Though the night had ended in silence, no further chaos followed. The King's command had restored order swiftly, and the rest of Saphy's birthday celebration concluded without incident. The guests were quietly escorted out, the hall cleaned, and by dawn, the castle had returned to its usual calm — as if the horrors of the previous evening had been nothing but a fleeting nightmare.
Yet beneath that calm surface, unease lingered. Whispers spread among the nobility like ripples across still water — each voice retelling a slightly different version of what had occurred. Some swore the demons appeared from thin air; others claimed they were summoned by forbidden magic. But one fact remained the same in every retelling: Count Astley's daughter had been their target.
And she had survived.
---
The next day, in the Astley Mansion—
Within the grand study, morning light streamed through the tall windows, spilling across shelves lined with old tomes and polished artifacts. Yet for all its warmth, the light failed to reach the cold air that filled the chamber. The faint scent of ink and parchment mixed with tension so thick it seemed to weigh on every breath.
Six figures occupied the room.
At the head sat the King — composed, silent, and regal. His posture was impeccable, his presence alone commanding respect. The faint gleam of his silver armor caught the morning sun, and his ice-blue eyes shone with a clarity that was both mesmerizing and unnerving — calm as a frozen lake, yet capable of cutting through any falsehood.
Beside him stood his butler, a tall, solemn man who radiated quiet discipline. His gaze remained fixed on the floor, his every movement refined to near invisibility.
Before them, three men knelt on the marble floor — Count Charles Astley, Viscount Rudeus, and the Chief Warrior, Rion. Though all three bowed deeply, their emotions could not have been more different.
Count Astley's face was shadowed with shame, his normally sharp eyes dulled by sleeplessness. The Chief Warrior, Rion, wore an expression of quiet guilt — his failure to detect the intruders weighing heavily on his pride. Only Viscount Rudeus trembled visibly, his breathing ragged, sweat forming along his temple.
Standing apart from them was the bishop, head bowed in solemn silence, his white robes marked with faint traces of incense and prayer oil. His staff, engraved with divine symbols, glowed faintly in the light — a symbol of faith and authority. Yet even he looked burdened, as though divine favor alone could not ease the weight of the previous night.
The King's ice-blue gaze swept across them — steady, piercing, and utterly devoid of warmth. It was not rage that filled the air, but something far heavier: disappointment.
When he finally spoke, his voice carried through the chamber like a calm winter wind — soft, but chilling in its restraint.
"You may rise."
The heavy silence cracked as the three men lifted their heads.
The King let out a quiet, weary sigh — not of anger, but of restrained disappointment.
"Count Astley," he began, his tone measured yet firm, "though the incident occurred in your estate, I have no intention of blaming you. Those two hideous demons… even I could not sense their presence."
He paused, allowing the words to settle before continuing, "However, you are not entirely without fault. It is clear to everyone that their primary target was your daughter. Knowing that her abilities have already become public knowledge, you should have taken greater precautions. Anyone with sense could have predicted she would become a target for assassination."
Count Astley — Charles — bowed his head lower, his heart sinking under the weight of truth. Gratitude and shame clashed within him. His daughter had survived only because the King himself had intervened. That reality cut deeper than any reprimand.
"I have no excuses, Your Majesty," Charles said quietly. "I was negligent. I will accept whatever punishment you deem fit."
The King's sigh softened, though the coldness in his eyes did not fade.
"As I said, I am not blaming you," he replied. "This matter was simply beyond your capacity. If I must say something, then…" A faint trace of wryness touched his tone. "…perhaps you should focus on breaking through to the next level. You've been stuck at Level Seven for far too long."
A few nobles might have found humor in that remark; in this room, no one dared to.
The King's gaze shifted toward the Chief Warrior.
"Same goes for you, Rion. I have no intention of blaming you either."
Rion bowed deeply. "Thank you for your generosity, Your Majesty. I will redouble my efforts to ensure this never happens again."
The King gave a curt nod. Then his eyes turned — cold, precise — toward the trembling man still kneeling at the edge of the room.
"Now then… Viscount Rudeus."
The air thickened instantly. Even the faint ticking of the clock seemed to stop.
The King's tone turned glacial. "Those two demons came disguised as your servants. What do you have to say for yourself?"
Rudeus's throat bobbed as he tried to speak.
"M-My king, I… I swear, I knew nothing of their true identity! They—they seemed ordinary, I had no reason to doubt them!"
"Enough."
The word sliced through the air like a blade.
The King did not raise his voice, yet that single command carried an authority that froze Rudeus mid-breath.
"Do you take me for a fool, Rudeus?" The King's ice-blue eyes narrowed, cold and unblinking. "Even if your ignorance is true, it does not absolve you of negligence. You brought unknown individuals into a noble gathering — my gathering — without proper inspection. And as a result, two demons nearly succeeded in the assassination of Count Astley's daughter — a magic genius whose loss would have been a tragedy not only for her family, but for the entire kingdom."
Rudeus's shoulders shook violently. He bowed until his forehead touched the marble floor.
"P-please, Your Majesty, I beg for mercy! I swear upon my title and lineage, I—"
"Mercy?" The King leaned back slightly, his gaze unreadable. "Tell me, Rudeus… what mercy would those demons have shown my people had they succeeded?"
The Viscount could not answer. His mouth opened, but no sound came out — only a strangled gasp. The silence stretched unbearably long.
At last, the King exhaled.
"Rudeus," he said, his tone softer but no less cold, "your incompetence nearly cost this kingdom one of its brightest stars. Still…" He hesitated, his expression unreadable. "You are fortunate."
Rudeus dared to lift his head slightly, confusion flickering in his eyes.
The King's next words struck him harder than any blade.
"Count Astley's daughter asked me to show you mercy. She is truly a kind soul — even though she almost lost her life due to your negligence, she chose to plead for you."
Rudeus's eyes widened. For the first time, a spark of hope flickered within him.
But the King quickly doused it with his next words.
"However," he continued, his voice turning sharp again, "her plea for you and my mercy are two very different matters. Still, I will not ignore her request."
He straightened, his tone becoming formal and final.
"Here is your verdict: within one year, you shall step down as Viscount. Your heir will inherit your title. That is my decree."
Rudeus's body sagged with relief. "Th-thank you for your generosity, Your Majesty."
He knew he had escaped with his life. Crimes like his could have warranted execution or exile.
The King's expression softened slightly — not in sympathy, but in acknowledgment of restraint.
"She also asked that the families of the servants whom the demons impersonated be compensated. Make sure they are properly taken care of."
"Yes, Your Majesty. I will see to it personally."
The King nodded once.
"You are dismissed."
Rudeus bowed deeply, nearly crawling backward as he left the room. The heavy doors closed behind him with a muted thud — and the air seemed to grow clearer, as though his absence allowed everyone else to breathe again.
---
After a brief pause, the King turned his gaze toward the bishop.
"Bishop," he said, his tone calm but expectant, "what's your take on this?"
The bishop stepped forward and bowed to both the King and Count Astley.
"I sincerely apologize for my negligence," he said gravely. "By the grace of the Heavens, the worst was avoided."
He straightened slightly, his face marked by fatigue and contemplation.
"Now, to the serious matter," he continued, voice deepening with each word. "Those two demons… to think they could slip past both Your Majesty and myself unnoticed — this sets a dangerous precedent."
He paused, his brows furrowed in thought. "From the primary interrogation, it appears they were a new hybrid breed — demons designed for stealth and assassination. I could only detect them once I was within close range. From a distance, it was almost impossible."
The King's ice-blue eyes sharpened. "Hybrid demons?"
"Yes," the bishop confirmed. "They bear both demonic and human characteristics. Such creatures can suppress their mana almost entirely, mimicking human signatures with terrifying accuracy. In the records of the Church, there were once experiments by the Demon Lords during the War of the Abyss — attempts to create perfect infiltrators. It seems someone has revived that dark craft."
A chill swept through the room. Even Rion's disciplined composure wavered slightly.
Count Astley clenched his fists. "Then we may have more of them lurking unseen."
The bishop's expression darkened. "Perhaps. When questioned, they claimed their kind are few — scattered remnants of an abandoned experiment. But whether that is the truth or a calculated deception to lull us into complacency, I cannot say."
Silence hung over the room, heavy as lead.
The King's gaze fell to the floor for a brief moment, the faintest glimmer of thought behind his ice-blue eyes. "If they truly are few, we can manage them. But if not…"
He did not finish the sentence. The implication was clear enough.
The bishop bowed his head. "They said there are not many of their kind. I do not know if that is the truth, or if those two demons were simply not well informed."
The King leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, quietly, he murmured,
"We can only hope."