The location was the trading house of the Kingdom of Blumund.
Myourmiles felt a growing tension gnawing at him, unsure when he would finally finish all his appointments. He was a merchant of unmatched renown, capable of discerning a man's character with a single glance. Some came seeking loans or to discuss promising business ventures, while a few destitute nobles arrived hoping to negotiate suspicious deals. They were annoying, yet occasionally brought lucrative opportunities. That was why Myourmiles could not delegate such critical matters to others.
He had just finished dealing with a conman who tried to swindle him, when the next guest was announced.
A well-dressed man stepped in. At first glance, his appearance seemed impeccable. Yet Myourmiles's eyes saw through the deception immediately. The clothing, though made from fine materials, was outdated—merely for show. The man could not truly afford fashionable attire. More importantly, he was not here to bring profit. This impoverished nobleman, Viscount Kazak, aimed to peddle shoddy items disguised as rare antiques, seeking to manipulate Myourmiles for his gain.
He's probably concocted some new scheme to bleed me dry, Myourmiles thought, steeling himself.
Despite Kazak's impoverishment, his nobility was verified, and Myourmiles knew better than to underestimate a legitimate noble. Any misstep in arrogance could be seen as irreverence—and cost him dearly.
Eh, what a nuisance. Now I have to keep my nerves sharp to deal with this fool…
He settled in, listening to Kazak's proposal. Predictably, irritation surged within him.
The Viscount intended to open a new shop staffed with slaves and sought a loan from Myourmiles.
Myourmiles exhaled sharply. He could see the outcome before it even began. Buying attractive female slaves would not guarantee profit. A successful business required market analysis, a prime location, and sustainable management.
Advising him would be like casting pearls before swine.
"Huh? You're supposed to find the location, and pay these girls? Ridiculous! What kind of fool would pay slaves?" Kazak dismissed him outright.
Even if the slaves were unpaid, provisions, clothing, and lodging were unavoidable long-term investments. Those "eye-catching" slaves would cost more than entire estates. Recruiting ordinary workers would be far more practical. Myourmiles reflected on a similar venture he had funded in Ingracia—the profits barely covered the investment, and aging would inevitably diminish the draw of beauty alone.
If Kazak planned to increase revenue through sexual services, the resulting diseases could devastate the region—and make Myourmiles an accomplice. The risk was intolerable.
He suppressed a sigh, clenching his jaw. He had no intention of entering such a perilous venture.
"My my, Kazak-sama, such wisdom in your eyes! Your humble acquaintance Myourmiles is impressed. Yet, acquiring the slaves themselves is difficult, is it not? Human trafficking is forbidden here. How do you intend to procure quality workers when the only options are convicted criminals?"
Myourmiles tried to refuse outright, but Kazak persisted.
"Oh, that? I have ways around that. Invest with me, and I may reveal my methods. But understand—this is top-secret information. The slaves are elves," Kazak said, his face solemn.
The words chilled Myourmiles to the core. Every instinct screamed danger, yet he maintained composure. As a merchant of distinction, he could not reveal disgust or fear—it would ruin his reputation in a heartbeat.
Yet intrigue outweighed revulsion. Elven slaves? That was no longer ordinary high-quality stock; this was a matter of immense consequence.
Myourmiles's sharp mind immediately recognized the stakes. If Kazak truly had access to elves, it was no simple financial risk—it could have far-reaching implications in politics, commerce, and power.
He leaned back slightly, fixing Kazak with a cold, calculating gaze. "You understand, Viscount, that this is no trivial matter. One wrong step and both you and I will pay dearly, in ways neither coin nor influence can remedy."
Kazak's expression remained serious. "I understand, Myourmiles-sama. That is why I have come to you. With your guidance and investment, success is assured."
Myourmiles's eyes narrowed. He had no intention of being anyone's accomplice in crime. But neither could he ignore the potential of elves being involved. This required careful consideration, strategy, and perhaps… intervention by someone far more capable than Kazak could imagine.
He exhaled slowly, a plan forming in his mind. "Very well. Let us speak plainly. I will not fund foolish schemes, but I will hear every detail you have. Every risk, every hidden consequence. Speak honestly—or depart immediately."
Kazak swallowed, realizing Myourmiles would brook no nonsense.
And so, in the quiet trading house of Blumund, a tense and dangerous negotiation began—a conversation that would decide whether ambition, greed, and the lure of power would triumph, or be crushed by the keen intellect and unyielding resolve of Myourmiles, the merchant whose reach extended far beyond mere coin.
In truth, Myourmiles was a prominent figure in the region. As head of a powerful syndicate, he was no stranger to illicit affairs. Yet, he understood limits—there were lines he would not cross, even for profit. He trained his subordinates the same way: ambition was acceptable, but total ruthlessness that could invite disaster was forbidden. This was precisely why the proposal before him—buying elven slaves—set off alarms in his mind.
Elves. The word alone made him tense. These were not ordinary humans—they were long-lived, magically talented, highly intelligent, and aesthetically gifted. Enslaving such beings was no small crime; few nations would turn a blind eye. Most elves still living in the wild forests would not have given consent. That meant whoever had captured them had acted outside the law, likely inviting the attention of dangerous criminal syndicates.
A cold realization struck Myourmiles.
Hiring hunters to capture monsters for the wealthy was common enough. But targeting demi-humans—or worse, the half-spirit elves—was a step far beyond. Any exposure of such acts would spark scandal or even a diplomatic crisis. The Dwarven Kingdom had demi-humans, and the Sorcerer's Dynasty of Sarion was led by an elf Emperor. If this news leaked… the consequences would be catastrophic. Human lives, the law, and powerful criminal organizations were all dangerously intertwined here.
He racked his brain for excuses to reject Viscount Kazak's proposal. Nothing came to mind—until a sudden interruption might just save him from this delicate predicament.
"Hey! How have you been, Myourmiles-kun!"
The door swung open. A figure appeared, halting Myourmiles mid-thought. An angelic presence stepped inside, silver-blue hair glinting under the sunlight, golden eyes locking on him. Wait… could this even be a boy?
Viscount Kazak's protests seemed to fade into the background. Myourmiles froze. That face—he would never forget it—the hero who once saved him, the real Demon Lord Atem. Atem, the sovereign of the Eterna Kingdom, was no ordinary ruler. Myourmiles knew of his legendary feats: the military might, the overwhelming strategic genius, the ability to control monsters and spirits alike, and his unparalleled magical power. Atem had not only risen to become a demon lord but had earned the respect of the other lords of power in the world.
And yet, he had come here of his own volition.
Atem had always taken a liking to Myourmiles. They had collaborated on several ventures: distributing healing potions, exploring otherworldly cuisine like ramen, and even taste-testing mysterious creations called "hamburgers." Myourmiles had organized chain stores, trained employees, and arranged interior designs—all under Atem's subtle guidance. A month had passed since their last contact, yet here he was, stepping into this very trading house.
"Eh… Master Atem? Aren't you supposed to be busy? I thought now was a critical period," Myourmiles asked, genuinely shocked.
Atem had been engaged in negotiations and conflicts with the Holy Knight Order and other powerful factions. He had warned Myourmiles himself: "The circumstances may become dangerous; you should avoid being involved." Yet here he was, standing before him with calm authority.
Viscount Kazak began to protest, but Myourmiles ignored him.
Atem's presence alone silenced the room. Even the bold Viscount seemed taken aback, staring at him with a mix of arrogance and fear.
Myourmiles sat frozen, tense as a bowstring, watching Viscount Kazak leer at Atem with a revolting, covetous expression—his gaze crawling over the demon lord's form like an insect.
"How impolite of me," Atem said calmly, his voice low yet resonant, like quiet thunder. "No one managed to stop me, so I'll apologize for the interruption."
He inclined his head slightly—not out of weakness, but courtesy. Yet Kazak, blinded by arrogance, mistook that gesture for submission.
"Oh, you're quite good-looking," the Viscount said, a crooked grin spreading across his face. "But beauty alone isn't enough. Manners are everything. Lucky for you, I wouldn't mind giving you a private lesson in that."
The words dripped with insolence.
Myourmiles's blood boiled. His face stiffened as anger burned inside him. This—this fool had just spoken to the King of Souls, ruler of Eterna, as though he were some common servant.
Why am I letting a nobody like this look down on us? Myourmiles thought, his hands trembling beneath the desk.
Kazak's audacity didn't end there—he went so far as to call Atem his mistress. That was the final insult. Myourmiles's restraint shattered.
He was no fool—he knew a merchant's life depended on politics and politeness. To anger a noble could mean death. But there were moments when silence was the greater crime.
He straightened his back and spoke with a voice that echoed across the office.
"Oi, Kazak. You're the one being rude to my benefactor. You may be a viscount, but if you intend to insult the one who saved my life, then you're picking a fight with me."
Kazak's eyes widened. "W-What!?"
"My business with you ends here. From this moment forward, don't ever come to me again. Not for favors, not for trade, not for mercy."
"You—you bastard!" Kazak roared. "A mere merchant dares to defy a noble!? Myourmiles, have you lost your mind!?"
Myourmiles sneered, his eyes glinting coldly. "Heh. Anyone who deals with criminal syndicates and toys with forbidden trade that could spark a diplomatic war is nothing but poison to me—and to this city. You're a plague, Kazak. And I'd prefer if a plague like you left before you spread."
Kazak's face twisted with rage, his pride collapsing. "Y-You'll regret this! You've forgotten who I am—mark my words, I'll make you pay for this insolence!"
But when Myourmiles's guards entered the room, their eyes sharp and ready, the Viscount hesitated. He realized his influence meant little here. With a snarl, he turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
"Hmph," Myourmiles muttered, exhaling slowly. "He belittles others while standing knee-deep in filth. Pathetic."
"E-Eh, Myourmiles-kun?" Atem's calm, deep voice broke the tension. "That man looked ready to explode. Is everything all right?"
The way Atem spoke—collected, serious, yet with a subtle warmth—made Myourmiles's anger melt away. He turned toward him and managed a faint smile.
"Ah… You really haven't changed, Master Atem. Even after becoming a demon lord."
Atem chuckled softly. "Change isn't always necessary, Myourmiles. Sometimes, keeping your heart steady is what makes you strong."
Myourmiles nodded slowly. "Yeah… you're right."
He dismissed the servants and the guests waiting outside. Every remaining appointment was canceled on the spot.
There were moments in life that demanded immediate action—times when hesitation would mean losing something precious. Myourmiles knew this better than anyone. He was a cunning man, always digging through piles of coal for diamonds—but this time, the diamond was already in front of him.
He couldn't afford to waste another second. Not when the King of Souls himself—Atem—was waiting.
It wasn't because Atem would bring him immense profit—Myourmiles wasn't that shortsighted. Rather, he saw something extraordinary within the man. It was the quiet yet commanding virtue that Atem carried—a presence that balanced both overwhelming power and genuine empathy. Even while surrounded by chaos, Atem still remembered his allies, his people… even small-time traders like Myourmiles.
That was what struck him most deeply. Atem, despite holding the might of a god and the authority of Eterna's ruler, still valued human connection.
And because of that, Myourmiles made up his mind right then and there.
He would never betray Atem—not even for all the gold in Sarion or the promises of power from the Empire.
There was nothing, nothing, more important than serving Atem faithfully.
"Heh… I can't tell if he's planning something grand or just being himself again,"
Myourmiles muttered to himself, watching Atem's calm composure as the young ruler discussed trade and defense with frightening precision.