Knock knock knock—
A light tapping sounded at the door.
With a casual wave of his hand, the [Far-Sight Lens] hovering mid-air dissipated into nothingness.
"Come in."
A graceful figure pushed open the door, carrying something in her hands.
As a proud new-generation demon known for arson, murder, and dabbling in biochemical experiments—fully embodying the esteemed virtues of the Abyss—
Orsaga had always understood the importance of not acting recklessly.
Though his thoughts would occasionally drift into chaos due to his demonic nature, for the most part, he remained rational and restrained, avoiding unnecessary trouble.
However, he also occasionally has some troubles, such as the one he's experiencing now.
Looking at the visibly uneasy butler, Trina, Orsaga tilted his head, his voice tinged with curiosity.
"Why the sudden change in your attitude? Is it because of who I am?"
Trina hesitated, a troubled look crossing her face.
"…It's just a bit awkward, that's all."
"I've never hidden what kind of person I am. You should know I won't hurt you. Compared to many humans, this demon before you is likely the safer one."
He reached out, attempting to touch her cheek, but Trina flinched away as if stung by a needle.
"…Sorry."
After dodging, she lowered her head, staring at Orsaga's hand frozen in mid-air.
"It's fine."
He shrugged, casually withdrawing his hand.
"I'll take my leave now…"
"Alright, go ahead."
As she exited, Orsaga gently lifted the hem of his shirt. With a single stroke of a clawed fingertip, he traced a fine line down his chest, splitting the skin to reveal his heart. He reached in and grasped the still-beating organ.
With a slight tug, he pulled it out—no blood spilled, and the wound sealed itself instantly.
He gave the heart a light squeeze, his expression unchanged, and stroked his chin as he muttered in confusion:
"Why is it… that I, a pureblood demon, would experience such human emotions like love between man and woman?
Could it be lingering effects from my past life?. But those memories were fragmented at best, not nearly enough to affect me this much. Unless… perhaps even before my soul was reborn in this life, it had already been imprinted with remnants from my previous one. That would explain the strong influence."
He didn't fully understand what was happening within himself.
As a demon in both body and soul, emotions like empathy, familial love, friendship, and moral distinctions between good and evil were alien to him. Yet oddly enough, when it came to love, he felt… something.
Could it be because he was a human in his previous life?
Or maybe… just too young, and the memories of his human life had taken root too deeply?
After pondering for a while and still finding no answer, he simply stuffed the still-beating heart into his mouth and swallowed it back down, reinstalling it like one might a piece of machinery.
Then he turned his attention back to his other research.
He was well aware that while human emotions might influence him to a degree, at his core, he was still a demon. They would never change who he was.
'Maybe I should treat these emotions as seasoning for life,' he thought to himself with a smirk.
——
Elsewhere, a group of people departed with smiles on their faces.
A minister in charge of urban planning approached Jaemar cautiously.
"Your Highness, are we really going to let them establish a diocese here in the capital?"
He was clearly baffled. Jaemar had summoned him urgently, asking him to allocate land for the Church to construct a religious district—an order he couldn't quite make sense of.
After all, two hundred years ago, when conflict broke out between royal and divine authority, the royal family had gone to great lengths to drive the Church out of the Mardain Principality.
And ever since then, churches had only ever existed as minor outposts here—nothing that posed a threat.
But an official diocese in the capital? That was another matter entirely.
It would be like planting a flag. Scattered Church forces from nearby cities and even neighboring principalities would quickly rally around it. Such a concentration of religious power would no doubt weaken the royal family's control.
Jaemar nodded slowly, then said in a low voice to the worried minister,
"This is a necessary move. I can't explain everything, but involving the Church at this time works to our advantage. So don't worry. Everything is going according to plan."
Seeing the seriousness in Jaemar's eyes, the minister realized there must be deeper reasons behind the move. After a brief moment of contemplation, he sighed softly.
"I understand. I'll handle my responsibilities well and won't be a hindrance to Your Highness's strategy."
"Thank you."
Once the elderly minister had departed, Jaemar's expression turned complicated.
The Mardain Principality, with its thousand-year history, was riddled with deeply rooted problems. Rotten networks of influence stretched through every level of society.
Only time-tested loyalists like that old minister could be trusted with sensitive information.
'It's already been half a year since Father passed… Once the situation stabilizes, it'll be time to prepare for the coronation.
Before I inherited this kingdom, I never realized just how decayed it had become. The royal cadet branches, ancient noble families, sprawling multinational merchants… none of them will sit still…'
He understood full well: so long as rot clung to the body, it would fester. Even if cured temporarily, it would never truly heal unless cut away.
But surgery was delicate work.
Done poorly, it could worsen the illness—or kill the patient outright.
Still, if given the opportunity, Jaemar wasn't one to shy away from taking bold risks.
Knock knock…
Just then, a maid gently rapped on the door.
"Your Highness, Lord Charles—whom you mentioned before—has arrived with the token."
"Charles? Ah, let him in."
This so-called "Charles" was none other than the warlock Tharion in a new identity—painstakingly crafted by Jaemar.
There wasn't a single flaw in the background story; even the Church couldn't find anything suspicious.
It was a way of repaying a life-saving favor.
Had Tharion not surrendered two summoning slots to Jaemar during their encounter with Orsaga, both Jaemar and Baron Duren would've been the demon's first victims—drained of blood and ground to dust the moment he descended.
The site where the summoning took place had been completely erased. Jaemar had sent a cleanup crew the next day, fearing the Church would discover the site. But they found only a massive crater several hundred meters wide—everything incinerated by an unknown power, the soil crystallized by extreme heat. Not a single corpse remained.
He'd been lucky to survive—and grateful.
Their relationship had grown closer ever since.
——
Not long after, a man in his forties entered the room.
Jaemar, seated, gestured to the seat across from him with a smile.
"Welcome, Tharion. It's been a while."
Tharion took the seat without ceremony.
"Indeed it has, Your Highness. But you know the deal—I told you, using that spell means I have to rest for days, or I'd risk damaging my bones and skin."
Jaemar examined him closely, curious.
"That spell really is something. You've changed completely—if not for your voice, I wouldn't have recognized you."
Tharion chuckled.
"It's my secret ace. Learned it from an ancient grimoire. If it weren't so difficult to use, and if I didn't lack a fitting identity, the Church wouldn't have come close to catching me."
His appearance now bore no trace of his former self. Not just his features—even his height had subtly changed.
Even if he walked straight into the Church's Inquisition, none would suspect a thing.
Jaemar poured wine into two glasses, offering one to Tharion while raising his own.
"Your transformation isn't just on the outside. I can feel that your personality and demeanor have changed too. You're no longer that venomous warlock I first met—it's like you've been reborn."
Taking the glass and meeting Jaemar's curious gaze, Tharion shook his head with a smile.
"People change, don't they? Call me Charles from now on—I like that name better."
Clink.
Their glasses met. They exchanged a smile.
"Alright then, Charles."
Jaemar took a small sip of wine, savoring its flavor.
Swirling the glass gently, he looked into its swirling crimson and said,
"I'm glad you like it. I came up with that name, after all. Still, if it weren't for him, you probably would've stayed Tharion the evil warlock forever. Never would've become 'Charles.'"
"You're not wrong. Sometimes it takes destruction and fear to shatter pride and bring clarity. Back then, I didn't show it in front of you, but I was arrogant—looked down on most people as if they were insects. Then… that demon appeared before me. Just sensing a fraction of his power filled me with dread. I couldn't even muster the will to fight back under his gaze. I didn't dare cast a single spell. That's when I realized… before a truly higher being, I was just another insect. One flick of his finger, and I'd be dead."
Jaemar's ears perked up. What started as idle chatter now seemed like valuable intel.
"...So you could sense the gap between your strength and Orsaga's?"
Charles gave Jaemar a strange look, then thought for a moment before responding cautiously:
"I suggest you give up any idea of using force against him. Even though the summoning ritual was flawed, it still created a faint connection between us. That's how I was able to glimpse a fraction of his power. And let me tell you—it's not something this era's humans can oppose. The gap between him and us is like the one between a beast and an ant. There's simply… no comparison."
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T/N:
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