"I-I'm so sorry, sir!" the maid stammered as she hurried forward. "My Lord, Baron Bailey, isn't feeling himself today! He's been insulting everyone like this all day!" She pleaded desperately, casting a nervous glance at Van.

"Nah, but he's special, Mirias," Bailey interjected, a manic grin plastered across his face. "He really is the ugliest son of a bitch I've ever seen."

"Baron, huh?" Van said, an amused smirk curling his lips as he ignored Bailey's remarks, instantly drawing their attention. He folded his arms, his posture casual.

"What is your Skibiditoilet, then?"

The air shifted. Both Mirias and Bailey stiffened, a jolt of confusion flashing through them.

"I... I'm sorry?" Mirias managed, her voice faltering, while 'Bailey' froze mid-smirk.

"Skibiditoilet," Van repeated flatly. "You called him a Baron, so surely, you can tell me. There isn't a single human Baron who doesn't take pride in his Skibiditoilet." His tone was as deadpan as his expression.

Mirias's mind scrambled in panic. 'This is bad. What IS that term!?' she thought, her heart racing.

'We decided to pose as a Baron and his maid because Baron is one of the lowest ranks of human nobility—there are thousands of them, no one could single us out! But I had no idea there was some obscure term we needed to know!'

Her thoughts spiraled. 'Just... what IS Skibiditoilet!?'

"Fuck you," Bailey snarled suddenly, his voice sharp and venomous. "That's my Skibiditoilet. I don't have to explain it to the likes of you, lowly and ugly adventurer." He jabbed a finger at Van's armor, his lip curling as he scrutinized it.

'Black metal, huh?' Belial thought, his eyes flicking briefly to Van's sword. 'Nice shit he's got on him.'

"Actually," he continued, his voice dripping with mock authority, "you've offended me so deeply by asking about my Skibiditoilet that I, Baron Bailey, am confiscating your gear."

Van's lips pursed, a faint glimmer of amusement flickering across his face as his eyebrows arched. There was almost a hint of pride in his expression as he sized up the so-called Baron.

"Strip." the order came.

'Huh,' Van mused to himself, his smirk widening slightly. 'That's the second demon that wants me to get naked.'

"And drop that sword of yours too; for that ugly mug of yours." Bailey added, his tone unwavering, laced with the confidence of someone unaccustomed to being challenged.

'I-impressive,' Mirias thought, watching Belial's sudden shift into a commanding presence. 'Lord Belial may be taking this provocation too far, but... this attitude might actually help us avoid suspicion!'

"Hm," Van hummed, holding back his laughter as he glanced thoughtfully at the sky. "Never heard of a Baron ordering a Count before," he said lightly, his tone loose.

Mirias's face paled. 'We're doomed.'

"F-..." Belial faltered momentarily, his eyes scanning Van's face for any hint of weakness, yet finding none.

"Fuck you. You're not a Count. I bet my Skibiditoilet on it," Belial spat flatly.

Van chuckled, his gaze locking onto Belial, his eyes seeming to glow momentarily.

"And you're not a human," Van said, his voice low, though the lightness in his tone remained.

"...!!!"

Both Mirias and Belial flinched, instantly shifting into battle-ready stances. Their eyes darted around frantically.

'Shit... He got me!'

'If the moment demands it, we may have to fight!' Mirias thought nervously, her gaze darting to Van. 'But the contract... If we breach it, the Archdevil will unleash divine punishment on us!'

"If you tell anyone we're demons, I swear to shit, I will fuck you up—" Belial snarled, his face mere inches from Van's, but Van cut him off.

"It's like this is your first time trying to fool people," he said as he walked past them, casually tapping Belial's shoulder.

"I never said you were demons. You could've still played coy," Van added as he passed Mirias, whose eyes widened in sudden realization.

"Though it wouldn't have worked on me either way." He muttered in a low voice.

"Come on," Van said, turning back to face them. "If you've managed to fool everyone here, let's head into the Capital and talk," he invited, yet his tone firm.

"Wait a fucking second, you fucker!" Belial roared, his voice booming as he stopped Van in his tracks. He stomped toward him.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

"... What the fuck's a Skibiditoilet?"

"A word I made up," Van replied flatly.

"..."

Belial stared at him in silence, his expression unreadable.

"Alright, if that's all," Van said casually, turning around and resuming his walk into the Capital, unbothered.

Belial remained rooted in place, his expression inscrutable as Mirias approached him from behind, her gaze fixed on his broad, tense form.

'Lord Belial may have enjoyed being spat on and slapped by humans and other races here—he's not used to being rejected, so I can understand why he found it amusing until now. But this... this is different. That human DARED to make a fool out of him...!! He must be seething!' Mirias thought, her steps faltering as she hesitantly drew closer.

"My lord, you need not take his provocation to heart," she began cautiously. "We merely came too underprepared, and—"

She trailed off as she stepped in front of him, expecting to find frustration or rage in his gaze. Instead, she froze, her eyes widening at the sight of the wide, manic grin spreading across his face.

"My lord...!?"

"I've never experienced someone playing me like a fiddle like that," Belial said, his voice tinged with awe as his eyes remained locked on Van's retreating form.

"I don't care who that fucker is, or what's his deal; but he is my best friend from to-now onwards."

"Haaah..." Mirias let out a long, weary sigh.

'Of course,' she resigned inwardly, her shoulders slumping as she fell in step with him. Together, they followed after Van into the Capital.

Elsewhere in the Capital....

"So, what did the Supreme Bishop say?" Marcy asked as she stood next to Amoria at the guild, side by side behind the counter during a rare moment of relaxation in a busy day.

But Amoria didn't answer, her gaze distant. When Marcy noticed, she momentarily tried to follow her line of sight, but there was nothing of interest where Amoria was looking.

"Amoria?" Marcy called.

"Ah, yes, sorry! I was lost in thought," Amoria said, shaking off her distant gaze. Her eyes now focused on Marcy.

"Is everything alright?" Marcy asked, tilting her head at Amoria's unusual aloofness.

"Oh, yes, it's just..." Amoria sighed deeply, though her expression remained light. "I-I guess it's getting to me. Everything. And then there was that light in the sky not too long ago, which he immediately credited to the Goddess."

"Oh, that. Yeah. I wonder what caused it. It even gave me a scare. I bet that old fart is flipping out," Marcy chuckled lightly.

"Do not insult the Supreme Bishop like that, Marcy," Amoria scolded sternly.

Marcy furrowed her brows, tilting her head slightly in confusion.

"I don't understand. Why aren't you the Supreme Bishop? You're stronger than him, aren't you? Why does he get to rule? And why isn't his heir you, but his son? So stupid."

"Enough, Marcy. I understand your rejection of him, but there's no need to outright question his authority every time the conversation shifts to him," Amoria said firmly, her gaze pressing into Marcy.

"...." Marcy held Amoria's tense expression lightly before sighing deeply. "Fine, fine. Sorry."

She looked away, glancing at the passing patrons and Lizzy tending the tables.

"So," Marcy started again, "what did he say about the demons? The idea of them coming here to decipher the circle."

"Let the demonic advisor and his assistant up there know that he refused it. He told us to drop the matter, as it is sacred ground," Amoria finally said, looking down, seemingly lost in thought.

"Tsk... Of course. As irritated as I am, I guess I should've seen this coming. With the demons giving us that heart attack and our already tense relations despite the treaty, I suppose I knew it was coming. So, he wants us to drive them away?"

Amoria shook her head. “He said they can stay as guests, but forbade them—or us—from interacting with the circle.”

“Haaah... Remind me again why we didn’t just make the journey to kill the Dragon King 16 years ago?” Marcy asked lazily, leaning against the counter.

Amoria’s gaze shifted to her daughter, diligently cleaning tables and serving customers. Her expression softened as she spoke.

“You know exactly why. But look at them. They’re growing up, aren’t they?” A somber smile touched her lips.

“I guess that settles it, then,” Marcy sighed, turning away, her shoulders visibly tensing.

Amoria’s voice dropped, quiet but resolute.

“We have to make the journey to talk with the Dragon King, ask why and how they attacked us despite the treaty, and if necessary...”

“Kill him,” Marcy finished, her tone flat.

--------------Meanwhile, in the Guild’s storage house...----------------------

Anne’s hands shook as she hauled another crate onto the shelf.

'I haven’t slept a wink,' she thought, her body screaming for rest.

Michael’s voice broke through the air, his tone feigned with awkward cheer.

“A-ah, Anne, you’re so clumsy today! Don’t worry, I’ll handle this crate,” he said casually, as though she wasn’t being forced to move at his command, like a puppet on strings.

She bit her lip, swallowing the frustration threatening to rise, and gave a stiff nod.

'Just a little longer,' she told herself, her mother’s belief in her the only thing keeping her upright.

But Michael made everything harder.

“Don’t collapse,” he’d ordered her the other day as to not raise suspicion in Marcy's eyes, and that was that.

She obeyed. She had no choice; but she accepted it eventually; thanks to her mother's words of encouragement.

When yesterday's grueling work finally ended, she dragged herself to Amoria and Lizzy’s house, leaning against the doorframe before stumbling inside. The vacant room offered a single hope: the bed.

Anne swayed as she reached the bed, her knees buckling under her. Her head throbbed, and every muscle screamed for relief.

'Even if I have to work tomorrow,' she thought, clinging to the fleeting promise of rest.

'At least I can sleep...'

But just as her body gave in, just as she collapsed onto the bed—searing pain tore through her.

The mark on her body burned violently, yanking her upright as if an invisible force had seized her. Her breath hitched, and her limbs locked in place.

“No... no way...” Her heart pounded as the truth crashed down on her.

Michael’s command didn’t end. It didn’t fade. It didn’t allow for rest. Her body refused to collapse—even now, at her breaking point.

“I’m not collapsing,” she tried to reason silently, her entire body trembling, sweat pouring down her face.

“This is just going to sleep, not collapsing...” She shook harder, gripping at nothing. “So let me sleep,” she whispered, desperation bleeding into her voice.

“Please, this is just sleep. I’m not collapsing... Please...”

Her knees gave out again, but the mark flared, dragging her upright once more as it burnt her skin. She sobbed silently, tears streaking down her face, her shoulders heaving with each breath.

“I’ll do anything... anything you say. But please, let me sleep...”

Alone in the room, she begged the crest, begged the universe, her silent cries echoing only in her head - as the crest forbade her from drawing attention.

But the mark kept burning.

Anne stood there, trembling, her vision swimming. The bed—so close, so painfully close—remained forever out of reach. Despair surged through her, swallowing what little resolve she had left.

-------------

“So, today,” Michael’s voice pierced through Anne’s haze as they worked.

“We must brand Lizzy too,” he said grimly, his eyes fixed on the seal as he swallowed hard.

‘...!!’