayed him, refusing to obey even his most desperate commands.

And then, as if the absurdity of it all finally registered, he began to laugh. A low, bitter chuckle that grew louder and more hysterical with each passing moment.

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH"