Belial began wearing gloves. The wares of imperial sorcerers were outrageously expensive; just affording a pair of gloves was already a strain, let alone any other necessities. He hitched a ride to Schmir City and returned to the Yanar, the ship where he had grown up. He briefly explained his situation to Jones, who replied, “You’re in luck. But if you want to work on the ship again, it has to be full-time. I don’t take part-timers.”
For someone like Belial, the only way to find high-paying work was to go where the night jobs were. Working illegally at a place called the Reaper’s Bar promised absurdly high wages. But it didn’t include food or lodging and required him to work from ten at night until seven the next morning. Though most demons kept irregular schedules, students were still early-to-bed, early-to-rise types. Even so, Belial was stubborn; he took the job, attending classes right after finishing his shift without sleep. “Once I make it, I’ll come for you first,” he promised Mullin with solemn conviction, heading without hesitation into that notorious den of degeneracy.
The bar was quintessentially demonic in style, wilder even than Amsterdam in the human realm. After passing the interview, Belial started that very night, weaving calmly between women and men dancing on poles, on stools, or stripping, delivering drinks to guests. If some creepy uncle touched him, he’d simply turn, smile, and earn a bit of tip money while he was at it. That first night, he earned nearly a hundred anra, a fortune for someone who had never made that much in a single day. No surprise he bounced on the bed in excitement when he got home.
Days passed. Magic was studied, work continued, and his hands rotted bit by bit.
Every time Belial removed his gloves, he’d quickly avert his eyes and put them back on. He knew it was a magical issue, but didn’t dare tell anyone—least of all Lucifer. The pain made him tremble constantly, and the slow, relentless corrosion of his body was terrifying. More than once, he contemplated cutting off his own hand. More than once, he cried from fear. At the same time, his magical prowess advanced at astonishing speed. Jenny exclaimed she had never taught a student with such talent.
A few days later, Mammon came to visit Belial at school.
At two in the afternoon, under a starless night sky, a moon marked with clear patterns hung overhead. The neatly trimmed black lawn was dotted with violet flowers that glowed like souls of the underworld. On either side, the woods held couples on dates to the left, and well-behaved students practicing magic to the right. At the center stood a massive, silent statue surrounded by a ring of seated students. The base was carved with round-faced skulls. Floating globes lit the forest in shades of violet-red.
The Imperial Academy was surely a place that fostered the darker sides of people. The entire school was shrouded in darkness year-round; even the training grounds were pitch-black. It was said that the deeper one immersed in darkness, the more potent one’s dark magic would become. Though Belial was still just a novice, his attire and demeanor already matched that of a full-fledged mage. He was learning elementary corrosion magic, able to summon only a few sluggish flies. Thankfully, power scaled with magical strength, so when Mammon witnessed Belial casting the spell, he was visibly impressed.
“I knew I wasn’t wrong about you,” Mammon said softly, stepping around the hopping mushrooms without stepping on any.
Belial glanced at him. “Lord Mammon.”
“Combat practice begins soon. It might be difficult for you.”
Belial responded with a vague “Oh,” and turned back to his spell.
“Scared?” Mammon leaned closer, peering into his face. “Apply for a scholarship. Don’t rely on others. Got it?”
“I can make money on my own. I’ll repay what I owe.”
“Money earned on a slave ship? Come on, that’s a joke. Quit that job. Become a star-ranked mage. Isn’t that better?”
Belial dispersed the flies and dropped to the ground with a thud. “Without capital, how do you gamble? A prince born with silver spoons would never understand.”
Mammon sat beside him and chuckled, snatching his staff and examining it. “Even this is a cheap model?”
“What’s cheap for you is different from what’s cheap for me.”
“How about this. If you can earn a star rank in one shot, I’ll gift you a hundred thousand anra.”
“No need. Give me back my staff.”
“I’m not doing it for you,” Mammon held the staff behind his back, “I’m doing it for the Demon Realm’s military. With talent like yours, keeping you off the battlefield is a loss for the crown.”
“Then wait till I reach that level. Gimme back the staff.”
Belial reached to grab it. Mammon grinned mischievously and switched the staff to his left hand. Belial lunged again. Mammon switched to the right. Belial pinned down his left hand and grabbed for the right. Mammon reversed the hold, catching both of Belial’s wrists and placing them against his own chest, his other hand holding the staff aloft. “Manhandling a knight—is that appropriate?”
Belial ignored him, yanked his hands back, and kept trying. Mammon, caught off guard, nearly toppled over and scrambled to his feet. Belial rose too, still fiercely grappling. His hat brim fell back, revealing a cascade of beautiful black hair.
Mammon, now enjoying himself, held the staff even higher and teased, “Can’t reach it, can’t reach it, you just can’t reach it!”
Too short to grab it, Belial flailed in frustration, one wing flapping wildly—but he couldn’t take flight.
Mammon paused, frowning slightly. Slowly lowering the staff, he grabbed Belial’s wrist. “You’ve started wearing gloves already, even though you just began learning magic?”
Belial jerked back like he’d been shocked, snatched the staff, shoved it under his clothes, and turned to leave.
Mammon stepped in front of him. “Belial, I have something to ask you.”
“Ask, then.”
Even under the purplish glow, Belial’s face was deathly pale. If not for the pearly white of his skin, one might’ve mistaken him for a dark warlock. He looked very much like Michael, yet no one could possibly link the two. Every statue of Michael stood proud and towering—but Belial was nothing like them.
Mammon’s bright eyes curved with amusement. “Has anyone ever told you… you’re very good-looking?”
Belial’s shock was plain in his eyes.
“You’re the most beautiful fallen angel I’ve ever seen.” Beneath Mammon’s glossy black curls, his narrow, boyish face lit up with a grin. “Has anyone said that? Anyone?”
Belial shook his head, startled.
“No?” Mammon furrowed his brows. “Could it be that I have terrible taste? Or is it because you’re just too young? Ah, that’s it—it must be because you’re still a baby cub.” He stretched out a hand and roughly ruffled Belial’s hair.
“I’m not a baby cub! You’re the baby cub!”
Belial’s adolescent defiance was finally provoked. He couldn’t hold it in anymore and blurted the words in front of everyone.
Belial was the kind of person who, wherever he went, easily became the center of attention. That outburst sparked a flurry of gossip and even drew the attention of one of Mammon’s many ladies: his instructor. Before long, a crimson-lacquered hand reached from behind Mammon and teasingly scraped along his sharp chin. Jenny, her lips painted the same color, leaned in and murmured near his ear, “Bastard. Disappeared for ages. Off with another woman?”
Her sunflower-seed-shaped nails, long and sharp, traced his cheek like she meant to tear that exquisite face apart. Mammon, now wiser, responded by kissing her fiercely to shut her up. That was the most effective way to deal with a jealous, petty creatures: stimulation mixed with romance. But Belial found the scene dull and tacky. He turned to slip away, only to have his wrist seized by Mammon, whose eyes clearly spelled: I look down on you.
After the kiss, Mammon finally sent Jenny away. He turned with Belial in tow and let out a long sigh. “Where’s your dorm? Be specific. I’ll walk you there.”
“Your Highness sure has time to spare. But I’m very busy. Would you kindly let me go?”
“You’re upset I was with her?”
“May I go back now?”
“There’s nothing between me and her. Don’t look at me like that.” The shameless charade started again.
Belial’s face turned from plaster to reinforced steel, his gaze firing contempt: “Just a physical relationship then?”
“Blame Azazel. At a recent banquet, he said it was time I got married. Then my dad chimed in. They started talking about picking a wife for me. Ever since then, women who never meddled in my personal life started going insane. My dad’s never had that much free time… must be hitting menopause.”
“Blaming others is irresponsible.”
“Jenny didn’t even like me at first.”
“But you made her fall for you.”
“I only go after women who tell me not to.”
“That’s textbook seduction tactics.”
“I’m clever enough to know exactly when they’re playing hard to get.”
“Then cut things off when you find out.”
By then, they’d arrived at the dorm. Crows circled overhead in the darkness. Mammon leaned closer, while Belial stood his ground. Mammon gently pushed him against the wall. It wasn’t aggressive, but the gesture threatened to swallow him whole. The seven-pointed stars on his ear shimmered, his smile blooming like a crimson begonia. “You know why they all start off self-controlled, then fall to pieces later?”
“I have no interest in knowing.”
“‘I have no interest’—that’s how most women start. But now, they just need to see me to recall the pleasure.”
“Tying women to you with your body? That’s pathetic.”
“I always hoped they’d only love my body. But they always bring in unnecessary feelings. Belial, you’re a boy. You’re not that naïve, are you?”
“Sorry, Your Highness. I’ve no such experience, nor time for it.”
Mammon was a bit frustrated but wouldn’t give up. “So you’re afraid you’d end up like them.”
“Exactly. So please step aside.” Belial was too smart to fall for the same trick twice.
Mammon, ever resourceful, changed tactics. With a poof, he exploded into a chibi version of himself, three-heads tall, a dazzling entrance. He flew at Belial, clinging to him with stubby arms and legs, petal-shaped bone wings flapping. In a soft, childlike voice, he whined, “Belial, don’t abandon me, don’t abandon me!”
His eyes were wide and watery, his cheeks chubby and pink. While he rubbed against Belial, he grinned lewdly in a way that didn’t match his adorable appearance at all.
Then a miracle occurred— seeing that ridiculous little face, Belial’s expression suddenly changed. He grabbed the mini-Mammon by the collar, spun him twice, and threw him.
“I HATE CHILDREN!!!”
Belial lost it, roaring with feral intensity.
Luckily, Mammon was a knight. He reacted midair, twisting several times before opening his wings. His small form hovered and finally steadied. Belial, not even wanting to glance back, flung open the dorm door and charged inside.
Mini-Mammon hovered alone in the dark, flapping pitifully. His eyes blinked a few times. —The little prince of the Demon Realm had just been rejected.
Upstairs, Belial studied for several hours. All the while, mini-Mammon hugged his knees and sulked outside the door.
From that day on, a black cat with a white bow on one ear began following Belial.
Mammon’s provocation only made Belial work harder. Students had limited legal working hours. Even host club jobs had to comply with protective laws. Belial’s extra hours earned no wages, but he kept at it for the tips, which were far better.
The black cat prowled lazily across the roof. Belial, dressed in a plain white shirt and black jacket, stood out in the bar like a crane among chickens. With each pass, he collected tips—dozens of Anras—until the boss informed him an important guest was coming.
He nodded absentmindedly. Before long, all four doors of the bar opened, and in swaggered someone with bestial features. Belial almost overturned a table in shock—it was their school director, Rofco.
He tried to run but was stopped by the boss, who dragged him over. Rofco took one look at him, nodded, looked again, and this time, his eyes bulged like copper bells.
The VIP room opened. The black cat slinked in silently under the boss’s flattery. Belial, stiff as a board, followed.
Dim lights glowed above. The cat’s green eyes locked onto them. Rofco lounged lazily on the couch, a bull’s tail draped over the side. “Didn’t think even Reaper’s Bar had our students. Heard there’s a pretty one-winged angel. Came to see for myself. Didn’t expect it to be you, Belial.”
Belial remained awkwardly silent.
“I hear you don’t offer special services.”
“That’s right.”
“Then what can you do for me?”
On the opposite wall, a large mirror reflected their figures, a sharp contrast in size. Belial knelt beside Rofco, massaging his leg. Outside, a tall, thin waiter stood statue-still amid the neon and music, looking like a beautiful corpse awaiting the gallows.
Rofco grabbed Belial’s hand. “Take off your clothes.”
“You already know I don’t do that…”
Before he could finish, Rofco shoved him down on the couch, his massive frame bearing down.
“I’ll say it again—I’m just a server! I don’t sell my body!”
“Work in a place like this, money’s all that matters. Cut the act. Get naked and I’ll pay you!” Rofco lost control and began tearing at his clothes.
Belial, humiliated, shoved him hard. Caught off guard, Rofco crashed into the wall.
Belial bolted, Rofco’s curses echoing after him. When those failed, he played his trump card:
“You walk out that door, I’ll kick you out of the Imperial Academy!”
As expected, Belial froze—then slowly shut the door and returned.
The black cat paced anxiously.
The moment Belial sat down, a blow landed. His face snapped to the side, instantly swelling. Another slap came before he could recover, knocking him into the coffee table and toppling bottles.
Outside, the server called, “Is everything alright?”
Belial whispered, “It’s fine.”
“Break anything, you’ll have to pay for it.”
“I know.”
Rofco grabbed his collar and rained down a dozen more blows. This time, Belial couldn’t dodge. Each hit landed fast and hard. He didn’t flinch—just furrowed his brow.
Finally satisfied, Rofco threw him on the couch and stomped on his head.
“Ungrateful brat!”
He twisted his foot into Belial’s face before sitting down again. “Strip. Serve me.”
Belial stood, a bruise on his lip. “Is that how all nobles behave?”
A glass of wine splashed across his face. Belial shut his eyes tight.
“Mocking those with power? That’s because you’ll never have it! Get over here!”
Wine trickled down his face. He blinked, wincing. Rofco grabbed him and slammed him back down. As Belial struggled to breathe beneath the weight, neither noticed the room starting to tremble.
Suddenly, the floor shook violently. The ceiling cracked and collapsed.
A massive scythe sliced through the chaos. Rofco’s screams echoed like a beast’s death cry.
The ceiling fell toward Belial—until a pair of bone wings shielded him.
A claw scooped him up and flung him like a ragdoll.
He crashed into someone’s chest.
Mammon’s.
“What would you have done without me?”
Petals, red as blood, glimmered on Mammon’s cheek.
Belial didn’t retort. He simply let go, pulled his torn clothes together, and looked away.
They sat on a black dragon. It crouched patiently, waiting.
Belial gaped. “This dragon… is yours?”
“You’re not concerned about what just happened?”
Mammon grabbed his chin, brushing aside his damp hair. The dragon surged skyward.
Belial’s face was filthy, bruised, cracked at the lips—far from beautiful. But as they stared at each other, something welled up inside him: that helpless ache after surviving humiliation. His red eyes brimmed. “If I run from every setback… how will I survive the future?”
“Don’t go back there. I’ll support you.” Mammon’s hand patted the dragon.
The black dragon soared into the starlit Demon Realm. Everything shimmered under its wings. Baroque buildings turned to gold dots below.
Mammon draped his cloak over Belial and tucked him in, placing a hat on his head.
Belial lowered his face. Pink bloomed on his pale cheeks.
The wind swallowed his heartbeat. Below was the golden star, above the silver one, like snowflakes from Snowmoon Forest, blanketing the world.
But none of that soothed his restless heart.
All he could feel was the embrace behind him… and Mammon’s heartbeat.
Mammon directed the dragon toward Belial’s school. The night shifted. Wind scraped by.
Belial blinked and murmured, “Your Highness… do you like keeping pets? I’ve seen so many.”
Mammon chuckled. “I only have dragons.”
“And the black cat?”
He glanced at Anra, its ear adorned with a white ribbon. “That cat… is the dragon?”
Mammon laughed again but said nothing.
Soon, Anra landed at Belial’s dorm window. Belial hurried to open it and leap inside.
“Goodnight, Your Highness.”
“You won’t invite me in?”
Mammon joked. Belial, flustered, rushed to open the window again. “Sorry! Please come in.”
Mammon blinked. Then snapped his fingers. A flash of silver-blue light, and Anra became a black cat again, hopping in. Mammon followed and made himself at home.
“Would you like a drink?”
“Can I smoke?”
“Of course!”
Mammon lit a strange blue-glowing pipe.
He tapped ash into a skull-shaped ashtray. “You live alone?”
“Yes.”
“Rent high?”
“Ridiculously so.”
“Ever think of sharing a place?”
“Everyone here’s rich. Who cares about saving money?”
“I’m asking if you want to.”
“Of course.”
Mammon smiled. “It’s late.”
He cupped Belial’s face. “Won’t you let me stay the night?”
Belial froze.
“You’re adorable tonight, Belial. I wish you were always like this.”
Belial snapped back to reality, face changing in an instant: “I’m very tired. Please get some rest.”
Mammon expected that. He had Anra wait outside. As the dragon spread its wings, Belial guided Mammon to the window.
Mammon turned back with a teasing grin. “Your temper… really needs work—”
Then he stopped.
Starlight danced across the night sky. Mammon stared at Belial’s face, stunned.
Belial, meeting his gaze, quickly looked away.
Mammon mounted Anra and flew into the sky.
He knew he was fooling himself.
Because, no matter how much Belial resembled that person, they were never the same person.
That man never once looked at him with such simplicity.
His gaze was always kind, dignified, loving—always the gaze of an elder toward a child.
Mammon flew straight to Kade Palace in Pandemonium.
Shadows reflected in the marble floors below. Candles flickered in the vast corridor. He ran up wide steps, shoving aside anyone who blocked him. Guards were unsure whether to stop him.
Mammon burst into Lucifer’s bedchamber.
On the ten-foot-wide marble table was a map of Heaven, black pieces with bone wings and white ones with feathered wings.
Lucifer, placing a black piece, looked up. “What are you doing here so late?”
Mammon didn’t answer. He stared at the bed.
Lucifer followed his gaze, set the piece down, and said, “Speak tomorrow. I’m going to sleep.”
Mammon rushed over to the bed and lifted the cold body.
Lucifer stood abruptly. “Put him down!”
“I’m taking him with me,” Mammon said calmly.
“I said put him down!”
Lucifer, uncharacteristically enraged, struck with lightning, paralyzing Mammon’s arm.
Michael’s body drifted gently down, wind suspending him before laying him back on the bed.
Lucifer walked over and straightened his robes.
Then sat, calm as ever, returning to his map.
“Dad, you have no right to be with him,” Mammon said, brows knitted. “He gave you countless chances, and you broke your word every single time. You failed to protect him. He was exhausted, always giving everything for you, while you never offered anything in return.”
Lucifer’s gaze was hollow. “So? He loves me. Only me.”
“Exactly. That’s why he died so miserably.”
“Mammon,” Lucifer’s voice turned icy, “don’t make me hit you.”
He lifted Michael into his arms.
Michael’s head fell limp, neck slack. His red hair swayed through the air like a leaf torn from the branch before autumn had even begun; vibrant, yet unable to find a place to rest.
Lucifer sat back at the table, cradling Michael against his shoulder. He pressed a kiss to his cold lips, then returned to studying his maps, as if nothing had happened.
The candle flames flickered. Black and white chess pieces lay quietly across the schematics.
Mammon looked up, gazing through the magically-rendered transparent ceiling. A thousand miles of galaxy stretched above him.
In this indulgent Demon Realm, he had always been a child spoiled by nobles, cherished by elites. He thought himself untouchable: above Heaven, above the Creator, above the countless ranks of the divine race.
Until he met Michael.
Until he fell in love.
Until Michael died.
Lucifer always told him he was still just a child. He had never admitted it. Until now.
Now, he saw it clearly.
He was a child. One who loved fairy tales.
Only, in his favorite story, he wasn’t the protagonist but a mere bystander.
He laughed when the hero was happy. He cried when the hero suffered.
But the story was never about him.
And no matter how many tears he shed… he could never change how it ended.
Author: Tav Tav
Translating
The Right Wing of God, the one seated at the right hand of the Most High.
