Any normal four-year-old wouldn't quickly understand what his master implied about his unageing wife. But Kyrian was anything but normal, and he instantly understood that his master's wife had died hundreds of years ago.
Now, he was wondering who he spent meals with, along with the daughter who was supposed to be beyond four years old now.
Then, it dawned on him how Horace, a middle rank 7, almost at the peak of the whole known world, had mastered creating steel puppets, most of them even had the strength of rank 6. If he could make hundreds of puppets as strong as a leader of any large organization, then it was possible for him to create puppets in the likeness of his family.
The horrifying truth unfolded in Kyrian's mind as he saw how his master went beyond eccentric.
He had played house with his puppets for who knows how long, and he couldn't determine fully if his master was crazy, or sad.
Maybe, he was both: a crazy sad man.
He had all these powers at his fingertips, he could turn mountains into fortresses, mines into weapons of mass destruction. However, with all his strength and powers, none of it could bring back his family.
"You must be thinking how crazy I am, don't ya?" As if reading Kyrian's mind, his master expected what he was thinking.
Kyrian thought that had no reason to lie and said, "Yes, master. I think you're crazy, but also pitiful."
"You really say what's going on in your mind without filter for this old and sad master of yours, huh?"
"I don't see the need to lie."
"Are you really four years old?" Again, Horace was suspicious of his disciple's real age, as he never acted as a four-year-old.
"Even I question my maturity, master. I've seen young kids my age eat dirt and talk to a wooden fence."
Ever since Kyrian was born, he had remembered every single detail that he had experienced. From the moment he came out of his mother's womb, to the first time he tasted his mother's milk, even the moment he lost her in his arms.
The loss of this mother was especially impactful since he constantly remembers such memories vividly. He could still remember every experience as if it was just yesterday.
"Well, I wouldn't question your abnormal maturity since you're my disciple, but I would appreciate it if you tell me about your worries. As long as I'm alive, I will always be your master."
"Even if you're dead, you'll always be my master, master."
"Are you cursing me to die, brat?!"
"Don't get me wrong, master. I'm just saying that there was something wrong with what you said. I'm just clarifying that whatever happens, you'll always be my master."
Horace looked at Kyrian and he thought that he's so lucky to have an adorable disciple like him. Even if his words are blunt sometimes. Too blunt.
"If you don't mind me asking, master, is everyone in your estate a puppet? Was that why you weren't concerned in destroying your property when you made that tornado?"
"As expected, nothing went past by your eyes."
"But I didn't use my eyes to check them."
"Even more impressive, using your head. But to go back in tangent, yes. Everyone you've seen in this estate is a puppet. I couldn't really bother hiring people when I could do everything by myself. If I wanted a guard, who's better than a rank 6 aura master that never gets tired? How about a puppet that tirelessly cleans my house? Or a puppet that computes all my taxes? That's why I'm called the Steel Emperor."
"Because you rule over lifeless metals that follows your will?"
"Well… if you put it like that, then yes." Horace's let out a laugh that started as little giggles until in burst out into a cackle.
Kyrian wasn't sure why his master laughed abruptly. The boy didn't find it funny, nor did he intend his reply as a joke. He just blamed it on his eccentric nature and let him laugh on his own.
The night ended without much fanfare as the two decided to discuss their plans for the future. Well…besides the bombshell of an emotional roller coaster that Horace had revealed.
——
"Mister Oakhand, I am glad to receive you here in the Demonic Order," the horned man continued, his voice dripping with pride and a hint of menace. "Master Selvud said that you went beyond what was expected of you and you deserve a great reward."
Paul Oakhand, the newest sensation for the wrong reasons depending on who you ask, sat comfortably in the lavish room adorned with crimson accents. The walls were lined with rich, dark wood paneling, and the room was illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight, casting flickering shadows that danced to the rhythm of the jazz classic playing in the background.
A demon wearing a butler's uniform moved gracefully around the room, preparing tea with an almost mechanical precision. His movements were fluid, yet there was an eerie, otherworldly quality to his demeanor, as if the very air around him bent to his will. The aroma of the tea mingled with the rich scent of leather and aged wood, adding to the room's opulent atmosphere.
Paul Oakhand, despite him recently killing tens of thousands of civilians, appeared relaxed and at ease. He wore a sharp, tailored suit that complemented the room's decor, and his eyes gleamed with a mix of curiosity and ambition. He was a man who thrived in the shadows, always seeking the next opportunity to advance his standing, no matter the cost.
"Anything for the glory of Amon."