A powerful demon living in hiding within the Empire’s capital—sounds a bit abstract at first, but upon reflection, it made perfect sense.
In a way, it was a reluctant necessity.
Given the chaos and barrenness of the Demon Realm, merchants gave it a wide berth, trade routes were underdeveloped, and acquiring necessary supplies was a nightmare.
As for luxury?
Humans were widely recognized as the most pleasure-loving race, second only to Elves.
To an experienced demon, the Holy Army and Demon Hunters—who posed a massive threat to ordinary demons—were hardly effective.
As long as they didn’t pull off some insane, headline-grabbing atrocity that forced the Empire to deploy a Sacred Artifact, life was unbelievably comfortable.
Liya even suspected that the number of great demons hiding in the Imperial Capital far exceeded just those two.
Zyra took her orders and left.
Pika was left behind, leisurely snuggling up to Liya, rubbing against her with affectionate dependence.
Ever since gaining intelligence, such emotional gestures had become more frequent in Pika.
Liya picked up Pika.
This burning, wonderful, and happy heartbeat feeling… hadn’t she once possessed it too?
‘Free will… is it a good thing, or a bad thing?’
She murmured to herself.
‘Not to covet possession?’
‘But loving someone means enjoying devotion, means possessing and being possessed, means losing control of your emotions.’
The “Demon King’s Barrier” she had built within her heart over the years would no longer protect her.
Her heart would become as soft and fragile as it once was, and her life would fall into chaos.
Love was, after all, a luxury she didn’t deserve to have.
Shortly after Zyra left, Joen finished washing up and getting dressed.
When he learned that the Second Prince had sent a large pile of expensive gifts early that morning, and that Liya had chosen to accept them, Joen didn’t quite understand.
But he had one virtue: when faced with something he didn’t grasp, he remained rational and respectful, without getting angry at others because his “sense of order” was offended.
He was still young and eager to learn.
The aging and decay of the soul often began when one stopped learning and firmly believed that everything one knew and thought was absolutely correct.
“Lily, why did we accept them?”
He asked Liya curiously.
“Mm… The Second Prince sending this gift is both a gesture of goodwill and a kind of test. Accepting it keeps things ambiguous; after all, ‘when a superior bestows, one dare not refuse.’ Refusing would be making our stance clear: we’re not on the same side.”
“I see.”
Liya said softly.
“Even if we don’t join him, there’s no need to offend him.”
She didn’t dare look up at Joen, lowering her head and nervously playing with the hem of her skirt.
Even so, her face was flushed crimson, and her mind raced with wild thoughts.
Joen chewed on that for a while, gradually catching her meaning.
“Social dealings are really hard,” he said with a wry laugh, ruffling Liya’s hair.
“It feels like one wrong move and you offend someone.”
The latter flinched sharply, then silently pressed her lips together.
Having accepted the gifts, etiquette demanded they pay a visit to express gratitude.
So the two set off for the Second Prince’s residence.
The Second Prince welcomed them warmly.
His behavior was impeccable—neither putting on royal airs nor touching on sensitive political matters.
He simply hosted a banquet, his hospitality so warm it felt like a spring breeze.
“Joen, allow me to introduce you to the most prized treasures of my manor.”
Gibran clapped his hands softly.
A troupe of dancers filed in, all peerless beauties he had meticulously gathered from around the world.
Jewels and hairpins swayed, a riot of colors, petals falling like rain.
Each dancer had a distinct style—no two were alike.
There were tall, sexy wheat-skinned women from the Northern White Wolf tribe, petite fishing girls from the Southern Loren tribe, beast girls with fox tails and ears, succubi with seductive eyes like silk, and even a long-eared, green-eyed girl who might have been a Half-Elf.
The sound of strings and woodwinds rose, fragrant breezes wafting.
Snow-white, delicate skin intertwined with gossamer veils; those teasing, shy glances and bold seductive movements were already arousing, and they deliberately angled themselves to show Joen the most alluring views.
When had Joen ever seen anything like this?
He froze in place, his face red as a ripe monkey’s behind, his eyes darting with no place to land.
He could only stare fixedly at the wine cup in front of him, as if it contained the deepest secrets of magic.
Liya leaned on Joen’s shoulder, watching the dancers practically clinging to him, an inexplicable anger churning uncontrollably in her heart.
‘Damn cat girl! Where’s your tail sweeping? Shameless!’
‘And that succubus! Her buttons are about to burst open, her chest is showing, and she’s still shaking it? Are you deliberately provoking me!’
But… what did that have to do with her?
Reason told her they were just a bunch of dancers.
She should be laughing at Joen’s flustered state.
But emotionally, she wanted to be angry for no reason.
That sourness called “jealousy” wouldn’t settle, and she felt like turning into a water-gun Gatling and spraying everyone in the room.
Sitting in the host seat, the Second Prince Gibran saw Joen’s reaction and burst into laughter.
“Relax, Duke of White Wolf. Just a little performance, a little performance.”
He said, drinking his wine elegantly, as if merely enjoying the dance, a faint smile on his lips.
A hundred flowers vied for beauty, dazzling the eye.
But on this occasion, they were nothing more than green leaves to set off the “main flower.”
Since being thrown into a desolate backwater at fourteen by his cold-blooded father, the King, to be “tempered,” Gibran had long understood the rules of the Empire’s power games.
He also knew the most effective way to corrupt someone like the Hero—love.
Beauty and lust were the best tripwire to cut a man’s ambition, or rather, the self-deception of love.
He intended to use these romantic entanglements to delay Joen, drain his energy, and forcibly drag the whole matter into winter.
Though this was a bit unfair to Margaret, he had already helped and given her a chance.
If she lacked the ability to seize it, there was nothing to be done.
He couldn’t sacrifice himself for that fool of a sister, either.
Seeing Joen’s face red to the point of dripping, unable to bear the atmosphere, the boy made an excuse to go out for some fresh air.
Gibran’s smile grew more meaningful.
In the rear garden, a stream murmured, the woods deep and grass lush, peaceful and quiet—a world apart from the clamor of the front hall.
Joen gently touched Liya’s jade-like feet and smiled bitterly.
“Lily, is this what the Second Prince’s private banquet is like? It feels like… they want to devour me.”
Liya snorted displeasedly.
“Was their dancing not beautiful? Not exciting enough? Your eyes were glued to them earlier.”
Joen thought for a moment.
“Beautiful they were…”
“But what?” Liya pressed.
“Exciting too…”
Joen shook his head and fell silent for a long while before speaking softly.
“But they were like puppets.”
He had once seen a puppeteer passing through a village, performing a puppet show for the villagers.
Every motion of those wooden arms, every turn and leap, had more emotion than these girls.
Of course, he didn’t have the heart to say that out loud.
First, it was rude and disrespectful to their art; second… the way Lily and Anna moved when learning to dance was actually quite similar.
He was afraid that evaluating those girls would make Liya think of herself and feel hurt.
Suddenly, a melodious, slightly sorrowful harmonica melody drifted in with the breeze.
Joen stopped in his tracks.
The tune was so familiar—a folk song popular in the Tulip Territory, full of the flavor of home.
He couldn’t help but listen intently, his gaze softening with nostalgia.
“Friend, what’s wrong?”
Liya asked curiously.
“How nostalgic. I never thought I’d hear a song from home here in the Imperial Capital. The Empire truly is a place that embraces everything,” Joen said softly.
But just then, a burst of noisy scolding shattered the harmonica sound—and this rare peace.
“You wretched girl! Hiding here to slack off!”