Having agreed to seek the knowledge of one well-versed in the world's absolute laws, Doyle rose early with a sense of anticipation and waited for Byron in the castle's living room.

Byron, reputed early riser—which, unbeknownst to others, was just another demon trait—arrived promptly, neatly dressed.

After sharing a quick breakfast, they strolled the mere hundred meters to number 2 Clyster Street.

"Bang, bang, bang!" The pounding on the door echoed up to a groggy Murphy still nestled in his bed.

Although the plan was Murphy’s brainchild, he hadn’t plotted out every single detail.

"Who in blazes knocks so early?" grumbled Murphy, burying his head under a pillow for a respite from reality.

Pepe, early riser by circumstance, answered the door with Buster bounding beside her.

"It's Uncle Byron and some other guy," the little girl reported back to the two men at the threshold.

Byron, fully in his role, said to Pepe, “Fetch your teacher, dear. Tell him his visitors have a rather urgent matter.”

Doyle, genuinely pleased to be referred to as a friend, crouched down and reassured the little girl, “Don't worry, kiddo. We just have a question for your teacher.”

Pepe trotted upstairs, told Murphy about his visitors, and left him bemoaning, “Him? That's off-script. What's with these early bird antics?”

As Pepe thought silently that the real personality to be wary of was the demon lord in front of her, she led Buster away, leaving a bleary-eyed Murphy to get dressed.

Later, Murphy descended to the parlor, his appearance neat but his eyes betraying his lack of sleep.

Murphy walked in on Byron's warm greeting, while Doyle pointed at him incredulously, “Aren't you that consultant... yeah, the literary one? Everyone's checked you out. You're the guy who wrote all that trash for the old Earl. Why are you everywhere?”

A confused Murphy scratched his head and looked towards Byron, “Isn't this why you're here? Otherwise, I’d still be sleeping.”

Doyle turned to Byron, expecting an explanation of how a vulgar writer was linked to an expert on the world's ironclad rules.

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Byron, positioned between them, began introductions: “Please, allow me to introduce Mr. Murphy. This is General Doyle of the black-armored guard from the capital.”

Beaming at the title "General," Doyle stood a little straighter.

Byron continued to Doyle, “Don't let Mr. Murphy's youth fool you. He's not only a writer but also a competent magician. His diverse experiences allow him to craft those gripping tales.”

Doyle’s disdain eased on learning Murphy was a magician, asking, “You look like a baby. What level are you?”

Murphy, not wanting to give the young general a heart attack, fibbed, “Level forty.”

Doyle’s jaw dropped. Mind racing, he recalled something about powerful magicians altering their appearances. Still, he blurted, “Level forty? A level forty magician could serve as an advisor for a marquis. What are you doing in this backwater of City of Gath?”

Murphy, embracing the bluff, said with mock gravity, “I'm currently penning a book on the Sacred Peace Accord. I’ve done extensive research on the human-demon borders over the years, almost entirely unraveling the area of effect for the accord’s iron rules.”

Impatient, Doyle urged, “Then enlighten us on the range of these rules.”

Murphy laid it out, “Firstly, no engagement with more than one demon species at a time. We could spar with skeletons, but not anyone else, simultaneously.”

“Second, the scale mustn’t be too grand. The aggressor can't exceed about five hundred individuals.”

“Lastly, casualties on both sides should remain minimal.”

“Follow these, and you skirt the Peace Accord. Otherwise, the aggressor invites punishment from the world’s will.”

“So the defender doesn't get penalized?” Doyle asked skeptically.

Murphy blinked at the obtuse general, “They're getting hit; why penalize them...”

Gathered around the parlor table, Byron, seizing his mediator role, broached their real query, “Mr. Murphy, not to beat around the bush, but we came to inquire: how can we lead troops against demons and sidestep the world's stiff punishments?”

Murphy tapped his chin, “Doesn't a force of five hundred satisfy your appetite?”

Doyle interjected, “Five hundred might as well be invisible to demons. Can’t face them with that.”

Murphy feigned surprise, “How many do you intend to lead then, General?”

Doyle glanced at Byron, “How many regulars does City of Gath claim?”

Byron pondered, “Excluding patrol and personal guard... three thousand.”

“I meant actually.” Doyle winced as he corrected.

“Excluding the no-shows...” Byron mused, “around two thousand.”

It wasn't just the coffee that was bitter in the room.

Breaking the awkwardness, Doyle suggested, “Let’s include the personal guard, just leave out the patrols.”

“Two and a half thousand.”

“Plus my squad in black armor.”

“Two thousand, five hundred and twenty.”

Doyle turned to Murphy, “Two thousand five hundred and twenty men. Can you negotiate us past the iron-willed world rules?”

Murphy considered, then quipped with a sly grin, “General Doyle, must war always involve slaughter?”

Before Doyle could retort, Byron interjected, “Mr. Murphy, are you suggesting...?”

“You guessed it,” Murphy confirmed with a smile. “You're looking for a victory, proof that you’re mightier than demons. The best workaround for the world rules is—no fatalities (daemon or otherwise).”

“The rules, although strict, are remarkably inflexible. If you manage to defeat the demons without death, the world won't bat an eye,” Murphy concluded.