— 「𝐓𝐎 𝐑𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐍 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐒 - 𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐘 𝐌𝐄」
𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟏 - 𝐈𝐧𝐢𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐲
𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬: mc oc samyaza tanakka blanc + lucifer + mammon + leviathan + asmodeus + beelzebub + belphegor + satan
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: angst, dark fantasy, psychological drama, supernatural, horror elements, character study
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: non-consensual touch, coercion, psychological distress, implied violence, power imbalance, mentions of death
18+ MDNI
𝟑.𝟎𝐤 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬+
𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Three months in Devildom, survival has taken a quieter shape. Between studies, silence, and the illusion of routine, Samyaza Tanakka Blanc learns to navigate a world where nothing is truly harmless—and where even moments of stillness come at a cost. Within the walls of the House of Lamentation, proximity becomes its own danger.
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: The Devildom exchange programme was never meant to change the world—until Samyaza Tanakka Blanc did. With no status or power, she should have remained irrelevant. Instead, she becomes the center of shifting alliances, ancient tensions, and dangerous interest from those who see in her either a weapon… or a mistake that must be erased. As warned by Solomon, one step further may cost her humanity itself. But in a world where fate is carefully controlled, her existence may already be rewriting the rules. And whether by choice or design, the balance of all realms is beginning to break.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: At the end of this chapter, there is an illustration I’ve drawn myself, relating to the content covered. The remaining chapters will feature illustrations, each designed to help readers immerse themselves in the story and introduce additional headcanons without getting bogged down in excessive detail. Each chapter is scheduled to be released on the 15th of each month; I promise I’ll try to stick to the deadlines, lol.
The acid rains over Devildom had at last begun to fade. For days they had fallen without cease, deepening the natural melancholy of that place. Now, only the whisper of wind and the slow creak of branches lingered beyond the walls.
A few ravens circled above the house. Some called out in low, rasping cries, while others came to rest on the windowsill, watching the chamber within.
The chamber was warm, if only slightly, by virtue of the chandelier that hung at its centre. Its candles—along with the many others scattered throughout—fought a quiet battle against the vast darkness of the eternal night. Of all the rooms in that mansion, this was perhaps the most forgiving.
Though it might well have been late into the night, the soft sound of turning pages and the scratch of a pencil upon paper still carried through the air.
— Amb... what was it? —the young woman faltered. Then, suddenly—Ambhitacus!
A small victory danced across her face as she hurried to write the answer, her feet tapping restlessly against the floor.
She glanced to her left, where a faint, cold breeze slipped in through the window. One bird stood there, watching her—its three eyes fixed and unblinking. The sight unsettled her. It did not move, only tilting its head from side to side, as though studying her.
They held one another’s gaze for a moment longer than comfort allowed. At last, she turned back to her pages, forcing the unease from her thoughts.
It had been three months since her arrival in Devildom. Idleness had become her greatest enemy. Most of what she did now came by way of the academy—lectures, libraries, study groups within RAD—anything to keep her mind occupied, to give shape to her fear.
At times, she would catch herself thinking: Imagine it. To reach twenty-four, with nothing more than a mediocre post and a quiet home… only to receive a letter—an invitation promising something greater—and be taken without warning. To learn that such creatures exist. That they walk beside you. Speak to you. Touch you.
She exhaled sharply, as though to dismiss it. Like being struck across the head.
For now, she focused on her work: a test in demonic biology. Optional, perhaps—but anything that dulled the noise within her mind was welcome.
Upon her wooden desk lay an empty glass, crumpled notes, and the scattered crumbs of morning bread. She would clean it soon. Once the questionnaire was done. Or before… Lucifer arrived.
She wished to make the most of the quiet while it lasted—to watch the softened light cast against the walls, to turn the pencil idly between her fingers, to feel, if only briefly, that she was safe. The mansion, vast as it was, was seldom silent. Voices and footsteps were its constant breath.
Her days were measured. Few words ever left her lips. She tried—visibly so—to remain unseen among the others. Though she had found some comfort in the presence of another human student, there was nothing here that could be called normal. Trust, she knew, would be a mistake.
They had told her: Train well enough, and you may defend yourself against those who wander.
Then why assign a Demon Lord to watch over her?
Why the sigils drawn upon her skin each day before she stepped beyond her door—if her soul might be taken all the same, without warning?
The sound of the grandfather clock tore the fragile peace from her at once. Its toll rang through every wall—loud, unrelenting—marking the evening meal, the ritual that closed each passing "day".
A final glance fell upon the scattered papers. Tapping the pencil against them once… twice… then stilled. One last small sacrifice, in the hope of quieting the mind. Rising came with effort, forced before any voice might come calling.
The door opened to a rush of cold air, sharp enough to stir the loose strands of dark hair about her face. The warmth of her body felt suddenly exposed, naked in contrast.
Slow steps carried her forward. Light from the dining hall spilled outward, brushing faintly against her features as she turned to look. They had already gathered. Voices clashed, laughter rose too loudly, cutlery scraped against plates in a restless chorus. Even the tablecloths upon the table drifted through the air, floating past overhead as though guided by unseen hands.
No one there had ever needed to serve themselves, nor set the table. The house did it all—every object alive in its own way, each bound to its purpose, obedient to its master.
At the threshold, movement slowed. Eyes had already found her. A polite bow followed—brief, measured—carefully avoiding any direct gaze.
To arrive late was to forfeit comfort. The better seats would be taken, leaving only what remained—and with them, whatever company came attached. Early attempts at courtesy had long since faded; the Seven Brothers were not known for making such efforts easy.
Lucifer kept his place, as ever—the third chair, centred along the table, his back to the walls, the room laid open before him. Dark wings stretched at either side, claiming space that none dared contest. Any who sat along that row were forced toward the far ends. Asmodeus and Beelzebub occupied those instead, flanking him without question.
Mammon, often, found himself seated opposite. Leviathan kept close beside him, his reptilian tail coiling behind his chair, more than once stepped upon by accident. Satan preferred the ends—though never those aligned with Lucifer’s side.
Only one seat remained.
Beside Mammon.
And beside the far end—where Belphegor sat.
Even after weeks, the thought of sharing a space with a murderer had not settled. The others had shown themselves capable of harm—of that there was no doubt—but only one had crossed the line fully, had weighed life against death and chosen to act.
To see his face… to know he was near… it never dulled. The memory lingered in the body itself—in the sharp echo of fear, in the quiet humiliation of defeat, in the phantom pain of a throat once crushed beneath his hand.
Such things meant little to them. He was their "brother" after all.
A long breath was drawn before the chair was pulled back and taken. The meal had already been set.
It would satisfy hunger—but little else. Devildom’s food rarely resembled anything human. Its forms were wrong, descriptions and textures unsettling, it's very presence enough to turn the stomach.
Fingers closed around the fork—
—and stilled.
A hand struck, then settled firmly against her thigh. Cold rings pressed through fabric, unmistakable in their weight.
Mammon.
A grin met her, sharp with gold-tipped fangs.
— Took ya time, didn’t ya? —
The words forced a glance in his direction. A faint smile answered—brief, practiced—gone almost as soon as it formed. In return, his grip tightened.
The meaning was clear enough. Posture straightened, the motion disguised as composure, as the first bite of food was brought to her lips.
Mammon’s hand did not move. Resisting would be folly; it was enough to take what was set before her, to taste, and then be gone.
The fare was foul, close to turning the stomach, yet it spread a treacherous warmth through her belly and slowly a strength she had not known in years—perhaps longer than she cared to admit.
Oh, Lucifer... had I known you meant to bring a lambkin to table and forbid us even a morsel, I would have spared myself the trouble of coming at all. Oh Samyaza— Asmodeus lingered upon her name as though it were honey on his tongue,
—I would wager your skin is sweet as any delicacy.
He spoke as if in some languid song, each word drawn out, trembling faintly, a soft moan threading through his voice as his fingers wandered idly over his own face, half-lidded and restless. Then, with a careless sigh, he added, — Though you have grown so skinny parched of late. No... I think I shall leave that indulgence to my ever-hungry brother. —
His gaze slipped toward Beelzebub.
He was bent over his plate like a wolf at the kill, devouring with a savage hunger that bordered on the obscene, food torn, swallowed, scarcely tasted. There was no courtesy in him, no measure, no restraint. To sit beside him was an unease in itself; some swore one could hear the low, hungry growl rising from his throat as he fed.
Samyaza felt her heart freeze when Belphegor, distracted, let his hand brush against her arm while reaching for a utensil on the table. The heat rose to her ears, and she swallowed hard. It seemed to her that she had been there for eternity. Mammon's hands still rested on her leg, slowly rising, tracing the exposed skin beneath the long black skirt. She could barely distinguish the conversation around; her heart was beating too loudly, echoing in her ears.
Time passed unnoticed, but at the sound of the creaking chair where Lucifer sat, it was all she needed to stand up and leave as well. Mammon let her go and allowed her to leave.
Without needing to tidy anything, each plate and utensil floated to the kitchen, passing through the hallways, above everyone's heads. They looked like a flock of birds, soaring through the skies. It had been a long time since she had seen anything like them—longer still since she had seen the sun or the shape of the sky.
The plan was simple: take a shower and rest, no distractions, insomnia was enemy enough. As soon as she crossed the hallways and their red carpet, entered her room and closed the door, she could lean against the door and release the air trapped in her lungs. She looked up at the ceiling and sighed again. She closed her eyes. "Calm down, it's over now.”
— A pause. — "Shower and bed." — Slowly, brought her hands to her garments and began to undress, without haste, as she stood with her back to the door. Samyaza felt the pieces of clothing fall at her feet, an indescribable comfort at the end of another day.
The young woman ran her hands over her waist, momentarily caressing, embracing her privacy. In the back of her mind, echoes of past dinner noises still lingered, almost ghostly in their singing. She looked at the floor, now covered in fabrics.
She crouched down to pick up the clothes, as she needed to take them to another place in her room. A loud knock made her grab the clothes, bringing them closer to her bare skin.
— How am I supposed to sleep when ya ignore me?! 'Huh?' — Mammon entered the room scandalously, thunderously, breaking the door open with an exaggerated force.
— Answer, human. — Mammon approached her, caring little about the scene before his eyes. Embarrassed, she tried to cover her body with the fabrics in her hands, unsuccessfully.
— Get out of here. I want to sleep. — Her voice came out irritated, shaky, and hoarse. She took a few steps back, feeling the bed touching her calves. Mammon took his eyes off her and leaned against one of the walls, crossing his arms, waiting for her. Feeling defeated, she tried to ignore his presence, heading towards the bathroom and locking the door.
She hurried into the shower stall and turned on the shower. Even with the initial cold water, she felt it washing away the stressful heat that was in her head. She lingered there, no need for a rush.
The Avatar of Greed wasn't the worst; among the other residents of the mansion, he was the most human. The problem was persistence, the incessant way of demanding contact and attention, the arrogance, and constant threats. He never called Samyaza by name; that factor was essential to create distance between the two. However, that was not the reason for his visit.
— Listen up, human. I'll be waiting, so hurry up. — Yes, she remembered the mistake she had made. Samyaza tried to pull away; Mammon seemed to believe it was a sign to keep going and going further. For as long as there have been humans, sex has long been used as a means of bonding, gaining sensory self-awareness, and learning to regulate one's body and mind in harmony.
How to rid oneself of the consequences of this? Walk away, cut the ties, and start afresh. Just like any other mistake. It wouldn’t be simple.
And so, peace slips through her fingers. Rubbing soap over her face, she squeezed it. Anger at being dragged into dealing with such beings. Could they take pity and ignore her? Would the label of ‘fresh meat’ always remain associated with her?
Before leaving the bathroom, Samyaza wiped the mist from the mirror, running her hand over her face as if trying to reassure herself that she was in control.
Wrapping herself in the towel, she realised she’d forgotten to bring nightclothes to change into without leaving. She would have to face the visitor while she was vulnerable.
As soon as the door clicked open, the demon straightened up, approaching slowly. In his hands, he lit a red cigarette, taking a drag and flicking it hastily onto the floor, exhaling a cloud of hot blue smoke. The smell was pleasant, yet strong enough to make one wrinkle one’s nose. His actions conveyed a clear message of his inherently rude nature; even with such a refined leader, they all liked to do as they pleased.
Gripping her towel, she met his gaze. Keeping a serious expression, the demon nonetheless approached and took hold of her bare shoulders; he was without his yellow glasses, an intimate glimpse.
— Now, calm down. It’s more fun than harmful, don’t you agree? — every word reeked of cigarette smoke. The presence of the icy rings brushing against her warm, damp skin sent a shiver down her spine. Both maintained eye contact without flinching, trying to convince the other of their intentions.
Before either could speak first, the sound of the bedroom’s main door caught their attention; they turned towards it. It unlocked and swung open, revealing the tall figure who looked back.
— Ah, come on now, cockblocker! — said Mammon, without turning fully to face Lucifer.
For a long moment, no one moved; it was a major standoff. Samyaza refused to face the figure in the doorway; it would be like looking into the eyes of a beast, those beautiful ones described by adventurers in classic books, those that inspire submission at the very core of terror.
A muttered sigh of frustration escaped Mammon’s lips, and he looked once more into the young woman’s eyes before turning away and walking past Lucifer, who followed him only with his eyes. Only two figures remained in the now chilly atmosphere.
Moving now seemed dangerous; the tension was mounting. Lucifer, dressed in casual clothes, appeared ready for diplomatic meetings at any moment, nothing to soothe Samyaza’s nakedness. Not just physical nakedness, but mental.
The Avatar of Pride possessed this power: to peel away, to open like an oyster and expose the most primitive of human instincts. No words, no social skills, just being in the right place at the right time. In the three months they had spent together, Samyaza had discovered that with Lucifer, you learn to be what he desires. Even so, you will know your place in the hierarchy, and it will never be this one, close to him.
Feeling fragile, she struggled to keep her heart from racing. Nothing could happen there; there was no reason for Lucifer to say, do, or impose anything. She felt a lump in her throat, wanting to swallow the saliva that had gathered in the corners of her mouth, yet the idea seemed like a sin; breaking the silence seemed like a danger.
As if out of mercy, the door closes, creating first a visual absence. Then, footsteps could be heard moving away from the room. She exhaled, relieved. Saved by the light, after all.
As the cold wind insinuated itself through the window, she came across a three-eyed raven. The bird landed on the windowsill without a sound and, with a brief movement of its beak, dropped a ring—golden, with a subtle shine, like ancient gold. Then it turned its head, staring at the young woman with one eye… and another… and another, all golden as the ring and unfathomable, before taking flight and disappearing into the night.
The jewel was simple. No engraving, no crest, no sign of who might have forged it. Gold, it seemed — and nothing more.
She picked it up without a word, closed the window against the biting cold, and let the ring rest on the table.
Climbing onto a chair, she blew out the candles on the candelabrum one by one, until the flames died in faint sighs and the room surrendered to shadows. Only then did rest found her temple, light as a whisper, but late as all peace that comes after long vigils.
A new ‘morning’ would dawn before her, just like those that had come before—and, like them, destined to be a challenge.
She did not harbour the contempt for this realm that others felt; it did not seem to her as malevolent as they claimed. There was, in fact, a certain pleasure in those rare occasions when she left the mansion and breathed in the scent of the outside world. Her sketchbooks filled up — drafts and notes dancing across the pages. Yet something within her grew clouded.
Her mind no longer felt sharp enough to take in what unfolded before her eyes and ears. The world was there — vast, strange, pulsating — but it slipped away from her, like water through her fingers. She found herself reduced to little more than a child: gazing at wonders she did not understand, surrounded by sensations she could not grasp.
None of this, however, dampened her thirst — nor tamed the curiosity that burned within her, stubborn as a flame that refuses to die.
𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫: {pt.2} soon...
𝐌𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐌𝐚𝐦𝐦𝐨𝐧, 𝐚 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞.