When I opened my eyes, I expected pain.
You know, the usual—screaming souls, molten fire, unpaid paperwork stacked to the ceiling.
But what I felt was…
Warm.
Soft.
Smothering?
"WAAAAAAAAAAH!"
…Wait. Was that me?
Excuse me—what the actual Hell? That sound was undignified. Disgustingly high-pitched. And worst of all—human.
I flailed. Pathetically. My limbs, once capable of crushing archangels, were now noodly, flabby twigs wrapped in a wool blanket. I felt a hand on my back. Small. Gentle. Pitying.
Was I being patted? Like some wet dog?
My vision struggled like a drunk imp trying to read a celestial scroll. It cleared slowly. Gone were the obsidian skies, the blood-rivers of the damned, the excellent view of my own torture pits. Instead, I was staring at…
Cream-colored ceilings?
Velvet drapes?
A fireplace crackled cozily to my left, like some overachieving middle-class Christmas fantasy. A faint lullaby danced in the air—sung in a tongue far too soft for Hell.
I blinked.
"Congratulations, Lady Cattivo," a voice cooed, sweet enough to give diabetes. "It's a boy."
A woman sobbed joyfully. "He's beautiful…"
Who? Me? Lady, I've got blood on my soul older than your ancestors. I once made a holy saint cry just by existing. I am not—and I repeat—not beautiful.
And yet… someone lifted me like I was the star of a soap opera birth scene. The light caught the edge of her face—delicate, almond eyes wet with tears, kind lips trembling. She smelled like roses. Roses and… motherhood.
"Fuoco," she whispered, holding me against her chest. "Fuoco Cattivo."
Fuoco… what?
No, ma'am, my name is Asmodus, Lord Sovereign of Hell, Scourge of—
Wait.
Hold on.
My hands—tiny.
My skin—soft.
My voice—that wail again?!
No.
I turned my head slightly and caught my reflection in a polished silver rattle someone had idiotically placed near me like I'd be amused. A fat-cheeked pink thing with fluff for hair blinked back at me.
I… had been reincarnated.
Into the mortal world.
As a human.
As a baby.
There was a long silence in my soul.
And then:
Hahahaha! My spell had worked!
I was reborn!
…As the child of a noble family.
A Cattivo?
Great. I'd gone from Hell's overlord to a baby with a pasta surname.
In the background, a footman cleared his throat nervously. "Shall I… inform the duke, my lady?"
"Not yet," she whispered, smiling down at me with stars in her eyes. "Let him rest. Just for now… let me hold him."
The maid sniffled dramatically nearby. "He's already got his father's frown, my lady. So serious!"
Oh, you have no idea.
Another servant whispered from behind a curtain: "I heard the third lady's baby screamed like a banshee. Just like the omen said."
"The one about the child of fire and misfortune?"
"Shhh! Don't say that here! The walls have ears!"
Yes, peasant. The walls have ears, and I have the IQ of a thousand generations of demonic scholars. I understand you.
If I could talk right now, I'd roast them until they ran screaming through those velvet drapes.
But alas.
I was smothered by breast and blanket, royalty and rosemary-scented perfume.
I stared blankly at the ceiling. My tiny tongue lolled in my toothless mouth.
So this was my fate.
Reborn into nobility.
Coddled and powdered.
Unable to speak, summon, or smite.
I lay there in her arms, stunned and sticky and violently aware of how not-immortal I now was.
No horns. No obsidian crown. No flaming throne of eternal suffering.
Just me. A gooey, bald, vaguely potato-shaped organism who couldn't hold his own head up without looking like he was trying to invent a new yoga pose.
"I hate this already," I tried to say.
It came out as a gurgle.
A wet gurgle.
Possibly with a burp at the end. A final insult to my centuries of demonic dignity.
The woman—my mother apparently—cooed. "Did you hear that? He's talking already! So clever!"
Yes. Clearly. The reincarnated hell-lord is very clever. Bask in my gurgled wisdom, peasants.
And yet…
Beneath the shame.
Beneath the goo.
Beneath the fact that I now had exactly one tooth (and it was trying to bite my own lip)—
I smiled.
A real smile.
Not the "I'm going to eat your soul and dance on your grave" kind.
The other kind.
The kind that doesn't wither planets.
Because for the first time in eons…
I had no idea what came next.
No prophecies.
No divine chessboard with me as both king and checkmate.
Just… this. Mortality.
But it felt like something old had been rewound.
Like I'd been… reset.
Back to zero.
Before I became the sovereign of Hell.
"You'll grow strong," my mother whispered to me, rocking gently. "And kind. And good."
Lady, I once turned an entire continent into a parking lot because someone called me "buddy."
But… okay. Sure.
Let's give kind a shot.
"Guuhhh," I said, thoughtfully drooling on her gown.
"I think he likes you!" the wet-eyed maid chirped.
No, dear. I just discovered saliva.
She kissed my forehead.
Lips. On me.
Affection.
I was helpless. Disarmed. My only defense was spitting milk.
And to top it all off, a butler walked in with a silver tray stacked with something green and gelatinous.
"Herbal placenta jelly, my lady. For your recovery."
"…You're eating what now?" I tried to say.
Another gurgle.
The butler bowed out with elegance. I was still processing the phrase "placenta jelly" when the door creaked open again—and an older boy's voice echoed into the room.
"Mother, is that the baby?" the boy asked.
"Yes, darling. Come meet your new brother."
Oh no.
Sibling.
I turned my neck—slowly, dramatically—as if I could blast him with laser eyes.
He approached with the smug expression only a twelve-year-old aristocrat could master. Perfect hair. Cravat tied too tight. And a look that said "I once drowned a squirrel for bumping into me."
"He's small," the boy said coldly.
I stared back.
"I shall call him Pudding Face," he declared.
I blinked.
Pudding Face?
Oh, it's on.
I smiled again.
The kind that does wither planets.