Dark Elves

It was a procession stretching thousands of meters.

More than a mere caravan, it resembled a mobile, armed city-state reeking of coin and blood.

As far as the eye could see, massive, docile war beasts trudged along, clad in heavy leather armor.

Their backs bore towering stacks of goods, covered in thick tarps, their contents obscured but unmistakably weighty.

Flanking the convoy and stationed at key points were disciplined, heavily armed guards.

Their uniform equipment gleamed with enchanted light, swords half-drawn, crossbow strings taut, eyes sharp and scanning every movement.

A potent aura, forged through countless slaughters and brimming with mana, radiated a chilling menace.

In the convoy’s center, bound by crude iron chains, were the “goods.”

Hundreds of slaves from various races shuffled forward, their tattered clothes hanging off weary frames, eyes hollow and numb, like soulless husks.

Only when a overseer’s whip cracked through the air did their bodies instinctively flinch.

Vivian couldn’t help but mutter to herself.

If her own high-tier Demon Lord strength were set aside, the Goldmelt Caravan’s armed forces could likely overrun Evernight City as it stood.

Faced with this formidable armed s*ave caravan, Aria and the others spared no effort in preparing a respectable reception.

The Goldmelt Caravan didn’t enter the rebuilding Evernight City.

Instead, it halted a distance from the outskirts and set up camp.

Truthfully, the city couldn’t accommodate such a massive convoy—its numbers rivaled a third of Evernight’s current population.

Rather than joining the makeshift market where smaller caravans gathered, they established a new commercial hub, asserting their independence.

As they set up camp, a group of elite knights on towering demonic warhorses approached Vivian.

The lead knight yanked the reins sharply.

The horse reared with a piercing whinny before halting steadily.

The knights dismounted with fluid, powerful movements, striding forward.

Ignoring the wary gazes of Evernight’s soldiers, they stopped before Vivian, saluting with a hand to the chest in a standard Demon Clan military gesture—posture respectful, but eyes sharp and unyielding.

The lead knight presented an ornate document faintly pulsing with mana.

“Lord Demon Lord, Chief Manager Angst sends his highest respects and invites you to visit our camp shortly.”

“The Chief Manager is preparing the camp to welcome you, so please wait a moment.”

“What… such insolence!”

Aria’s ears twitched upright at the knight’s words, her aura flaring with a trace of killing intent.

“You dare ask the Demon Lord herself to come to you?! Her Highness’s presence here is already an immense honor!”

“Angst, a mere caravan manager, dares to be so presumptuous and overstep his bounds!”

Aria’s outburst was immediate, and the accompanying demon captains frowned, their expressions darkening.

The lead knight faced Aria’s surging anger and killing intent without flinching.

His expression remained calm, his gaze steady, carrying a faint, confident air of a seasoned warrior, silently awaiting Vivian’s response.

“…I understand.”

Vivian accepted the document, a symbol of the caravan’s diplomatic intent.

After a moment’s thought, she raised a hand to quell Aria’s outburst and nodded slightly.

Truthfully, by Demon Clan noble custom, a mere caravan manager had no right to summon a Demon Lord; they should come to her.

But considering Evernight’s current state, it wasn’t suited to host guests.

The caravan clearly knew this, opting not to join the smaller traders’ market and instead establishing their own, signaling their independent, lofty status.

“Since Chief Manager Angst shows such sincerity…”

Vivian responded coolly.

The knights bowed again and departed, spurring their horses back to the sprawling camp.

The document, beyond its flowery diplomatic language, was a high-tier magical scroll capable of casting a powerful protective spell—a gift for the Demon Lord.

‘Take their gifts, and you’d best play along,’ Vivian thought wryly.

“Aria, come with me. The rest of you, return to your posts.”

The caravan’s workers and slaves moved like parts of a precise machine, swiftly erecting massive tent frames.

Sturdy wooden palisades were driven into the ground, and watchtowers rose at astonishing speed.

In mere moments, a fully equipped, meticulously planned camp with basic fortifications sprang up outside Evernight City.

A massive flag bearing the Goldmelt Caravan’s emblem—a golden skull entwined with twisted chains—fluttered boldly in the wasteland’s wind.

Sensing the time was right, Vivian issued her orders.

The others returned to their duties, while she and Aria headed to meet this so-called Chief Manager Angst.

Crossing through bustling workers and patrolling elite guards, they approached the camp’s grandest, most ornate tent at its center.

Four guards, their auras far stronger than the perimeter soldiers, stood at the entrance.

Their superior, costly equipment and cold, emotionless gazes swept over Vivian and Aria before they bowed respectfully, allowing passage.

The strongest, highest-tier presence in the camp, guarded by the most elite, emanated from within.

Vivian was certain: Angst was inside.

Her expression unchanged, she led Aria through the thick curtain made of rare demonic beast hide, stepping into the tent.

The interior was dimmer than outside, suffused with a rich, sweet-spicy incense that masked the stench of beasts and demons.

The floor was covered in plush carpets, surrounded by costly magical artifacts and decorations.

At the center, on a grand chaise draped in sleek silk, lounged a figure.

At the sound of footsteps, the figure stirred slightly.

A seductive, venomous voice drawled, like a serpent’s hiss.

“Welcome, welcome—esteemed Demon Lord of Evernight, welcome to my humble abode.”

The figure rose slowly, and Vivian’s eyes settled on her.

She was a woman with skin as smooth and dark as the night itself.

Her beauty was striking, even to Vivian—features so refined they seemed carved by a master artisan.

Silvery-white hair cascaded like a waterfall, a few strands teasingly draped over her curvaceous form.

She wore scant, shimmering silk that barely covered vital areas, exposing vast swathes of deep, lustrous skin, radiating a wild, dangerous allure.

Most striking were her eyes—molten gold, radiant and sharp, yet laced with a cold, mocking scrutiny that seemed to pierce the soul.

A dark elf—or rather, a drow.

A perilous race known for intrigue, betrayal, formidable individual strength, and a matriarchal society.

Vivian instantly recognized the identity of this dangerous caravan manager.

As their eyes met, the drow rose with a light chuckle, her golden gaze locking fearlessly onto the Demon Lord’s.