It had been ten long years since that fateful incident, and the ruler of the Abyssal world grew increasingly bored. Following that incident, instigated by the foolish woman, he had awaited news about the princess. However, too lazy to investigate himself, he had tasked Azazel with arranging demons to infiltrate and gather reports. Yet, none had returned.

Frustrated, he decided to take matters into his own hands. But his entry into the mortal realm was impossible due to a powerful rule separating the realms—one too strong for him to break on his own. To change that rule, he would need to locate the entity responsible for creating it. What troubled him most was the resemblance of this rule's power to the very Being who had once threatened his world.

When spying from the shadows proved fruitless, he opted to possess an unsuspecting mortal to enter the Empire of Arcane. By that time, the child was already five years old. He caught only a brief glimpse: long, glowing red hair streaked with platinum. When the child turned, their mismatched, glowing eyes locked onto him. To his astonishment, the child somehow sensed his presence—something even a high-ranking hunter like her mother had failed to detect. In that moment, an unexpected barrier surged across the entire Empire, expelling him from the mortal body. A child who can wield mana even before awakening will grow into a monstrous force capable of destroying anything in their path.

Since then, no demon had been able to infiltrate the Empire. The Abyss had been forced to rely on hidden apostles to gather information from within Arcane. When that woman first tried to harm the child using Hemlock Bane, he was furious. However, once he discovered that the poison couldn’t kill her, his mood shifted to elation. He often wondered if he had somehow corrupted the child, making her his disciple—his first disciple. With her, his Empire of Darkness would grow beyond measure. But before that, he wanted her to become the true hope of the world. It would be far more satisfying that way—watching her rise as the beacon of hope, only to fall into darkness. The moment she embraced the darkness, he could revel in the despair, the pain, and the doom reflected in the eyes of the mortals.

In recent days, the Abyss had lost much of its former power. Most demons were restless, anxious that the sealing of one Empire might set a dangerous precedent. In their view, a child capable of creating such a barrier around an entire Empire could potentially generate barriers that would encompass the world itself as they matured. The demons feared the prospect of such a force, and many sought to eliminate this threat before it could fully bloom.

However, the ruler of the Abyss held a different perspective. In their eyes, this child was far from ordinary—destined to possess more than two divine seals. The most troublesome first prince of the Arcane Empire had only one divine seal, yet his mere existence was already a significant burden. How much worse would the world be if someone were to awaken more than two divine seals?

Azazel, meanwhile, was consumed with his own worries. The ruler continued to urge him relentlessly, demanding a way to release the barrier. The array itself was astonishing—especially when considering that such a complex formation had been created by a five-year-old. If Azazel could, he would ask the child how she had conceived such an intricate design. Unfortunately, she lived in a "no-entry" zone, beyond their reach.

Azazel cast a disdainful glance around the Aetherium. Papers and furnaces were scattered haphazardly across the floor, creating an overwhelming sense of chaos. Everything was in disarray, and even the high-mage’s robe looked no better than a beggar's tattered garb. Combined with their already grotesque appearance, it made Azazel silently curse the inherent lack of cleanliness among demons.

Azazel observed the demon mage, who was meticulously analyzing the data stored in the recording stone about the barrier. Though demons often viewed mortals with disdain, they couldn't deny their admiration for human technology. Those unmanned carriages, sleek and elegant, with their comfortable seats, offered a sense of luxury. In them, one didn’t have to worry about falling into the gutters after waking from sleep.

It had been five years since they began their research. Azazel’s patience was wearing thin. “What have you people been doing for the past five years? Every time I visit, all I see is you staring at that recording. Nothing has progressed. What am I supposed to tell the Master— that he’s raising a group of useless mages who can’t even figure out a child's toy?”

The mages looked at Azazel, fear etched into their faces. “Lord Azazel, it’s not that we’re not trying, but this is far too complicated for us. It’s hard to believe a five-year-old could create something like this,” one of them dared to reply.

Azazel’s voice cracked with rage. “Are you saying our Master lied? How dare you accuse the Master of lying? If I snap my fingers, your head will be ripped from your body. Do you want to try?”

The demons cowered, their already grotesque features contorting further in fear. “My Lord, we weren’t questioning the Master, we were merely expressing our astonishment. Please forgive us…”

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Azazel, pleased with his display of authority, glared at the trembling mages as though they were nothing more than lowly insects. “Hmph. I’ll forgive your insolence this once. But you’d better watch your tongues next time.”

With a sharp, disapproving glare, he turned on his heel and strode out of the Aetherium. The clutter and disorder weighed on his nerves, but as he made his way back to his office, a sense of relief began to wash over him.

However, that fleeting reprieve was short-lived. As Azazel approached his study, his mood plummeted. The sight awaiting him within was enough to shatter any trace of his earlier elation.

The neatly ordered papers on the table were now in disarray, the daily records of the Abyss he meticulously kept lay torn, and most devastating of all—the vase he had smuggled from the mortal realm was shattered. If the table was messy, he could always tidy it up. If the record books were destroyed, he could rewrite them. But the vase? That vase was irreplaceable. He had endured countless hardships to obtain it, and it was the only thing of beauty in his study—a space otherwise steeped in dullness and chaos.

And the culprit responsible for this destruction? None other than Hecate, currently lounging casually in his study as though he owned the place.

“Oh, Azazel, you’re here. Why do you keep this mortal trash in here?”

Hearing those words, Azazel’s vision blurred with a rush of fury. ‘You’re the trash. Your entire family is trash, you... you psychopath. My vase, my precious vase.’

Though he cursed inwardly, his expression remained carefully neutral. “How many times have I told you not to touch my things? We are demons, but that doesn’t mean we don’t deserve privacy.”

Hecate let out a cold, mocking laugh. “Exactly. We’re demons. We don’t need pretty trash, and we certainly don’t need privacy.”

Azazel felt his irritation rise. In his view, nothing productive would come from explaining the need for privacy or aesthetics—or the simple act of keeping one’s surroundings clean—to someone as oblivious as Hecate.

“Why are you here?” Azazel asked, his tone sharp and controlled.

Hecate, as though waiting for that question, met Azazel’s gaze. “Master is asking for you.”

Hearing the word Master sent a chill down Azazel’s spine. For a brief moment, fear flickered in his eyes—so fleeting that only Hecate, with his sharp gaze, might have caught it.

Azazel straightened, forcing his voice to sound composed. “Did something happen?”

Hecate regarded the broken pieces of the once-beautiful vase before answering coldly. “I don’t know. I merely relay his message.”

Azazel let out a bitter laugh. “That’s rich, Hecate. When did you become the messenger?”

Hecate’s eyes narrowed, his tone sharp. “Has your life been so comfortable that you’ve forgotten your place, you lowly thief?”

Azazel, stung by his words, glanced down, hiding his reaction. Without another word, Hecate turned and strode out, leaving him standing there, his thoughts swirling as he prepared to make his way to the throne room.

The throne room looked as grotesque as ever. “Master, you called.” Azazel bowed and addressed the ruler. The rulers had remained unchanged over the past ten years—still seated in darkness, their form twisted and seated upon a grotesque throne, gazing down upon all with disdain.

“Azazel.” His eerie voice resonated in Azazel’s ears. “Any news about the array?”

Azazel, as he had countless times before, repeated the same response. “No, master. The mages couldn’t decipher the mechanism of that array.” The ruler scoffed. “Useless.”

“Azazel, have you heard any news about the little princess?”

Azazel sighed inwardly. ‘Not this again.’

“As I’ve already informed you, master, the princess is about to begin her studies at Clairvoyant’s Valley. It’s the finest academy in the mortal realm. She’ll be setting out soon for the Elf realm.”

The ruler let out a low, pleased noise. “Wasn’t the boy from the Northern Kingdom also attending this year?”

“Yes, master.”

“Tell that boy to befriend her.”

“Yes, master.”

Azazel gave one last bow and left for his study. As he tidied the room, his thoughts began to drift. If I weren’t afraid my master would tear me to pieces, I’d call him a psycho, he mused. To become the ruler of all worlds, he defied the most powerful being—only to slaughter both demons and mortals alike. At this rate, if he keeps killing, there won’t be anything left to rule.

When Azazel had first died and become a demon, he was utterly baffled. He knew that if Hell still existed, he would have gone there, endured endless refinement, and passed on to the next life to start fresh. It wasn’t like he’d become a thief out of malice or madness, unlike the other demons who thrived on torture, slaughter, and chaos. His circumstances were far from that.

What puzzled him even more was why his master had chosen him as an attendant. Sure, he was clever, but he lacked the cruelty and strength typical of demons. He had been a mere thief in life—far from possessing the traits of a demon, let alone a servant of the Abyss.

Suddenly, his head throbbed violently, as if thousands of needles were stabbing into his skull. The pain was excruciating, like his head was about to shatter into a million tiny fragments.

In the haze of searing pain, a melodious female voice pierced through the chaos, soft yet hauntingly familiar.

“Laron, my friend, where are you?”

The words echoed in his mind, resonating like a distant memory just out of reach.