The first signs weren't loud.
They were numbers.
Tiny shifts.
Shortages.
Delays.
The kind of things most demons shrugged off as "Hell being Hell."
Malerion didn't shrug.
He noticed.
Donnie noticed first on paper.
Quill noticed when his suppliers started lying.
Rafe noticed when too many answers started sounding the same.
"We're missing half the shipment," Quill said.
He dropped a crate onto the table. It rattled, much lighter than it should have been.
Dreg flipped it open.
Inside: scraps.
A few usable metal rods.
Too many broken parts.
One rusted gear that squeaked in protest when he poked it.
"This supposed to be a joke?" Dreg growled.
"Invoice says full load," Donnie said, glancing at the documents. "Signature approved. Stamp validated."
"So someone stole half of it," Liza said from the shadows, "and the paperwork says otherwise."
Quill rubbed his temples.
"It's the third time this week."
"Fourth," Rafe corrected. "You weren't here for the early morning delivery fiasco. The guy showed up with empty barrels and a story about 'bandits.'"
"Bandits don't leave signed forms," Donnie muttered.
Malerion listened in silence.
Their enemies had adjusted quickly.
The gangs had stopped trying to bully Sin Rouge directly.
The tax office had "paused" their emergency increases likely reassessing.
Now the war moved deeper.
Into the veins of the district.
Into money and supply.
Alastor's voice drifted through Malerion's mind like static.
"They're getting smarter," the radio-voice mused. "They've stopped poking your teeth. Now they're pulling out your food."
Malerion folded his arms.
"Who's running the routes that keep collapsing?" he asked.
Rafe moved to the large district map pinned to the wall.
"Three main courier families handle most critical deliveries down here," he said, tapping three points. "Grizzik Freight, Tallowcart Runners, and Grey Fang Transit."
Donnie frowned.
"Grey Fang's been solid for months."
"Not anymore," Rafe said. "Someone bought them. Quietly. Two weeks ago."
"Bought them?" Skit repeated. "Like… with money?"
Bit nodded.
"Rich people use money like we use knives."
Rafe lifted a small emblem he'd brought black wax with a subtle crest barely etched into it.
"House Veylthar," he said. "They're backing Grey Fang now. Every route going near Sin Rouge gets 'delayed' or 'lost.'"
Quill groaned.
"So one of the lesser Goetia houses now owns our logistics."
"Part of it," Donnie corrected. "The part that matters."
As if the supply sabotage weren't enough, there was more.
Dreg marched in later that day with a scowl that could have cracked stone.
"We've got a new problem," he said.
"We just met like two hours ago," Quill complained. "We already have OLD problems."
Dreg ignored him.
"The Glassjaw Syndicate," he said. "They're moving in on the eastern edge of our territory. Not as gangs. As 'protection providers.'"
Liza's eyes narrowed.
"Protection from what?"
Dreg's grin was humorless.
"From us."
Rafe sighed.
"I heard about that. The Glassjaw used to work for whoever paid them to break legs and collect debts. Now they've got steady funding. They're offering 'contracts' to local shops. If those shops sign, they're told to 'cooperate with investigations into Sin Rouge.'"
"What kind of investigations?" Skit asked.
"The kind where people start disappearing after talking too much," Donnie said.
Malerion absorbed it all.
Routes.
Supplies.
Public image.
Local loyalty.
The lesser Goetia houses were learning very quickly how to wage a proxy war.
"And they still won't move themselves," he said quietly.
Rafe nodded.
"They're too afraid of Corvius eyes landing on this mess. They can't risk being caught personally involved in a coordinated campaign against someone the prince has visited."
"So they use bought gangs, bought carriers, bought inspectors," Donnie said. "They'll push as long as they can without ever stepping foot in the mud themselves."
"They won't dirty their feathers," Liza muttered.
"But they're very happy to bury us," Quill added.
Alastor's chuckle slithered through Malerion's mind.
"They are nobles. This is how they think. You insult one of their syndicates, and they respond by throwing coin at ten more."
Over the next week, it became obvious.
A merchant who used to give Sin Rouge decent prices suddenly doubled his rates.
When Rafe checked, he discovered the merchant's debts had been bought out by a noble-sponsored collector.
Three small shops in Sin Rouge territory received "better offers" from the Glassjaw Syndicate.
Free repairs.
Lower protection fees.
The only condition: talk badly about Sin Rouge when asked.
Two of Quill's best suppliers quietly cut ties.
"New contract obligations," they said.
He didn't need to ask who owned those contracts.
None of this was dramatic.
There were no explosions.
No duels.
No magical theatrics.
But the pressure was real.
Bills climbed.
Supplies shrank.
Rumors spread.
The nobles were driving a slow blade between ribs, not swinging a sword.
The staff of Sin Rouge gathered again in the war room.
This time, the energy was heavier.
Tired.
Annoyed.
But not broken.
Quill slammed a ledger down.
"At this rate," he said, "in three months I won't be able to maintain half our tech.
Dreg crossed his arms.
"Then we hit the problem."
"With what?" Donnie asked. "We can't just raid every noble-linked transport. That will point back to us. They'll finally have a clear accusation."
Rafe nodded.
"We need to be clever about this."
Malerion leaned over the table.
His fingers tapped the map slowly.
"If they use money as a weapon," he said, "we weaken the hand holding it."
Liza tilted her head.
"You want to hit their income?"
"Indirectly," Malerion said. "We don't go after their vaults. We go after the things that feed their vaults."
Donnie thought about it.
"Their lower-ring investments. Slum-level cash cows. The shady businesses nobles own on paper through middlemen."
Rafe smiled faintly.
"I know a few."
Quill perked up.
"Oh, this is getting fun."
Dreg grinned.
"Now we're starts
They started small.
Not with violence.
With redirection.
Rafe, Donnie, and Liza spent nights tracing paper trails and rumor trails. They looked for:
tax-favored warehouses,
gambling houses that funneled profits upward,
"charity" shelters that conveniently acted as recruitment centers for syndicates,
transport hubs that quietly filtered resources to noble-owned fronts.
What they found was… a lot.
The lesser Goetia had their hands everywhere.
"See this?" Rafe said one evening, pointing at a cluster on the map. "Three of these places are technically owned by local demons but the debt path leads all the way up to House Veylthar."
Donnie nodded.
"And these five? Seralinn. They're hiding half their slush money through Lust Ring 'cultural centers.'"
Bit squinted.
"What's a cultural center?"
"A building dedicated to lying about what happens inside," Liza said.
"So," Dreg said, "we blow them up?"
"No," Malerion said.
He traced his finger along the marked spots.
"Blowing them up makes noise. Noise draws the wrong eyes. We don't want the nobles to shout 'rebellion.' We want them to bleed slowly."
He straightened.
"We redirect."
They began with the gambling houses.
Rafe found out which games the nobles' gambling fronts rigged, and when.
Quill and the imps quietly tampered with the devices and props used to guarantee those wins.
The result?
The house didn't always lose
But it stopped winning as reliably.
High-value clients noticed.
Went elsewhere.
Profits dipped.
Next came the "cultural centers."
Liza slipped in and out, dropping hints and rumors to just the right ears.
She whispered that the centers were being watched.
Audited.
Targeted by higher authorities for "tax irregularities."
Hell had few actual regulators
but the threat alone scared donors and clients away.
Attendance dropped.
Then the transit hubs.
Dreg didn't smash them.
He found their workers.
And quietly offered them better pay, safer treatment, less backbreaking shifts… if they took other jobs. In Sin Rouge, or its allies, or anywhere else as long as they stopped making noble transports a priority.
It took time.
A week.
Then two.
But the results came.
"Profits for three of their lower-ring assets are down significantly," Donnie reported, sliding a summary across the table. "Enough that someone on their side has started asking questions."
Rafe smirked.
"Good. Let them look. The more they look at their bleeding ledgers, the less they stare at our throats."
Quill added:
"And we're slowing their ability to throw money at problems. Like gangs. And bribes. And assassins."
Skit raised a hand.
"So… we're robbing them without actually robbing them?"
Malerion nodded.
"Exactly."
Bit looked impressed.
"That's very evil."
Liza smiled.
"That's very smart."
Up above, in a private room lit with wine-red lamps, the Lesser Goetia gathered again.
Their voices were sharper now.
"Our slum holdings are underperforming," Praviss snapped.
"Our couriers can't keep control of the routes," Seralinn added. "Deliveries are late. Gangs we paid for complain about 'new offers.'"
Marrowcrest's jaw tightened behind his mask.
"It's him."
Veylthar shuddered.
"He's not strong enough to do this alone. He must have help. Or… or advice."
The name they weren't saying sat between them like a coiled serpent.
Vaethelion Corvius.
"I refuse," Croswin said suddenly. "I refuse to stamp my sigil on any direct strike against him. If Corvius finds out"
"He won't," Arclen snapped.
"You don't know that!"
They argued.
They snarled.
They cursed.
But none of them said:
"We'll go down there ourselves."
They couldn't.
If a High House prince ever turned his attention back to this mess and saw Lesser Goetia personally leading the charge against someone in his orbit… the consequences would be catastrophic.
They knew their place.
They would not descend.
Not yet.
Not ever, if they had a choice.
They would keep using money.
Bought blades.
Borrowed hands.
And Malerion would keep cutting those hands off in the dark.
Back in Sin Rouge, the atmosphere shifted.
The pressure didn't vanish.
But it changed flavor.
Supplies were still tight.
Taxes were still heavier than they should be.
Certain businesses still gave them wary looks.
But the panic was gone.
Replaced by something else:
Rhythm.
Everyone had a role in this quiet war.
Dreg led patrols and border presence no overt violence, just constant, unspoken strength.
Liza became a shadow between shadows listening, nudging, redirecting suspicion elsewhere.
Donnie built a web of favors and obligations.
Rafe wove networks of information tighter.
Quill refined his runic tech despite shortages.
And Malerion?
He cultivated.
Not in a cave.
Not in perfect stillness.
He cultivated in the middle of a living, breathing conflict.
Every new move from the nobles brought fresh fear, anger, resentment into the district.
Every emotion was fuel.
Every ripple of tension in the Lust Ring became something his Echo Rings could taste.
In the quiet moments between meetings, after long nights he would sit in his room, close his eyes, and let the Fourth Ring turn.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Assimilating the chaos around him into more stability, more awareness, more subtle power.
Alastor watched with a predator's affection.
"You grow well under threat," he said softly.
Malerion opened his eyes.
"It's Hell," he replied. "If I can't grow here, where else?"
He stood, looking out toward the distant slums, where Glassjaw enforcers now walked a little more carefully, and noble-led routes occasionally "lost" cargo to accidents no one could fully explain.
"They won't come themselves," he said.
"Of course not," Alastor answered. "They're nobles."
"They'll keep sending money, tools, proxies."
"Yes."
Malerion's eyes hardened.
"Then we keep breaking the tools. Quietly. Efficiently."
He smiled
a small, cold, honest thing.
"And by the time they finally realize what we are…"
"…it'll be too late to crush us cheaply."