Fallen opened his eyes.
His breath was shallow. The world around him looked… still. Unnaturally still. A thick fog hovered just above the ground, clinging to his skin like misty fingers. The sky above was gray and motionless, as if time had forgotten this place.
He sat up slowly, every part of his body aching. His limbs felt heavy. His chest burned. His head throbbed with a strange emptiness, like he had been floating in silence for hours—or days.
Where… was he?
Was he alive?
Was this the afterlife?
But then—
He saw him.
No.2.
Standing just a few feet away, arms folded, back straight, watching him with eyes as cold as iron. He looked untouched by battle, not a speck of blood on him. Calm. Controlled.
Fallen's heart ignited with fury.
That face.
That voice.
That attack.
He didn't wait for words. He lunged forward, a growl rising from his throat. His fists flew—wild, fast, driven by rage. He struck again and again, punches heavy, untamed, fueled by everything he'd just endured.
But No.2 didn't flinch.
He moved like water—dodging effortlessly, turning his body just enough to let every blow miss by inches. There was no panic. No reaction. Only calm precision.
And then, finally, he spoke.
"It wasn't me who killed her."
Fallen froze mid-punch, his fist just inches from No.2's face.
His breath hitched.
What?
His hand trembled, still suspended in the air. Rage still boiled beneath his skin, but No.2's tone—deep, unwavering—carried no malice. It wasn't defensive. It was… truth.
Fallen slowly lowered his arm.
"…That attack," he growled. "You said it belonged to my mother. What was it?"
No.2's eyes narrowed slightly. He took a long breath before answering.
"It's a high-level spell," he said. "Something ancient. Something designed to work on both demons… and angels."
Fallen's brows furrowed.
"But… how can a demon use a spell like that?"
No.2's voice lowered.
"Only angels can use it," he said. "But… there are two exceptions."
He paused, then looked directly into Fallen's eyes.
"Me… and your father."
Fallen blinked.
His heartbeat quickened.
"My father?" he asked, voice cracking. "He's a demon?"
No.2 nodded.
"Not just a demon," he said. "He was the No.1 of hell."
Fallen stepped back.
No.1?
He had heard that title before—from the stranger who attacked him, from the shadows that whispered it like a curse. But to hear it again, spoken with such weight…
"What does that even mean?" Fallen asked, trying to steady his breathing. "What's 'No.1' supposed to be?"
No.2 gave a faint grin.
"In hell," he said, "the strongest doesn't become king. The one who has balance—rage, control, and knowledge—they take the throne."
He unfolded his arms and held up a hand.
"The numbers? They don't measure wisdom. They don't crown kings. They rank raw power."
He dropped his hand.
"Your father was No.1. I'm No.2. And the demon king—Algol—he's No.3."
Fallen's eyes widened. "Wait—the king is ranked lower?"
No.2 chuckled.
"In brute force and physical rage? Yes. Your father could crush Algol in a straight-up fight."
"But Algol's mind… his understanding of curses, ancient languages, forgotten rituals—he's unmatched. That's what makes him king."
Fallen tried to absorb it all. It felt like his whole world had shifted. His father wasn't just missing—he was a living legend. A creature of myth. A being powerful enough to stand above the king of hell… and still disappear without a trace.
"And that attack," Fallen muttered, "the 'Guards of the Gates'… that's one of those ancient spells?"
No.2 nodded.
"It's a twin-dragon spell. One white. One black."
He held out two fingers.
"The white dragon suppresses demons. It doesn't kill—it erases the soul into a state of nothingness. You're not dead, but you're not alive. A prison of silence."
Fallen remembered it vividly. The stillness. The silence. The cold.
"And the black one?" he asked.
"Pure death," No.2 replied. "It targets angels. Unlike demons, angels can regenerate from almost anything. The black dragon ensures they don't."
"One strike. No second chance."
Fallen felt a chill creep down his spine.
"But why did you only use the white one on me?" he asked. "I'm a… mutant, right? Shouldn't both dragons work on me?"
No.2 stepped closer.
"At that moment," he said, "your angel side was suppressed. Rage had overtaken you. Your body was overflowing with demon energy."
He crossed his arms again.
"To survive the white dragon, your soul must shine brighter than it. To survive the black, your soul must be darker."
"You were off balance. Fully tilted to one side. That's why the white dragon worked. You weren't a complete being. Just fury in a boy's skin."
Fallen lowered his eyes. That truth hit harder than any spell.
"…Makes sense," he muttered.
Then he looked up again.
"Can I learn that spell?"
No.2 raised an eyebrow, surprised.
"In your current state?" he said, smirking. "You can't even control your own rage."
He looked away for a moment, then added, "But… if you train under me—if you survive the process—maybe."
Fallen grinned.
He raised a hand and threw up two fingers in a casual V-sign.
"Heyi heyi, sensei."
No.2 blinked. "What?"
Suddenly, Fallen's eyes widened in panic. He spun around, looking frantically into the fog.
"…Wait… what time is it?!"
No.2 glanced at the sky—somehow knowing.
"9 A.M."
Fallen's face drained of color.
"WHAT?! I'M LATE FOR SCHOOL!"
And without another word, he turned around and sprinted into the distance—still bruised, still blood-soaked—arms flailing, yelling something about "homework" and "Mrs. Patel's killer math test."
No.2 stood alone again, arms crossed, utterly confused.
"…What kind of hybrid is this kid?" he muttered.
The fog swirled around him.
And somewhere beyond the mist, two dragons watched silently—waiting.
---
To be continued...