A Pleasant Cooperation, Each Getting What They Need

Vivian weighed Morandi’s offer carefully in her mind.

His concessions undeniably improved their odds—but even then, the risk remained staggering.

“Fifteen minutes,” she thought grimly. “Barely enough for a death sentence.”

Then, coldly, she asked, “And in return—what do you want from us? Other than a vague promise to ‘pause our advance’ that may or may not happen.”

She knew perfectly well.

A man like Morandi never gave freely.

Whatever he demanded in exchange would not be cheap.

The bishop’s smile returned—this time deeper, heavier with ambition.

“First,” he said, “I require absolute success. Charles must die. No exceptions. His death is not simply desirable—it is necessary. As long as he lives, catastrophe will follow.”

He paused before continuing, voice lowered.

“Second, once the deed is done, I expect certain… cooperation from the Demon Clan—or at the very least, from your front-line commanders. Some limited support—nothing overt.”

Vivian’s eyes glinted, sharp as the edge of a blade.

“What kind of support?”

“For instance,” Morandi said softly, “you might coordinate with me during a few… selective ‘purges’ of the remaining radical factions. You would not even need to act directly. Perhaps some calculated pressure along the border, or the appearance of demon movements that conveniently draw attention elsewhere.”

“Maybe,” he added with a measured smile, “a few allowed ‘victories’ for my knights, morale-boosting victories that elevate my influence within the Church. The form and scale can be discussed later—provided, of course, that it serves mutual benefit.”

Vivian stared at him silently for a moment.

So this was his game.

He wanted to use the Demon Clan as leverage in his political purge—a carefully staged theater of blood and faith.

Her expression didn’t change, but inwardly, she had to admit his cunning.

The demand was bold, nearly insulting—but it exposed his intentions plainly.

Morandi was ruthless, ambitious, and predictable.

Such men were dangerous, but also easy to use.

And for now, their interests aligned.

“Your proposal,” she said at last, “will be conveyed to those with the authority to decide.”

Her voice was calm, measured—neither acceptance nor refusal.

Morandi inclined his head. “Then I wish us a fruitful partnership.”

“Likewise.”

Their brief alliance, forged between shadow and deceit, hung in the air like a thread of thin glass—fragile, uncertain, yet binding enough for now.

Vivian stood, cloak rustling.

“Send the promised schematics, route data, and the complete timing sequence through secure means. We’ll begin preparations at once.”

“Of course.”

Morandi rose as well, drawing from his robe a small crystalline device etched with intricate runes.

“This holds all preliminary intel and authentication procedures. Tomorrow at noon, you’ll receive the final signal and meeting coordinates.”

He placed the crystal upon the dusty tabletop and bowed slightly.

“May our cooperation prove mutually rewarding.”

Then he vanished into the shadows—swift, silent, as though he had never been there at all.

For a long moment, Vivian remained still.

Then she reached out, fingertips brushing the faintly warm crystal.

‘From this moment on,’ she thought, ‘this mission is no longer a simple battlefield operation. It’s a descent into politics—a mire where blood and betrayal are currency.’

Morandi couldn’t be trusted.

He sought only to use the Demon Clan to secure his own power.

But at the same time, his network and intelligence were indispensable.

Without him, they wouldn’t even know where to find Charles.

And in the end, that was all that mattered.

Killing Saint Charles.

Nothing else.

Checking once more for magical traces or traps, Vivian pocketed the crystal and turned to leave.

She didn’t go straight back to the inn.

Instead, she wandered the streets of the Radiant Court’s outer city.

As a former player of the Path of Blasphemy, she knew this map well—its routes, landmarks, and hidden corners.

Now, walking its streets in the flesh, it almost felt absurd.

“This really is my first time actually exploring this map,” she muttered under her breath with wry amusement.

Before, after her transmigration, she’d barely had time to explore anything.

As the newly reborn Demon Lord, she’d spent those days adjusting to her new world and honing her magic.

Then Lucia, the Hero of Light, arrived—and everything was destroyed.

Her citadel burned, her realm collapsed, and she became the “Widowed Demon Lord.”

Afterward came imprisonment, then endless obligations in the reconstruction of Evernight Territory.

Now, ironically, on the eve of an assassination, she finally had a few stolen days of peace.

Life truly had a twisted sense of humor.

Vivian walked slowly toward the outer market.

She circled the bustling streets several times—partly to reacquaint herself with the terrain, partly to shake any possible tails.

Only then did she return to the inn.

When she entered, Sylvester and Molly had already recovered much of their strength.

“Grk-grrk!”

‘You’re back! How’d it go?’

“I’ve made contact with our informant,” Vivian said, tossing the crystal onto the table.

“This contains the infiltration routes and coordination plan. Study it carefully.”

Molly and Sylvester leaned forward to review the data in silence.

“That Morandi fellow,” Sylvester muttered, eyes narrowing. “Can we really trust a human like him?”

“What if this is a trap designed to lure us—Demon Lords—into the open?”

Vivian waved a hand dismissively.

“We’ll only move once the Light Tower truly powers down. A machine that vast and ancient doesn’t resume instantly—it’ll take time to stabilize. Once that window appears, we act, kill Charles, and retreat immediately.”

“If we fail, we retreat all the same. No hesitation.”

Her voice carried no fear, only quiet certainty.

“Even as Demon Lords, staying here too long means death. Your spatial ability is critical, Sylvester—when the clock runs out, you must lead our escape, no matter what.”

Sylvester looked at her and nodded, grim-faced.

Molly followed, silent and tense.

They all understood:

This mission was not worth three Demon Lords’ lives.

The death of Saint Charles was vital, but losing them—the Demon Clan’s core strength—would cripple their entire front line.

For now, secrecy and survival were their truest objectives.

And as the quiet of night settled over the Holy City, the Demon Lord of Evernight, for the first time in a long time, allowed herself to rest—calm before the storm.