I really don’t know

“Hmm? What is it?”

Vivian raised a surprised brow, her expression curious—was it the crusade army again? Or something else entirely?

“A patrol unit spotted an approaching force. Upon confirmation, it’s a support unit from the Winter Demon Lord!”

“…Huh?”

Vivian froze for a second, then slowly turned to glance at Lucia, who was sipping soup beside her.

“Didn’t you say it would take at least a month? Why are they already here in two weeks?”

Suddenly, the soup in Lucia’s bowl lost all its flavor.

“Eh—ehehe… I have no idea, really! Maybe the situation improved back home after I left, so the reinforcements were deployed earlier?”

Her eyes darted, smile stiff, trying to cover the awkwardness.

Vivian, however, merely raised an eyebrow in silence, maintaining a subtle yet unmistakably amused smile as her crimson eyes locked onto the Winter Messenger before her—eyes that gleamed with obvious scrutiny and quiet disbelief.

Let’s be honest.

That unit had clearly been stationed near the border long before now.

Otherwise, how could they have shown up this conveniently—right after Vivian had just finished dealing with the crusade army?

Which meant, quite plainly, Lucia had been in contact with her superiors the whole time.

Vivian knew this little Banshee wasn’t being entirely honest!

And let’s not forget—Catherine wasn’t some softhearted noble.

Support from her was never going to come without strings attached.

They claimed the reinforcements would arrive in a month, but in reality, they were only ever going to step in at the moment most beneficial to them.

The only reason this batch of troops was showing up now—after Vivian had used just two thousand elite soldiers to harass and wear down twenty thousand crusaders until they were forced to retreat—was because she’d already proven herself valuable.

These weren’t just any troops.

They were battle-hardened veterans, survivors of a month-long meat-grinder campaign in Moges.

They had unmatched discipline, unwavering will, and top-tier combat capabilities.

That was why Vivian had dared to take on the crusade army with only two thousand of her own.

Guerrilla warfare might sound simple, but it placed enormous demands on a soldier’s skills and coordination.

Luckily, she’d held the line—so now there was no chance of the other side using this as leverage against her.

After all, when two villagers meet, they may shed tears of joy—but one might still stab the other in the back.

The internal power struggles among Demon Lords were just as ruthless as anything the humans could muster.

Vivian had never once believed that Catherine would offer support out of kindness.

There were definitely conditions.

“Out with it. What does Catherine want in return?”

Vivian sat at a stone table, fingers tapping lightly—rhythmically—against its surface.

She glanced at Lucia, who was now looking thoroughly uneasy and attempting very hard to appear unbothered.

“Ahem—well, I don’t know! I really don’t, Demon Lord.”

Lucia gave a couple of awkward coughs, then hurriedly explained.

“I’m just the advance messenger! I wasn’t told anything about negotiations. Whatever terms there are, I’ll only learn them once the reinforcements arrive.”

Her tone suggested complete innocence, as if she were merely a bystander to whatever political games were being played behind the scenes.

And that was wise—because Vivian’s moods, as a Demon Lord, could be… volatile.

“Fine. Go meet up with your reinforcement unit. Find out what Catherine actually wants.”

“Yes, Demon Lord.”

Vivian stroked her chin thoughtfully for a moment, then gave a small nod.

Lucia, as if granted divine pardon, bowed deeply and fled the scene with impressive speed.

To be honest, even though Lucia always looked like she was walking on eggshells, as long as she didn’t cross any lines, Vivian had no reason to move against her.

More importantly, Lucia carried out every task with precision.

And most critically, the Frost Banshees under her command were one of the territory’s primary sources of potable water.

Each night, they used their powers to condense water from the air into solid blocks, which were stored in wooden barrels to slowly melt during the day—providing clean drinking water for the entire camp.

Vivian couldn’t afford to discard that kind of asset lightly.

Besides, Lucia’s way of dodging questions was… airtight.

“Huuh…”

Letting out a deep breath, Vivian watched her retreat, then stood up.

“Let’s go, Luna. Come take a walk with me.”

She glanced at her timid succubus attendant, then added with a faint smile,

“And next time, unless it’s really an emergency, don’t come charging in like that. I nearly thought that bastard Garen had brought the crusaders back again.”

“Ehehehe… Got it, Demon Lord.”

Vivian reached out and pinched Luna’s cheek, then led her toward the camp’s outer paths.

Right now, it was shift-change time.

Day workers were finishing up and handing off responsibilities to those on night duty, so the entire area was bustling with movement.

“Demon Lord!”

“Demon Lord!”

“It’s fine. Go on with your meals and shift handovers.”

Vivian hadn’t cloaked herself this time, so as she passed through, both soldiers and civilians respectfully bowed in her direction.

Eventually, she arrived near the food distribution zone.

She wanted to observe the results of the day’s labor—and more importantly, see how morale was holding up.

And the moment she approached, she heard a sharp, screeching voice yelling at the top of its lungs.

“Don’t push! Don’t shove! You cursed pigs! Are your ears packed with beast fur or what?! Line up! LINE—UP—PROPERLY—!”

The voice was high-pitched and slippery, bearing the unmistakable nasal sharpness unique to goblins—yet it carried an oddly convincing authority, crackling with irritable dominance.

“This head chef has done precise calculations! Every single one of you will get your fair share of meat! Anyone who dares cut the line can look forward to drinking pot-washing water tonight! You hear me?! POT. WASHING. WATER.”

Following the sound, Vivian spotted the source.

Atop a makeshift kitchen platform stood a gray goblin, draped in a white apron, barking commands like a general on the battlefield.

The goblin was jumping up and down furiously, brandishing an oversized iron spatula that looked far too massive for his short, wiry frame.

He waved it around like a deadly weapon, slicing through the air with audible whooshes, looking ready to smash in the skull of any rule-breaker who got too bold.

Perched precariously on his head was a chef’s hat several sizes too large, its brim nearly covering his bulging yellow eyes, which were currently wide with fury.