Call Me Akuma

As we approached the exit door of the docking area, we were greeted by a group of combat maids. Their appearance left no room for doubt; each wore a gold-and-black maid uniform, albeit modified for battle, and carried weapons. Some held sleek, handheld guns, while others had daggers strapped to their thighs. Their presence was as striking as their scent, which carried the delicate fragrance of freshly plucked roses. 

They all stood tall, their heights ranging from six to seven feet, and their eyes burned with an unwavering passion—a fiery dedication that made it clear their very existence revolved around serving us. 

At the forefront stood a maid who appeared to be their leader. She placed a hand on her chest, bowed deeply, and spoke with a tone laced with utmost respect. "By the will of the Emperor and God, I am the Chief Attendant of this sanctified bastion. It is my solemn honor to serve the esteemed lineage of our Lord... as decreed by divine providence." 

Though her voice carried a slight tremor, her sincerity was undeniable. Her eyes shone with the fervor of a devout worshipper, her every word and movement a testament to her absolute dedication. The weight of her reverence was almost tangible, leaving no doubt that she would lay down her life if it meant fulfilling her duty. 

My father, ever calm and composed, subtly signaled for them to proceed. The group of maids hurriedly, yet with remarkable precision, moved ahead of us, taking the lead as if to escort us to our quarters. Behind them, the Custodes guards followed, and so did we. 

After walking for several minutes through the massive hallways, accompanied by the faint hum of the spaceship reverberating through the grand corridors, we finally arrived at our designated room. With a graceful hand gesture, the lead maid directed us to the door. Without a word, the four Custodes guards took their positions—two on each side—standing vigilant like statues of unwavering loyalty. 

My father was the first to enter the room, his movements as composed as ever. My mother followed closely behind him. Just as one of the maids was about to follow us in, my mother raised her hand, signaling them to stay outside. Without hesitation, they obeyed, forming a perfectly aligned line against the wall, their postures disciplined and their presence quiet yet attentive. 

Once everyone was in their proper places, my mother gently closed the door, sealing us in the room and leaving the maids and guards to keep watch outside. 

The room we entered was immense, at least twice the size of the log house bedroom I had grown accustomed to. Luxurious furniture filled the space, each piece radiating wealth and refinement. A massive window dominated one side of the room, offering a breathtaking view of space and the ships. There was also an adjoining room, likely a bathroom, judging by its placement and design. 

My father walked straight to a grand chair positioned near the large window and sat down without a word. His presence, as always, was calm and composed. My mother, on the other hand, gently laid me on the enormous bed, her voice soft and soothing as she said, "My baby must be tired from this journey. Have a small nap. We'll reach there in half an hour, and after that, you'll finally be named. Are you excited? Look, even your father is excited!" 

Curious, I glanced toward my father. His expression was as stoic as ever, not betraying even a hint of emotion. Yet, as if in response to my gaze, the corners of his lips tugged upward into the faintest hint of a smile. 

"Come on, dear," my mother teased him, her tone playful yet gentle. "At least show some happiness—it's our son's naming ceremony day." 

But even that subtle smile on his face quickly faded, replaced by his usual blank expression. He finally spoke, his deep, calm voice cutting through the air. "Why do you want to do it?" 

My mother's demeanor softened further; her voice quiet yet firm. "I don't want to discuss that topic anymore." 

At her reply, my father remained outwardly composed, yet the atmosphere in the room shifted dramatically. This wasn't the suffocating pressure I had felt earlier with the Custodes guards; it was something entirely different. The air seemed to crackle with static, making all of my hair stand on end. It grew heavy and oppressive, and for the first time in this life—or perhaps any life—I felt an indescribable fear. 

It wasn't fear in the conventional sense; it was something primal, absolute, as though I were staring directly into the essence of death itself. My heart raced uncontrollably, pounding so violently in my chest that I thought I might have a heart attack. Beads of sweat formed on my brow and trickled down my temples, my body trembling under the weight of the overwhelming dread. 

And just as quickly as it came, the suffocating presence vanished without a trace, leaving me gasping for air. My thoughts raced in the silence that followed: Are all the people here trying to suffocate me to death? Or scare me to death? 

In that moment, something shifted around my father. A strange force field began to manifest, crackling energy resembling electricity flickering across his body. With each passing second, the energy grew more intense, the static noise escalating as it consumed him entirely, becoming more vivid and alive. The chair he sat on started to tremble, nearby furniture rattling violently. Even the massive window behind him began to groan under the strain, fine cracks spiderwebbing rapidly across its surface, threatening to shatter. 

The lightning-like force field expanded outward, and the once-muted hum of static transformed into an ear-piercing, high-pitched whine. The noise grew louder with every surge, sharp and grating, until it stabbed at my ears with unbearable intensity. The energy crackled ominously as it surged outward, chaotic and untamed. The room seemed on the brink of collapse—furniture shuddering, the massive window straining under mounting pressure, and the raw, destructive force threatening to engulf everything in its wake. 

Just as the crackling energy was about to reach the fragile glass, my mother spoke, her voice soft yet calm and steady, as though the chaos before her was inconsequential. 

"The window, honey," she said gently. 

Her words, though simple, carried a weight that seemed to cut through the storm. Instantly, my father paused, his head tilting slightly as though regaining control. The electric field around him wavered, the crackling arcs of energy beginning to diminish. It was as if her voice alone had the power to anchor him, pulling him back from the abyss he had momentarily slipped into. 

As my father moved toward the bathroom, I couldn't help but notice the aftermath of the energy that had surrounded him. Everything the crackling force had touched—furniture, parts of the floor—was slowly vaporized, reduced to nothingness. The grand chair he had been sitting in no longer existed, leaving only a faint scorch mark as evidence of its prior existence. 

It was as if the energy had erased not just objects but their very essence, leaving behind neither debris nor remnants. The sheer destructive potential of the power my father wielded was both awe-inspiring and terrifying. My mind raced, grappling with the thought—what kind of power was this? It was so dangerous that if it had touched the window, we would have been sucked into the void, left to freeze to death in the unrelenting cold of deep space. 

The mere thought sent a chill down my small spine, a cold reminder of the precariousness of such overwhelming power. 

My father exudes a calm and collected demeanor, one that commands authority without ever needing to show force. His unwavering composure suggests a profound level of control and power. The reactions of others, like Panthera Tigris and his entourage, only reinforce this; their subtle envy speaks volumes about the respect—and perhaps fear—he commands. 

If this is the extent of his power, then provoking him would be a grave mistake. His restraint is undoubtedly a mark of wisdom, but anger from someone capable of such destruction is not something to be taken lightly. It's a lesson I would do well to remember. 

The topic my mother referred to must have been about her real body—there could be no other explanation. Only something of that magnitude could provoke an argument between my parents. Otherwise, my father is incredibly calm and composed. It's rare to see any emotion on his face, let alone anger. 

I still don't fully understand what they're arguing about, because whenever the topic comes up, they usually step outside, as if trying to shield me from hearing their conflict. As a result, I only know bits and pieces, never the full picture. 

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I enjoyed writing this chapter, and I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. 

If we reach 100 stones, I'll reward you all with a bonus chapter!