Day 51
Recently, I've been studying their anatomy. I was never really a fan of anatomy or bodily functions—mostly because I'm made of one thing. One material. Solid, consistent. But these people… they aren't.
Belial paused, his claw tapping gently on the edge of the tablet. The Prince's words echoed his own thoughts, a mirror to the strangeness of his existence. The Prince, carved from a single crystalline shard, was a being of unity, unchanging in form.
But demons—Belial's kind...were different. Not just in their outward appearance, with their jagged horns and leathery wings, but in how they were built on the inside, in ways even they didn't fully understand. Their essence was fluid, mutable, a constant dance of change and survival.
The Prince's notes continued, each line pulling Belial deeper into the mystery:
Demons are different—not just in the way they look on the outside, but in how they're built on the inside. In ways even they don't fully understand yet. They have these evolutionary ranks. Stages of growth, of change. Their society is built around it. It determines everything—their status, their strength, their place in the world. And it's not just culture. It's biology. It's something embedded deep within them, in every breath and battle they survive.
Belial's brow furrowed, his thoughts drifting to the Grukin, a race he'd read about in earlier entries. They, too, evolved in stages, their bodies shifting to meet the demands of their brutal world. It wasn't just demons, then. The capacity to evolve—to become something more—was a trait shared by a select few races across the realms. Dragonborn, with their scales that hardened with each battle. Certain Beastkin clans, whose forms adapted to their environments over generations. But humans? Elves? They were static, their bodies bound by the limits of flesh and time. Angels were a mystery, their paths shrouded in divine secrecy. Belial hadn't learned enough about them to know if they evolved, or if their celestial essence was fixed, eternal.
The Prince's words painted a vivid picture of a world defined by transformation:
There were a few races across the realms that had the capacity to evolve—truly evolve. Not just age or grow stronger, but become something else. It was a trait born from brutal history. From centuries of war, mutation, survival. Natural selection had done its work. But in modern times, that pressure was gone. There were no endless wars, no need to claw one's way up the evolutionary ladder to survive. Still, demons evolved. Slowly, over time, their bodies—and their essence...shifted.
Belial leaned back, the hum of the ether crystals filling the silence. His own kind, demons—were a testament to that relentless drive to evolve. Their society was a hierarchy of power, each stage of growth a marker of strength and status. He traced a claw along the edge of the tablet, his mind turning inward. He understood his path, the journey his people took. It was written in his blood, in the curse that pulsed through his veins.
The Prince's notes outlined the stages with a clarity that made Belial's chest tighten:
Demons are born as Imps—small, wiry creatures, barely stronger than human children. Mischievous, often wild, they range in intelligence from dull to brilliant. Most Imps are children or teens in human terms, still forming an identity, still uncertain of their place.
Belial's lips twitched, a faint smirk masking the ache of memory. He'd been an Imp once, all sharp elbows and reckless energy, his horns barely nubs, his wings too weak to lift him more than a few feet. He'd been wilder then, driven by a restless need to prove himself, even if he didn't know what that meant. The Prince's words captured it perfectly—the uncertainty, the chaos of a mind still finding its shape.
The entry continued:
Then come the Gravespawn—minor demons. A step above. Teenagers to young adults in body and power. It's the first time a demon can consciously harness their ether, the first time they can kill and shape themselves through combat, trauma, and training.
Belial's gaze drifted to the crystalline veins in the walls, their pulses mirroring the rhythm of his own heart. That's where I am now, he thought. Gravespawn. Just recently hit the mark. The realization brought no pride, only a dull weight. He'd reached this stage through his master's brutal training, a regimen of pain and discipline that had left scars both visible and hidden. He'd been a late bloomer, slower than most, his progress mocked by those who saw him as weak, an embarrassment to his bloodline. But he'd clawed his way forward, driven by something deeper than ambition—survival, perhaps, or spite.
The Prince's notes went on, detailing the path ahead:
*Some demons stay there. Their bloodlines aren't strong enough. Their ambition isn't sharp enough. They spend eternity as Gravespawn, caught in a limbo of minor power. But others go further.
The next tier is the Hellion—intermediate demons. Their ether takes on shape. Their presence becomes pressure. Just being near them can set normal emergents on edge. They start to understand true willpower, the manipulation of their form, and the weight of their name.
Belial's fingers tightened around the tablet. Hellions were a different breed, their power palpable, their presence a force that could unsettle even the bravest mortal. He'd met a few in his time, their eyes burning with a confidence he envied. They were the ones who began to shape their own destinies, who wielded their ether like artists rather than soldiers.
The Prince's words grew heavier as they described the higher tiers:
After that come the Dreadnoughts—greater demons. Towering, devastating. Rare. A single Dreadnought can cleave through regiments or command cities. It is said that a mere Aetherion Dreadnought destroyed one of their cities before —those ancient creatures of death and devouring. I'm not sure that's accurate, but it's not far off.
Belial's breath caught, the image of a Dreadnought looming in his mind. He'd seen one once, from a distance, its silhouette blotting out the horizon like a storm given form. The ether had stilled in its presence, and even now, the memory sent a shiver down his spine. To become a Dreadnought was to transcend, to wield power that could reshape the yourself.
The Prince's notes reached their peak:
Above them are the Archdemons—high demons, sometimes ruling clans or entire circles. Beings of intellect and overwhelming force. Few in number. Fewer in sanity. Then come the Nether, the Demon Lords, royalty among the infernal. Each one shapes parts of the underworld and rules with iron fists or silken chains. At the peak stand the Daemon. Not demons—Daemons. A title earned, not given. The Demon Kings. Creatures so powerful they have eclipsed any known measurement. The name Daemon was given to them by humans, strangely enough. Perhaps because it was the only way mortals could grasp what they were.
Belial set the notebook down, his claws scraping softly against its surface. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a strange pull of tension in his shoulders. His muscles were changing, growing denser, more responsive. His ether was changing, the cursed strands weaving into something new. He was changing, and the realization both thrilled and terrified him.
These evolutionary stages weren't just ceremonial titles—they were a blueprint for power. A B-rank hunter might hold their own against other B ranks, but a Dreadnought by evolution could crush entire squads without effort. Belial had no precise way to measure it, only rough comparisons drawn from the Prince's notes and his own experiences. But he understood the scale, the implications. And most importantly, he understood what it meant for him.
He had the bloodline.
The cursed one. The only thing his mother...The Dark Witch of Calamity—had ever truly given him. It was the only good thing she had done, and even that felt tainted, a gift wrapped in thorns. For years, he'd hated her, rejected every part of his heritage out of spite.
It had blinded him, made him push away the potential that simmered in his blood. But now, in the silence of the room, he could feel it stirring, like a tide slowly rising. The beginning of another transformation. A signal that he might be on the edge of becoming a Hellion, or perhaps even a Dreadnought, sooner than he'd expected.
The chamber seemed to close in around him, the crystalline veins pulsing faster, as if sensing the shift within him. He stood, his wings twitching involuntarily, a faint ache spreading through his chest.
He was no longer the Imp he'd been, nor the weak Gravespawn who'd struggled under his master's lash. He was something more, something in between, and the path ahead was both a promise and a threat.
And he wasn't sure if he feared it… or craved it.