He always thought he was the best. No, he always knew he was the best. He always knew no one could match his intellect, grace and beauty. He was always on top as he grew up; no one was better than him in any of those three categories. He succeeded in everything and he always found a way to stay on top no matter the obstacle. He would never admit and never let anyone outdo him. He met no one that was worthy to take any of accomplishments.

Not until he came.

And who is this person? His name is Wolfram von Bielefeld. He lacked any social grace whatsoever and had an above average intelligence; but that wasn't enough to outdo him, oh no. What did this person, Wolfram von Bielefeld, possess that wouldn't go unnoticed in Saralegui's eyes? Beauty.

He wasn't graceful, he wasn't exactly a genius; but he was gorgeous. He saw hundreds, no, millions of faces in his fifteen years of existence and he never saw anyone as beautiful as Wolfram since himself. He can begrudgingly admit that they both looked like beautiful, fallen angels; Wolfram's face was a worthy competitor to take his title. Not that he'd admit it any time soon.

Because of that very reason; he was intimidated. Saralegui, the youngest king of Small Shimaron, felt intimidated for the first time in his life. Even if it was a national crisis, he'd stay calm but not this time. Beauty was his forte; without it, he wouldn't be as noticeable as he is today.

What was the most logical method to get rid of this hatred?

Get rid of the competition. That's right; he must get rid of him. To ensure his title and Small Shimaron's pride.

The sound of a huge whip violently resting upon creamy human flesh was made; an angelic voice let out a huge scream. The punisher's intent towards his prisoner was not of murder but of torment. People could die beautiful; however torment brings wounds. Deep wounds leave scars, which can diminish beauty greatly. And this was what he was doing. Diminishing his beauty permanently.

He even has something that he wasn't gifted with! He possessed the voice of an angel. Wolfram had the voice of an angel; an ideal alto for singing.

Wolfram von Bielefeld, the proud Mazoku, was reduced to a pitiful pile. He was kneeling in a stone cold floor; his face was tainted with his own blood and beads of sweat resulting from the heat, but his pride wouldn't let his eyes shed tears. Soldiers don't cry because of pain; children do that. He wasn't a child. The houseki necklace around his neck wasn't helping either.

All of this was ignored by the young king as he started to whip the older boy. There was a moment of silence briefly after the sixth round because he fetched a rusted nail conveniently placed on the wooden table next to him.

Wolfram von Bielefeld also possessed something he can never hope to have. The twenty-seventh Maou, Shibuya Yuuri. He also had a parent and two brothers. Now that was just provoking him.

He delicately held the nail tight between his index finger and thumb and made a nasty scar across the older boy's face; he was guaranteed satisfaction with this. He flipped back a lock of his long, blonde, blood-stained hair to his back; a gesture he grew accustomed to.

He was sure that no one would look at Wolfram von Bielefeld's face ever again. He wasn't as beautiful now with that huge scar across his face. He claimed his title again; because no one should be prettier than him.