Since Seth and the holy knight left City of Gath, Byron, in name Seth’s much older “brother”, had taken the reins.
As for the former Earl’s estranged wife, she’d been moved to a modest estate within the city. Thus, Byron effectively held the castle's reins.
In the days that followed, Byron took Doyle on a thorough military inspection of City of Gath. Bonding over sparring sessions on the training field, at least from Doyle's perspective, they began to warm up to each other.
The inspection results were predictably disappointing.
From shoddy repairs on the city walls to armory stock discrepancies, and the issue of "phantom soldiers" drawing pay, three days of inspection fanned Doyle's flames of frustration.
Byron, being a genuine demon, found the whole ordeal amusing, but to maintain his disguise, he had to feign outrage.
Resulting in Byron, wearing his mask of maturity and composure, delivering a chewing-out to the poor souls responsible. His intimidation factor, Doyle noted with surprise, was on par if not greater than the black-armored knights himself.
Under the strict supervision of Byron and Doyle, City of Gath’s military began righting its course. Meanwhile, Murphy was growing concerned.
The work was getting done, but at a snail’s pace.
He’d hoped the king's special task force would work faster, sorting out titles and executions promptly, yet now Seth had to trek to the capital for his ceremonial appointment.
Though Murphy had used dark magic to shield Seth from divine detection, ensuring his every action resonated with sincerity to any prying high priest, the round trip would still take a considerable chunk of time.
Since City of Gath’s military and city defenses were being beefed up strictly for show, Doyle decided to stay put until the newly-minted viscount returned from the capital, preventing any unexpected developments.
So as long as Seth was away, Doyle stayed, preventing Murphy from truly taking command.
Murphy, who was aimlessly tossing a ball to a dog on Clyster Street Number 2, picked up the sound of footsteps approaching.
“Pepe, got any bright ideas?” Murphy asked. “How do we make that Doyle fella vamoose?”
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“Ehhhmm,” mused the little girl, distracted by her reading homework, “I’m not sure, but since he’s here for the military check, won't he leave once it’s done?”
“That’s not it. Ugh, thanks to the numbskulls who turned city defense into a hot mess, Doyle doesn't trust Gath’s security one bit,” sighed Murphy.
“So if we somehow make him feel secure, he'll maybe leave on his own, right?” the girl proposed.
This gave Murphy pause, and after a moment, a spark of inspiration struck, and he got up, “You're onto something. We need to give him a dose of human confidence.”
Leaning down, Murphy began whispering instructions into little Pepe's ear.
---
Now the viscount's castle, which formerly housed the foolish Earl, was blessed with an unusual calm.
In days past, the Earl's whims, from midnight snacks to unreasonable demands, drove the servants to the brink.
But now, the Earl had disgracefully stepped down, and in his place was the stern but fair steward - no, Viscount. Considering such a decent man would soon rule, the servants' spirits were high, their days eased by fewer chores and zero tantrums.
One evening, Byron, acting for the would-be Viscount, played host to Captain Doyle – a key part of Murphy’s latest plan.
He opened up the Earl’s wine cellar and brought out the strongest stuff for Doyle.
After days of camaraderie, Doyle let down what little guard he had and drank freely with his newfound friend, both cursing the Earl's military mess ups over drinks.
True to its reputation, the potent liquor took its toll after a few rounds. Doyle’s eyes grew heavy, and even Byron’s slime-covered façade began to slip.
“Byron, you're... *hic*,” Doyle slurred, squinting, “Why’s your face all melty? You alright?”
Byron, quick to react, patted his sagging flesh back into place, “You’ve had too much, Mr. Doyle, *hic*,” he feigned drunkenness, “What's this about a melty face?”
“Suppose so...” Doyle mumbled, then slumped onto the table.
But level thirty-five stamina kept him from passing out entirely, making him simply too sloshed to bother moving.
As Byron’s eyeball threatened to pop out, he pushed it back into its socket, feigning concern, “Doyle, you're drunk, aren’t you?”
Oblivious to his surroundings, Doyle continued babbling, “I’m not drunk. Clear as crystal.”
Just as Doyle hit the right level of inebriation, Byron steered the conversation: “Do you reckon Gath’s standing army could battle demons?”
“Hell no!” Doyle cursed without even lifting his head. “If they could fight demons, I wouldn’t spend all day fixing their messes.”
“I beg to differ,” countered Byron. “Low-level demons rarely master combat arts. If we take the lead, the challenge shouldn’t be that daunting.”
Piqued, Doyle lifted his head slightly, “You have a point. But you think you're up for it?”
“That's a given!” Byron asserted with prideful fervor. “Isn't this one reason 'my father' got nominated for the viscounty?”
“That so? You really want to duke it out with demons?” Doyle’s eyes sparkled with zeal.
“Absolutely. You scared?” Byron taunted.
“Nonsense. I'm over ten levels above you; of course I’m not scared. It's just...how to circumvent the Sacred Peace Accord,” Doyle pondered the sobering hurdle with eagerness still in his voice.
Calmly, Byron replied, “I know someone well-versed in the intricacies of the world's ironclad rules. He should have a workaround.”