Damien sat on the green and yellow, massive carpet embroidered with black roses.

The night had been uneventful after dinner, but that wasn't necessarily a good thing. Damien had been left to the mercy of the one thing that always seemed to wake up bright and early to hate on him and his entire existence, his own thoughts.

A petrified mess, wrapped in the snuggly comfort of a straight jacket while being taken on a grippy socks vacation, would be Damien taking the last few hours before biologically his destiny would start lightly. He might as well start swaggering around like the freakish love child of Napoleon and Alexander The Great.

The longer he fought sleep to remain awake, the more Damien knew for certain, he was going to be dragged to the next day, whether he was actually ready for it or not.

Tick,

tock,

tick,

tock.

It was standard practice that the imperial crown prince be given respite from his royal duties after he had taken his evening meal. And so it was the only brief but blessed time that should've been where Damien could find requiem from his daily duties pretending to be a perfect, tranquil, idol. He could relax behind closed, massive double doors, to just be a 13 year old.

However, as reality often disappoints, Damien's free time instead became the time where he would be held captive by his own thoughts, tormented with no one to desperately cry out to for help.

It had only been a 9 hours since they'd left the orphanage, traveled thousands of miles and finally arrived at the D'Amorn family manor, but Damien had begun to learn that he was now a beacon. A giant and bright one. One that, against his wishes, would arrest the attention of every room he was in, drawing in looks ranging from manic radicalism, to gracious loyalty, to distrust, indifference, fear, and ... hate?

The crown prince shuddered as he curled into a huddle on the soft, gigantic red carpet that lined the spacious, overly extravagant, cavernous suite that he had un-ironically been told was meager housing for the likes of he.

***

11:30 PM.

Damien stared at the time on his alarm clock.

Thinking.

Again, thinking.

He'd eventually been called by one of the 6 courtiers the imperial palace had spared to ease the prince's journey home. Thanks to them, the brooding boy, manically undergoing death by anxiety, was finally spared his torment, freshly showered and put to bed.

And yet, there the prince sat, staring at his ornate alarm clock, because of course even the alarm clock had to come studded with more precious metals and rocks than he knew what to do with, and his name embossed upon its heavy brass chassis with emeralds. Damien snorted with disgust. It was as if being an imperial crown prince meant that suddenly if he wasn't constantly wondering whether a thing he was staring at would bankrupt a country if it was sold, then that item wasn't even worth being brought before his eyes in the first place...

Damien sighed.

"And what are you gonna do about it Mr. Self Righteous?" he asked himself aloud in a bored voice. "You gonna sing the blues and wail about how rich you are now for the umpteenth time? What, are you gonna ask them to take it all away?" he asked himself sarcastically, rolling his eyes into the pillow he was clutching.

As the young prince sat there, shoulders slumped, he could feel sleep was almost upon him. His consciousness was beyond tired of being jerked around from being afraid of to being proud of whatever he was supposed to fully become, to only eventually turn back again to fear.

But he just had to tough it out 30 more minutes. In just 30 minutes, the clock would strike 12 midnight, it would be his birthday, he would retain at least some control over a life that progressively was seeming to no longer be just his own.

He couldn't just give it up... he wouldn't.

From being, hated, feared, avoided, despised, to being at least talked to, willingly... Damien could never go back. Back to how he used to be... Back to how lonely he was. He knew it would break him to a degree he could never return from.

"You really couldn't just be born average if you had to be born Nephilim?" He asked himself, semi-coldly, through a slurred grumble, "your overachieving ass just had to shoot for as high as possible, the golden ovaries."

Damien rolled his eyes, stretching as he yawned greatly. Slowly. tiredness and fatigue was overtaking his other emotions and the young prince wanted nothing more than to fall into the gentle, dark embrace of sleep and finally be at peace. Even if only for a few hours. But his body fought one last desperate battle.

'If I can just stay awake, another 30... minutes...' he thought, groggily, 'at least, at least I finally won't be caught off guard by this anymore, this annoying, weird, angelic... power.'

Damien's head dropped. He caught himself, but his head felt as heavy as a sack of potatoes, and thickly laden with molasses.

He couldn't fight it anymore, it was as if Damien's own king xl sized bed had cast a spell on him. Almost as if the universe itself wouldn't allow Damien to see his powers manifest. He would have to trust his biology and accept whatever he would emerge as the next morning.

And so, with one final tear for his freedom falling from his eye, for an existence being left behind that he didn't even fully comprehend, the young prince cried, and fell deeply asleep.

The clock finally struck 12 AM.

And the latent powers of the heir of Hoaquin, began to emerge.

***

"Huh, it really did turn platinum," Damien stared at his hair. It was early the next morning, and despite how late he had gone to sleep the night before, the young prince was up and active at the early hours of 7 AM the next day.

Currently he was shirtless, in his massive, marble bathroom, staring at himself in his full length mirror.

He thought Henry had been playing him for an idiot and was just yapping when he said that Damien's hair would change color on his birthday, but the lie loving lord had apparently been telling the truth.

His hair and his eyebrows and eyelashes had indeed turned platinum. Not the shimmering version that they and his eyes turned to when he connected with his SuperComputer state, but it was close enough.

Damien had ripped his shirt off in his frenzied excitement to see his new wings. It had been explained to him the prior evening that every Nephilim grew their wings after they turned 13. In fact, it was one of the most popular ways of getting around in the empire for citizens 13 and up. But the main reason Damien wanted to see his wings was because the prince had also learned that the 7 imperial families were the only Nephilim of their respective half angelic-half human species that manifested pure white wings.

Damien needed to see them, he had to see them.

Sure there was his silver hair, but he could just be on heroin or something. Or any of the countless gods and goddesses strutting about had snuck in and dyed his hair as he slept. It wasn't as if Damien would be able to sense them anyway. No, Damien's frantic mind, needed to see, needed to feel his wings. He needed to know for certain, beyond any doubt, that he was part of something more, that he had a mother waiting for him.

So it was understandable that the young prince was understandably crushed when it was 9 AM his birthday morning, and he still had no wings.

Damien was now back to sitting on his bed, bummed. Every Nephilim onboard the limousine and now at the manor always had their wings displayed, neatly folded behind their backs. Only Damien didn't. Only their crown prince.... Didn't. Sure they all had the same eyes as him, and while that brought catharsis untold to Damien's aching soul, to be the only person on the 80 acre manor without the intrinsic symbol of their angelic heritage, made him feel like a fraud and an outcast.

At the foot of his bed, neatly folded and in their own sections, were his new clothes. Damien didn't know if these had manifested themselves by some spell or enchantment or if they had been brought by some attendant, because they hadn't been there in the morning and he hadn't heard anyone enter his room. But when he eventually came out of the bathroom, all silver-haired and decently depressed, they had been sitting on his bed. Patiently waiting for him.

A pair of beautiful black slippers were the first things that Damien saw. As his eyes slowly traveled, he saw a set of breezy, long black pants. Next to it was a long ornate, armless silver robe. It was a shimmering material that looked like a mix of thread, satin and silk. It looked gentle, yet authoritative, the house robes of a monarch. They were lined with golden runes and hummed with holy power. Next to it, was a simple, unassuming golden breastplate. But Damien could tell most ballistic warheads would have serious trouble leaving a dent in the armor piece.

Seeing the sheer amount of heavenly energy calmly radiating from the breastplate made Damien feel like he would be flattened into a pancake if he attempted to wear it. His throat dried up as a strong feeling of claustrophobia washed over the prince.

Finally, Damien's eyes fell upon the battle coat.

"... it's the same one from the vision..." the young prince whispered to himself, equal parts in great fear and awe.

It was a long, leather-like coat. The coat's material was sparking white, with rose golden runes humming with heavenly fire etched all over it in beautiful patterns. It also had a hood lined with deep black feathers that seemed to suck in and entomb all light.

Damn was looking at the single most powerful artifact of the Nephilim war machine and a marvel of millions of years of holy magical science. Nephilim war coats were largely considered the pinnacle of heavenly magical technology, harnessing techniques many races would never know were even possible. Centuries of work among thousands of the empire's brightest minds had created a mass producible artifact that could relegate the body temperature of the wearer perfectly, could glamor the user at a moment's notice behind layers of powerful illusion, and were supremely capable at defense of the wearer. Seeing as each battle coat was fully autonomous and sort of had their own consciousnesses that the wearer could connect to and command, adding more functionalities was a fairly simple task. The battle coats, although reserved for only those who admitted themselves to the ranks of the Nephilim Holy Imperial Forces, were openly given to all the military admitted. No Nephilim that wore a battle coat had ever paid for one even though they were allowed to keep the coat for life, and the empire sought to keep it that way.

Damien let out a sigh, the courtiers were going to come looking for him soon. His daily itinerary started at 10 AM everyday. Currently, his meandering thought had burnt 20 minutes of his last hour and it was now 9:20 AM. Just as Damien stood up and stretched, submitting himself to the reality of being wingless for just a little longer to help hide his embarrassment, he felt a sharp pain begin to grow in the middle of his back.

A slight scream of surprise, akin to a yelp, was all he was able to annunciate before he slumped to his knees having passed out from the sudden explosion of pain. His head clipped the bedroom drawer as his unconscious body slumped to the floor.

His passed out form looked peaceful, even the stream of blood flowing from his forehead wound, came cascading gently as if to not wake the prince from sleeping.

Then the prince's body began to spasm terribly. His still passed out body became frantic, scratching at his back, tearing out skin and sinew despite being asleep. And then, came the screaming.

***

The exhausted prince could barely comprehend what was happening around him. Groups of Nephilim were running in and out of his room, tending to the mess Damien had caused. All were being extremely cautious to not touch him as they cleaned, after all, the time right after one's wing's emerged was some of the weakest a Nephilim could ever be. As the maids worked meticulously to clean the mess of skin, tissue, blood and bone matter that had somehow even gotten on the walls and satin curtains, many couldn't help but marvel at Damien's wings. Soaked in blood and viscera they still were, but none could mistake the pure white feathers. The true mark of imperial blood.

Of course all of this currently meant nothing to Damien himself, as he could barely perceive any of it. The residual pain and stress of what he had just experienced, had left him paralyzed, laying face on the side, in a pool of things he rather not think about as he teetered in and out of a coma. Somehow he'd initially woken himself up from being passed out after he'd clipped his head on his nightstand while falling, by screaming himself awake and tearing out his own back.

Awake and confused he was, Damien couldn't stop. As if he was compelled, the more he struggled to stop, it seemed the more frantic his tearing and ripping became. He started screaming louder and louder, yet no one would come to help him. He cried, as an unbearable pain he'd never felt before racked through his body and soul. When his giant wings eventually burst forth from his back, Damien not only felt more pain than he'd even had before, but also a bliss as he ceased to feel anything else, and numbness finally took over.

Now amid the fuzzy crowd of bodies that were moving hurriedly in and out of his room cleaning everything and tending to him, Damien lay on the carpet, head wound and concussion long forgotten. He heard what sounded like voices but it was just a sea of jumbled noises that sounded like his head was being held underwater. Eventually Damien started to regain his sight enough to see that Henry and another Nephilim lord that looked sort of similar to him, were kneeling above him offering him gentle words and checking to see if the prince was still stable.

After a half hour, Damien's angelic constitution had allowed him to recover enough stamina to stand, slowly, with the care and gentle assistance of 3 of his courtiers. Slowly, they half carried, half levitated the prince into his bathroom. One of them chanted a spell that teleported the prince into a massive, cobblestone, ornate bath that sat embedded into the marble floor of the large bathroom. The princes' clothes soon after apparated into a neatly folded pile of laundry, and with a flick of his wrist, the courtier activated the enchantments controlling the bath, creating a warm, thick bubble bath, jacuzzi that the prince slowly sunk himself into.

Soon after, the doors to his bathroom were closed and the prince was left to his own privacy to recover and clean himself off. After about an hour or two of sitting in the bath, Damien was finally clean. He had been gently scrubbing himself off and watching in amazement while the water quickly recleaned itself, even as it became filled with blood and gore.

Slowly, the boy emerged from the bath. Picking a long, fluffy, pink towel from one of the many that were folded and waiting for him on a levitating marble shelf, Damien dried himself off and wrapped the towel around himself before walking over to the full-length mirror to see his reflection now.

Damien could see the same platinum haired doofus wearing his face, he had been introduced to that morning, but now, two huge, white wings sat folded gently on his back.

The prince stared at his reflection for a while. Silently. Slowly he became aware of the fact that he could feel every last feather in both of his wings, albeit very weakly. Regardless, Damien felt like he could angle each one to move slightly with enough extreme focus and effort. After a while, the exercise of wiggling random feathers left him sweaty, and with a mild migraine but he smiled in satisfaction. Sooner or later, controlling his wings would become second nature for him anyway, so there was no point in destroying all of his brain cells now. Damien gave one last, dedicated push and slowly his wings unfurled to their full length.

"Wow," he said, truly awestruck.

The passing thought that it wouldn't be very long now until Damien would be able to fly for the first time, was so tantalizing he almost forgot he was being waited on, until a magical message appeared on his bathroom mirror, jump scaring the prince. It was a letter telling him that he had no more than 30 minutes to report to the dining hall for breakfast.

Solemnly, the young prince went to put on some underwear and socks. Then he moved on to tying on his pants and sticking his feet into his black slippers. Looking at the ornate robe, Damien now noticed that there were slits on the back, likely for his wings. But the young prince couldn't for the life of him figure out how to put on the robe while just staring at it. He was still heavily mortified of the state his attendants had found him in, too many had seen him crumpled stupidly on the floor, almost naked, crying for his mommy...

It was going to be a while before Damien looked anyone in the eyes again, so he didn't want to imagine anyone finding out he didn't know how to put on his robes.

As he reached out to pick up the robe, the second Damien's finger grazed its material, the clothing immediately sprung towards Damien, opening up and wrapping itself around him. Automatically it resized itself where necessary and in a matter of seconds became perfectly fit to the prince's body.

"...Guess that answers that question..." Damien laughed shakily with relief, trying to ignore how creeped out and excited he was.

The prince was now wearing most of what he assumed was going to become his usual attire going forth. A perfectly form fitting outfit that oddly referenced some ancient Korean designs.

That factoid didn't escape Damien's notice, though, in the hopes of not ruining his only 13th birthday for himself, he forcefully repressed the thought.

Equipping the breastplate was similarly simple, Damien just slid it over his head, and it too automatically resized itself to fit the prince's body while atop his robes. Damien, twirled slowly, checking himself out in a different full body mirror that was in his room.

"I look like some old fashion battle mage," Damien whispered to himself.

Taking a deep breath, the young boy shook his head, readying himself to approach the battle coat. Slowly and gingerly, he unfurled the robe like, slim leather battle coat. Unzipping the long zipper open, Damien finally donned his battle jacket for the first time.

An electrifying jolt of power shot through Damien's body as he briefly cried out in pain. But it was cut short. He was much more mystified watching the separate articles of clothing react to one another. Everything from his boots, to his robes, to his breastplate, to his battle jacket hummed with heavenly power. The angelic runes and scriptures dotting the white material of his jacket all flared with Damien's signature rose gold heavenly fire, causing the rest of the princes' outfit to begin pulsing gently for a few moments, before eventually falling dim. Leaving the prince left, decked in more complicated magic than he'd ever seen, his mind thoroughly blown, and itching to play with all the interesting magic he was seeing. For once in his short life, Damien was proud, no, elated for his half angelic heritage. After all, it was an added plus to the prince that his Nephilim eyes naturally allowed him to see all of the otherwise invisible, incredibly complex heavenly magic woven so deeply into his gear.

Pulling up the hood of his battle jacket, the prince watched, stupefied, as his entire face disappeared, obscured behind a thick blanket of darkness within the hood. And yet, the prince could see as clearly and with the same field of view, as if the hood wasn't even on at all. Slowly, the young prince reached up to feel for the hood, watching his hands in the reflection moving around, touching more of the material, brushing against the soft, black feathers lining the rim of his hood. Confirming it was there.

Damien didn't know how long he'd spent pulling his hood off and putting it back on, his attention had been completely unbroken from his bedroom mirror. But the 6 courtiers he eventually noticed in the mirror reflection, all with equally pissed off intents radiating from their veiled faces after they were yelled at for the hundredth time over where the prince was, told Damien he might have gotten a little sidetracked.

As the prince moved to leave the room, his lack of spatial awareness to the new, massive white wings that were now protruding from him, caused him to clip the side of the large door frame, hard, with his still very tender, incredibly sensitive, left wing.

Damien let out a sharp squeal of pain and fell to his knees. His courtiers, leaving behind their looks of anger for ones of embarrassed empathy and concern for their future emperor, moved to assist the ailing child. After all, all of the mighty, deific Nephilim that now called themselves imperial courtiers, were once regular, mortals too. They had all once been the princes' own age, with their own, new tender wings that they themselves had often forgotten existed while getting accustomed to them. Bumping into anything and everything in existence, only to then writhe on the ground of whatever place they were in, in extreme pain, was a shared, core experience for every Nephilim above the age of 13. The courtiers poured healing spells over their prince, gently coaxing him to be able to walk again, he would have to deal with the rest of the pain himself.

Giving a rain of ashamed apologies to his disgruntled courtiers, Damien limped into his usual place between them. One courtier walked at the helm of the train, they were the Herald Courtier, responsible for announcing the comings and goings of the imperial crown prince's party. The second row was occupied by two massive, beefy Nephilim. They were known as the train's Shield Bearer Courtiers and their purpose was to repel and eliminate all forward threats to the crown prince. Then, on the third layer, was Damien, sandwiched between the 6 powerful mages that made up his private guard and staff. The last layer, the fourth, was known as center command. It was arguably the most important layer of the royal train, besides the prince, allowing space for two more, even more powerful, rear guards known as Controller Courtiers, to monitor both the side and rear threats at all times. And the Nephilim that walked between them, directly behind the crown prince, was the head of the group, a Grand Courtier of the imperial family and Damien's official royal secretary. He was one of the very few Nephilim at the manor that took orders directly from the Empress herself. He was also the only courtier whose face wasn't hidden behind a beautiful, silk veil.

As they began to walk down the long, ornate hallway, Damien's anxiety began to swell like a tidal wave. The young prince closed his golden and diamond blue eyes, then breathed in slowly and out slowly.

'No, Damien, bad,' he admonished himself, 'Imperial Crown Prince Damien, not Orphan Damien. Be worthy.'

Damien squared his shoulders, fixed his posture, corrected his still aching wing and resumed pace with his courtiers that had patiently waited for their prince to collect himself.

As they continued their journey, they came across many Nephilim. Some were in regular working clothes, some were in various housekeep uniforms. A great many were in various forms of armor of lack thereof, but all of the combat oriented Nephilim were wearing some form of the usual pitch black battle coat. By contrast, Damien being the only Nephilim in a stark white battle coat, made him stick out like a sore thumb. Wherever he went, he was immediately spotted, invoking looks of all kinds. Damien had expected pitying looks or jeering admonishment, but now in the faces of the Nephilim he spotted as the royal train walked, there was only silent wonder. But not a single other emotion was readable on their faces. The prince silently pondered whether that was a good thing or not.

Suddenly, every Nephilim they passed began bowing or saluting as the imperial crown prince passed, and Damien began to notice, they were all continuing to stare at him even as he continued past them. As if every eye was glued to the black boy with the audacity to suddenly dye his hair and eyelashes platinum, grow white wings, and be the only one on the entire moving mega fortress to be wearing one of the fabled white battle jackets. An actual imperial Nephilim.

Talk about an attention whore.

Damien sighed internally, 'fake it till we make it, till we meet mom... till we finally can put at least face to a name.'

Sister Hua's lack of a direct answer of whether she was his mom or not, had never stopped bothering him. Everyone had all but given him her DNA test to confirm she was actually his mother. But that didn't answer why she kept saying she wasn't?

Was she using a different body?

Was that not her actual face?

Why did she lie?

The questions never stopped coming, and thankfully they blocked out everything going on around Damien, carrying him safely in their damned, cold grip, to the giant, golden arched doors leading to the dining hall.

The Herald Courtier raised a hand and the mighty doors began to split apart.

"Announcing His Heavenly Highness!" the Nephilim proclaimed aloud, "Imperial Crown Prince, Damien D'Amorn!"

***

In the past hour, ever since getting a much needed crash course on how to sit in a chair with the added impairment of a brand new set of large white wings, Damien had eventually settled into his morning meal and was being presented his morning itinerary. Henry was giving the briefing while a Nephilim lord that Damien was currently having a very hard time processing was Lord Henry's older brother, Viscount Jorie Astallon, was currently levitating a ring of burning grapes that he was twirling with an idle finger.

Damien sat stunned. The young prince didn't know whether to cower in fear or break out laughing. With every grape Lord Jorie idly floated up to join his incendiary circus show, igniting the grape as it lazily rose from the grape tray, Henry's voice became more and more strained with barely suppressed rage.

"Would My Lord, Viscount Astallon mind refraining from distracting the imperial crown prince from what is possibly the most important morning briefing of his most esteemed, young life?" Henry hissed through gritted teeth.

"Nah, I don't mind," Lord Jorie replied lazily without bothering to even return a look at his younger brother, "please continue My Lord."

Damien couldn't resist letting slip a snicker at watching Henry finally cowed and destabilized for the first time since he'd met the Nephilim lord in Ma LaCroix's administration office. The young prince tried to hide his laugh with a white dining handkerchief that had been carefully prepared for him while he continued eating his eggs, but it was too late. Henry shot Damien a pained look of betrayal and shock, while Lord Jorie smirked. Giving his hand a wave, the older Astallon lord dispelled his burning grapes and the levitating cloud of ash it left behind, gently floated over to form a tiara on Henry's head and the rest coalesced as a stereotypical, evil french mustache and beard on Damien's face.

Not able to hold in his laughter anymore, the young prince doubled over, howling with desperate, muffled, snorting laughter through his biscuit filled mouth. His body rocking laughter eventually caused Damien, who was still not used to eating with so many layers of clothing on, to accidentally slip out of his seat, landing on the polished marble flooring in a crumpled head atop his still aching, raw wings.

"Owww," croaked the 13 year old from beneath the large dining table as he slowly, shamefully got back into his seat.

Damien was blushing wildly as Lord Henry had raced to assist him. The Nephilim lord carefully nurtured the prince back to his seat like a big baby, all while Lord Jorie howled with his own loud laughter. The older Astallon Lord was clutching his stomach and pointing shamelessly at his imperial crown prince, not a single care given. But Damien didn't feel insulted, no, he realized he felt... glad. He could tell Lord Jorie wasn't making fun of him but laughing with him, and besides, Damien held a secret mortal fear of becoming a jackass leader, whose impossibly frail ego made it impossible to laugh at themselves. He knew a combined coalition of Ma LaCroix, his mother, and Jessica would likely be waiting for him, ready to "reeducate" their wayward Nephilim if he ever went rogue.

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"Who had the nerve to put that floor there," Damien grumbled sourly after thanking Henry, picking up his dropped fork and gently massaging his freshly injured wings, "can't they see a guy is busy falling here?"

Lord Jorie, who had been starting to regain his composure, suddenly spat out the coffee he had been sipping, all while tears from his wild laughter streamed openly down his face.

Henry glared at his older brother but held his tongue as it seemed that the prince was enjoying his antics. Eventually Lord Jorie regained his composure. Smoothing his long, red hair back, the older bearded Nephilim Lord gazed down at the prince, not speaking for a minute, evaluating what he saw.

"I like ya kid," the viscount eventually said with a strange, satisfied smile and a thumbs up. Damien nodded in thanks. "So I'm not going to bullshit you," Lord Jorie continued. He gazed over bored at Henry's unamused face, saying nothing for a minute. The younger Astallon had eventually taken a seat of his own, his itinerary documents resting in a beautiful stack beneath his perfectly folded hands.

The viscount eventually returned his bored, dead eyes back to Damien. "No one in the entire empire currently knows you exist but us...," Lord Jorie said in a grim tone, breaking Damien from his good mood, "however, that is apparently going to change very soon."

A blanket of silence fell upon the dining hall.

The Grand Courtier was the first to speak up.

"Lord Holy Viscount Astallon," the usually silky, deep voice of the dark skinned courtier came now in a hushed whisper, "do you mean to tell me, our security wards were breached?"

Damien couldn't see the faces of the other courtiers nor of the 6 royal guards standing at constant attention in front of the hall's grand doors, but he also didn't need to feel for their barely sensible intents to tell that none were currently having a good time being beholden to the news they were currently hearing.

"Oh God no," Lord Jorie responded aghast, a horrified look seared on his face, "those specific ones placed on the Mavrlion Model 4 parked outside were placed by her Heavenly Imperial Majesty, the empress herself. And the wards on the manor have been maintained by the house D'Amorn for thousands of years."

He shook his head and shivered.

"Don't even want to imagine something that could remove a ward placed by the empress knowing our location."

The ensemble of slight nods and silent gulps of involuntary action Damien saw breaking out amongst the collective group of various highly trained, deity Nephilim around the young prince peaked his renewed interest in who his mother was.

And his renewed crippling fear.

"How then brother?" Henry cut in, a deeply worried and furious look was burned into his face.

Viscount Astallon gazed briefly for a moment at his younger brother, Lord Astallon before continuing.

"I'm here right now because a wire came in for the Empress herself this morning, from the great Lady LaCroix herself," Lord Jorie said bluntly, staring down his younger brother as the color began to drain from Henry's face. "The great Witch of Pestilence postulates that someone had probably managed to sneak in undetected during a particular disturbance caused by a certain Angelization that disturbed her organization member's carefully constructed security systems."

Lord Jorie had a blank look on his face. All notion of prior humor were gone, and instead, Damien began to see hints of someone else, of something else, hiding just beneath the surface within the viscount's dead eyes.

Something darker. Much darker.

None dared to speak, held in fear by the imposing presence that Viscount Astallon was suddenly emitting. However, no one looked anywhere near as distressed as the younger Lord Astallon. Henry was almost geysering with perspiration, head hung wretchedly as the implications of the viscount's words pierced the godly Nephilim lord's ears.

Viscount Astallon flicked a hand and looked up wistfully, "though I guess it's not too bad, after all they managed to capture the suspect as they were escaping the forests' edge. After applying some... persuasive tactics, their friend divulged that they had only spread a name and it's relevance, but nothing else." The lord then chuckled, "and when they tried to ask who sent the poor fucker, his body fucking imploded." The viscount turned and looked over his shoulder at Damien, "hexes, nasty stuff, Your Highness."

Henry looked up to find the eyes of his sightly taller older brother looking down at him. At Henry's resting 6'3 not many could make the divine Nephilim feel small with just a look. His oldest brother had always been amongst that short list of people.

Staring silently at the scene playing out before him, Damien was floored at the similarities he was beginning to see between the two, red headed, divine Nephilim while Lord Jorie stared down his younger brother. Damien didn't know what he was supposed to glean from it, but if Lord Jorie had held his tongue until now, Damien had a nagging feeling there was something happening he was supposed to be paying attention to. The young prince's attention snapped back as he realized he'd almost started daydreaming, when Henry spoke.

Dropping to one knee, left fist to the floor, right tucked behind his back, Henry let out a deep, defeated sigh. "I have shamed the Empire, Her Imperial Heavenly Majesty, and His Imperial Heavenly Highness," the Nephilim lord began in a low defeated voice, "my hubris overcame me, briefly I forgot the nature of my magic in an attempt to educate His Imperial Heavenly Highness, but the fault is mine alone."

"Hey! Stop!" Damien called out suddenly while raising a hand, breaking everyone out of the current scene. As he felt the attentions of both Nephilim lords and the attentions of all the other divine Nephilim in the room shift to him, the young prince gulped silently, anxiety mounting. Instantly, with the first order as a royal Damien had ever given, the boy flipped the dynamic of powers within the room. Though he was the only mortal in a sea of powerful divine forces of heavenly destruction, none dared challenge an order from a member of the imperial families. The anxious prince felt his breathing begin to seize up under the weight of so many powerful gazes upon him.

'No!' Damien felt his inner conscience immediately admonish himself harshly, 'you're their imperial crown prince now.

You speak out of line, you speak that shit proudly at least.'

Taking a deep, steady breath, Damien began, addressing the silent room.

"Great, Holy, Lord Viscount Astallon," the imperial prince began, "Hen-, I mean Lord Astallon was merely acting upon my own orders."

Damien looked down, overcome with shame, "misguided and naive at it probably was, unaware of the true weight of my birthright as I was," Damien shut his eyes and tried to gather his nerves, failing more and more to calm his fears and anxieties.

Raising his head, through still shut eyes, in an effort to not lose his morale, the imperial prince shouted aloud, "despite all that an order is still an order! I gave that order and Lord Astallon obeyed! Is it a crime to follow the orders of the crown prince just because he didn't know he was royalty?" Damien clapped his sweaty, clammy hands together loudly and bent his head, in a small voice he pleaded, "please be lenient?"

When none had spoken after a brief minute, Damien eventually opened his squeezed shut eyes, looking up and around the room. All he saw was an assembly of equally shocked expressions staring at him, including Henry.

The viscount said nothing as he stared into the prince's eyes. Golden and blue eyes to golden and blue eyes.

Slowly Lord Jorie began to break out into a wide goofy grin.

"Well done shrimp," he said with a slight chuckle. Looking down with a frown at the still kneeling form of his younger brother he sighed. "Get up Henry, you're not gonna be plucked and tarred, yet. No matter how badly I asked for it, it seems."

Henry quickly got to his feet. Lord Jorie sauntered over to meet the other lord till they were both standing shoulder to shoulder. Viscount Astallon leaned over and whispered something to his younger brother. Although Damien could see Lord Jorie's mouth move, there were no sounds to be heard. Not to mention that the more Damien stared at the viscount's and Henry's mouths, the more he began to feel like what he was seeing wasn't even real. He couldn't be sure, but he could almost swear a slight shimmering wave of energy was masking their true words from being lip-read. Before Damien could continue pondering his hypothesis, Henry's eyes suddenly grew very wide, before becoming stony and dark. He nodded once and saluted his older brother. Turning, he bowed to the imperial crown prince and bid his leave then vanished into a pillar of dark red heavenly fire that suddenly exploded around him, consuming the Nephilim lord as he teleported away.

Lord Jorie walked back over to his seat before slumping down into it with a loud groan. Looking over at the courtiers, he began in a low voice. "Grand Courtier, I counted 15 within this dining hall, including myself," Lord Jorie's head turned slowly, eyes first as he remained slumped back in his chair, but was now facing the Grand Courtier, "given what these 15 people have head here this morning, I would be... greatly unamused if that number became 16."

None spoke as the viscount's words sunk lazily, heavily into the ears of the royal guards and the courtiers.

"The safety of his Heavenly Imperial Highness is my top concern," the Grand Courtier replied levelly, his dark skinned brows beginning to thin dangerously as the two powerful deities stared each other down, "I would do nothing to jeopardize that." "Perhaps," the Grand Courtier went on, spite entering the tone of the much older Nephilim, "maybe Lord Holy Viscount Astallon, could use some free time away from the holy militaries of Gera to reeducate the younger Lord Astallon on how to not jeopardize the imperial crown prince's safety?"

The silence was thicker than molasses. The already strained atmosphere of the dining room suddenly grew more tense by an order of magnitude. Surprisingly, Viscount Astallon was the first to break their staring contest, instead choosing to gaze up wistfully at the grand, incredibly lavish ceiling.

"Damn Jeeves no need to get asshurt," Lord Jorie mumbled under his breath, looking like a child that had just been caught stealing cookies, "just making sure we understood each other."

Sitting back up, he addressed Damien again.

"Henry's gone on a mission, direct deployment from the crown," he explained to the young prince, "so for the next few months until your actual teachers arrive, I'm going to take over helping you assimilate to being a Nephilim." He clapped his hands together before rubbing them gleefully, "don't worry Sire, you're in great hands."

Damien didn't know whether to be glad or run.

The newly silver bleached prince would later come to learn, he should've ran.

***

A month had passed before Damien even knew what hit him. It wasn't as if it had been a particularly enjoyable or uneventful month for the new 13 year old, he was just surprised he'd somehow survived this long. Damien was used to thinking that Ma LaCroix and Sister Hua had grueling training methods, but Lord Jorie's was downright sadistic. Every morning, noon and evening there were horrifying 2 hour exercise blocks. Every day. It was to capitalize on Damien's newly changing body. Allowing him to experience the bodily tenacity of a Nephilim for the first time. Damien had to admit, he was constantly shocked at how much longer he was able to keep up exercising now compared to just before his birthday.

It was like he was a whole different person.

That didn't seem to matter to muscle fatigue as the perpetual aching throughout the young prince's body began to increase and increase as time went on. And that wasn't even mentioning the many, many random times throughout the day that his wildly morphing and bucking aura, something that had also started happening after his birthday, would rack his body with horrifying spasms of pain. Something that Lord Jorie had empathetically called, while patting Damien's head, through fits of laughter, magical periods.

At some point through the suffering, Damien began disassociating, hoping he'd either end up dead, or at least ease through the aura convulsions under the soothing blanket of being perpetually passed out. In the little free time Damien could find between the many, many lessons on Gera's history, diplomacy and economics that a vast array of Nephilim staffed at the villa were mandated he be taught, Damien slept. In his dreams he would always be at a table, talking to and drinking tea with what seemed to be... a giant squirrel.

But it wasn't just any squirrel. Eventually, the great being had revealed it was actually the great Nordic deity Ratatoskr, the keeper of the great Yggdrasil. Though Damien could never remember what exactly they talked about, he would always awake knowing he had met the god in his dreams, and that it wasn't just any old hovel they were sitting in. Endless winding and stretching branches and twigs wove themselves together to fashion the room Ratatoskr and Damien sat in. Endless streams of runes in all languages etched upon the bark, led Damien to eventually realize where it was the two of them even were. They were sipping tea and gossiping, within the Yggdrasil itself! The great World Tree of Runes and Knowledge had become their glorified treehouse.

Damien didn't know why his dreams always took him back there, but it comforted him greatly.

***

As two months past his birthday soon became 3, Damien barely recognized himself anymore. He had gotten used to his new platinum hair, eyebrows and lashes, even his huge white wings, but that was no longer all that was different about him. Somewhere during his many sessions of sleeping to avoid feeling pain, the prince had undergone several chaotic growth spurts. Bringing him from an average height of 5'1" for his age, to a wild 5' 6". His body was always toned, but now he was shredded beyond belief. The killer workout regimen that Damien had soberingly come to learn was the basic workouts for new recruits in the holy militaries of Gera, had demanded every ounce of Damien's Nephilim heritage, rewarding him for his efforts with a body that was beginning to befit a half angel. Even one that was only 13.

At some point, the frequency of the magical periods had largely diminished to about one a week, if at all. With them, strangely, seemed to also go his dreams of tea with Ratatoskr. Damien reminisced sadly as he began to dress himself for the day, but reminded himself to cheer up. At least his aura had finally stabilized. Now he was recently slowly allowed to use basic spells again, though only ever under strict supervision.

A thought caused Damien to beam with pride though, as he slipped on his pants, slippers and sleeveless day robe, he had finally managed to hover for 30 seconds! Yes he might've crashed down afterwards, completely paralyzed from stress and muscle fatigue with a somehow burnt out aura, but that didn't even slightly phase the prince. The thought of one day soon, finally being able to soar through the skies with the birthright of every Nephilim, his very own wings, left Damien incredibly giddy, swirling around as if on the proverbial cloud 9. Leaving behind his battle coat, as there was hardly any reason to wear the over engineered piece of super armor while at the already hyper-protected manor swarming with divine Nephilim. Damien knocked three times on his front door, and the Herald Courtier opened the prince's bedrooms' large, beautifully carved, oak wood double doors. Greeting their charge, the courtiers allowed Damien to fall into what was now his usual place amongst the royal train as they proceeded throughout the halls to have breakfast and later find Lord Jorie.

***

Days began turning to weeks, Damien and Lord Jorie would continue working on covering all of Damien's bases, speedrunning for the young prince 13 years of Nephilim development before his true tutors arrived. It was only five months away.

The more Damien's body grew tempered and strong, as his aura cooled and swelled, the prince found himself doing less mundane tasks. Now the real fun began. The viscount eventually made Damien nearly pass out in a fit of joy one afternoon. It had been during one afternoon walk through the gardens they always took, where Damien would bombard the Lord Jorie about modern day Gera and Nephilim daily life. Suddenly, Viscount Astallon stopped the prince, leading him to a secluded clearing, ringed by glowing blue flowers. Within the large, possibly magical, bioluminescent ring, were two, large, flat stone tablets. Though they were largely unassuming, aside from all the angelic runes and symbols Damien could spot that were etched on them, the rocks emitted oceans of deeply saturated heavenly energy.

"Ok," Lord Jorie said, hands on his hips as he leaned back to crack his waist, "pop a squat on one dem rocks kiddo, I'mma teach you how to cultivate your aura, it's frankly surprising you got so far with such a shitass aura Sire."

Damien's neck almost broke from the speed with which he turned to stare at Lord Jorie.

"What. Did. You. Say?" He asked, not daring to believe his ears.

"Oh I'm sorry," Lord Jorie apologize, taken aback and genuinely shocked by the prince's sudden burst of intensity and emotion, "I meant no disrespect my Lord-"

"No no, stop it's not that," Damien said, waving off Lord Jorie's formalities before they could ruin his good mood. The young Nephilim prince's eyes went wide and almost began to sparkle as he ran up to the much taller Nephilim viscount, and tentatively asked, "you're really gonna teach me how to cultivate?..."

The viscount looked dumbfounded for a moment before he began to belly laugh and tousle Damien's hair.

"Yes Sire, I will now teach you the secret method we Nephilim have devised to train our auras. But you must remember Sire, these methods are heavily guarded sec-"

Viscount Astallon never got to finish his words as his imperial crown prince suddenly barreled into him full force, wrapping the deity in a bear hug.

"Thank you, Thank you, Thank you, Thank you, Thank you, Thank you, Thank you, Thank you, Thank you," Damien repeated feverishly, tears of happiness streaming down his face.

"Uhhhhhh," Lord Jorie responded, deeply confused at the prince's reaction, "Sire, they weren't torturing you at that Orphanage, were they?"

"Hah!" Damien yelled aloud in a gruff, fake laugh, "nothing could torture me the way my own powers and genetics did Lord Jorie."

"True," the Nephilim lord admitted with a sideways head nod, "can't even imagine what being a developing, young Nephilim again and not having the faintest idea would be like." He paused to ponder the thought, reflecting on his own early life as a mortal Nephilim.

The viscount shuddered, deeply disturbed at the thought.

"Well," he clapped his hands on his temples, banishing the thoughts, "enough time wasted we're burning daylight as it is." He pointed to the two, large, flat stones, "Oi, pick one and sit, stupid." He slightly ushered the prince towards the stones.

Damien picked the left stone, standing on it awkwardly flapping his arms like a penguin as Lord Jorie took the right stone. Sitting down in a cross legged position with each of his feet resting on his knees, the viscount's hands were forming what Damien recognized as an earth seal, but he couldn't tell which one. Intrinsically, Damien knew he was supposed to copy this form, and so proceeded to spend the next hour, trying and failing to hold the pose, until he finally started to get the hang of it.

'He acts like a demon,' Damien thought to himself in his exhausted mind, 'yet somehow also has the patience of a saint.'

As the hours progressed, Lord Jorie began to explain many things to Damien about Nephilim cultivation practices while they cultivated. Firstly the prince learnt that the area and the stones weren't necessary for Damien to cultivate, but they created an area of extremely holy ground, which did wonders for cleaning and purifying Nephilim auras that were cultivated atop it. Damien hollered for joy when he learnt that as a member of the Imperial Families, he was fully allowed to visit this location and most similar locations within Gera to cultivate at his discretion.

Secondly, the process by which Nephilim actually cultivated, was by doing something called Star Forging. Firstly, a Nephilim mage would have to master sensing both their souls and their auras, and then somehow find a way to meld them atop each other. This process wasn't specific to the Nephilim, as it was a generally discovered method of entering a mage's own inner realm. As the name denoted, an inner realm was sort of a metaphysical, liminal space that appeared at the border of where the soul overlapped with the aura. Once a mage was aware of their inner realms, a whole new reality of magical possibility and potential was awakened to them. Many races would only learn how to enter their inner realms deep into cultivation, approaching Sagehood. Nephilim however, needed to learn it just to begin cultivating.

Upon entering their inner realms, a Nephilim would first see a massive pathway of hundreds of gigantic, gray hollowed orbs, connected by streams of what seemed to be the starry night sky. Known as the Star Paths, the orbs, represented all of the major nodes and meridians existing in the Nephilim's body, and the streams of night sky connecting them, were the minor nodes and meridians. Damien would learn that these orbs were actually heavenly stars, massive celestial artifacts forged by the denizens of the Heavenly Host, allowing their half human relatives on earth to weaponize the fundamental energies of The Almighty.

That is, if the Nephilim mage proved equal to the task of cultivating that level of power.

To cultivate, a Nephilim would have to not only stretch a fragment of their aura throughout the Star Path until it met every giant, dead star, illuminating them and bringing life. The color yellow heavenly fire would then radiate throughout their Star Path, lighting up the dim environment with explosions of heavenly light.

Then came The Walk of Penance.

After igniting a portion of the Star Path to the nearest heavenly star, the cultivator would then have to create an astral projection of themselves that would walk the Star Path.

Except it could never just be that easy.

The Star Paths raged with a torrential river of heavenly energy. Angelic, chanting fire that came roaring along the Star Path from the awakened star, burning with the heat of solar fusion would be their challenge. Shrouding their astral bodies in the most powerful heavenly fire that the mage could generate, the Nephilim cultivator would then attempt to walk through the sea of destruction, trudging towards the star as heavenly fire bore down upon them from all around then, shredding and burning the cultivator mercilessly, with the literal fury of God. To eventually reach the star, sit within it and cultivate the heavenly scripture held within it was the goal of the nephilim cultivating.

The stars didn't hold just any old Psalm or Gospel, instead, the billions upon billions of runes that made up the stars' cores would channel the verses of the literal Song of Creation itself. Etching remnants of the awesome, almighty power of the glorious choir that spoke the Primordials themselves into being. The longer the Nephilim sat within the star, the more they would absorb more of the scripture, becoming exponentially stronger and advancing the color of that star, but also the longer the cultivator sat in the core of a star made of heavenly fire so hot it was constantly undergoing a form of magical nuclear fusion, the longer the heat of the power would torture their poor astral forms. Whenever Damien's astral body would be forcibly ejected from his inner realm, as the eventual pain and banging of the chanting energy would always inevitably break his concentration, Lord Jorie would be there to admonish, and guide him. Restoring the prince patiently to a more stable condition, then mercilessly forcing him to reenter his inner realm and resume cultivating.

Once Damien had successfully, agonizingly, cultivated up to 10% of the Song of Creation, Lord Jorie's astral body, that had been sitting calmly within the raging star, overseeing the prince's cultivation, alerted him that he had finally become attuned enough to the heavenly energy to attempt to awaken the second star. The viscount warned that when the fire of the second star eventually connected to the star they were currently in, the entire star path would become unquantifiably hotter. But instead of showing weakness, Damien instead, without replying, raised his aching, burnt astral arms and began begging the second star to awaken.

"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM"

A loud, hollow sound came emanating from the gigantic star, it was Damien's only warning, before the gentle giant artifact suddenly flared to life, gushing power with a horrifying, tremendous roar.

Again Damien would attempt trudging against the massive, rushing torrent of heavenly fire, again he would battle the heat of another star's core, adding to the previous, while bearing the crushing, imposing dominance of a pitiful few dregs of power of the Song of Creation that his crappy yellow stars could output. But as his withered and burnt astral body reignited the much stronger rose-golden heavenly fire that Damien had access to now and joined the cool, calm and collected astral body of the divine viscount, the two proceeded on with their journey to the next star in Damien's Star Path.

Pain and suffering had long become synonymous with Damien's existence, but with every step the battered yet determined young emperor took, the clearer the image of a version of him with the full epic verses of the Song of Creation inscribed upon his half-divine soul, became in his mind. A version that was constantly accessing a titanic, endless ocean of heavenly power that was the fundamental energy of the creator itself, seared itself into the boy's determination. A full set of rose-golden stars became the only things his mind saw worthy of illuminating his Star Path. And as the prince was ejected from his inner realm, halfway to the second star, the imperial crown prince swore, between bloodied, ragged breaths, that he would have it. Fortunately, his increasingly strengthening body mixed with the divine viscount's healing magic, allowed the young prince to bask in his delusions for a few more seconds, until fatigue brought him the now increasingly familiar, sweet release of blacking out.

In the foreground, sitting on a beautiful stone slab, sitting perfectly unmoving for hours, Damien's body would be amassing power and sharpening his aura control. But in the background, illuminating more and more of his Star Paths, the prince slogged along, illuminating more and more stars, allowing his aura and potential to also continue growing exponentially stronger. Both physically and magically, by cultivating the power of Heaven that was heavily imbued within every golden blood cell comprising the ichor now running in Damien's veins, the stats of the imperial prince would continue to explode dramatically. Suffering and tribulation would reward him by increasing his body's energy storage limits, aura size, efficiency and grade. And, as he would come to learn after accidentally kicking a crater into the dirt of the manor's soccer field while playing with some soldiers closer to his age, his physical limits had also dramatically grown.

'Jeez, I'm almost as physically strong as Jess now,' Damien thought to himself in wonder.

Damien would later come to learn that the giant stars also changed colors, but only after every Star Path star was first illuminated. The more the color of the stars progressed through the ranks, the more powerful the mage and their inner realms would become, giving the mage a cultivated soul and aura that were more and more connected to the fundamental energies of the Heavenly Host. The Star Path's stars could ascend from starting at Yellow, to Blue, to Green, to White, to Purple, to Orange. Finally, stopping at Red. Finally at true mastery, the stars would change to match the color of the Nephilim's own heavenly fire.

Lord Jorie had also explained that the purpose of the enchanted rocks and the glowing flowers was to create an incredibly powerful area of holy ground known as Sympathetic Grounds. Not only making it impossible for any demon, vengeful spirit, or fae of any kind or caliber to enter within the flower ring, but also inside the flower ring, was one of only 6 locations in the entire Mortal Realms that was a site of sympathetic ground. Its special properties allowed any two Nephilim to cultivate together, no matter the power imbalance or difference of auras. And so Damien was experiencing the teaching of a lifetime, having a deity Nephilim guide his cultivation from its inception, from within his own inner realm, helping the prince build the best power base possible.

At the moment, Damien who had proven to be an extraordinary quick study, mastering how to enter his inner realm in only an hour, only had a meager 3 Yellow stars to show for the now combined total 60 hours of deep mental, physical and magical torture he had undergone while intermittently cultivating for the past week. Damien was far beyond thoroughly exhausted in every way shape and form. Yet he still had 127 more stars left to ignite. But the difference was already extreme. Even as he was hobbling out of the garden again, supported by Viscount Astallon, Damien's body was continuously, rapidly healing his fatigue and stress. Damien hadn't been able to heal himself before without the aid of a potion, salve or some other healing apparatus to at least start the process, and even then, his self healing was always shitty at best constantly requiring a more skilled healer to rewound and then reheal him. But now, the imperial crown prince's body was both starting to mend and completely heal wounds completely on its own. The part that terrified Damien at best and made him nearly shit himself at worst, was that it was also at a rate far higher than anything he had ever known was possible for him.

With crystal clarity Damien could recall the fastest healing he knew someone his age was capable of. A very bloody fight had once left Ivan with his arm dangling off by a few tendons at his elbow. While the vampire was only 14 at the time, he had an unnatural proficiency for blood magic. One of his cronies had offered the gang leader their neck, and after a savage, uncomfortable drinking session, a crowd of onlookers stared in shock as Ivan's arm stitched itself back together. Until, within seconds it looked as if nothing had ever happened.

This the same level of healing that Ivan and his gang had!

Damien couldn't believe it. They were older than him, and had been cultivating far longer, but with just 60 hours of hell on earth, he had wretchedly climbed the ladder of power to where they currently sat. The prince knew, unquestionably, certainly, if he were to fight the group again, he would soundly thrash them all by a country mile. It reverberated throughout his entire being.

But Damien couldn't believe it. Even as he flexed his fingers, feeling his entire being, his incredibly developed muscles and much denser bones. Even as he reached inward and felt for his aura, expecting to see the mild pool it had once been, instead now seeing a massive lake of power. Even as it confirmed to him the truth.

Surreal, was just the beginning.

He had finally done it, finally upheld his promise to his mother disguised as Sister Hua.

He had finally started becoming strong.

By the time the pair had reached the exit to the gardens, Damien was even already walking on his own and soon began jogging. A wild smile was plastered on his face as he jumped, shooting meters into the air hollering with glee and conviction.

'Only 3 crappy, yellow stars brought this much of a difference,' he silently pondered, mind blown, 'sheesh.'

Not for the first time Damien's mind wandered to thoughts of his mother again.

"Lord Jorie," he called out, turning back to address the leisurely walking noble.

"Sup?" the viscount called back, not bothering to turn around.

"What color stars am I expected to have when I arrive at the imperial court?"

"Hm...." Lord Jorie thought, scratching his red beard, "there's technically no such thing as 'expected' but if you're talking about as compared to the other princes and princess from the rest of the Imperial Families, including your own? They all have at least full sets of purple stars by the time they're 15. Some of those imperial monster hellspawn even have full sets of reds! AT FUCKING 20?!." Lord Jorie shurred, grabbing himself. "But," he went on, "the expectation is purple. It's almost considered a rite of passage for those freaks." Putting a hand on Damien's shoulder, Viscount Astallon smiled down at his imperial crown prince. "You may be a freak, but you're a good freak tho." The viscount laughed and tousled the prince's hair again, but Damien didn't notice.

Truthfully, ever since his jaw had involuntarily unhinged from hearing Lord Jorie's answer, Damien hadn't noticed much of anything really. There he was, excited over 3 yellow stars, and yet his peers were already cultivating blue stars. The prince sighed and his shoulders sagged. How he was ever going to attain 130 purple stars in only 2 more years was far out of his mind's ability to fathom.

Damien's sigh was lacquered with depression and self loathing. He was surely going to embarrass himself in front of all 7 imperial families, and lord only knew how many other royal and noble ones. The prince sank to his knees in defeat, his beaten and lifeless eyes couldn't even find the strength to cry in self pity.

"Hey kiddo," Lord Jorie said, turning back around to comfort the prince, kneeling to look the young boy in the eyes, while using a finger to lift the crown prince's chin, "don't be depressy, if you're depressy, you can't cultivessy."

Damien gazed up silently through tear soaked eyes.

"...There's something deeply wrong with you," Damien grumbled as he got up following a brief moment of silence, "you do know that right?"

The viscount guffawed, a heavy belly laugh, "there's so many things deeply wrong with all of us, Sire." he said wiping a tear from his eye, "I'm just chilling with mine."

***

Damien had found that since becoming richer than his wildest dreams by proxy of his heritage, time had essentially lost most of its meaning for him. He vaguely was aware of the passage of time as Henry had eventually returned to the manor at some point. But every moment the young Nephilim wasn't spending in his studies, sharpening his wit, knowledge and skills as a future head of state, he was cultivating like a madman.

Lord Jorie's teachings continued to prove invaluable for Damien. After only month of cultivating every moment he physically could, Damien had finally struggled to reach 30 yellow stars under the god's guidance. The prince had learnt that after his aura control had blossomed to a certain degree, his inner realm had changed.

Drastically.

Whereas originally all Damien could originally see was a large expanse of darkness, filled with gigantic stars and streams made of the night sky connecting them, now the Star Paths were way up in the sky of his inner realm.

Oh yeah, his inner realm now had a sky...

And a dark, large field, covered in dew soaked blades of grass...

And there was also now a massive, 8 floor, black, spiraling tower?

After Damien had mentioned it to the viscount one morning in passing, he was greeted to a scene of Lord Jorie crashing into a vase. Lucky the Nephilim lord managed to catch the priceless artifact before it shattered, but nevertheless, Damien was still beyond terrified.

As far as he knew, gods didn't trip, or stumble, or bump into things. Ever. It was almost as if they couldn't. From what Damien could gather, their senses were simply just too refined, to the point most mortals were convinced any stumble made by a deity was likely fabricated and intentional. However, the look on Lord Jorie's face silenced those suspicions.

Lord Jorie had actually tripped.

The god's next words made Damien realize why. An inner realm being able to manifest an environment and reveal the weird tower known as a Soul Pagoda, was one of the hidden requirements for sagehood, not only that, but the Soul Pagoda was the physical manifestation of a mage's soul despite what race they were. Manifesting it, was when true power would begin to emerge for that mage. Manifesting a sky however, was one of the hidden requirements for godhood. It wasn't merely something that just happened by mistake, and definitely not after igniting only 30 yellow stars in the Star Path. So the implications of all 3 just appearing out of nowhere, to a 13 year old that was barely a month into cultivating, was so far out of the bounds of anything normal, that the deity viscount's brain had actually shut down.

Lord Jorie felt he probably didn't need to swear the young prince to secrecy after seeing the effects his words had on Prince Damien, but he still did so anyway.

Damien recalled how afterwards, the viscount had heaved an audible sigh of relief, muttering something about "thanking God no one else had heard that," and that, "if I had any doubts left about the shrimp being the Empress's son, they're definitely gone now, sheeeeesh."

Though after the viscount eventually regained his composure, post his existential breakdown, he had finally taught Damien how to cultivate by Astral Boxing. Though it was no small decision. Astral Boxing a secret, transcendental form of cultivating that was a high value secret of the Empire of Gera. It was what allowed their sage leveled mages to have a much greater chance at breaking into godhood.

Lord Jorie explained to the increasingly excited boy that it was normally only taught to the brightest sages of the Nephilim empire because of the extreme danger learning this method entailed. However, seeing as Damien had suddenly now somehow manifested an inner realm of a sage, while not being anywhere near that level of strength, a level of extreme caution without precedent had suddenly emerged. Lord Jorie swore he would be damned if talent like this was wasted on "pussy ass, greenhorn cultivation, for Christ knows how long?"

Yet when the Viscount's plans for the imperial crown pince's training was brought to a council, the Heat Courtier and all of the other deity lords had stringently objected the decision. That was, until Lord Jorie, to the immense surprise of Damien, pulled rank revealing he actually stood above all of them in terms of his rank within the militaries of Gera as a Lord High General, and forced them all to submit to his order. Silencing any further dissenting voices with a stone cold line.

"I'll stand before the Empress herself and say the same, train him to his actual potential not to the ceilings placed by your own ignorant, arbitrary fears, or you are an enemy of the empire," his divine energy and stoney grey heavenly fire began to bubble up around him before he continued eerily, "and I will treat you as such."

With a combined total history of over 10 million years the Empire of Gera had seen what was thought to be every possible anomaly within the Nephilim youth since the inception of the races of half angels, culminating in its strangest one of all time, the Empress Hoaquin herself. Though only about 3 million years of their history were reliably recorded, there was very little that could surprise the learned of Nephilim history. Leaving a bookworm like Lord Jorie so thoroughly stumped for answers wasn't a very easy thing for Damien to achieve.

Within his inner realm, Damien would attempt to focus the power of his available greater and lesser meridians to coalesce into a copy of himself. Under the power of the heavenly stars radiating down from his inner realm's sky, and stabilized by his Soul Pagoda, upon the ghostly blue grass, a rose gold version of himself would form. It would be outfitted with all of his current weaponry, would know all of his spells, have access to all of his cultivation and had mastery of all his techniques. The copy was fully autonomous, could think and act for itself, and would only disappear if Damien either defeated or dispelled it.

Seemed simple enough.

12 days of brutal, constant failures resulting in many ruptured meridians, random internal and external bleeding, constant horrifying migraines, and many, many doctors running in and out of the prince's ward, would prove to Damien that learning Astral Boxing, especially without having yet achieved a divine body, which was normally attained by reaching sagehood, would be anything but simple.

But onward, the prince pressed forth.

Eventually he completed the astral body, and after being given all of 12 gratifying seconds that Lord Jorie permitted Damien to rest, the prince began combat against his rose golden copy.

Damien was still mentally reeling a week later. His copy had thrashed him so badly, his aura had just ejected him to save him any further humiliation.

He wasn't allowed to astral box again until the ringing in his head subsided. But when it did, Damien threw himself into it with reckless abandon. He finally had a method of cultivating he could do at any time.

He meant any time.

While he showered, Damien was astral boxing. While he was on the toilet, eating, walking, exercising, he was astral boxing. The prince even practiced the cultivation method in his sleep, at least for as long as he could before he fell to his subconscious. A month of cultivating astral boxing alongside his normal sessions in the grove of Sympathetic Ground with Lord Jorie had made something glaringly obvious to the young imperial crown prince. While cultivating in the sky of his inner realm, walking along the Star Path, would bring the greatest, most explosive change to Damien's aura size and the size of his mana pool, it didn't increase his aura control or aura efficiency anywhere near as fast. However, astral boxing, while it didn't give tremendous increases to aura size, was almost like a cheat code at increasing Damien's aura efficiency and control.

It was now glaringly obvious to Damien why Lord Jorie had endured such a crisis over divulging the information.

But the true horror of the efficiency gained from mixing both cultivation methods that Damien soon realized one morning, dropping his toast in shock, was that astral boxing was allowing him to traverse the Star Paths for longer periods of time, and withstand its obliterating, holy heat much, much longer.

Risky cultivation, a few more constant visits to the manor's infirmary ward that were beginning to feel eerily familiar to Damien, and a few sessions of emergency jumpstarting the prince's heart, had eventually been how Damien would wind up in a hospital bed, 7 total months in to living at the manor.

Though, as he raised a heavily wrapped hand with random IV's sticking out from his arm, Damien couldn't help but smile.

All 130 stars of his star path were now activated, and about 20 of them were Blue!

"Worth," he croaked with a pained chuckle.

"I'll say!" Lord Jorie laughed aloud, having just materialized into the room, not bothering to knock or use the door, "you keep speedrunning becoming a vegetable and soon I won't have anything left to return to Her Majesty! You know she'll like, actually turn me into canned soup herself if you die right?"

Damien hollered with laughter, despite his injuries and the wincing in pain his laughter caused him.

Lord Jorie patted the injured prince on the head, smiling both crazily and gently. "Your tutors have almost arrived, and your aura isn't as shit ass now," the viscounts smile turned devious and devilish, "perfect time to teach you how to angelize!" The god rubbed his hands in glee, "and I just really wanna see what your scythe looks like, there's lots of money being placed on some bets already."

"..........My what?" was all Damien's mind could attempt.