The midday sun filtered through a cloud-dotted sky, painting warm patches of light over the cobblestone streets of Kuoh. Rowan strolled casually through the town square, hands tucked into the pockets of his long black coat, exuding the easy swagger of someone with no immediate concerns. A short distance behind him lumbered Bancho Kong—his massive silverback familiar—each of his steps sending subtle tremors through the ground.
The town buzzed with the comforting rhythm of daily life. Shopkeepers shouted two-for-one sales, children darted through the crowd with wild laughter, and couples lounged beneath blooming cherry blossoms, lost in their own little worlds.
Beside him walked Sora, his ever-capable assistant, lazily twirling a strand of her snowy white hair as she glanced at her phone.
"So," Rowan began, "what's the best way to spread my fliers around town without looking desperate?"
She didn't even glance up. "Most devils use familiars. But yours..." She threw a look over her shoulder at Bancho Kong, who was now glaring at a hot dog cart like it had personally insulted him. "…is less 'charming delivery pet' and more 'escaped final boss.'"
Rowan smirked. "Intimidation is still a valid marketing strategy."
"Not when you're trying to get contracts, genius," she muttered, pocketing her phone with a sigh.
Without warning, she plucked the stack of crimson-glossed fliers from his hand—only for them to vanish in a flicker of cool blue flame.
Rowan blinked. "Did you just... destroy them?"
"Distributed them," Sora said nonchalantly. "My own personal network. Familiars are so last century."
"Kinda feels like I should be worried about that…"
"And yet you won't be," she said dryly.
Realizing he'd already lost the argument, Rowan veered off into a quiet side street and slipped into a rustic little café with a faded wooden sign: Café Cardinale. The warm scent of roasted beans and buttery pastries wrapped around him like an old friend.
Inside, the café was all mismatched furniture, soft golden lighting, and mellow jazz humming from vintage speakers. The barista nodded without a word, handing Rowan his usual before he even sat down.
He settled into a corner seat by the window, steam curling from his cup, and pulled out his phone to review the day's stats.
---
STATUS TAB
Name: Rowan Bael
Race: Devil
Age: 17
Titles: The New Guy, Nekomancer
Affiliation: Devils
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral
Power Level: Mid-Low Class
Skills:
• Brawler's Instinct
• Normal Punch
• Arcobaleno Instinct
• Basic Archery
• Reaper's Flow
• Culinary Calm
• Saint's Swagger
• Red Fang Style
Spells:
• Devil's Grasp
Peerage: None
Familiar: Bancho Kong
---
He stared at the screen for a moment, unimpressed.
"I really gotta train more," he muttered. "And maybe recruit a peerage before I'm old enough to file taxes."
Just then, a subtle tug at his core—a spreading warmth—caught his attention.
He glanced up. "Already?"
Sora's voice echoed in his mind, smug as ever: You saw me send the fliers. Don't act surprised.
Rowan sighed, downed the last of his coffee, and rose.
With a flick of his fingers, he activated Saint's Swagger. His casual clothes shimmered, reforming into a sharp obsidian suit that rode the line between mafia elegance and runway cool. His aura flared with effortless demonic poise.
He cracked his neck.
"Alright then. Devil on call."
With a pulse of energy, he vanished.
---
He reappeared in a modest living room. The walls were yellowed from age, the carpet worn from years of pacing, and a faint scent of lavender clung to the air. Family photos lined the mantle—happy, tired smiles frozen in time.
On the couch sat a woman in her forties. Brown hair tied back hastily, dark eyes ringed with exhaustion. Her uniform shirt was wrinkled and half-unbuttoned, the name tag barely clinging on.
"Whoa," she said, blinking. "It actually worked." She cleared her throat. "Hi. I'm Shiori. Uh... Mr. Devil?"
Rowan smiled with practiced ease. "Rowan Bael. How can I help?"
She slumped deeper into the couch. "Honestly? I just got back from a twelve-hour shift, my back's killing me, and I haven't had a proper meal in days. Can you... make dinner?"
He tilted his head. "No cursed relics? No revenge hexes?"
She shook her head, eyes already fluttering shut. "Just food. Comfort food."
A pause. Then a soft chuckle escaped him. "I can do that."
---
Forty-five minutes later, Rowan returned from her kitchen bearing a steaming plate of pasta—thick spaghetti coiled in a hearty meat sauce flecked with herbs, topped with a snowfall of fresh parmesan. A fat slice of golden, aromatic garlic bread sat beside it.
Shiori sat up, wide-eyed. "Oh my god. Pasta! I love pasta."
She devoured it like a woman starved, tears welling in her eyes between bites.
When she finished, she handed him a small box. Inside was a gleaming gold Rolex.
"...This is real," Sora said, appearing out of nowhere to appraise it.
Rowan raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"
Shiori shrugged. "It was my boss's. Total jackass. I lifted it off his desk. Consider it payment."
Rowan gave her a devilish smirk. "That's impressively petty. I approve."
"Thanks, Devil Man. I'll summon you again."
---
Rowan landed back on his couch with a sigh of contentment.
"Well... that was anticlimactic."
He stood, stretching—and froze as another tug flared in his chest. Lighter this time, but persistent.
"Again? Fine, let's see."
---
This time, he appeared at a bustling farmer's market. The smell of roasted chestnuts, sun-warmed oranges, and grilling yakitori filled the air. Stalls stretched down both sides of the street, covered in colorful banners and shaded by canvas.
A tiny old woman stood behind a produce stall. Gray hair in a neat bun, weathered hands still moving with graceful efficiency.
"Ah! Mr. Devil!" she called brightly. "I'm Tanaka Fumiko. My grandson bailed on me again. I need help with lifting and selling. You'll be paid in food."
Rowan gave a polite bow. "You had me at 'food.' Where do I start?"
---
A few hours later, the stall was sold out, and Rowan's arms ached pleasantly. Fumiko handed him a heavy canvas bag filled with fresh vegetables and sweet potatoes wrapped in parchment.
"Thank you so much, dear," she said, beaming. "I'll tell my friends about you."
"I look forward to their summons," Rowan said, vanishing with a small grin.
---
Back home, he didn't even make it to the couch before the next tug yanked at him—stronger this time. Urgent.
He reappeared in a dimly lit bedroom. Crayon drawings covered the walls. A faint nightlight cast soft shadows over toys scattered across the floor. Soft sobbing echoed in the silence.
Following the sound, Rowan found a little boy—maybe seven years old, black hair—kneeling beside an unconscious woman. Given the similarities between the two of them, Rowan could tell at a glance that she was the boy's mother.
Rowan checked the mother's pulse she was alive just unconscious.
The boy sniffled. "Daddy hit her... with a bottle... She won't wake up..."
Rowan checked her pulse. Alive. Unconscious. Relief flickered through him.
"What's your name, kid?"
"...Kenta."
"Okay, Kenta. I'm gonna help her. But we'll need to get her to a hospital."
He scooped the woman up carefully.
That's when the door slammed open.
A tall, heavyset man blocked the frame. Reeking of alcohol. Holding a cracked beer bottle.
"Who the fuck are you?"
Rowan's voice dropped into a chilling calm. "Why'd you hit your wife?"
"She mouthed off. Had to show her her place."
Red light flared in Rowan's eyes.
"Bancho," he called.
With a pulse of energy, the massive silverback filled the room, towering and silent.
The man paled. "W-what is that?!"
Rowan's voice was ice. "Problem solver."
Bancho grabbed the man by the collar, lifting him effortlessly. In a flash of shadow, they both vanished.
---
At the hospital, Rowan left a cover story for the EMTs—he said he heard screaming and found them like this. The police decided to view the incident as a severe case of domestic violence and began investigating immediately
As they rolled the woman into surgery, Kenta tugged at Rowan's coat.
"Big brother Devil... thank you."
Rowan knelt and ruffled his hair.
"No charge. Go be with your mom."
Kenta hugged him tight, then ran inside.
---
Back in his apartment, Rowan leaned against the wall, eyes closed. For the first time The gravity of the situation slammed into focus And he began to wonder if these everyday occurrences were really as small And insignificant as devils seem to treat them.
"Sora," he called softly.
She appeared in a shimmer. "Yeah?"
He looked at her, eyes sharper now. "How often does that kind of thing happen?"
She didn't flinch. "Too often."
"So Rias and Sona... they're only watching the supernatural. They're ignoring the rest."
He clenched a fist, anger simmering.
"That's not enough."