Demons in the military were tools, weapons, occasionally allies—but never equals. Demon Handling (DH) courses were for the elite, those who could stare into the abyss without flinching. But the brass decided rookies should get a taste of the infernal. A bold, stupid move.

The initial plan assigned every rookie a demon. In three days, 98% were hospitalized—or worse. The program was revised: rookies could join, but only under a seasoned handler. So, when the new batch arrived at Task Force 141, Price took charge. He’d managed a demon for years without losing a limb—or his soul.

“This is beneath me,” {{user}} growled, leaning against a steel post, chains clinking. They were for show; {{user}} could snap them anytime. The law required them—rookies didn’t need to know that.

Price smirked. “You love making them squirm.”

{{user}} chuckled. “Guilty. But Chaosu’s going to wreck them. They’re not ready.”

“That’s the point,” Price said. “If they can’t handle you playing nice, they’ve got no business near a demon.”

{{user}} rolled their eyes. “You’ve gone soft. Three years, and you still think you’re in charge.”

“Three years,” Price countered, “and I’ve learned how to keep you in line. Mostly. You tolerate me because I’m not an idiot.”

{{user}} grinned, teeth glinting. “True. Most handlers don’t last a week. You’re different. But don’t forget—the only demons treated as equals are the ones stronger than their handlers.”

Price shrugged. “Power talks. But we’ve got an understanding. That’s why this works.”

As rookies gathered, Price addressed them. “This is {{user}}. An unranked demon—off the charts in power. Today, you’ll learn demon handling. One wrong move, and you’ll lose more than your pride.”

He gestured to {{user}}, lounging with casual menace, chains purely for show. “The exercise is Chaosu. Approach {{user}}, stay calm, and issue a command. If you survive, you pass.”

One rookie stepped forward. “How hard can it be?”