[Melchivor POV]
Only a few days later, and I've already learned an abundant amount of information just by listening to the servants—who, as it turns out, are something called Hellborns. From what I can tell, there are at least two kinds here: Imps and Hellhounds. At least that's as far as my observation goes for now within the mansion.
The language barrier? It lasted three seconds. Literally three. I suddenly understood everything they said as if the words rearranged themselves in my mind. That part absolutely shocked me. When I was human, I spent almost twenty years trying to learn Spanish and could barely form a sentence. I even had Latino blood and still couldn't understand half my own family. And now I'm fluent in a demonic tongue without even trying. Unreal.
Oh, speaking of being human—I realized something that still doesn't sit right. I'm now an Ars Goetia demon prince, born in the literal depths of Hell. Hell. The same one meant for punishment, for the souls who ruined their lives—some by choice, others by mistake, some by pure bad luck. All of them trapped here forever.
I wasn't exactly a saint when I was alive, but still—becoming a demon prince? That's a leap. And surprisingly, it's not as bad as you'd think. I'm constantly cared for by servants, always being fed, cleaned, and carried. They rotate shifts daily. My parents are mostly absent from what I've seen, which honestly works in my favor. It gives me peace to think and explore. I can do whatever I want in silence.
Inside my head lies something far stranger: the library of King Melchivor's mind. A vast, endless archive that belongs to the very being I supposedly am now.
Ha. King Melchivor, a random character I made up for fun in my spare time. Now I'm him, or at least an infant version. I'm still not sure how that works. The biggest difference so far? I don't see the two feathered dragon tails I wrote for him in his description. Maybe they'll grow later, or maybe demon puberty is a thing. Actually—do demons even have puberty? You know what, never mind. One existential crisis at a time.
Back to the mental library. If I really am even seventy percent of the original King Melchivor, that alone would be game-breaking. In the world I wrote, he had absurd abilities—various forms of magic that could shake the world itself, and one particular magic that can literally alter reality itself. Theoretically, I should have that same potential. But there's a catch: I only inherited his body and mind, not his full experience.
His knowledge isn't simply in my head like downloaded data. It exists as a massive mental library I have to search through manually. To give an idea of scale, imagine the entire United States, Canada, and Mexico combined. That's how large it feels. And me? I'm like an ant crawling somewhere on the sidewalk inside one of those countries.
There's just way too much to process, and part of me doesn't want to study at all. But deep down, I know I have to.
Because I want power.
I may sound fine now, but truly I'm not. I got stabbed to death—violently, suddenly, and for no reason. Just someone's random cruelty. I hated my life sometimes, sure, but I didn't want to die. I still wanted to keep trying, to push through the failures, to see where my choices could take me, and for someone to steal that option from me—everything I worked toward.
That kind of pain doesn't fade. It f*cking burns.
So I've decided I'll become the strongest being in this verse. Just like the King Melchivor I once wrote about. My first goal is to learn the basics. The five domains I wrote for King Melchivor were Inspiration, Languages, Music, Runes, and Magic.
I'll start with languages, then music, then runes, and finally magic. As for Inspiration… I'll have to figure that one out when the time comes.
"Chai, Che Cha chu chi!"
("Alright, let's hit the grind!")
☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆
[Third Person POV]
Time passed differently in Hell. A year felt longer somehow, and yet it moved smoothly—steady, heavy, like water under stone.
During that year, the infant prince named Melchivor developed a strange routine. Whenever he slept, his body would fall still, but his mind descended deep into the space he called the "Spirit Archives". an enormous mental library that held King Melchivor's knowledge.
Through this method of meditation (aka sleep), he slowly learned to access fragments of information. Nothing advanced, just simple linguistic comprehension at first. Over time, those fragments formed patterns, and the patterns turned into languages.
Within a year, Melchivor could recall every human language that had ever existed on Earth, along with several he didn't recognize, tongues that felt alien, ancient, and powerful. Some were melodic; some were written with symbols that glowed faintly in his dreams. Even so, these lessons came from a mix of both instinct and understanding.
The original Melchivor's memories did exist in his mind, but not as experiences. They were like long, detached films—clear but uninteractive. He could watch, but not touch. Learn, but not feel. They gave him glimpses of how the original thought, spoke, and acted, but none of the muscle memory or intuition that came with real mastery.
So the new Melchivor had to build his own foundation from scratch.
Once Melchivor finished going over languages, he started to practice music. Because his infant body was too small for instruments or complex gestures, he began focusing on music through his voice. It started with hums—slow, deliberate vibrations that resonated faintly in the air. The maids often thought he was just babbling or trying to mimic their tone, but in truth, he was studying pitch and rhythm.
During this time, he also discovered he wasn't alone. Another had hatched from the same egg—a sibling whose name was Stolas.
Unlike Melchivor, Stolas was loud, curious, and easily fascinated by everything. He laughed at strange things, tugged on feathers, and often tried to mimic the servants' speech. The two lived together in the same mansion, though the rest of their siblings—who Melchivor overheard existed—were raised elsewhere, perhaps under different caretakers.
Stolas quickly grew attached to Melchivor. Wherever Melchivor crawled, Stolas followed. Wherever Melchivor sat, Stolas clung to his side. At first, it slightly annoyed him. He wanted silence to think, time to meditate. But the persistence of his younger twin wore him down, and eventually, Melchivor began to amusingly tolerate it.
In truth, it wasn't bad having someone there.
When they started walking, they often played together with simple games. When they started speaking, Melchivor noticed how much Stolas relied on him to learn. Stolas would often repeat Melchivor's words, sometimes clumsily, sometimes perfectly. Melchivor would correct him when he could, pointing or demonstrating through sound.
He didn't realize it at first, but this small act of teaching had brought him a strange sense of satisfaction. Something warm, almost nostalgic. Maybe it was a fragment of the original Melchivor's personality surfacing, the scholar and mentor side he had written into the character, or maybe something else.
Whatever the reason, he found himself smiling more often when Stolas was around.
When Melchivor began experimenting with melodies and tone, Stolas would always sit nearby, completely fascinated. He'd listen in silence, eyes wide, wings twitching slightly with excitement. Sometimes he'd try to hum along, completely out of tune, but Melchivor never stopped him.
One evening, after the servants left, Stolas pointed at Melchivor and said softly, "Song. Sing."
Melchivor hesitated for a second, then sighed and did it. His voice was quiet, his pitch imperfect, but the air still seemed to shift with every note. Stolas lay down beside him and fell asleep halfway through, smiling.
From that day on, it became a habit. Every night, Stolas would ask for a song before sleeping. And every night, Melchivor sang.
At first, it was nothing but repetition—a way to humor his sibling. But slowly, it became something else. The vibrations in his voice began to feel familiar, almost responsive. The more he practiced, the more he could feel the resonance between sound and emotion.
He wasn't controlling it consciously, but a very thin connection between Music and Magic had started to reveal itself.
Still, Melchivor didn't push beyond his limits. His power remained dormant, and his mind stayed focused on observation. He wasn't rushing to master anything yet—not because he wanted to be lazy, but because he understood that there was a need to balance both discipline and resting periods.
And though his ambition burned quietly beneath the surface, he began to understand something he hadn't before—that power alone wasn't strength. Patience, awareness, and understanding mattered just as much.
For now, that was enough.
Stolas would fall asleep beside him every night, clutching one of his feathers. Melchivor would hum softly until the younger twin drifted off, then lie awake for a while, staring at the dark ceiling and thinking. About his past life. About his new one. About what kind of being he would eventually become.
He still didn't know what "Inspiration" meant as a domain, but maybe it started here—with quiet moments, small bonds, and the will to keep learning, no matter how long it lasts.