There's an old saying among demons:
"When power stirs within you, first master yourself—or your breakfast will."
I should've remembered that.
Because today, I, Fuoco Cattivo—Hell Sovereign turned Heir of House Cattivo—accidentally blew up a teacup with my mana.
In front of the butler.
It started innocently enough.
The morning sun streamed into my nursery, making everything look like it had been personally blessed by the Goddess of Adorable Nonsense.
Millie bustled around singing some horrifically cheerful song about rainbows and moral development, while I sat on a plush rug, pondering the mysteries of existence—and why my socks were on my hands again.
And then… I felt it.
The mana.
Not a baby burp of energy this time—real, swirling heat, forming a little core of pressure deep in my chest.
I grinned.
Or at least, I drooled confidently.
This is it, I thought, the path back to power begins.
A faint glow surrounded my stubby fingers. The stuffed rabbit next to me twitched.
Excellent.
Soon, I would reign again.
Now, let me tell you about Butler Edmond.
The man looked like he was carved from ancient oak trees and bad decisions. His face was a permanent frown. His suit was so stiff it probably had its own title of nobility.
And he hated babies.
Especially noble babies who might ruin the carpet.
"Good morning, Young Lord," Edmond said with the enthusiasm of a man attending his own funeral. He placed a silver tray on the nearby table: tea for Millie, and—because someone hated me personally—mashed peas for me.
Peas. Again. The true green horror.
Millie bowed and smiled. "Thank you, Edmond!"
Edmond gave me a look.
The kind of look that said: I am counting the seconds until you're someone else's problem.
I, in turn, smiled back.
The kind of smile that said: Today, old man, you meet chaos incarnate.
As Millie fussed with napkins, I reached for my spoon.
Mana sparked at my fingertips.
The spoon levitated two inches before smacking me square between the eyes.
Baby steps, I thought, dignity cracking like thin ice.
Then it happened.
The teacup—the dainty, porcelain, floral-patterned atrocity meant for civilized sipping—shivered.
I looked at it.
It looked at me.
And then—
KABOOM.
The teacup exploded in a shower of scalding, floral-scented steam.
Shards rained down on the peas.
Millie screamed.
Edmond blinked once. Slowly.
"...."
Millie rushed to my side. "Fuoco! Are you okay?!"
I blinked up at her, face soot-streaked, hair frizzed into an excellent impression of a startled dandelion.
I am vengeance. I am reborn. I am... very warm right now.
Meanwhile, Edmond calmly surveyed the carnage.
"A strong… constitution," he said at last, voice flatter than a dead pancake. "He shall do well. Eventually."
Then he turned on his heel and left the room at the pace of a condemned man heading to the gallows.
Millie gave me a very serious lecture afterward.
I caught about half of it.
Something about "safety" and "no magic without supervision" and "are you part dragon?"
I nodded solemnly at all the right moments while planning my next great conquest: the cookie jar on the counter.
Meanwhile, my mana continued to fizz and bubble under my skin.
If one tiny teacup couldn't handle my current magic, I couldn't wait to see what would happen to the family heirlooms.
Final Thoughts of the Day
As I lay in my crib that night, still buzzing slightly from overexcitement (and minor tea burns), I gazed out at the moonlit courtyard and reflected deeply:
"To rebuild an empire, one must first conquer their own limbs."
Tomorrow, I'd start mana exercises in secret.
Today? I survived peas, exploded porcelain, and kept my baby dignity (mostly) intact.
Progress.
Tiny, wobbly progress.
But progress all the same.
Watch out, world.
Fuoco Cattivo is coming.
In approximately 16 to 18 years.
Depending on nap schedules.