It had been a few days since the City of Gath returned to its usual serenity. On a bright and peaceful afternoon (don't ask why not the morning; the Demon Lord Your Majesty has no notion of 'morning'), Murphy awoke from the coziness of his blankets.

"Ugh... so sleepy... Five more minutes," Murphy murmured, forcing his eyes open, then immediately surrendering to sleep again.

"Did I forget something?" the booting-up Demon Lord thought, scanning for any neglected background processes.

"...Today is, uh-oh..." Murphy sensed trouble brewing.

"Deadline day!" The pajama-clad Demon Lord bolted upright, "Blast it, it’s the seventh day, and I haven’t written a word! And it's due by nightfall."

A small head poked through the bedroom doorway, "Master, you're awake? For lunch today, we could have..."

"Anything's fine, money's in the..." Murphy began to frantically search for pen and paper.

"The money's on the wardrobe shelf, I know," Pepe smirked devilishly at the sight of the flustered Murphy. "Master, racing against the deadline again?"

Young people always pick up new things the quickest. After living with Murphy for some time, Pepe had gotten a firm grip on otherworldly expressions like 'deadline.'

Murphy, looking towards Pepe said, "Good apprentice, you caught me. Maybe you've written the draft for your master, eh?"

"Not a chance~" Pepe, still semi-illiterate, laughed even harder watching Murphy's chaotic search.

"Get lost, you little fiend!" Murphy had no time for child's play; he conjured a short-range teleport spell on Pepe, sending the young lad off to the wardrobe.

"Whew," Murphy wiped away non-existent sweat. "Time to buckle down!"

Murphy's last urban healer novel had been duly delivered to the Earl, and for a few bland compliments and some gold coins, he had no actual interest. But in order to keep his cover, to "wear his vest," he chose to carry on with his creations.

And what better inspiration for his material than the household saga of Count Reed himself?

Four hours later, breathing heavily and clutching a stack of still-damp parchment, Murphy reached a small chamber in the Earl's castle where the ever-punctual butler Seth was waiting.

The old butler, ramrod straight and stiff as a board, spoke rigidly, "Mr. Literary Advisor, you are late."

"Mr. Butler, let's not split hairs," Murphy replied with a smile. "Why not give today's tale a once-over? Not to boast, but it's quite the riveting read."

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Skeptical, Seth unfurled the parchment and glimpsed the conspicuous title: 'The Earl's Younger Son (Part I)'

The butler's brow furrowed as he read swiftly through the simple yet captivating story: Long ago, an Earl ruled a region, blessed with two sons. The elder appeared cheerful and open-hearted, yet secretly harbored a vile and narrow spirit, whereas the younger was reserved, his heart always open to his family.

Perhaps in the effort to select a suitable heir, or maybe for other reasons, the Earl turned a blind eye to the elder's machinations against his brother. Emboldened, the elder's schemes escalated until the younger son mysteriously disappeared during a wilderness hunt, presumed dead after extensive searches, thus securing the line of succession.

Of course, it wasn't so simple. The younger son, shot in the heart from behind, didn’t die. He tumbled down a cliff, landed in a river, drifting until he got caught in a downstream fisherman's net.

The fisherman swore it was the heaviest he’d ever pulled, expecting a windfall, only to find a very live man in it.

The disheartened younger son, having barely survived thanks to a quack doctor, settled in the village. He incinerated every shred of clothing he once wore and melted down his armor and sword into the village’s best and most durable sickles and hoes, assimilating as an ordinary villager.

Years passed, and the banal villager—thanks to his decent looks—wooed the fisherman's daughter, the very one who saved him, and they had a son. He became an unremarkable father.

The son soon realized his father wasn't so ordinary—after all, he knew how to read.

At ten, plague stole both his parents. The father’s dying act was to hand his son a faded letter, detailing his origins and life’s tale.

The child, having read the letter, vowed to avenge the orchestrator of these woes, even if it took his lifetime.

(To be continued...)

Sweat soaked Seth's back as he finished the neither short nor long story. Despite intentional disorientation of places and civilian occupations, he knew this tale far better than the so-called literary advisor before him, for the revenge-driven youngster was once him.

Seeing Seth speechless, Murphy inquired, "Mr. Butler, is it hot in here? You seem to be sweating."

Regaining composure, Seth laid down the parchment and asked, "What about the rest of the story?"

Murphy flashed a grin, "Mr. Butler, you're surely more acquainted with what follows, aren't you?"

This man knew his deepest secret! Without a moment of hesitation, Seth’s pupils narrowed and launched a lethal blow straight at Murphy’s throat.

The rush of wind heralded the punch that was meant to shatter Murphy's windpipe and snap his neck—a silent demise.

But against his will, Seth's fist stopped an inch before Murphy’s neck, as if it hit an invisible iron plate.

Following his fist upward, Seth's gaze met Murphy's right hand, gripping his wrist like a blacksmith's tongs.

Before Seth could register shock, Murphy's idle left hand laid open before him, a skull-and-crossbones coin resting quietly in his palm.

"Easy there. Don't recognize this little token?" Murphy teased.

"Is it... you?" Seth withdrew his fist, trying to reconcile the man before him with the memory of a skull-masked figure.

"Nope, not me at all." Murphy chose to keep his guise intact, waving dismissively, "I'm merely a pawn, an underling, whatever you fancy, of that Lord."

Relieved at the hint of common ground, Seth relaxed somewhat. Pointing to the table, he pressed, "What's the purpose of this manuscript?"

"What purpose could I have? I was hired to entertain the Earl." Murphy shrugged.

"Aren’t you afraid he'll notice?" Seth furrowed his brow.

"Notice? As if. You don't seriously believe that oaf has ever cracked open his own family's history?" Murphy maintained his lighthearted demeanor, "Sometimes, even the dull need a rude awakening."

"And the upcoming parts...?"

"Don't rush, they're coming in a day or two," Murphy said with his constant, amiable smile.