Candlelight flickered in the study, casting two shadows—one stout and one slender—against walls draped with banners and tapestries.
Cedarwood burned quietly in the fireplace, releasing a faint scent of pine resin.
Earl Myron, the Lord of Nantes, sat in a mahogany armchair carved with his family crest, locked in a long silence with the young girl opposite him, who wore a floor-length dress made of black feathers.
The flames crackled until the commotion outside shattered the peace of the study.
“This is bad! Lord Myron! This is bad!”
“A pervert just broke in and is using stripping magic to pull off everyone’s clothes!”
Earl Myron’s face immediately turned as black as the bottom of a pot.
He cursed the group of useless fools in his heart for messing up at such a time, especially with the Crow Spirit Messenger watching.
‘Truly, they are incompetent at everything but failing.’
Sure enough, the Crow Spirit Messenger sitting across from him did not miss the chance to strike.
“Mr. Myron.”
The girl’s face was cold, her expression as emotionless as a puppet, yet her voice carried an eerie hint of mockery.
“Your subordinates don’t seem particularly reliable.”
“The Messenger must be joking. How could the local city guards not intervene when it comes to supervising demon slaves? Relying solely on Lady Jera’s Shadow Magic and the degraded version of the ‘Law’ left by Demon King Riya to restrain those demons… I think it’s difficult.”
Myron appeared calm on the surface, but he was actually racking his brain for an excuse.
The heavy rains and floods had been a perfect catalyst, quickly uniting all the nobles of the Thousand River Territory.
It made the shift to “Switch Agriculture to Commerce” and replacing farm labor with demon slaves an inevitable trend.
After all, if they didn’t agree to Lord Jera’s plan, they would have to spend a massive amount of gold coulon to save the refugees—at least enough to help them survive the winter.
Clearly, rather than spending money to save refugees, everyone was more willing to spend it where it counted—like buying the high-value demon slaves Lord Jera spoke of.
However, while the nobles cooperated, they also competed for interests.
The biggest cost of demon slaves was management.
Therefore, on the issue of “how to build a new order for the Thousand River Territory,” everyone debated how to divide the profits based on “who would contribute the most to managing the demon slaves in the future.”
The Crow Spirit Messenger wanted to promote Jera’s Shadow Magic.
The local nobles also emphasized the importance of their own armies.
At that moment, the commotion in the hallway continued, with strange shouts rising one after another.
Myron’s expression grew darker the more he heard.
Finally, under the mocking gaze of the Messenger, he slammed his hand on the table and shouted in embarrassed fury, “Messenger, please wait. I’ll go see what those little rascals are up to!”
With that, he didn’t even bother to grab his sword and shield before striding out.
Creeeeeak—
Myron reached the hallway.
Myron was fuming with rage.
Myron’s small, disdainful eyes suddenly widened from “–” to “0.0.”
Naked men.
The floor was covered in shattered armor fragments, torn rags, and unconscious naked men with their bare backsides exposed.
Butts of various skin tones were piled in the bluestone hallway like freshly steamed buns—some like white flour, some like whole grain, and some like black beans.
Because of the cold weather, the evaporating sweat condensed into mist, making the scene look like a steaming pot.
At the end of the hallway, a slender figure, so handsome it was hard to tell if it was male or female, was looking over.
Myron only needed one look into those eyes to know that the other party held a high position and was no ordinary person.
Looking past the visitor, he saw a hulking warrior clad in armor further back.
Earl Myron’s eyelids twitched violently because he recognized that armor.
A few months ago, blinded by greed for glory, he had taken the initiative to send his army to intercept that elite demon unit that was constantly maneuvering within the empire’s borders.
The result… was a loss of 107 for one.
The armor captured back then had this same exaggerated and ostentatious style.
‘Someone is actually wearing this?’
Myron grumbled in his heart.
He was old and couldn’t appreciate this artistic style.
Moreover, with his experienced soldier’s eye, he believed the armor focused too much on being ornate, wasting too much metal.
However, he heard that the young descendants of the nobility in the Imperial Capital, who never went to the battlefield, liked it very much.
Each set of armor he had captured could be sold for an astronomical price.
While he was thinking, the uninvited guest approached with steady steps.
Myron frowned and looked up, showing no fear.
He was quite confident in his own strength.
Soon, they were less than four paces apart, exactly the distance a sword thrust could reach.
“Young man,” Myron said in a low voice.
“You have two minutes to explain your purpose. If I don’t hear a reasonable answer in two minutes, you will learn that the Pitman family has more than just glory—it has dungeons.”
Liya did not answer Myron’s question.
Allowing others to dictate the pace of a conversation was a sign of weakness.
A truly confident and powerful person would always try to control the rhythm.
“I heard you are dealing with the Hero?”
She threw back a question in a low voice.
Myron was slightly stunned; this answer was outside his expectations.
However, his mind raced, and he quickly reacted—at this time and with this attitude, there was a high probability this was a lobbyist sent by the Hero.
“We are not,” he replied calmly.
“The Hero is a man of great merit and unparalleled bravery. Who would dare oppose him? Who could oppose him? Please go back; you’ve come to the wrong place.”
“Heh.”
Liya shot him a glance.
That look made Myron suddenly feel a sense of guilt, as if he had been seen through.
She didn’t follow up or question him; she simply walked slowly toward the study.
Myron immediately reached out to stop her.
In a flash—
Clang!
A metallic ring so short it seemed like a hallucination echoed, and the sleeve on Myron’s right arm shattered.
Hiss.
Myron’s eyes suddenly widened.
He stared blankly at his ragged right arm with its exposed flesh, his heart filled with shock and confusion.
It was like an ocean in turmoil.
He hadn’t even seen how the person in front of him did it!
Was it magic?
But there was no fluctuation in the surrounding mana!
Was it a sword technique?
How fast would a sword have to be to deceive his eyes at such a close distance?
He finally took it seriously, puffing out his chest and standing straight, discreetly blocking the doorway.
“…Who exactly are you?”
Liya didn’t answer, only saying faintly, “Regardless of who is making the Hero unhappy, I must come and help out. Guess who I am?”
Myron’s eyelids twitched slightly.
He remained cautious, responding ambiguously, “There are many people who want to make the Hero unhappy.”
“Is that so?”
Liya turned her head and grinned.
A burning sharpness emanated from the crimson pupils characteristic of the Blood Demon Clan.
“I guarantee that I am the one who wants to make him unhappy the most.”
It was like a bolt from the blue.
White hair, red eyes… Myron finally remembered where he had seen this face—it was the portrait of Demon King Riya!
“Are you a demon? A relative of Demon King Riya?”
He suddenly became alert, a chill running down his spine as the hair on his body stood on end.
Liya was calm and composed, at ease.
“Haven’t you already recognized me? Why continue to deceive yourself?”
Thump.
As Myron backed away, he hit the wall with a solid sound.
He was so terrified his eyeballs almost popped out of his head.
“Y-You… You are Demon King Riya himself?! No! How could you still be alive? Weren’t you chopped into mincemeat by the Hero?!”
“It was nothing more than a bit of wind and frost,” Liya said, standing with her hands behind her back, her elegance unchanged.