World of Regalia

What sleeps within

Damian woke to an unfamiliar ceiling.

White. Bright. Intricate golden patterns traced across its surface, catching the light that streamed through tall windows. He blinked, his mind sluggish, his body heavy. For a moment, he simply lay there, letting his thoughts drift, waiting for the fog to clear.

Then the memories came.

The teacher—the Ajuma—the fight. The daggers. His chest seizing. The darkness swallowing him. And then… something else. A voice that was not his own. A power that was not his own. A hunger that had opened its eyes inside him and looked out at the world with ancient, terrible patience.

He sat up too quickly. His head throbbed. His stomach turned. He pressed a hand to his chest, half‑expecting to find the wound still there, but his shirt was clean, his skin unbroken. He was alive.

Status.

The holographic screen materialized before his eyes, familiar now, almost comforting.

[Name: Damian ??]

[Age: 17]

[Main Regalia: Divine Body — currently reduced to Rare grade (1/400)]

[Other Regalia: Power of Beelzebub

— {Skills: Dagger of Paralysis: Rare grade (1/400)}]

[Physique: 40]

[Abstract: 40]

[Z.F: 800]

He stared at the numbers, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. His Physique had doubled. His Abstract had doubled. He had gone from Uncommon to Rare in the span of a single fight. And the power sealed within him—Power of Beelzebub—was no longer just a name on a screen. It had a skill now. A skill he had stolen from the Ajuma who tried to kill him.

Dagger of Paralysis.

He remembered the daggers burning in his flesh, the paralysis spreading through his limbs, the cold grip around his heart. He remembered Beelzebub’s voice, her laughter, the way she had crushed the Ajuma’s head beneath his heel. His stomach churned again.

He had used that power. Not consciously—not by choice—but it was his now. The skill was listed under his own Regalia. Did that mean he could use it? Would he have to? Could he control it, or would it control him?

The room around him slowly came into focus. It was not the infirmary. The walls were paneled in dark wood, the furniture elegant and expensive. A desk sat against one wall, stacked with books. A wardrobe stood in the corner, its doors slightly ajar. The bed he lay on was large, far larger than anything he had ever slept in, with sheets that felt like silk against his skin.

He was not alone.

A figure sat in a chair near the window, silhouetted against the afternoon light. Silver hair. Hands in pockets. A strip of white cloth wrapped around his eyes.

“Sagara,” Damian said, his voice hoarse.

Sagara did not turn. “You’re finally awake. Took you long enough.”

Damian pushed himself upright, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His body felt strange—stronger, denser, as if his bones had been replaced with steel. His muscles moved with a smoothness that was almost unsettling. He flexed his fingers, watching the light catch on his skin, and noticed something he had not seen before. His hands were different. Leaner, more defined. The calluses from years of manual labor were gone. His nails were clean, his cuticles smooth. He looked healthier. Younger, even.

He turned his head, catching a glimpse of himself in the dark glass of the window. His reflection stared back at him, and he almost did not recognize it. His face had sharpened—the softness of youth giving way to something harder, something more defined. His hair, still red and blue, fell longer now, brushing his shoulders. His eyes, one red, one blue, seemed brighter, more vivid, as if they had been polished from within.

He looked like someone else. Someone who could have stood beside Sagara without looking out of place.

“How long was I out?” he asked.

“Five days.” Sagara rose from his chair, moving toward the desk. He picked up a book—Damian recognized it as his own guidebook—and flipped through it idly. “You missed quite a bit. They’ve already assigned a substitute teacher. Class is running as usual.”

Damian’s mind raced. Five days. He had been unconscious for five days. And in that time, the teacher who had tried to kill him—who had become an Ajuma—had simply… been replaced. No investigation. No questions. No one had come looking for answers.

“No one noticed?” he asked. “The classroom was destroyed. There was blood everywhere. Someone must have—”

“The academy has its ways of handling these things,” Sagara said, cutting him off. His tone was casual, unconcerned. “Teachers vanish. Students die. It happens more often than you’d think. The ones in charge don’t like to make a fuss. Bad for enrollment.”

Damian stared at him. “Students die?”

“When they’re unlucky.” Sagara closed the book, setting it back on the desk. “You weren’t. Consider yourself fortunate.”

Damian wanted to argue, to demand answers, but the words died in his throat. He thought of the Ajuma’s face—the hunger in his eyes, the desperation, the madness. He thought of the dagger in his chest, the paralysis creeping through his veins, the darkness swallowing him whole. He had almost died. He had been saved by something that lived inside him, something that was not him, something that had worn his skin like a mask and crushed a man’s skull without blinking.

He did not feel fortunate.

“You knew,” he said quietly. “You knew he was going to turn. You knew what was going to happen.”

Sagara did not deny it. “I suspected.”

“You left me there.”

“I observed.” Sagara’s voice was patient, as if explaining something simple to a slow student. “You needed to see what you were capable of. And you needed to understand what you’re carrying.”

Damian’s hands tightened into fists. “I almost died.”

“But you didn’t.” Sagara turned to face him fully, and even through the blindfold, Damian felt the weight of his gaze. “You fought. You adapted. You survived. And when the seal broke, you pulled yourself back from the edge.” A pause. “Not many people can do that.”

The anger drained out of Damian, leaving only exhaustion. He slumped back against the headboard, staring at his hands. “What is she?” he asked. “What’s inside me?”

Sagara was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was softer than Damian had ever heard it.

“Her name is Beelzebub. She was one of the seven strongest devils in hell—the Lord of Gluttony, the Devourer of All. The others killed her, or so they thought. She used the last of her power to reincarnate herself, to escape into the mortal world.” He gestured toward the window, toward the sky beyond. “That process created the Zenexian Orb. The second moon was born from her death and rebirth. It was meant to protect the world from her presence.”

Damian followed his gaze. Through the window, he could see the Orb hanging low on the horizon, its pale light washing over the city. It had always been there, as constant as the sun, as familiar as the sky. He had never thought to wonder why.

“You were supposed to die at birth,” Sagara continued. “The power sealed inside you—the seal itself—should have killed you before you drew your first breath. But there’s something else in you. Something stronger. Something that kept you alive.” His lips curved into a faint smile. “That’s why you’re still here. That’s why you can control her, at least a little. The stronger your soul grows, the more of her power you’ll be able to use.”

Damian absorbed the words slowly, letting them settle. A devil. A god‑rank devil, sealed inside him since birth. A devil whose death had reshaped the world, had given humanity its powers, had created the very energy that now flowed through his veins. And he was supposed to control it. To master it. To keep it from consuming him.

He thought of Beelzebub’s voice, cold and ancient, speaking through his mouth. You may call me Beelzebub. Devourer of All. Beast of Judgment. Death Incarnate. He thought of the way she had crushed the Ajuma’s head, the casual ease with which she had taken his power, the hunger that lurked behind her words.

“How?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. “How do I control something like that?”

Sagara’s smile widened. “You grow stronger. You fight. You survive.” He moved toward the door, his steps unhurried. “The same way you did today.”

He paused at the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Rest. School resumes tomorrow. Your training starts after class.” A flash of teeth, almost a grin. “Try not to die before then.”

The door closed behind him, leaving Damian alone with his thoughts.

He sat there for a long time, staring at nothing, his mind churning. Five days ago, he had been an orphan with a dream, a boy who wanted nothing more than to make something of himself, to prove that he was more than his circumstances. Now he carried a devil in his chest, a power that could reshape the world—or destroy it. Now he was something else entirely.

He reached up, touching his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his ribs. His heart. Still his. For now.

The stronger your soul grows, the more of her power you’ll be able to use.

He would grow. He would master this. He would not let her consume him.

He would become strong enough to stand beside Sagara, to face whatever came next, to carve a place for himself in this strange, dangerous world.

He had to.

Because if he didn’t, there was something waiting inside him that would be more than happy to do it for him.