Epolas hated demons just as much as he hated the system that allowed them, or perhaps his hatred of demons specifically had surpassed any other of his prejudices in his old age. For while the system was undoubtedly a brutish menace whose barbaric objectives were as clear as day and whose brutality was naked for all to see, demonkind was a subtler kind of monster - the kind that could look you directly into your eye and lie to your face and know all the while that their lie would lead to your ultimate destruction.

Unlike most sapient creatures, demons possessed no real emotions to speak of. The only desire in their twisted minds, if one dared even call it that, is the desire to annihilate all of creation. Scholars had spent many aeons debating amongst each other why exactly the demonic race desired the end of the universe, being a part of the universe and all, but frankly, Epolas found such debates entirely beyond the point.

Every demon under the sun had its own fabricated history of the universe - with all of them being about as historically accurate as the tales of Aphosis having swallowed all the old gods those many millions of years ago. Each story was designed specifically to appeal to the listener, to make them feel more empathetic towards the cause of the demonic race, because what else but the vain assurance that what one was doing was something totally right and just could lead people to perform the worst acts of evil?

The sulphur-eyed agents of despair schemed to manifest chaos where once there was order, bring plague where once there was health, and tear every bond that held their "seedlings" to their humanity and or even reality itself. The culmination of such a scheme was the metamorphosis of the demonic cultivator into an agent of despair just like them, and it is in this way that demons are said to "reproduce".

Some asked Epolas in the past, why do demons do what they do? And to this, Epolas had only one answer.

Demons needed no reason to do what they did, having reasons for your actions was for sapient entities with goals, interests, and consciences. Demons possess only a malignantly selfless personality, if one could even call it that, totally uninterested in anything other than the physical, emotional, and metaphysical destruction of their target. Some who otherwise agree with Epolas' worldview surrounding demons use analogies to postulate that demons might derive some kind of pleasure from the devastation of human life but Epolas wasn't so sure.

Every demon he'd ever encountered before had been in his eyes a sworn enemy and he had no doubt that the demons thought the same of him. His first encounter with demons had been a brutal wake-up call, as he'd learned first-hand of their abyss-like hearts when Epolas had stared into the piss-yellow eyes of a demon and saw nothing within them as one of them had torn out his mother's heart right in front of him. He'd sworn his hatred that day and demonkind remembered such oaths. He knew this because time after time, he felt the ground beneath his feet begin to tremble and crack apart ever so slightly.

A shift in a troubled comrade's personality. The deadly glares of those who had once called him Esteemed Founder. The dark auras that invaded his mental space every night - only to be repulsed by his impenetrable mental defences. All of these things were undoubtedly the work of demonkind working in the shadows, and over the many years of his longer-than-average life, he'd come to be very sensitive to even the faintest signs of demonic activity.

Hence, when he wandered into his brotherhood's headquarters and was overwhelmed by the repugnant stench of demonic energy - Epolas swore he felt his airways begin to close and his eyes begin to roll back into the back of his head. He'd never before sensed such strong demonic energy and his body was screaming at him to run away as fast as he could, he had only the strength of his convictions and in a world of super-human pseudo-deities that hardly ever proved enough to ensure your survival. Thus, entering the hall of what had once been his intellectual baby, would put him in an unfathomably dangerous position - especially if the demonic presences were here for the reason that he suspected.

However, Epolas would not cower before the grey-skinned youth and give up on his movement so easily, so he mustered his strength and stormed into the building through its wide-open gates in a huff - his old sharp eyes full of genuine rage and disbelief. Demonic cultivator or not, whoever dared desecrate his holy ground would come to know what it was like when a bitter scholar goes on a rhetorical offensive.

He stormed through empty corridors and neatly prepared but barren mess halls alike, but to his great frustration, the old man could not find the origin of the demonic energy. Then, he froze in place as an ominous sensation crawled down his spine. Perhaps he had been a fool to enter into the building after all.

A purple mist dense with what looked like poison began to waft towards him as if blown by an astral wind as no draft had made it into the building - Epolas knew that for certain. Seeing this mist and realising he was in mortal danger, Epolas began to run back in the direction from which he came - not daring to look back.

After all, only a fool willingly stands within a demonic lord's aura without proper preparation.

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Arthur had organized dozens of high-class events for his masters back on Earth, his skill set had usually been just diverse enough to manage well enough to do nearly all of the background planning and orchestrating by his lonesome. Other people, in his experience, had usually gotten in his way, and he had learned over the years that it took someone with a particular mastery over his words to avoid potentially disastrous miscommunications in the midst of everything. And it only took a single person misunderstanding what you said for the whole event to be classed as a complete and miserable failure.

Yet, the immense task placed on his shoulders, combined with the very short time scale, made organising the event solo almost near impossible. Arthur had needed to throw himself completely into the work, even if that meant spending more and more time in a butler’s guild office and away from the apartment that he and his new family were staying in. However, even with all of his work, he tried his best to not lose track of himself so much that he forgot to cater to the needs and interests of his own grandson – he’d already made that mistake once and he wouldn’t make it again.

Problems with the ball began to mount up more and more as the full extent of the Imperium’s odd high social customs were brought to his attention. No matter how classy, alcohol was never to be served to guests without their explicit request, and the meals were to contain only the highest quality of ingredients – and all such ingredients had to be from a particular planet owned by a particular multi-verse spanning corporation. All in all, Arthur had quite quickly realised he’d need to call in some assistance to help him organise it in time if he wanted to have the ball prepared before the deadline – which he did.

So, he was at a bit of a crossroads and needed to figure out what to do. He had brainstormed several different potential pathways he could take to possibly resolve his problems over the last few hours, but each one had its own issues.

The first potential path open to him was for him to renege on the promises he’d made to himself where they related to taking care of Lucas more intensely, in doing so laying aside his principles for just this one time, so as to dedicate the entirety of his time between right now and the ball to organising and facilitating the event that would hopefully secure him the future that both he and Lucas needed if they wanted to live well in the multiverse.

However, despite the reward-laden consequentialist appeal of taking this path, or the easy way out of his problems, Arthur couldn’t help but feel that this path would only exaggerate his personal problems and traumas even further and after everything he’d gone through, he wanted to avoid worsening things further as far as that was even possible.

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Another potential path open to him was calling in some help from other butlers, but this path had more practical issues than Arthur knew what to with. First and foremost, who could he call upon to help him? He was not exactly well connected with this new social circle of butlers, he’d only just entered after all, and judging by the looks he received whilst at the guild from the other members – this perception of him as a foreigner/outsider and thus not worthy to speak to any of them wouldn’t change any time soon. No matter how hard he had tried to temper it down, his still-accented way of speaking made it as clear as day to his more senior and capable colleagues within the guild, all of whom came from the Imperium’s home worlds, that he was not one of them. Trying to drag in some random junior colleague lured in by the offer of money or a powerful friend could end disastrously for Arthur if the young person turned out incompetent.

The final path he could think of was extremely risky and one he’d only thought of taking after a long while of thinking about the difficulties involved with his current situation. Perhaps the solution lay not in utilising every second of the next week and a bit to plan and orchestrate every minute detail of the ball, but instead splitting the time between levelling up and planning. By levelling up, Arthur hoped to use his stat points to improve both his mental capacity for organisation, as well as potentially triggering his class skill shop to appear and offer him a skill related to organising big events like the one that he was currently stuck planning. Arthur guessed he probably already had a proficiency in organising higher than a basic skill level could offer, but it might just improve speed and reduce the active mental burden somewhat.

There were tremendous risks involved with this approach, however, as not only did it involve Arthur actively fighting monsters again to gain experience, but if the perk increases in his mental stat proved insufficient, he would have effectively wasted the time that he could’ve used to pursue one of the other paths.

His pondering of what lay ahead was suddenly disrupted by a once again newly familiar system prompt appearing before him.

You have reached the 5th step of the [Lesser Spirit] realm!

Reward: +5 Spiritual Points

Arthur had done his best to cultivate manually whilst his monstrous perk remained inactive after his fight with the hydra, and whilst he’d enjoyed cultivating manually, it was only after getting the perk back now that he finally fully grasped just how ridiculous his perk was in comparison to others’ growth. While others’ cultivation journey took them months, if not years and or decades, to progress to the next step within their major realm, Arthur would continue to progress easily through the major realms if things continued as they had done so far.

Arthur rubbed his temple as he contemplated his future some more, the same old thoughts and worries showing their ugly faces once more. Though, with everything positive that had happened lately, Arthur was just about strong enough to push those thoughts to the side and his mind began to focus on another issue that had bothered him lately.

What should he get Lucas as a birthday gift?

Back in the forest back on Earth, he’d promised himself that he’d get the boy one but neither time nor circumstance had done much to aid in the search for one. But, even if he had been blessed with some time to spare, the system marketplace had just as many product options, vendors, and scam artists as earthly internet-based marketplaces had. Except in the system marketplace’s case, its simplistic UI made it beyond impossible to distinguish between legit and illegitimate businesses at a glance so interrogating such things more intensely would have probably taken up any time he’d had anyway. Just as with the choice about which path he should take, he was conflicted about what type of present he should get the boy for a late birthday present.

Something system-related?

No. Arthur had already come to the harrowing conclusion that his young grandson had a dangerous and foolhardy fascination with violence, and it had been precisely that fascination that had ultimately made him a pliable lamb able to be led into the dark and accursed dungeon back on Earth. No matter how much Arthur wished for the boy to be strong enough to live in the new reality that had claimed their souls, his care for the boy’s safety was the overriding principle in his decision-making. So, decided there and then not to indulge the boy’s desires when it came to progressing with the system – hoping that by doing so he’d be able to cultivate the more regular Earthling side of the child.

Having made this choice, Arthur was left with the question of what semi-regular thing could he get an 8-year-old boy that Lucas would like? In truth, the former butler only wished to see the boy smile as he had done in the past – for Arthur those cherished memories of the boy smiling in awe and wonder were his lifeboat in the endless sea of blood and chaos he’d been forced to sail on ever since the system arrived. Then, he had a thought – perhaps a figurine?

A ringing sound made Arthur’s eyebrows shoot up, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a telephone-esque device – the name of a certain Marshall appearing on it. Arthur felt a slight tug at his heart as he realised this was likely nothing good but answered the call regardless.

“Arthur Goodman speaking?” Arthur stated, silently praying that his luck proceeded him and that the Marshall was just calling to follow up on something he’d not asked Arthur when they were on the ship together.

Maximus’ voice on the other end of the line was serious yet seemingly full of regret when it finally spoke, “Arthur, I just got a call from my lieutenant back on the mothership, it seems that this Amanda Fitzgerald couldn’t control her emotions and succumbed to demonic influence and fled the ship after killing about a dozen of my men who tried their best to subdue her non-violently. In other words, Arthur, she is a dead woman walking. I just thought I’d let you know.”

The call ended just like that, and Arthur placed his head into his hands and wept.

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The bar was deathly silent, no sound - not even the sound of him breathing - could be heard. Just as Old Roger liked it.

For too long he had been forced to deal with noisy customers making his life a living hell; giving him an unceasing cluster headache due to their loudness. Plus, he swore that his brain was always on the verge of melting due to having to listen to an infinite array of customers' generic and uninteresting stories about how they, obvious criminals, ended up sitting at the bar of a shitty run-down bar like his.

Roger swore that if he heard the phrase "I've been going through some tough times" ever again, he might just commit another massacre. In fact, he was pretty sure that the only reason he hadn't already slaughtered the nearby population was that his buddy Fredrick said it might be bad for business going forward and after the bullshit cut that damn leach of an emperor took from his bank coffers every year, Old Roger was not exactly in a position to be able to endure a "bad" business year.

Just thinking about the lanky bastard who sat on the throne of the Imperium made him want to bash skulls in and a deep indent in the bar made him realise he'd almost nearly bashed in his own bar.

He took a deep breath in, and then out, slowly recollecting himself - forcing his anger back into its rightful place. There was a time and a place for everything and just before your latest recruit was about to arrive for their job interview probably wasn't the best time to unleash his rage on his establishment's only piece of bolted-down furniture.

His fingers began to tap rhythmically against the bar - waiting for the boy to arrive. Old Roger had no idea why he'd taken a liking to the boy, though he was pretty sure it had something to do with the smell of tragedy that was almost physically exuded from every pore on the young man's body.

Roger was a bit of an elitist when it came to feeling empathy. He was only empathetic to those who expressed complex emotions, he'd had far too much exposure to the average happy or sad person for him to feel anything but complete and total apathy towards whatever their situation/plight might be. Yet, it wasn't every day that one encountered someone so utterly consumed by despair, and honestly, Roger felt for the boy because of it.

His silence was punctuated by the slight ringing of a bell as a wooden door creaked open, and a smile appeared on the old barkeep's face before he began moving towards turning on the lights. Once the lights were on, the form of an older teen staring intensely at a mug in his hand whilst seated behind the bar became visible.

Roger's smile grew as he sensed the boy's emotions had gotten even more complex recently, before he said, "We alright Young Stevo, you seem conflicted?"

The young man, a lad by the name of Steven, shifted nervously upon being called out on his obviously complex emotional state. Then, he replied, "Rog, what do you know of demons?"

Old Roger's eyebrows raised, and an intrigued smirk formed on his lips as he felt a slight tug in his stomach, "Tons. Ask away."