Ajuka Beelzebub – Beelzebub Manor
The halls of Beelzebub Manor were unusually silent.
Not the silence of peace—but the kind that follows devastation. Heavy. Tense. As if the very walls were holding their breath.
Ajuka walked slowly through the mansion's ancient corridors, his footsteps echoing softly against polished stone. Magical seals embedded in the architecture pulsed faintly in response to his presence. This place had once been alive—with laughter, debate, and brilliant strategy. Now, it felt like a tomb. Beautiful, but hollow.
The recent summit on Mount Meru still lingered in his thoughts.
Not because of what was said—but because of what wasn't.
He entered his private study—once the war room of the Great Devil Kings. A network of glowing sigils illuminated the chamber as he activated magical arrays. Arcane charts, surveillance threads, and dimensional pulse monitors flickered to life before him.
My worst fear has come to pass.
Not because Shiva retaliated. In truth, that would have been easier to prepare for. But he hadn't. The Destroyer had shown restraint. And that was far more terrifying.
Because it meant Shiva—and the Sanatan pantheon—were no longer acting out of rage.
They were acting from control.
Ajuka had known, long before the summit ended, that factions were already scheming in secret. Plotting. Whispering. Desperate to reclaim relevance and power in a world that had evolved past them.
That's always how it is. Gods. Devils. Dragons. When they can't grasp power in the open, they claw for it from the shadows.
Then it happened.
A presence—an aura—slipped past the outer wards of his mansion. Faint. Familiar. Deliberate.
Ajuka smiled, though it held no warmth.
"Looks like my threadwork paid off."
He stood and walked toward a sealed cabinet, retrieving a bottle of vintage wine—centuries old. Reserved for moments like this. For himself—and for the man who was about to arrive.
He didn't have to wait long.
The doors to his study opened with no announcement, no knock.
Only one man would enter like that.
Zekram Bael.
The one man Ajuka had vowed to erase from existence—so thoroughly that not even history would remember his name.
Zekram walked in like he owned the place. Most would see pride, composure, invincibility. But Ajuka saw it—the tension in his shoulders, the flicker of fear behind his eyes. He masked it well. But Ajuka was not "most people."
Zekram sat across from him without a word.
Ajuka poured the wine. Let the silence linger. Then, finally:
"Are you ready to answer my question now?"
Zekram hesitated. Briefly. Then:
"Yes. I'll answer your question."
Ajuka didn't care for respect. That was meaningless. All he wanted was the truth.
Zekram took a sip before speaking.
"You asked why I allowed the Devil factions to join the war against the Hindu pantheon," he began. "There's only one reason. Opportunity. The kind we haven't seen in ages."
Typical Bael logic. Always transactional. He continued:
"Ophis herself was gathering an army. Against the oldest, most resource-rich pantheon on Earth. Imagine what we could've gained. Artifacts. Astras. Divine techniques. It was the perfect moment to align with her."
Ajuka finally spoke, his voice calm and cold.
"On paper, yes. A perfect opportunity. But our system and theirs are fundamentally incompatible. Even if we had won, it would've taken centuries to make use of their power."
Zekram fell silent. He knew Ajuka was right.
Ajuka's voice sharpened.
"I want the real reason, Zekram. No half-lies. No strategic evasions. Tell me the truth—or you'll end up like the original Astaroth bloodline. Forgotten."
That struck a nerve.
Zekram's composure cracked.
"I did it… to create a cold war," he confessed. "A state of constant tension. No peace. No unity."
Ajuka narrowed his eyes.
"Why?"
Zekram looked away, then whispered:
"Because of envy."
He clenched his fists, voice rising with bitterness.
"We—the Original 72 Devils—were created by Lucifer himself. We were meant to be legends. But now, when people speak of the '72,' they mean Solomon's creations—the Ars Goetia."
"We share their names. Their titles. But they're better. Stronger. More revered."
"So we made a decision. If we couldn't surpass the Ars Goetia, our children would. We bred for potential. Forged our bloodlines. Trained them from birth. But… they failed. Until the Great War."
Ajuka listened in silence, his thoughts racing.
"That war awakened them," Zekram said. "It gave them fire. Power. Instinct. For the first time, our children began to surpass us. We believed we were on the right path."
"But then peace came."
His tone darkened.
"And peace dulled them. The next generation was soft. Mediocre. Born in safety. Born to fail."
Ajuka's fingers tightened around his glass.
"We searched for the reason. What we found broke us."
Zekram's eyes burned with old secrets.
"Lucifer didn't create us to rival humanity. That was propaganda. He created us as weapons. Meant to wage war against God and the angels. That's our truth. We are forged in conflict. Our strength comes from it. And so does our evolution."
"Peace weakens us. War strengthens us."
Ajuka said nothing, but inside, the implications unraveled everything he had believed.
"Some of us—like me—wanted to rebuild. Others wanted to restart the Great War just to increase the chances of someone like you Lucifer would be born. And that… was the true origin of the Devil Civil War."
Ajuka could barely contain his fury.
The war had never been about rebellion or ideology. It was eugenics. Arrogance. Desperation.
Zekram continued, almost solemn now.
"From that war came Serafall. Falbium. Powerful devils. But not enough."
"So Runeas Gremory and I… we tried something forbidden. We forged a child. One born of design, not chance. That child was Sirzechs."
Ajuka felt his blood run cold.
"Sirzechs was everything we hoped for—except for one flaw. He lacked hunger. He had power, but not the will to use it. So I orchestrated a conflict. I manipulated other factions into skirmishes. And Sirzechs… flourished."
Zekram leaned forward.
"But even he wasn't enough."
He stared directly at Ajuka now.
"Then you appeared."
Ajuka met his gaze without emotion.
"You were born to an Astaroth family while parents parents was strong but they were no genius . . You weren't even remarkable as a child. And yet… you surpassed us all. You became the most dangerous of the Four Satans."
Zekram shook his head, still baffled.
"We couldn't replicate it. What we did with sirzech we didn't have the necessary things create someone like sirzech once more"
"You were born in the deadliest region of the Civil War. The chaos, the threat, the death—it forged you. Just like the Great War forged our children before."
Ajuka finally spoke, his voice low.
"So you want to create a cold war between all the factions. Just to forge a devil that can surpass the Ars Goetia?"
Zekram didn't answer. He didn't have to.
Ajuka knew.
Their envy had already shaped the world into what it was. The Great War. The Civil War. And now this war. All driven by envy and fear of being forgotten.
He could have killed Zekram then. Erased the Original 72 to save the future.
But he couldn't. Not yet.
A cold war between every faction was coming. And when it began, the devil would need a new symbol.
A devil from the new generation—one who could lead. Inspire. Surpass.
Ajuka stood alone in the silence that followed.
"I will find them," he whispered. "Even if I must break the world to do it. I will create a devil who surpasses me, Sirzechs, and even the Ars Goetia themselves."
Odin – Throne Room of Asgard
The great stone doors of the war council chamber creaked open as I entered, my footsteps echoing in the solemn silence. The room, once the heart of strategy and divine command, now felt heavier—burdened by the truth that no one dared to speak aloud.
I had just returned.
Freed from the shackles of the Sanatan pantheon's prison—though perhaps "freed" was too generous a word. I had been released not out of mercy, but because they no longer viewed me as a threat. That truth cut deeper than any blade.
I took my place at the head of the council table, eyes scanning the somber faces of my generals, commanders, and trusted advisors. None spoke. They didn't need to. I already knew the truth as well as they did.
We lost.
We lost to Hindu pantheon and this lost will give Hindu pantheon farmore power over the world and nobody will question their discussion simply because it's was overwhelming victory from them.
When The alliance had come together with dreams of supremacy—factions united to challenge the oldest and most enigmatic pantheon in existence. We believed we would rise as the dominant force in the world, securing the title of the greatest pantheon of the current age.
But instead...
Instead, we were broken.
Every faction now knows: the age of conquest is over. What comes next will not be a war for power, but a cold war for survival.
No one will dare make a direct move again—not after seeing how the Sanatan gods shattered our united armies without deploying even their full might. Their message was clear: the world does not belong to alliances, to dragons, to devils or gods who scheme in secret.
The world, they said—without words—is theirs.
And their judgment is final.
The factions will lick their wounds. They will prepare in secret. They will compete in silence. Not to rule... but to endure. To regain what they lost.
And that is the world we now live in.
As I shifted in my seat, I turned toward my guest—my son, Baldur—and asked quietly, "What did you give them… for my return? For Thor's? For the others from our pantheon?"
Baldur met my eyes directly, unwavering. "What they wanted," he said simply. "Primordial Runes. Land. Treasures. Everything anyone would desire from us."
I sighed, leaning back slightly. "You gave them the Primordial Runes… I can't blame you for that. You did it to save us. But I trust you kept the knowledge of how to use them secret?"
His face tightened. "I gave them all that I knew."
For a moment, I said nothing.
Then—despite everything—I allowed a small smile to form.
Pride.
Yes, he had made a hard decision. But in doing so, he had ensured our survival. He had sacrificed our most sacred artifacts with a king's heart. In that moment, I knew: Baldur was truly worthy of becoming the next ruler of Asgard.
The Hindu pantheon had demanded the Primordial Runes for a reason. They are among the most powerful magical systems in existence—fluid, fundamental, adaptable. Unlike our rigid divine language, the Primordial Runes can integrate with nearly every form of supernatural power in the world. Every faction has always coveted them, and now, one had claimed them.
They were our most treasured legacy.
And Baldur knew—if the Sanatan gods demanded them, there was no room to refuse.
So he gave them the 24 original runes that he knew. Not the others—the ones we had obtained from Ophis during the alliance. Baldur knows they exist but he doesn't know about their use or what they look like.
He still looked haunted as he asked me, "Father… what do we do now?"
I exhaled slowly.
"Nothing," I said. "We've lost too much in the war. The only path forward now is to find the young… and nurture them. Teach them. Arm them with everything we know."
My voice hardened.
"They must learn everything so we can rebuild our self and contact Irish God and told them I want to meet the witch"
.