Far from the palace, beneath the pale light of a southern moon, Alan rode at the head of his knights.
The wind dragged his dark cloak behind him as the horses clattered down the forested road. None of them spoke. Their destination was clear—Grigor's camp, where the next move in the human resistance would be decided.
But sothing weighed on him.
Alan reached into his saddlebag, searching for a map he swore he packed—and froze.
His fingers brushed velvet.
He pulled it out slowly. A small black box, unmarked, no lock, no seal—but familiar. Too familiar.
He frowned. "What the hell is this…?"
One of the knights glanced over.
"Captain?"
Alan didn't reply and furrowed his brow. He didn't rember packing this. Didn't recognise the texture or the weight, and for so reason... just touching it made him feel disgusted, he turned in his saddle and tossed it into the bushes.
It hit the grass with a dull thump—and then vanished.
The box bounced, then started to fade and beca transparent.
Alan blinked.
And then black smoke curled up from the earth like a vine, snaking toward his face. He barely noticed it before it reached him.
By the ti the mist passed his lips and nose, he was already inhaling a deep breath, as the smoke travelled down his throat and into his lungs.
Small tendrils coiling through his flesh.
Behind him, the other knights kept riding, unaware.
Alan's eyes flickered once—just once—with the faintest shade of violet.
Alan said nothing as the smoke vanished into his lungs.
His fingers twitched once on the reins, then steadied. He exhaled softly, almost peacefully, and looked ahead.
The road stretched toward the southern horizon.
Toward the Kingdom of Grigor.
"Keep formation," he ordered. His voice held the sa command as always—but sowhere underneath, sothing else had begun to stir.
The knights nodded and rode on. And so did he.
Toward destiny.Or sothing far worse.
—
Far behind, within the black-stone walls of the citadel, Asmodeus stood in silence before the empty pedestal.
The table hadn't been disturbed. There were no signs of theft, no magical residue, no damage. Just absence.
"It was sealed," he muttered. "I felt it."
Beside him, Vinea said nothing. Serena stood near the doorway, wrapped in a blanket, brows furrowed with confusion more than fear.
"If soone had opened it, I would've known." His voice was tight now, eyes narrowed. "But it's gone. That's all we have."
A long pause followed. Then Asmodeus exhaled and turned away.
"I'll deal with it if it resurfaces. Right now… the citadel needs ."
He stepped outside, the cold air brushing against his bare chest as he stared down at the courtyard below.
The gates of the outer wall were open.
People had begun to arrive—families, survivors, servants, even forr slaves. Refugees summoned from Vel'Ashera. His people. His kingdom-to-be.
If phisto had slipped loose…
Asmodeus would build a kingdom strong enough to crush him again.
Even if he had to do it with mortal hands.
"Forget it... We have other things to focus on."
The stone beneath his boots was still uneven, cracked in places where the outer wall had collapsed months ago.
Asmodeus stood along the southern parapet, arms folded, watching the arriving procession without a word. It wasn't a large group—just three heavy wagons, two dozen builders, and a squad of fresh warriors from Vel'Ashera. No ceremony. No colours. Just movent.
They knew what they were here for.
"Foundation team is ahead of schedule," Vinea said beside him, her voice calm. "They've cleared the debris by the inner forge. Reinforcent teams started putting up bracing supports around the southeast tower."
He gave a faint nod.
Below, a group of demon warriors hauled wooden beams off a flatbed. The first masons had already started marking the stone around the southern barracks for levelling. Asmodeus could see them from here. asured. Focused and no panic in their movents.
'The've grown stronger than before.'
"Did the enchanters arrive yet?" he asked.
"Tomorrow," Vinea said. "Velvet held them back to finish binding the central hall."
The quiet thump of boots behind him pulled his attention for only a second.
Serena approached slowly, one hand on her belly, the other holding her cloak shut at the neck. Her steps were light, but not steady. Her silver hair was damp, as if she'd only just dried it. Asmodeus didn't move, but his eyes followed her.
"You should be inside," he said.
She leaned against the wall near him, watching the workers below. "I was."
When he didn't reply, she added, "I wanted to see what's changing."
Asmodeus didn't answer. He kept watching the wagons. A young demon woman handed off tools to a line of black-armored n, all of them branded across the left shoulder—Vel'Ashera's heavy unit. Once loyal to no one. Now his.
For so reason, after he defeated the Demon Empress, many of the monsters and demons beca more humanoid, their figures less deford and more like beastkin.
Thus, he didn't stop those who swore to serve him.
It was coming together.
The silence lasted until Vinea shifted her weight, her voice breaking through the air again.
"What about the box?"
He didn't answer imdiately.
Serena looked toward him, then away.
"It's not in the Citadel," Asmodeus said quietly. "It's not here, and there's no trace. I had it in my hand that night. I set it on the table. Then it was gone."
"You think it was released?"
"I don't think anything." His jaw tightened. "If phisto could escape without breaking the seal, then that box was never holding him in the first place."
Vinea's tail flexed slightly as the sharp tip dragged against the stones.
"And if that's true?"
Asmodeus finally looked at her.
"Then we prepare for sothing worse."
The clamour of hamrs faded as Asmodeus left the southern wall, his steps steady as he moved along the main corridor toward the central courtyard.
The soldiers gave him a wide berth. No salutes. No posturing. They knew better.
It wasn't about fear—not anymore. It was about presence. When Asmodeus passed, people moved. Work continued, but quieter.
He turned the corner near the east wing and spotted two familiar figures ahead.
Sariel and Riel walked together, close enough that their arms touched occasionally. Riel, smaller as always, carried a folded set of blueprints under one arm, while Sariel kept glancing up at the walls as they walked—floated... Both succubi used their wings to float around.
"Inspection or wandering?" Asmodeus asked, stepping into their path.
Riel smiled faintly. "Both."
Sariel gave a lazy nod. "Floating around, Master today is a rest day, hehe~ Riel was telling all about what happened."
"It'll hold," Riel added. "Assuming we don't start throwing catapults again."
He gave a small grunt of approval. "Good."
After everything that happened, Asmodeus noticed the subtle distance between himself and Riel, and Sariel took her side as if to bridge the gap.
"Don't work yourselves too hard, alright?"
"Of course, Master!"
"Yes, My Lord." Riel's eyes shimred golden as she watched Asmodeus stroke Sariel's head, but she didn't speak further, biting her lip and turning away.
He didn't stay long. They knew what they were doing.
Cutting through the inner yard, he passed the open training square, where Velvet, Erika, and Lumina were running drills. A formation of twenty demon knights circled the yard, blades drawn, sweat thick in the air.
Velvet barked sothing sharp, and half the line dropped to one knee instantly. Erika paced behind them with a bored look, but she corrected a spear grip mid-step. Lumina stood still near the gate, watching everything from the corner of the wall, her webbing glistening in the light.
He watched for a mont, but didn't interrupt.
Most of the army was still off-duty. Two full days of rest. One half-service day. That had been his order after the last battle—and they'd earned it. The ones training now were either volunteers or too restless to sleep.
He moved on.
The sun had started to fall by the ti he stepped into the west wing. The hall here was quiet, lined with low-burning lanterns. No shouting. No footsteps.
The door to the administrative wing was slightly ajar.
Inside, he found Alice and Ciela.
Neither looked up.
The black haired duchess, now settled into her role with a glass monocle on her face, had a slight frown as she scribbled on a parchnt with her quill.
On the other hand, Ciela's dark skin shimred in the light, as she organised the docunts for Alice, her green hair tied into a cute bun.
Piles of records surrounded them. Inventories. Supply logs. Construction orders. Everything the citadel was running on passed through this room.
Asmodeus leaned against the fra and didn't say anything for a while.
They didn't look tired. They didn't complain.
But they hadn't left this room since morning.
"…You've sorted the incoming lists?" he asked finally.
Ciela glanced up first. "Almost. So of the construction crews didn't submit their logs in the right format."
"I'll fix it," Alice muttered, not pausing in her writing. "Or burn the ones who keep doing it wrong. Either works."
He stepped inside and pulled up a chair, sitting without ceremony.
"Did Alan send anything?" he asked.
"No," Ciela said, walking over with a new stack. "Nothing official. But the last supply request from Grigor was flagged. It used an old seal—one only Alan and his inner circle would rember."
Alice tapped her quill against the paper, then looked at him with narrowed eyes. "You think he's hiding sothing?"
"I think Alan doesn't do anything without reason." His voice was flat. "Keep watching."
Alice gave a short nod, then returned to writing.
Ciela sat beside him, brushing her shoulder lightly against his. "The numbers look good. We're ahead of schedule on the grain storage. The new warehouse will be ready in five days."
"And the barracks?" he asked.
"The northern wing needs reinforcent before we let anyone sleep there," she said. "So of the support beams were rotted through."
He nodded once, gaze shifting between the two of them.
They hadn't eaten. Hadn't slept.
But he didn't say it.
Instead, he reached over and quietly slid Ciela's stack from her hands, placing it on the desk, then did the sa to Alice's.
"Enough. You've done more than enough today."
Alice blinked at him. "Are you giving us orders?"
"I'm giving you a break."
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