The idea gnawed at Rantaro’s mind like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He told himself it was just curiosity, a harmless experiment. If demons even existed, he’d aim for one of lesser status. No harm in that, right?

With trembling hands, he opened the tome again, flipping back to the page with the instructions. He carefully read the section titled "The Summoning of Lesser Spirits". This particular ritual claimed to summon a minor demon—one supposedly tied to creativity and inspiration.

“This is insane,” he muttered to himself, yet he couldn’t stop. Something about the ritual compelled him, as if the words in the tome whispered promises directly into his soul.

Rantaro cleared the center of his living room, pushing aside furniture to create an open space. Following the detailed instructions, he used a piece of chalk to draw a large, intricate circle on the floor. Within it, he carefully replicated the sigils shown in the book, pausing every few moments to double-check his work. The air in the room grew heavier as he worked, as if the universe itself was holding its breath.

Next came the offerings: a candle for light, a small jar of ink to symbolize creativity, and a single drop of his own blood, as instructed. The blood part made him hesitate, but he pricked his finger with a sewing needle and let the drop fall onto the sigil in the center.

Finally, he lit the candle, its flickering flame casting ominous shadows across the room.

Standing before the circle, tome in hand, Rantaro began to recite the chant. The words felt strange on his tongue, like a language he had never spoken but somehow instinctively understood. The room seemed to shift as he spoke, the shadows on the walls deepening and the air growing colder.

As he finished the chant, a low hum filled the room, almost imperceptible at first but growing louder with each passing second. The candle’s flame began to flicker erratically, and the sigils within the circle started to glow faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat.

A sudden gust of wind extinguished the candle, plunging the room into darkness. Rantaro’s breath caught in his throat. The glowing sigils brightened, casting an eerie red light across the walls.

From the center of the circle, the air seemed to ripple, as though reality itself was tearing apart. Slowly, a figure began to materialize—a shape shrouded in darkness, with glowing amber eyes that pierced through the gloom.

The figure stood shorter than Rantaro, her form humanoid but distinctly otherworldly. Their skin seemed to shimmer a shade of blue, and small, curling horns adorned her silver long hair. They had bat-like wings adorned their head and back and a long pointy tail. When they spoke, their voice was soft but resonant, carrying an otherworldly authority.

“You have summoned me, mortal,” the demon said, their eyes narrowing. “For what purpose do you disturb my realm?”

Rantaro’s mouth went dry. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. Swallowing hard, he stammered, “I... I seek inspiration. I’m an artist, and I’ve lost my way. I need your help.”

The demon tilted her head, studying him with an unreadable expression. “Inspiration, you say?” her voice carried a hint of amusement. “Mortals often underestimate the price of such requests.”

Rantaro felt a chill run down his spine. “I—I didn’t mean... I just thought...”

The demon chuckled softly, a sound that was both alluring and unsettling. “Very well. I will grant you what you seek, but know this: every gift has its price. Do you accept it?”

Rantaro hesitated, his heart pounding. This was it—the moment of no return.

The demon’s glowing eyes narrowed, and a flicker of surprise danced across its molten features. It leaned slightly forward, its horns casting shadows that seemed to stretch across the room like grasping hands.

“Your soul?” the demon mused, its voice a mix of amusement and intrigue. “Mortal, you offer such a precious thing so willingly. Most beg for a way out before the ink is dry on the deal. And yet…”

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It paused, tilting their head. “You ask for companionship as well? You want me to stay here... with you?”

Rantaro nodded, his trembling hands clutching the edges of the tome. His voice wavered but carried a note of desperation. “Yes. I don’t just want inspiration. I want... someone. I’ve been alone for so long. If I’m giving up my soul, I want to make sure I don’t spend the rest of my days in solitude.”

The demon regarded him in silence, its eyes seeming to bore into the very essence of his being. Slowly, a smile spread across its face, revealing sharp, glinting teeth.

“Very well,” they said, their voice silky and smooth. “I accept your terms. Your soul shall be mine, and in return, I will grant you the inspiration you seek... and I shall remain by your side. But understand this, mortal: companionship with a netherworlder, a devil to be precise is no simple affair. My presence will change you, and the path you walk will never be the same.”

Rantaro swallowed hard, his heart hammering in his chest. “I don’t care. I just... I can’t do this alone anymore.”

The devil stepped closer to the edge of the circle, the air around it shimmering like heat waves. “Then it is done.” They extended a hand toward him, their clawed fingers sharp yet strangely elegant. “Seal the pact, Rantaro Hoshi. Shake my hand, and our fates shall be entwined.”

Rantaro hesitated for only a moment before reaching out. The instant their hands touched, a searing heat surged through him, and the sigils on the floor flared brightly. The pain was fleeting, replaced by a strange, exhilarating energy that coursed through his veins.

When the light faded, the demon stepped out of the circle, its presence now unbound. It looked around the room with a faint smirk. “Your home is humble, but it will suffice.”

Rantaro sank into a nearby chair, his breath coming in shallow gasps. “What... what happens now?”

The devil turned to him, their expression softening—just slightly. “Now, you create. You will find your hands guided, your mind bursting with visions beyond your wildest dreams. And I…” Ithey gestured to themself with a flourish. “I shall be your muse, your shadow, and your companion. I will feast on your joy, your happiness.”

For the first time in years, Rantaro felt a spark of hope—and something deeper, more dangerous.

Rantaro stared at the demon—his demon—standing casually in the center of his living room. Their presence was both alien and oddly comforting, an unsettling paradox that mirrored the pact he had just sealed.

“Feast on my joy, my happiness?” he asked, his voice trembling. “What does that even mean?”

The demon stepped closer, their amber eyes glowing softly in the dim light. “It means, dear Rantaro, that I will savor the very essence of your elation. The spark of triumph when a painting comes to life, the rush of inspiration when your hands can barely keep up with your mind… these will sustain me.”

Rantaro’s brow furrowed. “And when I’m not happy?”

The demon chuckled, a low, melodic sound. “Then you’ll simply have to create more. Let that fear of emptiness drive you. After all, isn’t it better than the nothingness you’ve been drowning in?”

The words stung because they were true. For so long, Rantaro had been stuck in a loop of despair, unable to muster the energy to create, much less feel alive. If this was the price of breaking free from that cycle, then so be it.

“Fine,” he said, standing on shaky legs. “Let’s see if this deal was worth it.”

The demon’s smirk widened, and they gestured toward the corner of the room where Rantaro’s neglected easel sat. “Pick up your tools, artist. Let me see what your soul is capable of.”

Rantaro obeyed, his hands trembling as he grabbed a blank canvas and a palette of paints. The moment he touched the brush, he felt a surge of energy unlike anything he had ever experienced. His mind exploded with vivid images—colors, shapes, and ideas flooding his consciousness in a torrent.

He worked feverishly, the brush gliding across the canvas with a precision and confidence he didn’t know he possessed. Time became meaningless as the painting took shape—a haunting yet beautiful scene of a twisted forest bathed in ethereal light. Every stroke felt guided, purposeful, as if his hand was moving of its own accord.

When he finally stepped back, his heart pounding, he stared in awe at what he had created. The painting was unlike anything he had ever done before—alive with emotion, detail, and a strange, otherworldly energy.

The demon stood behind him, their eyes gleaming with approval. “Magnificent,” they said, their voice tinged with satisfaction. “You see? This is what you are capable of when you are free from your shackles.”

Rantaro turned to face them, his chest heaving. “It’s... incredible. I’ve never painted like this before.”

The demon stepped closer, their presence overwhelming but not unwelcome. “And you will paint like this again. And again. As long as I am by your side.”

For the first time in years, Rantaro felt alive. But in the back of his mind, a small voice whispered a warning: the price had been paid, and the devil always collects.