Heart Devil [OP Yandere Schizo Ramble LitRPG XD]

The stone hallway of the capital's upper ring reeked of sanctified ink and old power. A polished sterility soaked the walls, every line of the architecture too precise to be comforting. It was built to impress but also to remind.

'You do not belong here', that was the message beneath the gold-veined marble and ever-glowing mage-lamps.

Abigail adjusted her posture anyway, spine tall beneath the weight of her ceremonial black robe. Its hems were dulled by weeks of temple steps and unpaved road, the edge frayed where mountain winds had gnawed. Her boots bore scuffs from more than terrain. From waiting rooms, from clerical staircases, from doors that almost never opened.

A thick sheaf of documents rested in her hands, twice-sealed, countersigned, and aura-pressed. This was the product of that long march. Six months worth of magical authority, legal precedent, spiritual endorsements, and ancient laws dug up like bones from a forgotten grave.

It was more than paperwork.

It was a weapon.

And like any weapon, it would only matter if it struck true.

She inhaled carefully. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

The two royal guards flanking the council doors didn't bother to hide their disdain. Their runic armor glowed faintly, and their silence was its own judgment.

"They'll hear you soon." one said apathetically.

Abigail didn't respond. She refused to give them the satisfaction of a reaction.

Let them think her meek, it would only make the impact sharper.

She rolled her shoulder once, quietly, without flair. Beneath her robe, a fracture-line of suppressed mana pulsed against her collarbone, like a heartbeat she refused to listen to. Her cursed circuits had always been like that, loudest in stillness.

Six months, six months of obstruction. Every registrar had found some missing citation, every temple had mysteriously lost its archives, every courier carrying her writs had been misrouted or delayed.

House Sunblade's influence stretched farther than she'd imagined. Far enough to bend city law, bend records, bend perception.

But it didn't break her.

'I taught him, trained him, cared for him.'

She had proof. Not just spells or affection, but inked law.

Article 17-B: Bastard Custodianship. A clause so old and disused that most nobles assumed it had been erased. It hadn't. She had found it buried in the mage's association, Skyglass Tower's second archive, sealed behind an oath-woven barrier that hadn't been disturbed in decades.

It said that in the case of illegitimate heirs discovered after magical awakening, any officially registered guardian or magical mentor had the right to custody, if established before the noble bloodline claimed them.

And Abigail had trained Damien before the Sunblades came knocking.

She whispered the clause again under her breath like a warding charm.

Let them smile through that.

The door opened with fatigue.

A creak. Just enough to say 'we'll see you now, but do not mistake this for welcome'.

She entered the council chamber without hesitating.

The room was circular, lined with tiered benches and floating flames. The air smelled like old oaths and burned incense. At the center, a crescent dais wrapped around a oak podium. Behind it sat four council members, one for law, one for magic, one for war, and one for finance. And above them all, Prince Roderic Drakmor, second in line to the throne and a pact holder of his royal family's dragonic contracts.

A Dragoon.

He looked far too young. Barely twenty, perhaps. His ash-white hair was tied back in a soldier's knot. His robes, dark and unadorned. But his gaze was sharp, amber, unreadable. It made him seem older than any of them.

"Archmage Abigail," he said. "Your petition has been... thorough."

She bowed once. Not low, nor arrogantly. Just precisely where it needed to be. "I hope it is persuasive as well."

Lord Sariel, the legalist, made a noise like a throat clearing with judgment. "You claim guardianship over a divine-blooded youth. A Sunblade."

"I claim my right as his legal mentor," Abigail replied, stepping forward and placing her documents on the podium. "Under 17-B. Before House Sunblade laid any claim."

Steel-eyed General Roaven leaned in. "And yet the boy awakened with Order Law. Surely his destiny lies with those who understand it better."

Abigail kept her voice steady.

"What he is can still be shaped. But if you give him to House Sunblade now, you will not raise a protector. You will forge a weapon. Polished, smiling, obedient, but not to the kingdom, to their house."

Roderic's brow arched. "And you would not?"

"I would let him choose."

That landed. The words hung in the air like a sword suspended over a chopping block.

And behind her poise, Abigail's mind burned.

She saw again the priest's cold calculating stare. Victor Sunblade's charisma, like poison in delicate wine. Arden's silence, and Damien's doubt.

And her own failure. But never again.

The prince gestured silently. A steward took the documents and began circulating them to the council.

Abigail stood tall, but she didn't breathe too loudly as they reviewed the documents.

This was not a battle of spells. This was a battle of words, of law.

And she had come prepared to spend everything but her resolve.

Soon, the council shifted to deliberation, excusing her for their meeting.

The silence in the chamber after Abigail's exit was heavy, political, and practiced.

None of the councilors spoke immediately.

Prince Roderic didn't move. He let the air grow still on purpose, the weight of unspoken opinions dragging on like chains across the polished floor.

It was a trick every seasoned ruler learned. Speak too soon, and you reveal where the water runs deepest. Wait, and they'll drain themselves dry trying to fill the quiet.

Predictably, it was Lord Sariel who broke first.

"We cannot allow this precedent," he said, fingers fussing at the edge of his sleeves. "The Bastard Custodianship clause was a historical stopgap, never meant for awakened bloodlines, certainly not of divine magnitude."

His words clinked like polished silver.

Lady Henrietta, cloaked in tangerine silks, did not look up from the documents passed her way. "It's still law," she murmured. "And repealing it would take weeks. Possibly longer."

"Then repeal it after," Sariel muttered. "Quietly. But not before we bury it with this case."

"I wouldn't recommend that," grunted the War Bishop, adjusting the massive seal that dangled over his chest. His voice was like iron dragged across stone. "You repeal it now, the public will notice. Do it later, and we look like cowards."

"She had everything filed properly," Lady Henrietta added. "Divine sigils, temple endorsements, legal citations going back four decades. And the minor goddess of mentorship? That alone turns this into ecclesiastical territory."

"And she has the people's sympathy," the War Bishop added darkly. "Let's not forget that."

He was right, she may be useless in the eyes of the upper tiers of society, but the title of hero had weight within the common people.

Prince Roderic remained quiet, his fingers tapping slowly on the silver armrest of his seat.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A quiet, precise rhythm that echoed in the minds of his councilors far more than any gavel.

He stared at the closed doors where Abigail had exited. He could still feel her presence lingering in the air. Sharp, defiant, and unbowed. Not desperate. Not groveling. Convicted.

And that was what troubled him most.

"She's not wrong." Roderic said finally.

"She found the clause. Filed it lawfully. The boy was under her care before House Sunblade claimed him. That matters."

Sariel opened his mouth and spoke. "But he'll be a symbol. You've seen the reports. The lower rings are already calling him 'Sunborn.'"

Roderic nodded slowly. "Because he is."

A moment passed.

"He's the child of divine blood," LadyHenrietta whispered. "He channels Order Magic directly. Not some diluted copy, not arcane mimicry. The real Law of Order. Bloodline resonance at purity levels we've only ever seen in the angels."

"And the wizard is right, the Sunblades are grooming him like a weapon," the War Bishop said. "Training him daily. Public appearances. Temple-led drills. Sermons are beginning to be written about him, but not yet by him. The people in his district love it. But that kind of love curdles fast."

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Roderic slowly stood.

All four councilors looked to him.

"We won't strip him from the Sunblades," he said. "Not unless it's his will. But the clause is valid. If he consents to return with her… then we honor it."

"You'd give a child the weight of decision?" Lady Henrietta's voice was soft but disbelieving.

"I led battalions at fifteen," Roderic said, voice tight. "Fought on snow-covered ridges with angels bleeding in the sky. I didn't get to wait until I felt ready. Neither does he."

Sariel was quiet now.

The prince looked toward the documents again. Abigail had laid them out not just as a plea, but as a case. She knew the laws better than half the scribes in the tower. She'd done everything correctly. Not because she expected to win, but because she couldn't afford to be wrong.

"Let him speak," Roderic said. "Let the Sunborn choose."

Half an Hour Later

Abigail stood again in the hallway. The door then opening with finality.

"His Highness has reached a decision." the steward said.

She stepped forward.

Inside, the prince didn't stand, but his posture was less guarded now.

"Archmage Abigail," he said. "Your petition is accepted…conditionally. If Damien agrees to return with you, your rights under Article 17-B will be acknowledged."

Abigail exhaled, but didn't let the breath break her stance.

"And if he says no?"

"Then the matter is closed."

Abigail bowed. Low this time.

Not out of deference. But out of endurance.

She had fought to the edge of herself.

And now she had to face the only answer that mattered.

~~~

The Sunblade estate garden looked exactly as Abigail expected it, and that was what disturbed her most.

Roses bloomed in symmetrical arcs. Marble paths glowed faintly with sun-forged enchantments. Even the olive trees, old and gnarled elsewhere in Neel, had here been trimmed into perfect silhouettes, as though the wind itself asked permission before it blew.

Everything was cultivated. Nothing left to chance.

Abigail stepped lightly across the pristine flagstones, her travel-worn boots trailing faint scuffs against their polished surface. Ahead, golden banners fluttered with mechanical grace. She felt the quiet hum of wards embedded in the air, polite, invisible, but thorough.

This wasn't a garden. It was a stage.

And then the gate opened.

Damien stepped through.

He wore a high-collared coat, trimmed in ceremonial gold, the Sunblade crest stitched into the left shoulder like a birthmark. His stride was practiced, neither hurried nor hesitant. His jaw was set, expression composed. The very image of nobility-in-training.

But Abigail's eye caught the things he likely didn't know he showed.

The fingers on his right hand, curling slightly as if unsure whether to clench or wave. The near-imperceptible shift in his breath when he saw her. The way his shoulders tensed, not from discomfort, but from trying too hard not to look uncertain.

'Still human' she thought. 'Still trying to convince himself.'

"Master." he said.

The word hit harder than any title. Still master. Still tethered.

"Damien," she said softly. "You've grown."

He laughed, just a little, awkward and boyish, like the one she remembered. "Didn't think I'd feel so nervous."

"You always do," she replied. She gestured toward the stone bench beneath the nearest olive tree. "Shall we?"

He nodded. They sat.

For a few moments, neither spoke. The garden hummed with artificial serenity. Birds chirped, engineered of course, trained to stay within the harmonic radius of the grounds. Not even the wind dared interrupt.

Then he began.

He told her about the drills, the endless training, the advanced sigil compression exercises, the sparring rituals, the field tests.

"They test us on layered sigil formations now," Damien said. "Mid-combat. Real-time weaving. I'm hitting sub-three second thresholds on dual-casting."

Abigail gave a slow nod. "Impressive."

"Uncle Victor said I'm almost ready for full combat authorization. And I've already passed three internal simulations against some of the house's ranked officers."

He was proud. He had a right to be. But there was something beneath his excitement, a tightness in his cadence. He wasn't just listing accomplishments. He was performing them. Like he was trying to prove somthing.

And to whom, Abigail wasn't sure.

"Do you feel stronger?" she asked.

He nodded with a smile. "Every day. I wake up stronger than the day before. Back at the tower, it always felt like I was waiting to become something. Here, I am."

There was a pause.

She looked at him with the calm that only a teacher could hold. Measured, without scorn.

"So you didn't think you were improving with me."

Damien hesitated. A flicker of something crossed his face. Then, he spoke. "I wasn't sure if it was me or the method. You taught me how to think, how to read the weave of magic. But… here, it's different. Direct. Immediate. Less guesswork."

Less thought, she heard. Less depth.

She didn't respond. The silence settled between them like a looming truth.

He was grateful. He cared for her. But in his eyes, she was already fading into the past.

Outpaced.

She remembered his early spells, chalk circles drawn on tower floors, trembling fingers trying to trace sigils. How he stayed up late to ask her about harmonic stabilizers. The way he once whispered, "Do you really think I can be like them? Like you?"

And now he wore their colors. Carried their symbols. Believed their speed was truth.

"What about choice?" she asked quietly.

He looked at her, steady and resolved. "I am choosing."

She smiled. But it was empty.

"Then your answer is no."

His breath caught, but he didn't deny it.

She stood. So did he, a half-second late.

"You've grown," she said.

He smiled. "Because of you." He said, trying to reassure her.

She shook her head.

"No. Despite me." She tried to keep her voice even, but the words spilled cracks at the edges.

Then she turned, and walked away.

The leaves behind her rustled from something unspoken.

And deep inside, something quiet inside her finally broke.

Not from grief.

But from clarity.

The garden was too quiet behind her. Every step Abigail took across the polished stone felt like an echo she hadn't consented to. She kept her pace even, dignified. But inside, something once luminous had gone still.

She passed through the outer gate of the Sunblade estate without looking back.

Not at the trees. Not at the path. Not at Damien.

She wouldn't afford herself the temptation.

Because she'd seen it.

The subtle shape of who he was becoming.

And it wasn't her student anymore. Maybe he never was.

It was a boy gilded in ritual and reinforced with applause. A living emblem of divine legitimacy and carefully measured strength, one who believed that speed was growth, and complexity a flaw.

She had been that way once.

So couldn't hate him for it.

But she could mourn what was lost.

The city beyond the Sunblade gates welcomed her not with bustle, but with a calculated hush. Even the wind that swept through the high avenues of the capital's diplomatic ring seemed to bow around her, respectful in its restraint.

By the time she reached her temporary quarters, modest but well-fortified, night had fallen fully. The sky above shimmered with faint warding sigils built into the city's atmospheric shell, like constellations trained to behave.

Abigail closed the door behind her and stood in silence.

Her robe fell from her shoulders with a whisper. It struck to the hook by the door with more precision than she felt.

She didn't move, not for a long time.

Didn't light the lamps.

Didn't cast a spell.

She just stood there, in the dark, her fingers on the edge of her desk, the rune-scribed wood cool beneath her palm.

You weren't strong enough.

That's what Damien hadn't said.

And that's what she'd heard anyway.

Not fast enough. Not blessed enough. Not ruthless enough.

He had grown, but in a direction she feared. He didn't speak with curiosity anymore. His voice had the confidence of polished doctrine, not lived truth. And behind his pride, Abigail sensed the beginning of hollowness. Of a structure built too fast, with no time for the foundation to settle.

He was not broken yet.

But he was brittle.

And brittle things shattered beautifully.

She would know.

She stepped to the far wall, sweeping aside a thin cloth that hung like a forgotten memory. Beneath it was a comms-crystal. Deep violet, three-ringed, hanging on the wall with spellweaved thread.

She grabbed it, holding it in her palm.

She hadn't used it in six months. Not since the last time she wanted to take a risk.

But tonight, she wasn't afraid of going too far.

She was afraid of not going far enough.

With a whispered incantation, she fed mana into the relay. The rings flared, then tightened. Sound-muting runes locked into place. Glyphs shifted, sealed, adjusted.

Then, a blink.

Another.

And soon, the signal connected.

The circle rippled with heat, then bloomed into the image of a well dressed devil.

Cashmere 10th Avaritia.

He looked like a painting ruined by heat. Elegant, opulent, and grotesque. Sagging skin inlaid with golden rings. Balding hair slicked back, but too dark to be natural. He a suit so fine they looked like stolen curtains from a cathedral. But his eyes, as uneven as they were, were sharp. Calculating. And utterly… unimpressed.

He blinked once. Then again. His face showed something subtle, a scowl most likely.

"Well, and here I thought we were finally divorced."

His voice oozed charm and threat in equal measure.

"Only six months, And you call me… looking like you lost an auction for a philosopher's stone."

Abigail answered calmly. "You're annoyed."

"Moderately." He shrugged one shoulder. "But curiosity beats annoyance. It always does."

Then, all of a sudden, his expression changed.

He studied her, not lecherously or mockingly, but seriously.

His smile then suddenly returned, smaller, humbler, practiced and professional. But his eyes betrayed a hint of greed. "We're old friends, so I'll hear you out. What can I do for you, Abigail?"

She ignored his words and went straight to the point. "I need information."

He nodded. "Still my favorite currency."

"I need everything you have on a devil named Hannya, a priestess in Hellnia."

Cashmere's eyes narrowed.

"Which branch?"

"Luxuria."

A few seconds passed, then, he frowned."Never heard of her. No listings. No oaths. No contracts. No trace in any of our current records." His voice dropped slightly. "She's either dead, fictional, or very well protected. You've met this one?"

Abigail's silence was his confirmation.

Cashmere's gaze sharpened. "You just made my evening. I'll dig, quietly, of course."

"You'll get your payment."

"Oh, I already know what I want." He tapped a jeweled finger against his chin. "The scepter in your eastern wall. Phoenix eye. Sealed by prayer and your old companions regret."

Abigail's jaw tightened. "Fine."

Cashmere's smile spread like wax under a flame. "Then I'll be in touch, magic hero."

The sigil dimmed, and silence wrapped around Abigail like a second robe.

She didn't move at first. Her fingers remained wrapped around the comm-crystal, now cold, the violet glow gone. But her thoughts stirred like fire under glass.

Hannya.

A name spoken only once, and yet it echoed louder than a battlefield.

Abigail didn't know who she was. Not her origin, not her rank, not her domain. But she knew what she claimed.

A representative of the Court of Gilded Woe.

High priestess of this 'Caged God'.

And that was enough to frighten her.

Because Abigail knew what it meant when a devil invoked the word Court.

This wasn't a simple title or regional cabal. A Devil Court wasn't just hierarchy, it was sovereignty. A closed plane of ideology, power, and law given shape. A Court was a realm unto itself, one a lower species dare not challenge carelessly. No devil claimed a seat in a Court lightly either, let alone its priesthood.

And Abigail had never heard of the Court of Gilded Woe.

If it had been a lesser branch, a renegade faction, she could have dismissed it. But a Court? One no one had spoken of? And appearing from nowhere after centuries? She wouldn't risk it.

She crossed the room, slow and deliberate, until her desk came into reach. There, papers lay scattered. Copies of grand treaties, divine bloodline charts, maps of the outer territories of Central Neel. She moved them aside until she found a sealed file, its wax pressed with her personal crest.

Inside were notes from a meeting that never officially happened.

Also six months ago.

The Grand Temple's inner sanctum.

Her, Arden, and Janus, the god he serves.

It had begun as an information exchange. But what was shared between them had not been cursory.

Neel had broken a contract, a grand contract.

Not just a political one, or a trade clause. A foundational one, an arcane pact between multiple races, ancient and mutual. Devilkind included. They didn't know why, only that it had happened.

And the devils had noticed.

And they were quiet. Too quiet. Gathering, perhaps. Waiting for the right moment, when the gates reopened, and old debts came due.

Abigail, Arden, and Janus, all agreed on one thing.

When the devils came to collect, it wouldn't be with armies. It would be with structure. With a Court.

And now, the devil girl Hannya had named one.

Abigail clenched the folder shut and turned toward the window, her eyes catching the distant shimmer of the capital's warded skyline. The city slept peacefully.

It didn't know what was coming.

And Damien…

Damien wouldn't recognize the danger until it towered in front of him.

She'd seen it already, how brittle he'd become. Polished on the surface, but hollow in the joints. Too fast. Too praised. Ready to believe the next hand that offered him meaning.

If the Court of Gilded Woe found him, they wouldn't have to break him. They'd reshape him.

That couldn't be allowed.

And then there was Humor, the Devil of Irony. The one who cursed her. Who crippled her magic with an ironic joke. Who taught her that devils didn't just wound, they rewrote. And Courts were where devils rewrote history.

She wouldn't let them rewrite Damien.

She packed quickly. Her satchel, her scrolls, the contingency notes, and one unfinished letter to the Archmage Council, just in case she didn't return.

She stepped into the cold night.

Cashmere would find her the rest. Location, rank, whatever he could. She didn't know where Hannya ruled from. But she would.

She had to. She could feel the pressing at the edges of fate.

Damien had drifted.

But he hadn't fallen.

Not yet.

And if Hannya was part of the threat beyond the gate, she would find her.

Because one way or another, with or without Abigail guidance.

Her brightest flame would burn true.