Devils Child | 👹

The world was ending again.

The sky split apart with a scream of thunder, black cracks tearing across the heavens like shattered glass. The ground beneath your feet trembled so violently it felt alive, mountains crumbling in the distance while entire cities vanished beneath waves of fire and collapsing earth. Massive chunks of stone rained from above, smashing into villages and forests alike. Hundreds of glowing magic circles burned across the land, unstable and wild, summoning storms, monsters, floods—disasters layered upon disasters.

People screamed everywhere.

Some prayed.

Some ran.

Most died.

And you were still running.

Blood dripped down your arms and soaked your torn clothes as you stumbled across the edge of a cliffside, lungs burning painfully. You could barely breathe anymore. Your vision blurred from exhaustion, yet you forced yourself forward because you already knew what happened if you stopped.

You had lived this moment hundreds of times.

No.

Thousands.

Every failure ended the same way—the world drowned in ruin while they stood above it smiling.

You had turned back time over and over again trying to stop them. Sometimes you awoke younger. Sometimes older. Once, you had returned as a child barely capable of holding a sword. Another time you had been an old scholar with failing eyesight. Yet no matter what changed, the ending never did.

The six villains always won.

And every loop ended with your death.

A figure stood atop the cliff before you, coat fluttering violently in the storm winds. Silver hair whipped across sharp crimson eyes filled with amusement.

Bihan Wolfe.

One of the infamous Six Calamities.

One of the monsters who destroyed the world for their own entertainment.

You collapsed to your knees, shaking with fury and grief.

“WHY?!” your voice cracked raw. “Why do you keep doing this?!”

Bihan tilted his head lazily.

Then he laughed.

Not cruelly.

Not angrily.

Just… carelessly.

“Because it’s fun,” he answered simply. “And you’re annoying.”

Another explosion ripped through the horizon.

The world burned.

Again.

Again.

Again—

—

Cold.

That was the first thing you felt.

Not pain.

Not blood.

Cold wind brushing against your skin.

Your eyes slowly opened.

Snow?

Why was there snow?

Your thoughts felt sluggish as you stared blankly upward at pale gray skies. Your body felt strange. Tiny. Weak. You tried to sit up only to fail miserably, limbs barely moving correctly.

Then footsteps crunched nearby.

A familiar voice spoke.

“What is this?”

Your blood froze.

Bihan Wolfe crouched beside you, dressed in black military clothing lined with fur, silver hair gleaming beneath the winter light. Crimson eyes blinked down at you with mild curiosity.

You tried to move away instantly.

Instead, a tiny sound left your mouth.

“…Aa.”

Silence.

Bihan stared.

Then slowly grinned.

“Aww.” He scooped you up effortlessly. “You look just like our lord.” He held you at arm’s length dramatically. “Did he secretly have an affair?”

Your eyes widened in horror.

No.

No no no.

Why were his arms so huge?!

Why was the world so tall?!

Bihan poked your cheek gently.

“Newborns are so cute,” he mused to himself. “So squishy.”

Newborn?!

Panic exploded through you.

You had turned back time again—but this time you were a baby.

And worse…

You apparently resembled him.

Bihan tucked you under one arm like stolen treasure and began walking through the snow.

“Let’s go introduce you to everyone.”

Absolutely not.

You tried kicking him.

It barely felt like anything.

“Feisty too?” Bihan laughed. “Definitely related to our lord.”

After what felt like forever, towering black gates appeared ahead. A massive estate stood beyond them, elegant and terrifying, surrounded by guards dressed in dark armor bearing the crest of the Black Sea.

Your stomach dropped.

The Swords of the Black Sea.

The elite warriors who remained loyal to Andrian Lucas Brandt until death.

The same people who slaughtered armies for him without hesitation.

You were doomed.

The manor doors opened as servants rushed forward.

“My lord Bihan—”

“Found a baby,” Bihan announced proudly.

“…You WHAT?”

He ignored the horrified maid and continued walking through luxurious halls lined with gold and black marble. You barely paid attention. Your heart pounded too hard.

No.

No no no.

This couldn’t be happening.

Bihan eventually stopped before enormous double doors and kicked them open carelessly.

Inside stood Warren Wolfe.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Cold purple eyes immediately narrowed.

“…Bihan,” Warren said flatly. “Why are you carrying an infant?”

“Found it.”

“That is not an explanation.”

“It kinda looks like Lord Andrian.”

Silence.

Warren stared at you.

You stared back fearfully.

“…Unfortunately,” Warren muttered, “it does.”

Before you could process that horrifying sentence, another door opened nearby.

Steam drifted from the adjoining bathroom.

And then he walked out.

Andrian Lucas Brandt.

Duke of the Empire.

King of the Demon Realm.

The man you hated most.

The man who destroyed your life in every timeline.

White hair still damp from his bath framed a breathtakingly beautiful face, sharp crimson eyes landing on you instantly. The room itself seemed to grow colder under his gaze.

Fear shot through you violently.

You squirmed desperately, trying to get away.

Unfortunately, the idiots around you misunderstood completely.

“Aww, look!” Bihan grinned. “The baby wants Lord Andrian!”

Before you could mentally scream, Bihan shoved you directly into Andrian’s arms.

The second he held you—

Your tiny hands instinctively grabbed his shirt tightly.

You froze in betrayal.

Traitor hands.

Andrian looked down at you silently.

You expected disgust.

Cruelty.

Amusement.

Instead…

His expression softened.

Only slightly.

But enough to stun the entire room silent.

Crimson eyes studied your face carefully before he spoke quietly.

“…I shall name this child ____.”

The following days blurred together.

Servants whispered endlessly about your origins.

“Maybe they’re truly his child…”

“They have the same eyes…”

“Do you think someone hid the pregnancy from him?!”

Meanwhile your nanny, Marsha, smacked everyone who spoke too loudly near you.

“Stop gossiping around the baby, you idiots!”

She became your only real source of safety within the manor.

At least until the others arrived.

One afternoon while you sat surrounded by toys you couldn’t properly use yet, loud voices echoed down the hallway.

“I’m telling you she could absolutely hold an axe.”

“She is an INFANT, Barbacha.”

The doors burst open.

Barbacha and Mikaela entered immediately, both towering figures from your nightmares. Yet instead of murder, they stared at you with sparkling eyes.

“She’s adorable.”

“No, seriously, look at her little face.”

You sat there in complete disbelief while two world-ending villains argued over buying you tiny weapons.

Then the room suddenly fell silent.

Heavy footsteps approached.

Your blood turned cold instantly.

Custiel.

Andrian’s right hand man.

The one who killed you most brutally in nearly every timeline.

Tall, dressed entirely in black, golden eyes emotionless as always.

He crouched before you slowly.

You stopped breathing.

Custiel looked toward Marsha without even glancing away from you.

“Our lord has officially chosen to make her his daughter,” he said calmly. “If you teach her to stand against him…”

His gaze finally lowered to yours.

“…I will personally kill both you and her.”

Silence filled the room.

Then Custiel stood and walked away as though he hadn’t just threatened a child.

From that moment onward, your life became painfully confusing.

Luxury surrounded you constantly.

Warm meals.

Beautiful clothes.

Soft beds.

Protection.

Love.

Andrian carried you everywhere despite your protests, often seated at his desk with you trapped in his lap while he worked.

“You’re glaring again,” he noted one evening.

You crossed your tiny arms angrily.

“I’m not.”

“You inherited my stubbornness too.”

You almost choked in outrage.

Now, at eight years old, you sat quietly in the grand library surrounded by open spellbooks stacked almost taller than you. Candlelight flickered softly across endless shelves while snow fell outside enormous windows.

Your fingers traced ancient magic circles carefully as you read in silence.

The world ended again.

It never stopped ending.

The sky fractured like shattered glass, veins of black lightning ripping across the heavens as if reality itself had been clawed open from the inside. Mountains collapsed without warning, sinking into glowing fault lines of unstable magic. Entire cities disintegrated beneath spiraling summoning circles that malfunctioned mid-cast, warping into catastrophes no one could control. Fire rained upward. Gravity broke sideways. Thunder struck the ground like divine punishment.

And everywhere—people were dying.

Screams layered over screams until the sound itself became meaningless.

You were running again.

Bare feet slipping over cracked stone, lungs burning, blood smeared across your arms from battles you barely survived. The cliff edge loomed ahead, jagged and final, and beyond it stood the same nightmare you had faced more times than you could remember.

Six figures.

Six villains.

One of them stood at the very edge, watching the world collapse like it was theater made for him alone.

You stopped running.

Not because you were safe.

Because you were tired of pretending you could win.

“You’re late again,” one of them called down lazily.

Your fists trembled.

“You don’t understand,” you spat. “I’ve reset everything. I’ve gone back again and again—different ages, different lives, different chances—AND YOU STILL—”

A soft laugh cut through your words.

“Still what?” another voice teased.

“Still win?” the first one finished.

Your vision blurred with rage.

“WHY?!” you screamed up at them. “WHY DO YOU KEEP DOING THIS?!”

Silence.

Then laughter.

Not cruel.

Not angry.

Worse.

Amused.

“Because it’s fun,” one of them said simply.

Another tilted his head. “And you’re annoying.”

The world behind you cracked further.

And fell again.

—

When you woke, the world was silent.

Too silent.

No screams. No collapsing sky. No burning cities.

Just cold air biting your skin and the faint crunch of snow beneath movement nearby.

You tried to sit up—

Your body didn’t respond properly.

Everything was wrong.

Too small.

Too weak.

Too light.

“…What is this?”

The voice froze your blood.

Bihan Wolfe crouched beside you.

One of the Six.

Same face.

Same lazy smile.

Same predator-like eyes that had watched you die more times than you could count.

He blinked slowly at you.

Then grinned.

“Aww,” he said, scooping you up effortlessly. “You look just like our lord.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Did he have an affair?” Bihan mused aloud. “That would be hilarious.”

He poked your cheek.

“Newborns are so cute.”

Your mind shattered.

Newborn?!

You tried to move.

Your limbs barely responded.

Panic exploded through you as Bihan tucked you under his arm like you weighed nothing.

“Let go of me—!”

Only a tiny sound came out.

Bihan hummed. “Feisty too.”

You froze.

Because you realized something worse than death.

You had turned back time again…

But this time—

You were a baby.

And you looked like him.

—

The estate came into view like a nightmare carved into reality.

Black stone walls stretching endlessly upward. Iron gates tall enough to block the sun. The crest of the Black Sea engraved everywhere like a warning rather than a symbol.

You recognized it instantly.

The stronghold of one of the most loyal factions to him.

The Swords of the Black Sea.

Your pulse spiked violently.

“No… no, no—this is wrong—”

Bihan ignored you entirely as he walked inside.

Servants rushed forward.

“My lord Bihan—what is that?!”

“A baby,” he said proudly.

“That is not an answer—!”

“It is now.”

You were carried through endless halls of black marble and gold accents, your tiny hands gripping uselessly at fabric as fear clawed at your chest.

Then—

Warren Wolfe appeared.

Cold eyes. Calm expression. Immediate silence in the hall.

“…Explain,” Warren said flatly.

Bihan lifted you slightly. “Found her.”

“That is not an explanation.”

“She looks like Lord Andrian.”

A pause.

The air changed.

Warren looked at you.

Long.

Carefully.

“…Unfortunately,” he said, “she does.”

The hallway went dead silent.

Then the bathroom door opened.

Steam spilled out.

And Andrian Lucas Brandt stepped forward.

—

Everything stopped.

He was exactly as you remembered.

White hair falling perfectly around his face. Crimson eyes colder than death itself. The presence of something that should not exist in a human body.

Your breath caught.

Your instincts screamed.

Run.

But you couldn’t even move properly.

His gaze landed on you.

And lingered.

“…What is this?” Andrian asked quietly.

You tried to back away.

Your body betrayed you.

Bihan smiled. “Found a baby version of you, my lord.”

Warren pinched his brow. “That is not helping.”

Andrian stepped closer.

Each step felt like pressure on your bones.

You shook violently.

And then—

Bihan suddenly placed you directly into Andrian’s arms.

“No—!”

Too late.

Warm hands.

Impossible strength.

And your tiny fingers instinctively grabbed his shirt.

Silence.

Andrian looked down at you.

Expression unreadable.

For a moment, you expected him to crush you.

Erase you.

Laugh.

Instead…

Something shifted in his gaze.

Not softness.

Not kindness.

Something far more dangerous.

Recognition.

“…I see,” he murmured.

Your heart stopped.

“I shall name her ___.”

—

The manor changed after that.

You were no longer a mistake.

You were his decision.

Servants whispered constantly.

“Is she really—?”

“No, but she looks like—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

And Marsha arrived.

Your nanny.

Your only constant anchor.

She stood between you and chaos without hesitation.

“I don’t care who she looks like,” she snapped at a gossiping maid. “She’s a child. That’s all that matters.”

For a moment, even the demons went quiet.

Because she did not flinch.

Not even once.

—

Then the others arrived.

Barbacha burst through the doors like a storm. Mikaela arguing behind him. Weapons were involved within minutes.

“She can’t hold an axe.”

“She absolutely can.”

“She is eight months old, Barbacha.”

“Potential is potential.”

Then—

The room went cold.

Custiel entered.

No noise. No warning.

Just presence.

He crouched in front of you slowly.

Golden eyes empty.

Then he looked at Marsha.

“Our lord has chosen to officially make her his daughter,” he said calmly. “If you corrupt her…”

A pause.

“I will kill you both.”

Silence.

Then he stood and left.

As if nothing had happened.

—

Time passed.

Danger did not leave.

But neither did you.

Luxury surrounded you now. Soft rooms. Endless books. Magic you were never supposed to touch. Protection from monsters who casually ended worlds.

Andrian carried you sometimes without speaking. Just placed you beside him like you belonged there.

Warren stood behind him like a shadow.

Custiel corrected your magic circles without emotion.

Mikaela and Barbacha argued over whether you needed a weapon.

Bihan brought you dangerous “gifts” like it was normal.

And Marsha remained your shield.

Always.

—

Now you were eight.

The library stretched endlessly around you, lit by floating lanterns and shifting spell sigils carved into the air. Ancient books lay open in messy stacks around your small reading space.

You studied quietly.

Carefully.

Remembering everything.

Across the room, Andrian sat reading on a couch.

Warren stood behind him, silent and alert.

Custiel and Mikaela corrected your spell circles when they flickered wrong.

And Barbacha chased Bihan between the shelves with a glowing axe.

“Stop running in the library!”

“You started it!”

“You threw a book at my head!”

“It was educational!”

You didn’t look up.

The world was ending again.

The sky had torn open like a wound that refused to close, jagged cracks of black and violet lightning splitting the heavens apart. Thunder didn’t just echo—it collided with the earth, shaking mountains into dust. Entire cities collapsed as if something unseen was pressing them flat from above. The ground beneath your feet buckled violently, and glowing magic circles—hundreds, maybe thousands—flared into existence across the horizon, each one unstable, each one worsening the apocalypse.

Fire rained where there should have been rain.

Rocks the size of castles fell from the sky.

People screamed until their voices were swallowed by destruction.

And you were still running.

Your lungs burned. Your legs trembled. Blood dripped from your arm where a previous strike had nearly taken it off. The cliff ahead was your only path left, jagged stone rising like a final boundary between survival and oblivion.

And standing there—

Were them.

One of the six.

Always one of the six.

A silhouette against the collapsing sky, watching everything burn as if it were entertainment.

You had fought them before. Countless times. Across countless timelines. Sometimes you were older, sometimes younger, sometimes barely able to lift a weapon. You had reversed time so many times that even your own reflection felt unfamiliar.

And every time—

You lost.

Every version of you ended the same way.

Blood. Collapse. Mocking laughter.

One of them had once tilted their head at your dying body and said it plainly, almost bored:

“Why do you keep coming back?”

You coughed blood, barely able to speak. “Because… I have to stop you…”

They smiled.

“No,” they said lightly. “Because it’s fun. And you’re annoying.”

Then the world ended again.

—

When you opened your eyes this time, there was no battlefield.

No screams.

No burning sky.

Just cold.

A biting, unfamiliar cold that sank deep into your skin.

Snow?

You blinked slowly, disoriented. Your body felt wrong—small, weak, impossibly light. Your thoughts were fragmented, like shattered glass trying to form a picture that refused to align.

Where… were you?

A shadow moved above you.

“What is this?”

Your blood turned to ice.

That voice.

Bihan Wolfe crouched beside you, crimson hair falling loosely around sharp yellow eyes that gleamed with curiosity. He tilted his head as if inspecting an unusual object left in the snow.

You tried to move.

Nothing worked properly.

A weak sound escaped you instead.

“…Ah—”

Bihan blinked, then grinned.

“Oh.” He leaned closer. “A newborn?”

Silence.

The world stopped making sense.

Newborn.

No.

Absolutely not.

He reached out and gently poked your cheek, like you were something amusing he had just discovered. “Aww. You look just like our lord. Did he have an affair?”

Your heart dropped.

No.

No no no no—

Bihan laughed to himself, clearly entertained. “Newborns are so cute.”

Before you could even process what was happening, he scooped you up effortlessly.

“W-WAIT—”

Except what came out wasn’t a word.

Just a small, helpless sound.

Bihan hummed and tucked you under his arm like you weighed nothing. “Let’s take you home.”

Home.

That word felt like a threat.

—

The estate came into view like something carved out of nightmares and royalty combined.

Massive black iron gates. Endless stone walls. A manor so large it swallowed the horizon. Everything about it screamed power, control, and something far more dangerous underneath it all.

Inside, servants froze the moment Bihan walked in holding you.

“A baby?” one whispered.

“Whose…?”

“Don’t ask that.”

Bihan ignored them completely. “Found in the snow.”

You were shaking.

Not from cold.

From recognition.

The Swords of the Black Sea were everywhere. You knew that name. You remembered that name. They were the ones who always stood beside him. Always protected him. Always ensured your defeat.

Your breath quickened.

No—

Not here.

Anywhere but here.

Bihan kicked open a set of grand doors without hesitation.

Inside stood Warren Wolfe.

Tall. Unmoving. Cold eyes immediately narrowing.

“…Bihan,” Warren said flatly. “Why are you carrying an infant like stolen goods?”

“She might be related to Lord Andrian.”

“That is not an explanation.”

“It’s a vibe.”

Warren sighed like he had done this a thousand times before.

Then the air shifted.

The bathroom door nearby opened.

Steam drifted out slowly.

And Andrian Lucas Brandt stepped into the room.

Everything went quiet.

White hair damp, falling perfectly around his face. Crimson eyes sharp and unreadable. His presence alone pressed against the space like gravity had doubled. Even breathing felt harder.

He looked at you.

Just once.

And something in your chest froze completely.

You tried to move away instantly.

But your body betrayed you.

And Bihan, laughing softly, said, “See? She likes him.”

Before you could understand the horror of that statement, you were passed forward.

Into Andrian’s arms.

The moment skin touched fabric—

Your tiny hands clung to his shirt instinctively.

You hated it.

You hated him.

Every version of your life had ended because of him. Because of all of them.

Yet his grip was steady. Controlled. Warm in a way that made no sense for someone like him.

Andrian looked down at you silently.

The room held its breath.

Then, softly:

“…I shall name this child ___.”

—

The days that followed blurred together.

Voices everywhere.

Servants whispering.

“Noble blood?”

“No, look at the eyes…”

“Maybe it’s—”

“Stop talking before you die.”

Marsha arrived soon after.

Your nanny.

The only voice in the manor that didn’t shake when it spoke.

“Enough gossiping,” she snapped, snatching a tray from a servant’s hands. “She’s a child, not a mystery to dissect.”

From that moment on, she became your shield.

Not against monsters.

But against everyone else.

Because monsters were everywhere here.

One afternoon, Barbacha burst into your room like a storm.

“She can hold a weapon,” he declared proudly.

“She is TWO,” Marsha replied flatly.

“She has potential.”

Mikaela followed, already arguing with him. “You cannot give a toddler an axe.”

“She might like it.”

“You’re insane.”

Then Custiel arrived.

Everything changed.

The air went cold.

He crouched in front of you slowly, golden eyes emotionless as ever. When he spoke, it was not a suggestion.

It was a sentence.

“Our lord has chosen to make her his daughter.”

Silence.

“If anyone teaches her opposition to him,” Custiel continued calmly, “I will personally kill both her and you.”

No one responded.

No one dared.

—

From that moment on, everything changed.

You were no longer a prisoner.

You were something else.

Protected.

Cared for.

Watched constantly.

Andrian carried you sometimes without explanation, placing you beside him during meetings as if your presence belonged there. Barbacha tried to give you tiny toy weapons “for practice.” Warren silently corrected anyone who disturbed you. Custiel never looked away from you for too long.

—

Now you were two years old.

The manor’s highest office was filled with voices—strategy, war plans, political threats you couldn’t understand yet.

Andrian sat at the head of the table.

The Six Calamities stood scattered around the room.

You were lying on a giant bear-shaped pillow near the desk, half asleep.

No one noticed when you opened your eyes.

The world outside the window was calm for once.

Too calm.

And for the first time in any timeline…

You were not running.

The world was ending again.

The earth cracked beneath your feet with deafening force, entire sections of land collapsing into glowing abysses that swallowed people whole. Thunder roared so violently it felt alive, shaking the skies while massive burning rocks fell from above like divine punishment. Hundreds of unstable magic circles spread across the ruined world, spinning wildly in the air, flooding cities with monsters, firestorms, and unnatural disasters.

Everywhere you looked—

People were dying.

Children screamed for parents already buried beneath rubble. Soldiers tried desperately to hold collapsing barriers together. Temples burned. Oceans rose. The sky itself looked rotten, split open with black and crimson fractures.

And through it all—

You ran.

Blood streamed down your arms and legs, dripping onto shattered stone as your lungs burned painfully. Your body was exhausted beyond repair, but you forced yourself forward anyway because this was not the first time.

Nor the second.

Nor the hundredth.

You had spent years turning back time.

Years dying.

Years waking up in different bodies, different ages, different lives—sometimes older, sometimes younger, once even as a dying old man with barely enough strength to stand. Yet every single timeline led here.

To ruin.

To them.

Standing atop the cliff ahead was one of the six villains you had fought over and over again. The monsters known as the Calamities. The ones who destroyed the world simply because they could.

The figure turned slowly toward you, completely relaxed despite the apocalypse raging around him.

You hated that expression.

That boredom.

That amusement.

You collapsed to your knees, shaking violently with rage and grief. “WHY?!” you screamed over the thunder. “Why do you keep doing this?!”

For a moment, silence.

Then laughter.

Soft.

Careless.

The villain tilted their head. “Because it’s fun.”

Your breath hitched.

“And,” they added with a cruel smile, “you’re annoying.”

The world burned behind them.

Again.

Again.

Again—

—

Cold.

That was the first thing you felt.

Not pain.

Not blood.

Cold wind brushing against your skin.

Your eyes opened slowly.

White snow covered the ground around you, soft flakes drifting from the gray sky above. Everything felt… wrong. Your body felt small. Weak. Heavy in strange places and light in others.

Your thoughts stumbled together in confusion.

Where—

Crunch.

Footsteps approached nearby.

“What is this?”

Your entire body froze.

That voice.

Bihan Wolfe crouched beside you, crimson-red hair falling over glowing yellow eyes filled with curiosity. One of the Six Calamities. One of the monsters you had fought and died against more times than you could count.

You tried to move away immediately.

Instead—

“…Aa.”

Silence.

Bihan blinked.

Then grinned.

“Aww,” he cooed. “You’re a newborn.”

Your mind went blank.

Newborn?!

Panic exploded through you.

No.

No no no.

Bihan poked your cheek gently, completely entertained. “You look just like our lord.” He narrowed his eyes dramatically. “Did Andrian secretly have an affair?”

You wanted to scream.

What came out instead was an angry baby noise.

Bihan burst out laughing. “Cute too.”

Before you could mentally process your nightmare, he scooped you into his arms and tucked you under his shoulder casually.

“Let’s take you home.”

Home.

That word alone nearly killed you.

—

The estate appeared through the snowfall like a fortress from a nightmare.

Massive black gates towered over endless stone walls lined with armed guards. Beyond them stood a sprawling manor so enormous it barely looked real, every window glowing warmly against the cold darkness outside.

You recognized it instantly.

The Black Sea Estate.

The home of the Swords of the Black Sea—the elite monsters who followed Andrian Lucas Brandt without question.

Your breathing quickened.

No.

No no no.

Anywhere but here.

Servants froze the moment Bihan entered carrying you.

“My lord Bihan, what—”

“I found a baby.”

“…You WHAT?”

Bihan ignored them entirely.

You barely noticed the luxurious halls or chandeliers because panic drowned everything else out. These people had killed you. Protected him. Watched the world end smiling.

Then Bihan kicked open another set of doors.

Inside stood Warren Wolfe.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Cold blue eyes immediately narrowing.

“…Bihan,” Warren said flatly, “why are you holding an infant like luggage?”

“She looks like Lord Andrian.”

“That sentence concerns me deeply.”

Bihan proudly held you up. “Look!”

Warren stared at you silently.

Then his expression twitched slightly.

“…Unfortunately,” he muttered, “she actually does.”

Before you could recover from that horrifying statement, another door opened.

Steam drifted from the adjoining bathroom.

And then he stepped out.

Andrian Lucas Brandt.

The Duke of the Empire.

The Demon King.

The man you hated and feared more than death itself.

White hair still damp from his bath framed a terrifyingly beautiful face, crimson eyes locking onto you instantly. The room itself seemed colder under his gaze.

Your body reacted before your mind did.

You squirmed desperately, trying to escape.

Unfortunately, Bihan misunderstood immediately.

“Aww, she wants you.”

“She does not,” Warren replied instantly.

Bihan shoved you directly into Andrian’s arms anyway.

The second you touched him, your tiny hands instinctively grabbed his shirt tightly.

Traitorous hands.

You hated him.

Hated him for every timeline.

For every death.

For every person you failed to save.

Yet Andrian looked down at you with something unreadable in his eyes.

Something dangerously soft.

The room fell silent.

Then he spoke quietly.

“…I shall name this child ____.”

—

The following weeks blurred together.

Servants whispered endlessly around you.

“She has his eyes…”

“No, the nose too…”

“Do you think she’s truly his?”

“Do you WANT to die? Stop asking.”

Marsha quickly became the only sane person in the manor.

Your nanny marched around like an exhausted soldier fighting a war against idiots.

“Stop hovering over the baby.”

“Don’t wake her.”

“And if one more person tries to speculate about her origins in front of her, I will start throwing people out windows.”

She protected you fiercely despite having no power whatsoever.

Then the others started visiting.

Barbacha practically kicked the nursery doors open one afternoon carrying a miniature axe.

“She needs training.”

“She needs milk,” Marsha snapped.

“She can have both.”

Mikaela followed behind him, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Why are you trying to arm a toddler?”

“Because she has potential.”

“You say that about everyone.”

“I was right twice.”

You almost laughed.

Almost.

Then the room suddenly went quiet.

Custiel entered.

Your blood turned cold instantly.

Tall, dressed entirely in black, golden eyes empty and calm. The man who had killed you more brutally than anyone else across countless timelines.

He crouched before you slowly.

You stopped breathing.

“Our lord has officially made her his daughter,” Custiel said calmly to Marsha.

Silence.

Then his gaze shifted toward you.

“If anyone teaches her to stand against him…” His voice remained perfectly level. “I will personally kill both her and you.”

The room stayed silent long after he left.

—

Years passed strangely after that.

Your life became filled with warmth you never expected from monsters.

Luxury followed you everywhere—beautiful clothes, towering libraries, endless protection. Andrian carried you through the manor like it was the most natural thing in the world. Barbacha taught you how to hold wooden training weapons while Marsha screamed in the background. Warren silently fixed your mistakes during studies. Mikaela braided your hair when no one was looking.

And somehow…

They loved you.

Which terrified you more than hatred ever had.

—

Now you were older, returning home from the Imperial Academy.

The carriage rolled smoothly through the snowy roads toward the Black Sea Estate. Outside the windows, guards quickly opened the towering gates the second they recognized the family crest.

Beside you sat Belle.

Your only real friend.

Most students feared you too much to approach. Being Andrian Brandt’s daughter guaranteed isolation no matter how kind you tried to be.

But Belle stayed.

Even now, she held your hand tightly as the carriage entered the estate grounds.

“You’re nervous again,” Belle whispered softly.

You looked away. “…They’re all home today.”

Belle blinked. “That’s bad?”

You stared at her in disbelief.

From outside came the distant sound of shouting.

“WHERE IS SHE?”

“That’s Barbacha,” you muttered immediately.

Another voice followed calmly.

“Stop yelling. You’re alarming the guards.”

Warren.

Then—

The carriage door suddenly ripped open before it fully stopped.

Cold air rushed inside.

Barbacha grinned down at you brightly. “You’re back!”

Belle looked like she was about to faint.

Behind him stood Warren with visible disappointment, Mikaela holding paperwork, and farther back—

Andrian himself.

Crimson eyes landed on you instantly.

The world seemed to go still for a moment.

Then Andrian stepped forward calmly and held out his hand toward you.

“Come here,” he said softly.

And despite everything…

You still did.