The Gremory estate was quiet.
Too quiet.
Venelana stood in the center of the study, arms crossed, gaze sharp enough to split stone. Beside her sat Grayfia, expression cold and unreadable, though the faintest twitch of her left eye suggested she was reliving a traumatic napkin incident.
Kael's father sat at his usual seat, sipping tea with the weary elegance of a man who'd accepted that raising a prodigy-devil hybrid of chaos was more philosophy than parenting.
Kael was not present.
That fact alone had improved the atmosphere by nearly 60%.
"We've tried everything," Venelana stated, pacing in measured, restrained fury. "Tutors, etiquette drills, exams, even magical etiquette instructors! And what do we get? Singing teacups. Floating cutlery. Enchanted scrolls that insult the grader!"
Grayfia muttered, "One of the scrolls is still hiding in the chandelier."
"I know," Venelana snapped.
The patriarch finally spoke. "So. What's left?"
Venelana stopped pacing. "We send him away."
Grayfia blinked. "You mean… banish him?"
"No," Venelana said, though she looked tempted. "A reformation academy. One specifically for devils who struggle with behavior, structure, and authority."
Grayfia opened her mouth—then slowly closed it. "…Actually, that may be our best hope."
"I've already arranged everything," Venelana said. "They'll take him tomorrow."
At that moment, Kael phased through the ceiling.
Upside-down.
"I accept the invitation," he said dramatically. "On one condition."
Venelana stared. "…What condition?"
Kael slowly rotated and landed with a bow.
"That they give me free artistic license."
Grayfia stood. "No."
Venelana held up a hand. "He's going. No matter what. If we don't act now, there may not be an Underworld left to reform."
Kael gave a long, exaggerated sigh. "So dramatic, Mother. Fine. I'll go."
He smirked.
"But I make no promises about coming back unchanged."
The Next Day – Blackbrim Institute for Infernal Reformation
Kael arrived floating two inches off the ground, arms folded like a general surveying a battlefield. The school gates creaked open as if the building itself sensed a disturbance approaching.
Students whispered.
Instructors stared.
One teacher muttered, "That's… the Gremory child?"
Another said, "May Satan have mercy on us all."
Kael smiled under his blindfold and whispered, "Day one… begins."
The first lesson at Blackbrim Institute was "Behavioral Adjustment and Spatial Etiquette."
The classroom was as bleak and orderly as the name promised—gray stone walls, black desks arranged in perfect lines, and chairs bolted to the floor. The instructor, a hulking devil named Instructor Malthas, had shoulders like a war golem and the voice of a growling mountain.
"Sit. Straight. No magic. No floating. No levitation," he barked, stabbing the air with a rune-etched pointer.
The moment Kael entered the room, he violated three of those rules.
He drifted in sideways, spinning slowly like a lazy top, and landed cross-legged midair directly above his assigned chair.
The class stared.
Kael slowly lowered himself just barely into the seat—hovering millimeters above it.
Malthas squinted. "Sit on the chair."
Kael raised a finger. "I am."
"You're hovering."
Kael nodded. "Spiritually, yes."
Malthas stomped over. "No levitation in my classroom!"
"I'm not levitating," Kael said. "I'm simply… not falling."
The pointer cracked in Malthas's hand.
The lesson began.
Kael wrote his name on the chalkboard backwards—while standing on the ceiling.
When asked to recite the academy pledge, he did so in a perfect imitation of Instructor Malthas's voice, complete with slow-motion facial expressions.
At one point, he conjured a notepad with a blinking eye that stared at anyone who looked at him too long. The eye winked at the teacher.
One student whispered, "Is he serious?"
Another whispered back, "I think he's beyond that."
During break, Kael formed a "Floating Club." By lunch, half the students were hovering an inch off the floor, claiming it "boosted creativity."
By evening, Malthas filed an official complaint:
"Subject Kael Gremory undermines the foundations of physics, discipline, and possibly sanity. Recommending closer monitoring. Also, the desks now float."
In the dorms, Kael arranged his bed vertically on the wall and summoned a nightlight that hummed lullabies in multiple languages, including one forgotten by time.
As he drifted off to sleep—midair, upside down—a whisper echoed from the foot of his bed.
"Day one: success."
The humming nightlight added: "Tomorrow will be worse."
Day two began with Kael appearing in class riding what could only be described as a sentient rocking chair with wings. It glided gently into the room, then folded itself flat like a rug and hissed at the instructor.
Instructor Varn, a strict demoness known for psychic duels and her terrifyingly sharp bun, took one look at Kael and sighed through her nose.
"Today is a written exam on basic infernal theory. Seventy-five questions. No talking. No magic. No help."
Kael sat down—upside-down in the chair, naturally—and cracked his knuckles.
Ten minutes in, the room was silent.
Kael had not written a single word.
Instead, he had begun performing what he described as "an interpretive representation of my answers using nonverbal, narrative movement."
In other words: a one-devil mime act.
He mimed casting spells. He mimed arguing with angels. At one point, he used his sleeves to make puppet devils, who debated the merits of magical law.
Then he summoned a glowing paper halo, placed it over his head, and dramatically ripped it in half.
Students stared in horror. One clapped.
Instructor Varn's pen snapped. "Sit. Down."
"I am sitting," Kael replied, now standing vertically along the chalkboard, slowly writing a poem in cursive that read backward when viewed in a mirror.
Varn's eye twitched. "No magic!"
Kael grinned. "Who said anything about magic? I'm simply reinterpreting academic expectations through metaphysical expression."
The test scroll that Kael turned in was completely blank.
Until it unfolded itself.
And began reading its answers out loud… in limericks.
The scroll read:
"There once was a devil from dust,
Whose logic was baffling but just.
He danced through a test,
Confounding the rest,
And broke all the rules—because trust."
Varn screamed into her hands.
Later that day, Kael held an impromptu classroom "seminar" on the flaws of the traditional grading system.
Using two forks, a shadow puppet, and what looked suspiciously like a conjured can of corn, he acted out a revolution where test scores were replaced by dramatic interpretive gestures and praise songs from enchanted paper cranes.
One student fainted. Another joined in.
The administration issued a warning: "This is your second behavioral strike."
Kael framed the letter and hung it in his dorm.
As he floated off to sleep that night, Kael whispered to his ceiling:
"Day two: revolution begins."
The can of corn on his desk glowed softly.
By day four, Blackbrim Institute was on its last leg—and everyone knew why.
Kael Gremory had treated the academy like a personal sandbox of creativity, interpretive rebellion, and mild reality distortion. The staff's patience was hanging by a single, fraying thread.
And then came the gacha draw.
Combat drills began in the main courtyard, where students were expected to spar with one another using regulated spells and faux weapons. The air buzzed with controlled energy as instructors barked orders and dueling pairs took positions.
Kael stood at the edge of the arena, blindfolded, hands behind his back, smiling like a child about to ruin a wedding.
Instructor Raugus, the largest and least amused staff member on the roster, stomped toward him.
"Where's your partner?"
Kael tapped his chin. "Lost to time. Or boredom. Possibly both."
"You'll fight me, then."
Kael tilted his head. "Are you sure about that?"
Raugus cracked his knuckles. "Do it."
Kael shrugged. "Okay. Gimme a sec."
He reached into his coat sleeve and muttered, "Let's see what you've got today…"
A small portal of swirling nonsense opened above his hand, emitting chicken noises.
A giant golden gacha wheel materialized in the air, spun exactly three times, and exploded in a puff of straw.
What came out… was poultry.
Thousands of them.
Feathers rained from the sky as an army of chickens dropped into the battlefield with war cries that consisted solely of violent "BAWK!"s. They wore armor. They had glowing eyes. Some carried miniature pitchforks.
They formed ranks with perfect military precision.
One flung an egg that exploded like a flashbang.
And then…
Emerging from a smoky portal, backlit like a demon sent from a cursed sitcom…
the Chicken from Family Guy stepped forward.
Six feet of violent poultry vengeance.
No words.
Just fists.
Instructor Raugus barely had time to raise a shield before the first punch hit.
The BOOM shook the entire courtyard.
The two clashed with the fury of ancient gods and cartoon logic. Raugus countered with combat spells. The chicken countered by suplexing him into a crater.
Kael floated above the chaos like a director overseeing his latest masterpiece.
The chicken army swarmed everything—students, staff, and even the architecture. All clucked violently. None spoke anything but pure chicken.
One administrator screamed, "They're multiplying!"
Another ran for the emergency beacon.
Within minutes, the Underworld's local enforcement authorities arrived on-site—armed with spell-suppression tools and net glyphs. It took a squad of elite mages to restrain the Family Guy chicken, who was last seen pile-driving Raugus through a stone column.
One chicken bit a staff member's boot and vanished in a puff of paprika.
When the dust settled, Kael was standing perfectly still in the eye of the storm, arms folded.
The only sound?
Dozens of chickens softly clucking in synchronized harmony.
He exhaled slowly. "Day four. Overachieved."
The grand front gates of the Gremory estate creaked open beneath the lazy warmth of the afternoon sun.
Venelana sat at the garden table, sipping her tea in cautious peace. Rias played on a floating blanket, giggling as she made her dolls duel midair. Grayfia stood nearby, arms folded, prepared for whatever fresh chaos might descend.
And descend it did—literally.
Kael floated in upside-down from above the treetops, spinning slowly like a smug, blindfolded weather vane. He landed gently at the table, flipped upright, and set a letter down in front of his mother.
"I bring news," he said. "And possibly fried poultry."
Venelana opened the envelope without a word.
To the Esteemed House of Gremory,
We regret to inform you that Kael Gremory has been expelled from Blackbrim Institute for Troubled Young Devils.
The decision was made following an escalating series of disciplinary incidents including but not limited to:
Magical disruption and irreverent behavior in all classes
Summoning an armed chicken army
Releasing a large humanoid chicken that physically assaulted our head combat instructor
The army overwhelmed staff and students alike, requiring the intervention of local devil authorities to suppress the outbreak.
Our facilities were not designed for livestock-based warfare.
We strongly recommend that Kael Gremory not be enrolled in any structured institution henceforth.
Respectfully,
– Headmaster Glathurn
P.S. Our therapist has developed a phobia of feathers.
Venelana's hands trembled.
Grayfia leaned over her shoulder to read, then blinked. "He summoned an army?"
Kael raised a hand. "Let the record show: the army was extremely well-behaved… until it wasn't."
Venelana stood up slowly. "You lasted four days."
Kael gently corrected her. "Three and a half. Technically, I left before dinner."
Rias raced up with wide eyes. "Nii-san! Did you bring me a chicken!?"
Without hesitation, Kael snapped his fingers and pulled out—
a hot, glistening KFC bucket.
Rias gasped and clutched it to her chest. "This is the best day of my life!"
Venelana's eye twitched so hard her teacup cracked.
Grayfia took a breath, then raised her hand like she was going to strangle a god.
Kael's father, quietly seated nearby, set down his teacup.
Then wordlessly opened a bottle of strong liquor, poured himself a full glass, and stared into the middle distance.
"You are grounded," Venelana said through clenched teeth.
"Expected," Kael replied cheerfully, hovering in place.
"You are under full magical and physical supervision," Grayfia added, her voice tight.
Kael nodded. "Should I get a visitor's badge?"
Venelana's aura flared. "Don't talk. Just vanish."
Kael gave a low, mocking bow mid-air and disappeared in a faint pop of spatial distortion.
The garden went silent—aside from the gentle clucking of a drumstick Rias had enchanted to sing lullabies.
Venelana sat down, hand on her forehead.
Grayfia muttered, "We're going to need stronger wards. And a chicken ban."