Alice poured the tea with steady hands, the porcelain teapot tilting just enough to let the amber liquid flow into Valen’s cup. He lifted it with grace, taking a slow sip before offering her a small smile.

  "Delicious," he said.

  Alice remained indifferent. Her gaze lingered on the rippling surface of her own tea before she gave him a polite nod. "Thank you."

  Valen studied her face, admiring the dignified beauty she carried so effortlessly, but there was sadness there, woven into the softness of her features, shadowing her red eyes. He knew why.

  "You might hate me for it," he murmured, setting his cup down. "For killing your brother, but I did it to survive."

  Alice looked up, meeting his gaze. Her expression didn't change, but after a moment, she offered him a gentle smile. "I don't blame you."

  Something about the way she said it made Valen move. He leaned forward, fingers finding the curve of her chin, tilting her face toward his. He was close—close enough to catch the faint scent of lavender on her skin, close enough that he could claim her lips if he wanted, but Alice turned away.

  The rejection was small, subtle, yet it stung. She was his fiancée. Why couldn’t they share this intimacy? He swallowed the emotion that threatened to rise and masked it behind a composed expression.

  "Why?" he asked.

  Alice stood, smoothing the fabric of her dress before bowing her head slightly. "We cannot," she said. "Not until I reach Master Class."

  Valen’s brows drew together. "Master Class?"

  She straightened, her fingers curling at her sides. "My class is the Dark Saintess. My patron is Umbra, the Goddess of Darkness. She has granted me a power seed—one that grows within me. To let it mature, my body must remain pure until I reach Master Class."

  Her words settled between them like a heavy weight. Valen exhaled, leaning back in his chair. He had not expected this. And yet, as he looked at Alice, he realized something—she was determined. Resolute. And no matter what he felt in this moment, no matter the frustration simmering beneath his skin, he would have to wait.

  Umbra was one of the nine gods overseeing this world, each selecting only a single messenger every century. Aveline, the Storm Saintess, was the chosen of the Skyfather. Valen had never expected to encounter another messenger—let alone for that person to be his fiancée.

  His frown deepened. "The Crimson Sun Cult worships the Heavenly Demon. To devote yourself to another god—don’t you think that’s blasphemy?"

  Alice remained still, her head bowed. "I couldn't refuse Umbra," she said quietly. "Besides, the Second Heavenly Demon whispered to my father himself. He said it was fine for me to be here."

  At those words, Valen fell silent. The mention of the Second Heavenly Demon had stolen whatever argument he might have had. His jaw tightened, but his frustration slowly ebbed away.

  "Fine," he said at last. A slow exhale left his lips before his voice softened. "Besides, it would be strange if my own partner worshiped me as a god. My partner should be my equal. And Alice—" He met her gaze, unwavering. "You have the potential to be worthy. I will wait until you reach Master Class, my dear fiancée."

  Alice bowed lower, her face hidden beneath the fall of her hair. Her fingers curled at her sides before she bit down on her lower lip, her shoulders stiff.

  Valen rose from his seat. His gaze lingered on Alice for a moment before he turned toward the balcony’s edge, looking out over the town below. The streets were calm, the townsfolk moving about in their evening routines.

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  "Come," he said. "Follow me."

  Alice lifted her head, her lips parting slightly, but she said nothing. She simply stood, smoothing her dress before stepping beside him.

  "I want to be a just god to my followers," Valen continued. "The people here already think well of us. That’s a foundation we can build on." He turned to her, eyes sharp with purpose. "If we show them kindness, we can turn their goodwill into devotion. I will convert them—not with fear, but with their own gratitude."

  To Valen, power was not just about might, it was about influence, about weaving loyalty into something unshakable. He did not want blind worship. He wanted willing followers.

  Alice studied him for a moment, then gave a slow nod. "As you wish."

  Valen and Alice stepped out onto the quiet streets, the evening air cool against their skin. Waiting for them was Kaelion—and his clones, each identical to the original, standing in perfect formation. One of them stepped forward and bowed slightly.

  "Master, I have brought the goods to be distributed to the townsfolk."

  Valen glanced at the crates stacked neatly beside them, filled with food, blankets, and other necessities. He nodded, satisfied. "Well done, Kaelion. Your hard work is appreciated." His gaze swept over the group before he continued, "Help me distribute these to the people. We’ll make sure everyone gets what they need."

  Kaelion and his clones moved to lift the crates, preparing to set off. Before they could take a step, Alice’s voice cut through the moment.

  "Can we distribute the supplies in front of Arayn’s tomb?"

  Valen turned to her. He considered her request for a brief moment before giving a slight nod. "I don’t mind."

  With that, the group set off, making their way through the town’s streets.

  They arrived at Arayn's tomb, a solemn structure standing alone in a spot that was formerly a tavern. The building had only one entrance, its stone frame sturdy. Alice had built it herself, every brick and carving placed by her own hands.

  Kaelion’s clones moved swiftly, setting up a wooden table just before the entrance. One of them turned to Valen and gestured toward the chair placed behind it. "Master, please sit."

  Valen took his seat, resting his arm on the table as he observed the scene unfolding before him. The townsfolk gathered in a loose crowd. One by one, they stepped forward, their eyes flickering between the supplies and the man they had come to see.

  The first was an elderly woman, her hands trembling as she lowered herself to her knees. She pressed her forehead to the ground. "May the great Heavenly Demon bless us."

  Valen smirked, watching as she slowly stood and accepted a bundle of food with a grateful nod.

  Then came a young man, his movements stiff with hesitation. He glanced at Valen, then at the others, before kneeling down and bowing his head. "We thank the benevolent Heavenly Demon," he murmured.

  One after another, they knelt. A mother holding her child. A weary farmer with dirt still on his hands. A merchant whose gaze flickered with something closer to calculation than devotion. However, they all did the same; they worshipped before they took supplies.

  Valen watched them with amusement, the corners of his lips curling upward. The sight of them bowing, speaking his title with reverence, sent a pleasant warmth through his chest. This was power, the kind that didn’t require bloodshed. The kind that made people willingly lower themselves before him. As the line of worshippers continued, his pride only grew.

  ---

  Inside the tomb, the air carried an aura of lingering magic. The room was bare—no offerings, no decorations, nothing but a single throne resting at the heart of a magic circle carved into the floor. Arayn’s corpse sat upon it, motionless, his lifeless body nothing more than a husk. Then, the flames erupted from his corpse.

  Fire consumed the body in an instant. Flesh and bone disintegrated, replaced by something far more terrifying. A figure took shape within the inferno, metal plating forming over a body carved with glowing red patterns. The throne groaned under his weight as he leaned forward, the flames dying down to reveal his new form. He was none other than Arayn in his Conquest Demon form.

  He exhaled, feeling the energy of the mortal realm coursing through his veins. He had done it. He had returned.

  Six days ago, he had prepared for this moment. The magic circle beneath the throne had served two purposes. First, to summon an expert-class demon that would claim his soul upon death. The second? To summon himself back into the mortal world at the right time. A ritual like this required a powerful catalyst, and there was none better than his own corpse. His body had been the key to his return.

  This had always been the plan. Arayn, Alice, and Darius had orchestrated every step, shaping the future with precision. He never intended to become the Heavenly Demon. No, he had let another claim that title, setting the stage for his true goal—to slay the Heavenly Demon himself. When the throne was left vacant, Alice would rise as the rightful successor of the Crimson Sun Cult.

  Now, he was here, and so was Valen.

  Arayn tilted his head, sensing the presence outside. His lips curled into a grin, his laughter echoing through the empty tomb.

  "Good job, Alice," he murmured. "I don’t even have to look for him."