World of Regalia

Beelzebub Awakens

“It took you long enough! Sit. This detention of yours is going to be very long…” The teacher paused, a slow, unsettling smile spreading across his face. “…and probably your last.”

Damian couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable as he stared at the man in front of him. Something was wrong. The teacher’s pupils had shifted from their ordinary black to a deep, burning red, and his smile—once merely irritable—had twisted into something hungry. The air around him felt heavier, charged with an energy that made Damian’s skin prickle.

“What’s happening?” Damian asked, his voice barely a whisper. He turned to Sagara, who stood beside him, utterly unbothered. “I don’t understand.”

Sagara’s expression hadn’t changed. If anything, he looked mildly interested, like a spectator watching a play he had already seen before.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he said. “The teacher has long since turned into an Ajuma. He lost himself to his Regalia. Maybe it was corruption. Maybe frustration. He managed to retain control for a while, but something about you must have triggered it.” He tilted his head, studying Damian with an almost clinical detachment. “It’s up to you to solve the problem in front of you. Consider it your first training exercise. After all, you’ve probably understood the concept of Zeta energy and Regalias by now.”

Damian’s heart seized. “I don’t understand. What do you mean, solve it? Can you please help me—just this once?”

Sagara’s smile didn’t waver. “What do you mean, help you? I’ve long since gone home. Who do you think I am? Some kind of old man who loves staring at the sun?” He stepped back, and Damian watched in horror as his body began to fade, turning translucent, then shimmering into particles of light. “I’m afraid you’re the only one here. I can’t do anything from such a long distance.”

Before Damian could even process what was happening, Sagara’s form dissolved completely, scattering into the air like dust caught in a beam of sunlight.

Damian turned back toward the teacher. The transformation was almost complete. Red energy pulsed from the man’s body, thick and viscous, swirling around him like flames. Black lines crept across his skin, tracing veins of corruption that spread from his chest to his arms, his neck, his face. His eyes were fully red now, gleaming with a feral light. His lips peeled back into a grin that showed too many teeth.

“Just give up,” the teacher—no, the Ajuma—said, his voice distorted, layered with something deeper, something ancient. “Let your death come swiftly. I sense a powerful energy source coming from you. It’s very familiar.” His grin widened. “And unfortunately for you, I’ll do anything to get it.”

He raised his hand, and two daggers materialized in his grip, their blades gleaming with a bright red light. “My Regalia is called the Dagger of Paralysis. If you’re hit, that spot instantly becomes paralyzed for twenty seconds. It still deals damage, of course. If you’re hit in a fatal spot…” He let the implication hang in the air. “You can thank me for the heads‑up by giving me your life.”

Damian’s mind raced. The rank of his Regalia was Uncommon—the same as his own. In terms of experience, the Ajuma had him beat by years. But more than that, Ajumas had enhanced physiques. He might be stronger than Damian, faster, tougher.

How do I win? he thought, panic clawing at the edges of his control. Not to mention he’s already turned into a demon. How do I even—

“Brace yourself,” the Ajuma purred.

He threw one of his daggers.

It flew straight toward Damian’s forehead, cutting through the air at a speed Damian’s enhanced senses could barely track. Seventy meters per second—maybe faster. But his Physique was twenty. His base speed was around fifteen meters per second. His reaction speed was probably around that of a cat. From this distance, he could see the trajectory, predict the angle, shift his body just enough.

He ducked.

The dagger whistled past his ear and struck the wall behind him, shattering into particles of light. Another dagger immediately reformed in the Ajuma’s hand.

Two at a time, Damian noted. He can only summon two.

His grandfather had been a retired martial artist. In the years before the sickness took him, he had taught Damian a few things—stances, strikes, the importance of closing distance against a ranged opponent. Damian’s body remembered what his mind had nearly forgotten.

He moved.

His legs exploded beneath him, propelling him forward at a speed that surprised even himself. Two seconds. That was all it took to cross the space between them. The Ajuma’s eyes widened, but his reflexes were sharp—he brought up both daggers to block. Damian didn’t let him.

He twisted, avoiding the blades, and drove his fist into the Ajuma’s gut.

The impact was like hitting a wall of stone. For a moment, Damian thought he had done nothing. Then the Ajuma’s eyes bulged, and he flew backward, crashing into a desk, splintering it into pieces, rolling across the floor before slamming against the far wall.

Damian stared at his fist. He hadn’t even activated his Regalia. That was just his base strength.

“Damn,” he breathed, a grin spreading across his face despite himself. “I need to stop underestimating myself.”

The Ajuma pushed himself up, his body already healing, the damage from Damian’s punch fading before his eyes. His expression had shifted from predatory to furious.

“Damn you,” he snarled. “I’ll kill you, you damn brat!”

Both daggers flew from his hands, spinning through the air toward Damian. This time, there was no time to dodge. Damian threw up his left arm, feeling the twin impacts as the blades bit into his flesh.

Immediately, his arm went numb. He couldn’t move it. It hung at his side like a dead weight, useless. But the daggers hadn’t disappeared. They were still lodged in his arm, still glowing with that sickly red light.

He’s defenseless, Damian realized. He can’t summon more while these are still active.

He activated his Regalia.

The world sharpened. Colors deepened. Sounds clarified. He felt power flood through his limbs, his senses, his very bones. His Physique surged from twenty to forty. His speed doubled. His strength doubled. Everything doubled.

In less than a second, he closed the distance again. His right fist slammed into the Ajuma’s jaw. His knee drove into his stomach. He followed with an elbow to the chest, a kick to the ribs, a palm strike that sent the Ajuma reeling. He couldn’t use his left arm, but he didn’t need it. His right was enough.

Twenty seconds. That was how long the paralysis lasted. Twenty seconds to end this.

He drew back his fist for the finishing blow—

The Ajuma’s body erupted with green energy.

The force threw Damian backward, sending him crashing into a row of desks. He scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding, watching as the Ajuma’s form began to shift. His body swelled, his skin darkening to a sickly green, his features twisting into something barely human. He grew—two meters, then three—his muscles bulging, his bones cracking and reforming. A third dagger appeared in his grip, then a fourth, then a fifth.

Damian’s blood ran cold. He had read about this. Natural Ajumas could temporarily force an evolution, burning their life force to break through one rank for a limited time. Tainted Ajumas—humans who had lost themselves to their Regalias—could do something similar. Their Regalia rank increased, and with it, their combat ability.

The Ajuma in front of him now wielded a Rare‑grade Regalia. The difference between Uncommon and Rare was significant. Damian’s earlier advantage had just evaporated.

“I had to sacrifice a lot,” the Ajuma rasped, his voice deeper now, echoing from his massive chest. “But after I’m done with you, it will all be worthwhile.”

He raised his hand. Five daggers shot toward Damian at once, faster than before—eighty meters per second, maybe more. Damian tried to dodge, but the pressure of the Ajuma’s aura weighed on him, slowing his movements. Two daggers struck his legs. One hit his right shoulder. He crumpled, his limbs going dead, his body betraying him.

Unlike before, the pain was immediate and brutal. The daggers burned—not just the wounds, but deep inside, as if they were cooking him from within. A hundred degrees Celsius, maybe more. Damian screamed.

“Now that my Regalia has temporarily evolved,” the Ajuma said, savoring each word, “the paralysis lasts a full minute. And there’s a special effect.” He watched, smiling, as Damian writhed on the floor. “How does it feel?”

Damian couldn’t answer. His mind had gone white with pain, his thoughts scattering like startled birds. He could feel the heat spreading through his chest, his stomach, his spine. His vision blurred. His throat was raw from screaming.

I’m going to die here, he thought. I’m actually going to die.

But then—

[Zeta fragment (Z.F): 1.8 (+0.4)]

[Using all Z.F to upgrade Regalia

[Divine Body — Rare grade (0.2/400): Increases base stats to 40 passively. When actively used, increases base stats up to 100.]

Green light erupted from Damian’s body, pushing back the Ajuma’s oppressive aura. He felt the daggers in his limbs dissolve, felt his strength return—no, surge. His Physique wasn’t forty now. It was a hundred. His speed, his strength, everything—multiplied beyond anything he had ever imagined.

The Ajuma’s eyes went wide. “Impossible—”

Damian moved.

His fist connected with the Ajuma’s chest before the demon could finish the word. He felt ribs crack beneath his knuckles. The Ajuma flew backward, crashing through desks, through chairs, slamming into the far wall hard enough to crater it. Damian followed, his movements a blur, his strikes relentless. He didn’t let up. He couldn’t.

The Ajuma tried to fight back, tried to summon more daggers, but Damian was too fast, too strong. Each blow drove the demon deeper into the wall. Each strike cracked bone, tore flesh, spilled black blood across the floor.

“Damn you,” the Ajuma snarled, gathering what remained of his Zeta energy into his fist. The air around him warped with the force of it. “I swear I’ll kill you, even if it’s the last thing I do!”

His fist, wreathed in raw Zeta energy, shot toward Damian’s face. Damian met it with his own.

The impact shook the room.

Furniture splintered. Windows shattered. The walls groaned under the force of the collision. Damian felt the shockwave travel up his arm, rattling his bones, but he didn’t retreat. He pushed forward, driving his fist against the Ajuma’s, pouring everything he had into the exchange.

The Ajuma’s energy guttered out.

His arm fell. His massive form slumped. He was spent.

Damian pressed his advantage, raining blows on the Ajuma’s body, driving him down, forcing him to his knees. Black blood sprayed across the floor, across Damian’s face, across the ruined classroom. The demon was broken—barely clinging to life.

Damian drew back his fist for the final strike.

He didn’t see the dagger.

It was already there, buried in his chest, its blade buried deep. He looked down at it, confused. When had—

He let victory cloud his judgment.

The Ajuma smiled through broken teeth. “You forgot about my main ability.”

Damian’s heart seized. The paralysis spread through his chest, cold and inexorable, wrapping around his heart. He collapsed, his body hitting the floor, his vision darkening at the edges.

The Ajuma rose, swaying, barely standing. “Now, to finish this—”

A surge of Zeta energy, violent and wrong, blasted him backward. The force of it threw Damian across the room, slamming him into the wall. He was barely conscious, his vision fading, but he saw—felt—something emerging from within him. The energy that exploded from his body was not the clean green of his Regalia. It was purple and black, thick as tar, pulsing with a malevolent hunger.

The Ajuma stared, his bravado crumbling. “What… what is this?”

Damian’s body rose. His injuries healed before the Ajuma’s eyes—the wound in his chest closing, the burns fading, his broken bones knitting back together. But the voice that came from his throat was not his own.

“Kids never learn,” it said, a feminine voice layered beneath Damian’s, twisted and distorted. “I’ll have to thank you for killing this host. With that, I was able to gain control. You have my gratitude.”

The Ajuma stepped back, his hands shaking. “Who are you?”

Damian—no, the thing wearing Damian’s body—turned slowly, its mismatched eyes gleaming with purple light. The smile that spread across its face was not human.

“You have earned the right to know,” it said. “You may call me Beelzebub. Also known as the Devourer of All. Beast of Judgment. Death Incarnate.” It tilted its head, studying the Ajuma with cold amusement. “Those are my titles from hell.”

The Ajuma’s face went pale. He summoned his daggers, all five of them, and hurled them at Damian’s body. They struck true—head, neck, back, chest—burying themselves deep.

The thing wearing Damian’s body didn’t even flinch.

“Is that so?” it said, and reached up, plucking the dagger from its forehead as casually as pulling a splinter. The wound closed behind it. “How quaint.”

It moved.

The Ajuma didn’t even have time to scream.

When Damian’s vision cleared, the Ajuma’s headless body was crumpled on the floor. A dark‑stained head lay a few feet away, its face frozen in an expression of pure terror. Damian’s hand—his own hand—was crushing it, grinding bone to dust beneath his heel.

“Nice ability,” Beelzebub murmured, and the daggers still embedded in Damian’s body dissolved, reappearing in her hand. Purple‑black energy coiled around them, devouring the red light, claiming them for herself. “I think I’ll take it.”

She raised her hand, but before she could do anything else, Damian’s body convulsed. A scream tore from his throat—his own scream this time—raw and agonized. His knees hit the floor. The purple energy flickered, guttering like a candle in the wind.

[Zeta fragments have reached the peak capacity this body can currently contain. The rest is being used to purify the host.]

“What—” Beelzebub’s voice cracked, surprise flickering across her features. “What is this?!”

Damian’s body collapsed, unconscious before it hit the floor. The purple energy faded, leaving only silence.

In the doorway, a figure watched. Silver hair. Blindfold. Hands in his pockets. Sagara stepped into the ruined classroom, surveying the destruction with something that might have been approval. He knelt beside Damian’s still form, lifting him easily.

“To think his willpower was able to subdue a devil,” he murmured. “Amazing. He might actually grow up to be a threat.” A smile touched his lips. “I like that.”

Silver energy wrapped around them both. A moment later, the classroom was empty.

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