---
Time passed, and an utterly exhausted Lucifer remained deep in sleep.
He was completely worn out—crushed under layers of mental strain, unresolved rage, guilt, grief, and the weight of responsibilities that never seemed to lighten. His body and mind had simply shut down.
While he slept in his penthouse room, Aleric and Cesar were busy in the lower levels of the Ducal House. They meticulously checked rations, equipment, carriage axles, wheel conditions, harnesses—everything needed for the long journeys ahead.
Commander Vance and Artemis, meanwhile, gathered Graham, Ilina, Nora, Tara, and the other four apprentice knights in the training yard. With calm but firm authority, they laid out the chain of command and course of action during their absence. They also instructed the young knights to immediately recruit a handful of trustworthy S+ rank, S-rank, and A-to-B-rank hunter-adventurers to serve as mentors and field guides for the flood of newly enlisted soldiers.
Veronica, on the other hand, chose to spend the remaining hours before departure in the quiet sanctuary of her room—together with Tristian, Daisy, and Trainy.
She stood in the center of the room, arms wrapped tightly around all three of them at once, pulling them into a fierce, enveloping embrace.
Every few moments she would lean down to kiss their foreheads, cheeks, and hair with a fervent, almost desperate maternal love. Sometimes she would cradle their faces in her palms, stroking their cheeks with trembling fingers, ruffling their hair as though trying to imprint every sensation into her memory.
Her behavior bewildered the three children.
Never before had Veronica been like this—so openly tender, so unguardedly affectionate.
Daisy and Trainy had always known that their mother loved Tristian more than anything in the world. It wasn't that she didn't love them—she did—but Tristian held a sacred, irreplaceable place in her heart. She spent far more time with him, doted on him openly.
Yet today… today she was showering both daughters with the same intensity of warmth, the same gentle caresses, the same tear-glistened kisses.
They didn't understand why.
But gods, how they loved it.
What son or daughter doesn't ache, deep in their bones, for their mother's unrestrained love?
The affection pouring from Veronica right now felt different—pure.
No seduction, no lust, no ploughing hunger.
Just love.
Raw, aching, unfiltered maternal love in its truest form.
And this same sacred scene wasn't only unfolding in Veronica's room.
In Jeff's quarters, Ruby held Jason in an embrace so tight it resembled a bear cradling her cub.
She pressed him hard against her chest, as though she could fuse him back into her very body.
She rained kiss after kiss across his face, his hair, his forehead—each one burning with desperate, wordless devotion.
Not a single one carried even a hint of lewdness.
They were the kisses of a mother terrified of losing her child forever.
Jason didn't merely tolerate it—he welcomed it with every fiber of his being.
The sensation dragged him back through years to hazy childhood memories:
Climbing a mulberry tree at his grandparents' home, reaching for ripe fruit to bring to Ruby… losing his grip from two meters up… crashing down… skinning his hands and knees bloody.
His tiny, toddler sobs echoing.
And then Ruby—running, scooping him into her arms, checking his wounds with frantic tenderness, pressing him to her chest, kissing away his tears, murmuring soft comforts until the pain dulled.
Now, feeling that exact same fierce, protective warmth again after so many years…
Jason's eyes filled.
Small, hot tears slipped free and fell onto Ruby's hand.
Without a word, he wrapped his arms around her just as tightly, burying his face against her, snuggling into the soft safety of her body, drinking in the motherly heat he had missed for so long.
Neither of them spoke.
They simply existed in that quiet, aching bubble of mother and child—reclaiming something that time and cruelty had nearly stolen.
While Veronica and Ruby poured their hearts into stolen moments with their children…
On the other side of the Ducal House, in Westeria's tightly sealed room, six women sat in heavy silence: Mia, Amelia, Isolde, Silva, Selene… and Vinni.
Doors and windows were barred.
A powerful sound-barrier spell hummed around the room.
No sound could escape.
All six listened, spellbound, as Westeria—once Lucifer's personal maid in Evorywood—quietly unraveled the past they had almost entirely erased from their own minds.
Mia and Amelia had wanted to protest at first.
No one could possibly know Lucifer better than his own mother and sister.
But the lie tasted bitter even in their thoughts.
They knew the humiliating truth:
Westeria had spent far more time with him than either of them ever had.
Both women felt helpless, exposed, ashamed.
On ordinary days they avoided remembering the past—nothing worth keeping had ever happened anyway.
And the fragments that did surface were ugly enough to bury forever.
But yesterday, Derek and Marina's cruel words had ripped open a sealed vault inside them.
When Mia forced herself to remember, the memories of her other pregnancies were sharp and clear.
But Lucifer's birth?
A blur.
A void.
She only recalled that in her final pregnancy she had given birth to a boy.
His name was Lucifer.
Sometimes she remembered glimpsing him from a great distance—always small, always fragile-looking.
She could not recall his baby voice.
His smile.
His delighted squeals.
She could not remember ever cradling him in her arms.
It was as though someone had reached into her mind and surgically removed those years.
The same gaping emptiness afflicted Amelia.
A sister who claimed to be her brother's fiercest protector… who called herself his vanguard… remembered almost nothing.
Only hazy silhouettes.
A faceless child offering her something.
That was all.
Not merely faded memories—pure blankness.
The first clear recollections Mia and Amelia had of Lucifer began only when he was around fourteen.
That was when villagers started asking Amelia:
"How's your brother Lucifer?"
And she would blink in genuine confusion before answering:
"I… have a brother? Oh. Yes. He's fine."
That was how she learned she even had a brother.
And the same brother… never once approached her.
When he finally tried, she brushed him off like he was nothing.
The situation with Mia was eerily parallel.
Villagers would tease her in passing:
"Hey Mia, another man already? Your sex drive is insane. So how's the family? Christopher good?"
And she would laugh it off with practiced flirtation:
"Oh hey, you want to join next time? My holes are always open. Yeah, Christopher's fine—probably ploughing some maid right now. Everyone's good, thanks for asking."
Then came the inevitable follow-up:
"Yeah, they should be… but how's Lucifer? I never see him with you all."
Mia's smile would falter for half a second.
"Lucifer? …Who's Lucifer?"
They'd laugh:
"See how you joke about forgetting your own son! We all know how much you adored that tiny baby."
And Mia would force an awkward chuckle:
"Oh… right. Yes. He's a good kid. Doing fine."
That was how both mother and sister "discovered" they had a son and brother named Lucifer—through other people's casual remarks.
Whenever they asked Christopher about him, he deflected or changed the subject.
When they asked maids or servants, the answer was always the same:
"He's in the village library… with Westeria. He rarely comes home."
How tragic, how gut-wrenching the reality:
They had no memories of ever being a loving family with him.
In the sealed room, Westeria spoke softly, lovingly, painting vivid pictures of the little boy they had lost—or never truly known.
She described his sweet smiles.
How endlessly caring he was, even as a child.
How desperately he tried to win Mia's attention.
How she sometimes found him curled in dark corners, body covered in fresh bruises, yet he never once complained.
She told them how he became friends with Jason—stepping in to protect the smaller boy from bullies.
How often he fell terribly ill—ulcers covering his skin, raging fevers, endless coughing, vomiting—strange, debilitating conditions.
Only now did she understand those were no natural illnesses.
They were the side effects of slow poisons Christopher had fed him, disguised as dishes "made by Mommy with love."
She spoke of gatherings where Mia, Amelia, and even Sarah had humiliated him—mistaking his frail, sickly frame for a beggar boy and discarding him like trash.
Yet he never stopped yearning for their love.
She described how he would ask her endless questions about Mia… how he drew portrait after portrait of her, searching those flat images for the warmth and love he craved.
Even after the day Mia beat him nearly to death, he never blamed her.
Instead, he simply… faded away.
Appearing less and less.
Living almost entirely inside the library—surrounded by books, rough sketches of half-remembered moments with his mother and sisters, beautiful portraits of Westeria herself (one drawn every year on her birthday), and small books in which he poured out his feelings in quiet, aching words.
Those books and sketches, she said, were still preserved—some in his spatial rings, others hidden in that forgotten corner of the library he once called a room.
She even admitted she kept some of his drawings for herself.
Cute, abstract, funny portraits of Allen.
Colored memories of Mia cradling him.
Seven-year-old Amelia playing with her baby brother.
She told them about the first time he kissed her cheek—after she baked him a little cake.
About the handkerchief he embroidered with his tiny, clumsy hands—"My dear Wess"—and gave her the day she first kissed him lovingly and promised to protect him forever.
She laughed softly remembering the little pranks he played on Allen—just to find slivers of joy in an otherwise gray childhood.
Time slipped away as Westeria spoke—her voice thick with love for "her little Lucifer," the boy who used to call her "Weselia" in that sweet, lilting toddler voice.
Mia and Amelia listened with tears streaming down their faces—jealousy and envy burning in their chests.
Not petty envy.
Bone-deep, wrenching envy toward the woman who had actually been there.
When Westeria finally fell silent, Mia spoke through trembling lips:
"Westeria… if you don't mind… could you show us his drawings? The ones of me… of you… of Allen… of Amelia?"
Westeria hesitated, then smiled.
"Okay… but don't tell him I showed you. And I'm not giving any away. They're all mine."
Within the safety of the sound barrier, she carefully pulled out the preserved pages.
They saw Lucifer's beautiful, delicate drawings:
Mia cradling a baby.
Amelia playing with a toddler.
Short, childish poems declaring how much his mother loved him.
Dreams captured in careful words.
But as they looked closer, Silva noticed something strange.
In every single drawing where Mia or Amelia held or played with Lucifer…
The women were rendered with breathtaking lifelike detail—every curve of the face, every strand of hair alive.
But the baby or toddler they held?
Completely faceless.
A smooth, blank oval where a child's face should be.
Curious, Silva pointed.
"Sister Westeria… why didn't Honey draw his own face?"
Westeria gave a small, wistful smile.
"Those drawings are from when he wasn't even ten.
He never saw himself in mirrors.
I never let him near ponds, wells, or lakes where he might glimpse his reflection.
So he knew everyone else's face… but never his own.
The first time he finally went near water… Jacob ambushed him. He nearly died."
She laughed suddenly—bright and fond.
"But… I do have one picture. The one time he asked me to draw him."
Amelia leaned forward eagerly.
"Please show us."
Westeria chuckled.
"Okay… but after I finished it, I never dared show him. I'm really not that good an artist, you know."
She pulled out a small square page.
And the room exploded into chaos.
The "portrait" was… catastrophic.
Eyes pointing in completely different directions.
Lips drawn like a perfect bow tie.
Ears sticking out like a monkey's.
No neck—just a head plopped directly on top of a chest.
One arm longer than the other.
One leg noticeably shorter.
A V-shaped torso and a comically bulging stomach.
From no angle did it resemble anything human.
It looked like an entirely new, tragically cursed species.
Vinni stared in disbelief.
"Westeria… is this really the young master?"
Isolde wheezed.
"Sister Westeria… you call this 'not good'?"
Selene clutched her stomach.
"Westeria… that doesn't even look like a goblin.
Goblins would die of second-hand embarrassment just looking at it."
Silva, grinning wickedly, teased:
"Excellent work, Westeria. Truly masterpiece level.
Good thing you never showed it to him and said, 'Young Master~ Look! I drew your portrait myself!'
He'd have thrown himself off the nearest cliff from sheer shame."
Mia and Amelia—who had been desperately hoping to finally see their son/brother's childhood face—stared at the abomination in stunned silence.
Then they burst into helpless, hysterical laughter—tears of grief and hilarity mixing on their cheeks.
All six women dissolved into uncontrollable giggles, clutching each other as the tension of the past hour shattered under the sheer absurdity of Westeria's "art."
Unbeknownst to any of them, hidden in the shadows, Lucifer's shadow-wives and shadow-daughters silently watched and recorded everything—every word, every tear, every laugh—into a magic crystal ball.
And all the while, in his quiet room, Lucifer slept on…
Lost in dreams no one could see.
---