As the first light of dawn crept into Charles’ room, he stirred painfully. His skin bore fresh welts and deep bite marks, testaments to the brutal night he had endured. Leia was long gone, as she always was by morning, slipping away before the servants arrived to tend to Charles’ battered form. With her newfound powers as a third-order storm attendant, Leia’s enhanced strength only intensified his suffering each time.

Leia had no pity for him. In her eyes, Charles wasn’t her brother; he was merely a vessel for her darker impulses. Yet, she seemed more volatile than usual, likely wrestling with troubles of her own. But none of that mattered to Charles. Until he grew stronger, he would remain a prisoner to her whims. His only hope now was the upcoming initiation ceremony in two weeks. Failure wasn’t an option—not even if it meant invoking a demon’s power.

Years ago, Charles had sought the blessing—or curse—of an ancient god. Known as Mammon, this deity embodied greed itself, drawing his strength from the ceaseless desires of his followers. As a follower of Mammon, Charles could barter offerings of wealth for favors. His twenty gold coins had once bought him only a broken mermaid heart, an offering that left him with skin more delicate than any woman’s.

A knock at the door disrupted his thoughts. An unfamiliar servant entered, offering him a ring from his uncle, Jack.

“Master Charles, this is the ring that Master Jack asked me to give you.”

Charles examined the servant with suspicion. “Did Jack send you to spy on me?”

The servant’s face remained impassive, his strange, shriveled pinky finger betraying an otherworldly presence. “Master Jack sent me to ensure your safety.”

Charles waved him off. “Get me a black coat; there’s a family dinner tonight.”

“Yes, Master Charles,” the servant replied, dipping into a bow before departing.

Charles sighed in relief. Jack’s motives were growing clearer—he had sent not just any servant, but a fifth-order undead, a presence powerful enough to crush Charles with a thought. Jack wasn’t just watching; he was ensuring Charles could neither escape nor scheme.

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Charles shook his head, dismissing the thought as he slipped the ring onto his middle finger. It was crafted from the bones of a third-order demon ape, a storage ring that held a ten-square-meter pocket of space. Inside, Charles stored the offerings he intended for Mammon: gold coins, monster blood, and three holy crystals, relics that would boost his chances of survival in the initiation.

Time was limited. Once he confirmed the servant had gone, Charles began crafting an altar in the center of his room, painting intricate symbols in the monster’s blood. His slender fingers moved deftly, each stroke carving out a ritual that he had memorized over years of clandestine practice. When the last line was drawn, he took a dagger and pricked his finger, allowing his blood to drip onto the altar.

The room blazed with red light, flooding the space in a feverish glow. Charles instinctively shielded his eyes, missing the strange blue shimmer that flickered along the dagger’s edge. Only with the blood of a third-order monster had he achieved this brilliance, far surpassing the dim rituals of his past attempts. He knew the castle would be alerted, but he had no choice—he had to complete the exchange before anyone could interfere.

As the light pulsed, a distant voice drifted from the altar, resonant and calm, yet tinged with a dark allure.

“My devoted servant, offer your sacrifice, and your desires shall be granted.”

Gold coins flowed from his ring, a steady stream disappearing into the air, 100,000 in total. Satisfied, Mammon’s voice softened, carrying a hint of approval.

“Speak your wish, loyal follower.”

Charles dropped to his knees. “Lord Mammon, I need a protection that will keep me alive through the initiation ceremony.”

A deep, satisfied chuckle echoed through the room. “Your wish is granted, faithful servant. Bring me further offerings, and I shall grant you more.”

In an instant, the red glow vanished, and the altar, blood-stained and ominous, dissolved without a trace.

A loud knock shattered the silence, and the servant burst in, eyes glowing an eerie green. “Master Charles, are you alright?”

Charles reclined on his bed, feigning calm as he clutched a book, hiding his fatigue. “I’m fine; you needn’t worry.”

The servant gave a measured nod, his gaze momentarily sharpened. “The young master should remember his agreement with Master Jack. If you betray it…”

Charles watched as the servant left, a lingering sense of dread settling over him. He exhaled only once he was certain he was alone, then tiptoed to the door and listened for any sound from the corridor. Satisfied, he relaxed. It was a narrow escape. But he knew the servant wasn’t suspicious; he was simply too powerful to think Charles could pose any threat.

Pulling the drapes closed to prevent any prying eyes, Charles retrieved a small vial from under his pillow. Inside was a drop of thick, black liquid—a gift from Mammon.

He read the tiny demonic inscription on the bottle’s edge: “Drink, and the devil’s eye shall reveal your path.”

With a steeling breath, Charles opened the vial and drank.