“Problem Children”

“Grk? Grrk–grrk.”

Sylvester’s guttural sounds carried a clear note of suspicion, his golden avian eyes gleaming with sharp wariness.

“That bishop’s willingness to help us to such an extent is surprising,” Vivian admitted, fingers tapping her chin thoughtfully. “But if everything he said is true, then his information is plausible—and realistically, we’ll need help of that level if we’re to have any chance of success.”

She traced the table’s edge with her finger. “And personally… while I’ve never liked Morgus, he’s never once betrayed the Demon Clan when it comes to major matters. If he arranged this contact, I’d say the source is at least credible.”

“…That Rhine bishop, that Morandi—can he really be trusted?”

Sylvester’s tone dropped lower, his voice dark and rough. His black eyes locked tightly onto Vivian. “I’ll say it again: what if this is nothing more than an elaborate trap? A ruse designed to exploit our desperation to kill Charles, drawing us straight into a death pit? Humans, and

particularly priests like him, excel at deceit.”

Vivian didn’t immediately answer.

The Shadow Demon Lord’s mistrust wasn’t unfounded.

Those who lived in the dark learned to question everything—and the idea of a high-ranking bishop of the Rhine Church willingly conspiring with demons was inherently unnatural.

It smelled of danger.

“His motives are clear,” Vivian finally said calmly.

“Political ambition. Eliminating rivals. Self-preservation. Perhaps even a desire to claim Charles’s power for himself.”

Her tone was measured, analytical. Her fingers drummed lightly on the table.

“We don’t have to trust him completely—but we do need what he’s offering. Without an inside contact, even finding Charles will be nearly impossible, let alone assassinating him under full divine protection.”

Her gaze sharpened.

“And don’t forget—Saint Charles himself poses the greatest threat to our future. If he isn’t destroyed now, his power will endanger not only the front lines, but the Evernight Territory itself.”

She paused, then added with crisp finality, “Still, we won’t rely on his word alone.”

“The Light Towers—artifacts of that magnitude follow a strict energy cycle. I’ll personally confirm the fluctuation before we act.”

She turned her steady gaze toward him.

“Sylvester—your role is critical. Once we verify the suppression is lifting, we move immediately. Regardless of success, you must guarantee a retreat route into the Shadow Plane before the window closes. If anything goes wrong, or we exceed the time limit, we withdraw—no

hesitation.”

They had already discussed it in passing, but this time Vivian left no room for ambiguity.

Sylvester nodded gravely, understanding the weight of the task.

“As for Morandi’s reliability…”

Vivian’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“This is pure mutual exploitation. We want Charles dead. He wants his rivals gone. As long as our goals align, the partnership holds. Once that ends—so does the alliance.”

She rose from her chair, her tone hardening.

“For now, we seize this opportunity.”

Molly and Sylvester exchanged a look before both nodded silently.

They knew.

This wasn’t just the best plan—it was the only plan.

And if worst came to worst—if it all fell apart—three Demon Lords dying in the holy city would not be something even the Rhine Church could easily bear.

The next two days were torturous, yet eerily uneventful.

The oppressive atmosphere of Holy Light loomed constantly, pressing on their bodies and minds like a vice.

Sylvester spent most of his time nestled in the darkest corner of the room—still and silent as a statue, conserving every ounce of strength.

His complexion was ghostly pale, veins faintly visible beneath translucent skin.

Only after midnight, when the sacred energy outside waned, would he move—sliding through the shadows to survey the surrounding area with uncanny precision, tracing escape routes invisible to mortal eyes.

Molly, meanwhile, seemed to be unraveling.

Grounded and restrained from flight, barred from revealing her claws, and forced to suppress her instinctive craving for anything that gleamed—she was like a caged predator pacing restlessly in confinement.

She prowled the small room in agitation, scratching the walls and furniture, muttering wordless, strangled noises to herself.

It took Vivian’s sharp tone more than once to stop her from doing something reckless that might draw attention.

The bland human food offered by the inn only made things worse.

Molly sneered at every dish that came to the table.

Ultimately, Vivian started rationing bits of purified Evernight Crystals—dense with dark energy—for her to gnaw on like candy.

Vivian herself fared little better.

Maintaining her disguise, concealing her aura, and remaining constantly alert drained her both mentally and magically.

At times, under her assumed identity of “Ms. Natalie,” she ventured briefly into the nearby markets—ostensibly to purchase provisions, but in truth to study the patrol patterns and the rhythm of the city’s defenses.

There were, of course, a few close calls.

Once, when a maid came to deliver food earlier than usual, Sylvester—caught off guard—had nowhere to hide.

In the instant before the door opened, he stepped back and, without a sound, melted into the wall, fusing with its shadow.

The terrified maid nearly screamed, convinced she’d seen a ghost.

Vivian managed a strained smile and passed it off as a “trick of the light.”

Afterward, Sylvester received a withering glare and a stern warning not to use his abilities in front of ordinary humans again.

Molly, for her part, had become fascinated with the cheap trinkets Vivian bought as part of her cover.

She’d steal the glass jewelry pieces whenever Vivian wasn’t looking, holding them up to the light with unguarded fascination, even biting them to “test their hardness.”

Vivian caught her more than once about to swallow a piece, and from then on started locking away all luminous objects like a paranoid merchant guarding treasure.

Not that the glittering fragments would have harmed a Demon Lord—but still, it was exhausting.

She often thought, not without exasperation, that she wasn’t commanding two Demon Lords—she was babysitting two unstable problem children.

One anti-social and frail, the other restless and compulsively fixated.

Every day, keeping them under control while maintaining cover became an ordeal of its own.

Then again, Demon Lords came in all kinds.

Not all of them were born leaders—some simply fought their way onto the throne by raw might alone.