Investiture

“With a bit of petty cleverness, cleaning up some mess, she dares to implement ‘new policies’?”

“Elevating the status of commoners? What a joke!”

“The glory of the Demon Clan lies in bloodline and power, in traditions passed down for ten thousand years!”

“Sooner or later, she’ll follow in Cliff’s footsteps.”

“Not to mention a defeated cur who lost to a Hero—what qualifications does a captured Demon Lord have?”

“A Demon Lord captured alive—truly a disgrace, enough to nail her to the pillar of shame for ten thousand years!”

“I’ve heard the Evernight crystals produced there are of decent quality.”

The sinister-eyed woman licked her lips.

“Perhaps we can send a caravan to drive the prices down further… Hmph, isn’t the frontline fighting just to provide us with resources and taxes?”

“As for how many low-tier demons die… who cares?”

“Hahaha, well said! To the ‘sacrifice’ of our frontline warriors—cheers!”

“Cheers!”

Exquisite goblets clinked together, producing a crisp yet hollow ring.

Amid bursts of unburdened laughter, the sounds drowned in the banquet hall’s decadent clamor.

They discussed the deaths of their kin as casually as the weather.

They schemed to squeeze the last copper from distant suffering, their hearts unmoved.

They viewed the sacrifices of frontline warriors as consumables taken for granted, even as fodder for banquet banter.

In this paradise floating in the sky, the blood and cries from afar were but an insignificant backdrop to the wine in their cups.

In their eyes, those frontline Demon Lords and soldiers were mere tools and materials to sustain the imperial capital’s prosperity and their lavish lifestyles.

The so-called war was nothing but a chessboard for their political games and wealth accumulation.

These entrenched noble families had dominated the imperial capital for thousands of years.

Through marriages, alliances, and ruthless infighting, they wove a web of interests spanning the entire Demon Clan domain.

They controlled the most advanced magitech, the largest caravans, the elite private armies, and even influenced Senate decisions to a degree.

Their offspring received the finest education from birth—scheming, indulgence, and how to better rule and exploit.

The hardships of the frontlines were, to them, distant and blurred background noise.

Yet at the deepest heart of the imperial capital, atop a black tower seemingly isolated from the city’s din, the Demon Clan’s supreme ruler—the Demon Emperor—quietly observed it all.

There were no lavish decorations here, only endless void and slowly flowing mana resembling a starry river.

The Demon Emperor’s figure was shrouded in profound shadow.

Her youthful, almost girlish face was filled with utter boredom.

Before her floated dozens of screens of varying sizes.

These displayed real-time information from every corner of Demon Clan territory.

The brutal clashes on the frontlines, the development of various Demon Lord domains, resource flow data, even snippets of conversations from noble banquets in the capital.

A torrent of information flooded in, all taken in by the Demon Emperor’s gaze.

Her eyes occasionally skimmed the screens showing frontline Demon Lord conditions, but those brilliant golden pupils showed no ripple, as if watching a play unrelated to her.

Toward the nobles’ luxury and indifference, she expressed neither approval nor disgust—it seemed all part of the natural order.

Until her fingertip lightly tapped, enlarging one screen.

It showed an overhead view of the Evernight Territory, along with reports on population influx and growth, agricultural output, technology, and Vivian’s education system.

The Demon Emperor’s gaze lingered on terms like “literacy education,” “technical standardization,” and “performance management.”

From the shadows came a nearly inaudible chuckle laced with intrigue.

“…Interesting.”

Though the Demon Emperor had not left her chambers in a thousand years, clearly, she knew every detail within the Demon Clan like the back of her hand.

She had ruled too long—long enough to grow weary of power shifts, displays of strength, and the shackles of tradition.

This little Demon Lord named Vivian—a former captive now tinkering with seemingly “heretical” ideas in barren lands—her actions clashed with the rules that had endured for ten thousand years on this land.

She noticed Vivian not for her combat prowess or performance, nor as the first Demon Lord to survive capture after defeat.

But for her governance style, seemingly opposite to all Demon Clan traditions.

It was not mere pursuit of power, nor traditional scheming.

It was more like an attempt to redefine order.

Though laughable in the eyes of capital nobles, to the Demon Emperor, it was a ray of light.

She sought to reshape barren land and beings deemed inferior with ideas nearing “rationality” and “equality.”

The Demon Emperor issued no decrees—no praise, no obstruction.

She merely allowed her controlled caravans to make contact and offer limited aid. That was all.

To this supreme being who had ruled the Demon Clan for countless ages, time was the cheapest commodity.

She had patience to wait for this “intriguing” existence to develop on its own.

To see how large a ripple she could stir in this stagnant pool—or if she would ultimately be swallowed by it.

“Let me see how far you can go, Vivian.”

Come on, Vivian, show me what you can achieve—oh, right, almost forgot something.

The Demon Emperor seemed to recall something and waved her hand.

The dozens of screens rippled like wind-kissed water, then most faded, leaving only a few.

One enlarged slightly, revealing the grand [Audience Hall].

The hall was vast and frigid, its mirror-smooth floor reflecting an oppressive silence and pressure.

Kneeling within was a dust-covered, towering demon whose armor still bore unwiped blood and grime.

His head bowed in utmost humility, yet the ferocious aura of a hundred battles clashed with the ornate, cold hall.

He was Gordon, a general from the blood-soaked frontlines, survivor of a brutal war with merits earned.

By ancient tradition, his accumulated feats and power qualified him to come to the capital for the Demon Emperor’s personal investiture as a new border Demon Lord.

But the Demon Emperor’s figure did not appear in the hall.

As Gordon waited tensely, in the next instant, her gaze and will descended with crystal clarity.

A cold, calm female voice—devoid of emotional fluctuation—rang directly in Gordon’s mind and echoed through the empty hall.

“Gordon, your merits have been reviewed.”

No praise, no questions—just flat statement.

Gordon bowed lower, his voice trembling with excitement and awe.

“Supreme Majesty! To fight for our Demon Clan is our highest honor!”

“Hm.”

The Demon Emperor’s response was light, with a trace of barely noticeable laziness, as if a casual acknowledgment.

“Today, I invest you as—[Skullcrusher Demon Lord].”

“The Cragstone and Ashen Territories—their former lords fell in battle. After consideration, I grant you Cragstone Territory—its mana tides are chaotic, resources scarce, often raided by dwarves.”

She continued indifferently, as planned.

“Now bestowed upon you, renamed [Skullcrusher Territory]. See that you… manage it well.”

Her tone was as casual as assigning an unimportant item, not investing a territorial guardian Demon Lord.

No encouragement, no warning, not even a hint of expectation.

With her words, a complex magic array in the hall’s center glowed deep blue.

From the light rose a crown of rough black obsidian and dull metal—fierce in design.

The mana crystals embedded were clearly inferior to those of capital nobles’ trinkets, even bearing natural cracks.

Emerging alongside was a mana-condensed contract scroll symbolizing territorial ownership and Demon Lord authority.

This was the full investiture ceremony.

Simple, cold, efficient, even perfunctory.

Yet Gordon trembled with excitement, as if granted supreme favor.

With hands that had torn throats and shattered skulls, he reverently cradled the crown and scroll like the world’s most precious treasures.

“I, Gordon, swear by blood and soul to guard [Skullcrusher Territory] for Your Majesty. May Your Majesty’s glory shine eternally!”

His voice rasped with the oath.

But there was no response.

The hall’s pressure receded like a tide; the cold gaze vanished.

Gordon knelt alone in the vast, frigid hall, clutching the crown earned through countless battles and subordinates’ sacrifices—symbol of duty, territory, and tax obligation.

After the investiture, the Demon Emperor gave a small yawn.

The Audience Hall screen silently extinguished.

Her slender finger swiped, lighting another screen showing Duke Augustus’s banquet hall.

Nobles’ laughter and clinking glasses faintly echoed, forming an absurd, jarring contrast with the prior cold solemnity.

Investing a Demon Lord was, to her, no different from approving a new dessert recipe.

Compared to traditional Demon Lords destined to bleed out on the borders, this little one trying to build new order amid ruins seemed more amusing to her endless life.

She anticipated if the other could bring some change to the status quo.

The gears of the Demon Clan empire turned slowly under her lazy, indifferent gaze.

Grinding over countless blood and lives, sustaining the false prosperity and silence above the clouds.

The Demon Emperor’s eyes swept the remaining screens—capital splendor, noble revelry, frontline blood—all taken in, yet all seeming illusory.

She was a detached player, watching pieces slaughter and evolve on the board.

Only when necessary would she place a move to upend the game.

Under the Demon Emperor’s endless silent watch, the capital’s night remained noisy and long.

The moonlight under the Eternal Dusky Canopy illuminated luxury but not the borders and frontlines shrouded in war and poverty.