𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐍𝐎 𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋 ᵇⁿʰᵃ

05.5 ┃ 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥: 𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆

never thought i'd have a book to reach get such attention/positive response across all the places I've posted on 😭, especially being so understanding for the hiatus, etc.; I just want to say, thank you all for reading! so, as a gift from me to you all, here's a speacial one-shot giving a glimpse of your life during the 10 year time skip.

━ ⭒─⭑━

It was the final day of summer break, and the air buzzed with an odd mixture of anticipation and dread.

You watched your Mei, flutter around the kitchen like a frantic butterfly, her movements hurried and erratic as she pulled together the last-minute preparations for your first day of middle school tomorrow. Her voice, a frantic mix of excitement and worry, drifted to you as she rattled off a list of items you needed for the next day.

You sat at the kitchen table, half-listening, your mind elsewhere. So much had happened over the past few weeks.

Now 12, you'd graduated elementary school, stepping into the chaotic whirlwind of summer with a fleeting sense of freedom that had now withered under the reality of what awaited.

A new school. New faces.

But that wasn't what truly bothered you.

No, it was something far more insidious, something that you, even as a devil amongst humans, could not avoid: the grotesque reminder of your fleshly vessel's humanity—your menstrual cycle.

It had struck you like a cruel joke from the universe, an inconvenience you had long forgotten that devils were fortunate enough to bypass.

You loathed it—it did nothing but remind you of the human weaknesses you were forced to endure. It was almost insulting, really, to be brought low by something so mundane.

This body was supposed to be a vessel, a mere tool for your plans, yet here you were, distracted and irritable because of a biological function that you, as a devil, should never have to deal with.

You clenched your jaw, anger simmering beneath the surface.

Devils didn't suffer through such indignities. They didn't bleed in a grotesque cycle of pain and discomfort, just to bear the burden of mortal reproduction bound by the whims of biology.

Reproduction for devils was far more insidious, far more intertwined with the essence of fear itself. They didn't reproduce through physical means but by creating new concepts to be feared by humans.

It takes a crescendo of death, despair, and terror—not on the devils' end, of course—but from the mortals who fed their existence.

When the fear became potent enough, it would coalesce into a pulsing seed, dark and alive with malice. This seed would grow, feeding off the havoc it wrought, the fear and dread of humans nourishing it until it matured.

And when the time came, it would burst forth in a symphony of agony and blood, the ruin left behind marking the birth of a new devil, an embodiment of that fear, emerging from the devastation it had caused.

It was a gruesome process, yes, but it was quick and untainted by the slow torture of monthly reminders. There was something almost admirable about it in its honesty. It was a method that made sense—ruthless but efficient.

Unlike this human mess.

The first time it happened, you were caught off guard, waking up to find the sheets stained with a crimson reminder of your body's betrayal.

For a moment, you'd panicked, thoughts racing back to the infernal plane, wondering if perhaps this vessel was breaking down, if your presence in this form was finally taking its toll.