Chapter 401: Maids ready for Walpurgis!
Abaddon’s Castle rose like a majestic monstrosity in the center of the Underworld—a colossus of living obsidian, whose architecture seed to grow of its own accord. Twisted towers and endless halls intertwined like the ribs of a sleeping creature, pulsing with raw, ancient energy. Scarlet lightning streaked across the Hellish sky, ricocheting off enchanted walls, while streams of arcane smoke rose like living spirals from the highest battlents.
There, at the heart of it all, Walpurgis was being prepared — the Feast of the Demon Kings.
The main gates were open, but guarded by sentinels that seed to have been molded from the very will of the Underworld: colossi of stone, flesh, and black steel, with glowing eyes and voices made of thunder. Inside, the great Lower Atrium, where only demons of noble birth and high rank could tread, bustled with activity. Creatures from all castes of Hell hurried through the corridors with restrained haste: generals carrying lists of damned nas, infernal butlers balancing trays of condemned ingredients, and enchanters manipulating illusions to beautify the environnt without detracting from its infernal aesthetic.
The Central Hall—the banquet venue itself—was being ticulously prepared. It was a gigantic circular chamber, whose walls extended so high that they disappeared into a do shrouded in swirling shadows. Flas danced in sconces made from the skulls of fallen angels, and a colossal table, made from a single fragnt of petrified draconic bone, occupied the center.
Each seat around the table bore an arcane coat of arms—one for each Demon King, engraved with living magic. And above them, suspended by chains of soul and crystal, floated a monstrous chandelier made of leviathan teeth and solidified tears of forgotten gods, dripping liquid light that fell in slow drops, like ti itself within.
Servants moved with supernatural precision. Skeletal-looking demons wore red robes, carrying bottles of refined blood as if they were sacred wines. Spirits of ancient alchemists floated in circles, adjusting the temperature of the dishes that would be served — from the at of slain titans to sweets made with the essence of crystallized fear.
“I’m tired…”
The voice ca out in an exhausted whisper as the maid-clad woman lted onto a padded armchair, as if her bones had given up on existing. Her elegant appearance contrasted with the exhaustion in her eyes — and although she looked like a simple maid, anyone with the slightest magical perception would notice: it was just a disguise.
In fact, the body that molded and flowed over the upholstery was very reminiscent of a form well known in otaku circles on the surface — sothing between a light blue sli and a woman with refined contours. But make no mistake. That figure was Viviane, the Lady of the Lake. The arcane master who forged Excalibur, advisor to emperors, gods, and dragons. And now… chief organizer of the most chaotic event in the Underworld.
Walpurgis.
In recent weeks, her existence had been reduced to orders shouted through demonic seals, etings that piled up like unbroken curses, endless lists of guests who couldn’t sit next to each other without starting a millennial war… and of course, the eternal headache called “hellish logistics.”
“Demons who don’t confirm their attendance, archons who ask for personalized nus, dragons about to explode and kill each other, and now soone wants an appetizer of souls seasoned with heavenly dew… BUT OF COURSE!” she shouted, with no one around, sinking further into the upholstery.
The fatigue was not just physical — it was existential.
Viviane now had dark circles under her eyes. DARK CIRCLES.
“I should be sleeping in an ethereal lake in the middle of Avalon… not worrying if the castle chandeliers have the exact glow of hellish twilight… I miss my holand… why did I beco a demon… why did I…” She began to search for reasons but stopped, after all, she only had one good reason for all this… “I wanted so much to see Vergil…”
She held one hand above her face and conjured a small magic circle that showed her to-do list for the day. She crossed out five nas with a bored gesture — all probably delegated to family mbers she had summoned just so she wouldn’t have to deal with them personally.
Still, no matter how much she complained, no matter how heavy her shoulders were with the weight of a thousand obligations, there was a quiet gleam in her eyes.
Walpurgis would be a milestone for Vergil! A collision of powers, wills, and ancient histories.
Viviane sighed, letting her head fall to the side. “One more hour… just one more hour of peace… before the next dragon decides it wants a throne made of living titan flesh…”
She closed her eyes for a mont.
But even as she rested, the seals around her remained active. The spells continued to operate, the commands flowed automatically, and the magical architecture of the event molded itself to her weary but unbreakable will.
“I think you should take a break.”
The voice ca from beside her like a sharp whisper—and Viviane almost had a heart attack.
“HOLY SHIT, YOU SCARED THE CRAP OUT OF !” She staggered backward, almost slipping off the chair like lted jelly, her eyes wide and her sli hair vibrating in spikes of pure panic.
Next to her stood an imposing figure.
Tall, slender, wrapped in an impeccable uniform that seed sewn with threads from the night itself, embroidered with dead stars and forgotten constellations. His hair was a cloak of liquid shadow, with teal reflections that moved like enchanted tides. One of her eyes shone like molten gold. The other, like living silver — and both seed to see more than they should.
Viviane murmured as if faced with a cosmic mathematical problem:
“Stella…”
The newcor bowed slightly—formal, but not stiff. She walked slowly through the preparation room, observing everything with that clinical gaze that would make an army of demons start licking the floor for fear of disappointing her.
“Sorry to be hard on you,” Stella said, her voice calm and almost gentle.
But Viviane knew that tone — it was the voice of a commander praising her subordinate seconds before sending them on a suicide mission.
“You know how I am. As Head of the Society of Demonic Maidens, it is my duty to ensure that everything is… impeccable. I don’t want to see our reputation dragged through the mud when — not if — sothing goes wrong.”
Viviane frowned, still trying to regain her composure. “You talk as if you’re already sure it’s going to go to shit.”
Stella turned her face toward a tapestry hanging on the wall. She looked at it as if searching for a speck of dust that dared to exist.
“But it will go to shit.” She smiled.
Viviane felt a slight headache throbbing.
“Stella, please…”
“Viviane, we are about to put the entire demonic nobility, the five Demon Kings, the four Archons, and a dozen entities that only leave their hos when soone dies in a particularly creative way, in the sa room. Do you really believe this is going to be peaceful?”
Viviane tried to respond. She opened her mouth. She stopped. She sighed. “W-well… putting it that way…”
“It’s going to explode. Literally.” Stella ran her finger across the surface of a table and inspected it. “Fortunately, at least we have a better chance of success. After all, the three troubleso queens have been completely tad by the fifth Demon King. But I don’t think this Vergil will be a very peaceful person, right? That worries …”
“It worries too…”
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