The Demon Realm, the Magic Capital.
The “Pureblood Court” of the Demon Realm’s High Council was in session at the top of the Tower of Eternal Darkness.
The dome was inlaid with 999 high-elf tear crystals arranged into a star map.
Each crystal held the frozen, final wail of a captive elf from a millennium ago.
A ghostly light flickered within them, sounding like a soft sob.
It was said that if one listened closely, they could hear the faint sound of weeping, but no one listened, and no one cared.
The floor was covered with carpets seized from border villages in the Human Realm.
They were a red so dark they appeared black, and the words of blessing woven into them were now blurred by wine stains and bloody footprints.
The wine cups were carved from the skulls of rebels, the brow bones still bearing the cracks from blunt force trauma.
They were filled with “Crimson Dew,” a concoction brewed from the blood of rare slaves.
A single sip could sustain one for 3 days, though the price was hearing the screams of the dead in one’s dreams.
The air was thick with the scent of incense, power, and aged stench — a sickly sweet aroma tinged with the metallic tang of rust.
This was the unique scent of the tower; breathe it in long enough, and you would never smell anything else.
There were twenty-seven attendees today, all of them high-ranking nobles of pure blood.
Seating was arranged by blood purity, territory size, and war merit.
The closer one sat to the head of the table, the more wings they possessed, the brighter their scales, and the closer their eyes were to the color of molten gold.
Those of mixed blood were forbidden from entering.
Servant demons could only kneel in the corridors and wait for orders, holding their breath lest they be dragged out for “purification.”
The presiding officer was Duke Balthazar, the Archon of the Fire Demon race.
He sat at the head of the table with his six wings half-unfurled, his presence as heavy as a mountain.
Each breath he took triggered a faint stream of fire, charring the edges of the carpet beneath his feet.
His pupils were pure molten gold, and when his gaze swept across the room, it was like lava flowing over ice.
Wherever he looked, no one dared to meet his eyes.
Count Moloch, the Chancellor of Finance, possessed a body like a mountain and skin covered in obsidian-like scales.
His voice was as deep as a tremor in the earth.
He unrolled a ledger and read aloud in a gruff voice:
“The aftermath of the Fourth Ring’s migrant riots has not yet subsided. This year’s harvest has decreased by 30%, and a famine has already begun. The migrants are gathering in crowds to beg for food. I fear unrest.”
He grinned, his gums glowing a molten red.
“My recommendation: no relief. The more starving people there are, the more the slave market thrives. Last month, the slave supply rose by 12%. This is a favorable trend.”
“Seconded!”
Grand Duke Grafer, the head of mining, spoke up.
His eight legs were coiled around his chair, and a map of crystal veins was embedded in his abdomen.
His voice hissed like boiling oil.
“It just so happens that my new mines are short on workers. Let a batch starve to death, and the survivors will naturally become more obedient. It saves money on whips.”
As he spoke, he used a forelimb to pick a shred of meat from his teeth — a piece of the heart of a failed human hero from the arena last night.
No one found this inappropriate.
In this land, the flesh and blood of the weak had always been nothing more than a meal for the strong.
Countess Lilith, the Minister of Diplomacy, had a seductive figure with scales that shimmered with a deep violet luster.
The tip of her tail was wrapped around several secret letters of different colors.
She lazily licked her forked tongue and narrowed her serpent-like eyes.
First, her finger flicked a parchment that smelled of scorched paper.
“A secret letter from Marquis Wayland in the northern Human Realm arrived last night.”
She shook out the paper, showing the wax seal of a human noble crest and the Demon Council’s secret code.
“In recent years, a group of starving people has come to the edge of his territory to clear the land. They have built seven new villages, attracting a large number of his serfs to flee there. He wants us to send a demon ‘Raiding Party’ to burn the villages, destroy the fields, and kill the able-bodied men.”
She chuckled, the tip of her tail tapping the table.
“When it is done, he will offer 3,000 ‘voluntary’ girls, along with the mining rights to a crystal mine for 3 years.”
“Wonderful!” Balthazar clapped, flames bursting from the gaps between his fingers.
“It helps a human noble stabilize his tax base while adding wealth and slaves to our own. A double win!”
Lilith’s eyes sparkled, and she switched to a white letter that gave off a thick scent of holy water and incense.
Her tone turned playful.
“However, there is another interesting letter from the Human Church.”
She shook a golden cross insignia.
“The new Archbishop of Moon-glow Fortress, that fellow who only rose to power because his predecessor died in battle, seems to be a very ‘pragmatic’ man. He is eager to show us his goodwill.”
“Oh?”
Moloch raised an eyebrow in mockery.
“What does that priest want? To sell us indulgences?”
“He says that for the sake of peace on the border, and to show his gratitude for the Demon Realm’s ‘assistance’ in removing the previous Archbishop, he is willing to reach a certain understanding with us.”
Lilith’s lips curled into a sarcastic arc as she read, “He promises to regularly clear out those ‘radical paladins’ and will tribute 500 ‘flawed’ orphans annually as divine servants for us to choose from.”
“Ha!”
Grafer let out a piercing laugh, his eight legs moving in unison and making his chair creak.
“The Human Church is truly darker than bandits. The predecessor is barely dead, and the successor is already rushing to consolidate his position? I want first pick of those 500 orphans.”
Duke Balthazar nodded with satisfaction, the fire in his eyes burning brighter.
“Tell him the Council is ‘pleased to see’ such a pragmatic attitude. As long as he pays his tribute on time, the Holy Light of Moon-glow Fortress will remain eternal.”
Amid the laughter, Lilith gave a graceful bow, as if she had just negotiated a common spice trade rather than human trafficking.
Moloch opened a scroll of rituals.
“The ‘Pureblood Festival’ next month will cost…”
He paused, his finger sliding over a line of small text.
“Funds for purifying the plaza, burning incense to ward off filth, and blessing the pureblood younglings.”
“Approved.”
Balthazar nodded, then frowned.
“Why is it 100,000 less than last year?”
“Because the lighting budget for the ‘Mixed-blood District’ was cut. They are only fit to fumble in the dark at night anyway.”
Laughter erupted again.
Someone raised a glass.
“Mixed-blood brats don’t even deserve to have shadows!”
Another teased, “Why not save the lamp money to buy more elf singers and a few magic-girl battle golems?”
The laughter washed over the hall like a tide, drowning out the small figure in the corner.
At the very last seat in the corner sat a tiny figure.
Vera Brino was only an 11-year-old.
Her fiery red fox ears drooped softly, their tips still covered in youthful fuzz, like two clusters of unburned embers.
In the cold light of the hall, she looked strikingly out of place — like a small flame that had wandered into an ice cave, liable to be swallowed by the chill at any moment.
Her eyes were the color of melted amber, clear but struggling to hold back tears.
Her nose was slightly upturned, and her lips were so pale they were nearly transparent, as if she might vanish into the surrounding crimson at any moment.
She wore a deep purple ceremonial dress that didn’t fit — it was her grandfather’s old robe, resized.
The wide sleeves slid down to her elbows, revealing thin wrists where blue veins were clearly visible.
The hem dragged on the floor, nearly covering her small feet curled under the chair, the toes of her shoes worn white.
Embroidered on the sleeve was the crest of the autonomous territory of the Sixth Ring’s Frost-snow Wasteland: a single ice crystal.
Now, that crest was dusty and dim, its edges even bearing small holes from moths.
Three months ago, her grandfather, the former Lord of the Frost-snow Wasteland, Marquis Brino — the only relative she had, though they weren’t close — had passed away from illness.
By law, she inherited the Frost-snow Wasteland, becoming the youngest lord in history.
Before he died, her grandfather had held her hand and said, ‘Vera, remember, a lord is not someone who sits in a high tower. A lord is someone who stands in the blizzard to protect the people.’
His final words were still about the people under his rule, not her.
Yet, Vera had carved those words into her heart, because it was the only thing he had left her that felt like it came from a “grandfather.”
Because of her youth, the Council had appointed Regent Count Claudius to act on her behalf.
It was “regency” in name, but in reality, Vera wasn’t even allowed to touch her own seal.
Now, Claudius sat in the primary seat ahead of her, his broad, black-scaled tail sweeping casually past her feet like an invisible cage.
He didn’t even look back at her once, as if she were merely an ornament on the chair — no, less than an ornament.
Ornaments were at least admired; she was just air.
Vera gripped the hem of her skirt as if she could squeeze some courage out of the fabric.
She repeated the words she wanted to say three times in her head, her lips twitching twice before she finally made a sound.
It was as soft as a mosquito’s buzz, but she used all her strength:
“Um, about the famine… could we allot a little grain?”
The room went silent for a moment.
Then, laughter erupted like a bursting dam, drowning her.
“Oh my, the little fox spoke!”
Grafer mocked, his eight legs moving and making his chair creak.
“Do you want to trade grain for toys? Or is it for your little rabbit’s feed?”
Lilith covered her mouth and giggled.
“Coming to the court before you’re even weaned. No wonder you sound so much like a baby.”
Claudius finally looked back, his gaze as sharp as a knife, but he only said coldly, “Lord Vera is still learning etiquette. I speak for her in matters of the court.”
He turned to the crowd, his tone contemptuous, as if discussing a piece of cargo.
“The migrants have always been stubborn. They will become honest once they’ve been hungry for a few days. Why waste the national treasury? Besides…”
He paused, his lips curling into a cruel arc.
“The Frost-snow Wasteland might need to consider a more sensible lord this year. After all, children should learn when to speak and when to remain silent.”
Vera trembled all over, as if struck by an invisible whip.
She lowered her head, her nails digging into her palms until it hurt — but that pain was nothing compared to the sting of the laughter in her heart.
She didn’t dare speak again, only staring fixedly at the family crest on her sleeve.
The ice crystal was covered in dust, dim and lusterless under the candlelight, just like her face at this moment.
She suddenly remembered her grandfather’s words — ‘A lord is someone who stands in the blizzard to protect the people.’
But now, she couldn’t even protect herself.
As the meeting ended, Claudius rose to summarize, his voice cold and echoing through the hall:
“Remember, order in the Demon Realm depends on bloodline, strength, wealth, and silence.
The bottom tier lives to provide for us;
The Human Realm cooperates to share the spoils;
As for justice?”
He sneered, looking around:
“That is the excuse of losers.”
Finally, Duke Balthazar picked up his bone cup, his gaze sweeping over Claudius.
His voice was so low it sounded like he was talking to himself.
“Keep things clean.”
In this land, “clean” only ever meant one thing — leave no survivors, leave no evidence.
The wine was poured out like blood, and the court adjourned.
The nobles chatted and laughed, discussing tonight’s gladiator performance and the newly arrived elf slaves.
It was said those elves could sing ancient tunes and their tears could turn into gems.
They stepped over the wine stains on the carpet and walked past the slumped bodies of the servant demons who had fainted in the corridor, filing out one by one.
No one helped the servant demons who had collapsed from kneeling too long.
And no one cared about the little lord in the corner, clutching her family crest with tears in her eyes.
She was like a grain of snow fallen onto the crimson carpet — faint, but not yet melted.
And in this abyss, she didn’t know how much longer she could hold out before she became like them — or simply turned into a puddle of water beneath their feet.