In the extravagant bedroom of the Duke's castle, flickering candlelight cast grotesque shadows on the ornate walls. By the window sat the Duchess, a woman of serene beauty but with eyes that betrayed a weary soul. Draped in a flowing white gown that spilled across the floor, she embodied the image of a noblewoman who needed only to exist, with all else delivered by her husband's influence and power.
A perfect life, one might think.
But the Duchess's frozen smile betrayed her turmoil. Her hands clenched her gown tightly, wrinkling the immaculate fabric as a cold rage simmered within her. Born into the ancient and prestigious Alsop family of northern Pranman, she had been married off to the cruel and hedonistic Duke Connor Reaves as part of a political alliance. She had entered this household as a fragile young bride, only to be met with disdain and hostility—even the Duke's son from his previous marriage had hurled stones at her, calling her vile names.
The Nightmare family lived up to their name. Old or young, they were all monsters.
She should have known better. The fate of her predecessor had been a cautionary tale. Once a radiant figure at noble gatherings, the former Duchess had wilted within a year of her arrival in Flynne County, her life cut short under mysterious circumstances disguised as complications from childbirth.
Now, sitting in the oppressive gloom, the Duchess stared into the candles, watching them burn down to stubs. She felt her life, like the wax, melting away in the shadow of her husband's ambitions.
The door creaked open silently. A gust of wind extinguished the candles, plunging the room into darkness. She froze, her breath hitching as she turned toward the figure stepping through the doorway. Moonlight painted her face a ghostly pale, her wide eyes brimming with terror.
He had arrived—the devil's servant, the hound of eternal night.
In the Duke's study, Connor stood before a large drawing board flanked by towering bookshelves. The room reeked of intellect and authority. He gripped a piece of chalk, jotting down keywords—Canal, Airstrike, and Shu—his voice echoing through the room.
"We need to settle these three issues tonight: the canal, the airstrike, and Shu." His tone brooked no dissent.
Behind him sat a group of advisors and experts, each perched uncomfortably on worn leather chairs. The room's air was heavy with tension. To his left, Slowe Lampes lounged casually, engrossed in a book, offering no acknowledgment of the Duke's demands.
Connor's eyes flicked toward Slowe but he chose not to engage. Instead, he turned his attention to an elderly man seated in front of him. "How's the construction of the northern canal progressing?" he asked, pointing his chalk at the man. "What's your name again?"
The old man, dressed humbly, trembled as he responded, "Hubbard, Your Grace. My name is Hubbard…"
"Shut up! I know that!" Connor snapped, as though forgetting he had asked. "You're the civil engineer, aren't you? Give me an update on the construction."
The elderly professor stammered, "I oversee the planning, not the on-site construction—"
"Then get out!" Connor waved dismissively. "Unless you want me to escort you myself?"
Hubbard fled, leaving behind his notes and dignity.
Connor scanned the room, his gaze like a whip, sparking fear in the remaining experts. "So, who's supervising the construction?"
A suffocating silence ensued. Everyone averted their eyes, wishing they could vanish.
Finally, Slowe spoke without lifting his gaze. "The supervisor perished in the airstrike. Are you sure your memory is as sharp as you claim?"
Connor's anger flared. "Why was he in Grand County? And are you saying all three supervisors are dead?"
Slowe adjusted his glasses, his tone nonchalant. "Two were executed by you. The third had valid reasons to survey Grand County. Unfortunately, during the airstrike, he was caught in the lethal radiation zone."
The Duke's frustration boiled over. He jabbed his chalk into the paper, tearing it. "Do I have to inspect the northern section myself now? Is that what you're saying?"
Slowe conjured a map mid-air, its clarity leaving no room for doubt. "The northern section hasn't reached the icy plains, nor is it close to the beastman tribes in the primordial forests."
Connor stormed through the illusionary map, jabbing a finger at Slowe's face. "The trade agreement between the three empires and the beastman tribes takes effect next year! Golden diamonds and fertile lands are ripe for exploitation! And you dare tell me the canal isn't finished?"
Slowe weathered the tirade calmly, while the other advisors cowered like frightened quails.
"I'll arrange for new personnel," Slowe replied evenly, extinguishing Connor's rage with cold pragmatism. "Next issue?"
Connor wasn't ready to move on. "Be specific! I don't want another situation where all my supervisors die before I even meet them!"
The Duke's paranoia seeped through. He trusted no one—not even Slowe. If he had, he wouldn't have secretly inspected the canal's progress or concealed the airstrike.
The Nightmare Duke Trusts No One but Himself
Slowe gestured with his hand, and the pen and paper flew into his grasp. "Here," he said, writing out detailed points and handing the notes to Connor.
Connor glanced at the paper, then shredded it into tiny fragments. "Replace the northern canal supervisor with Shu," he ordered coldly. "That fool needs some tempering."
The northern canal was the lynchpin of the Grand Canal project. Once completed, it would give the Nightmare Duke a decisive advantage in upcoming trade agreements with the beastman tribes. While commoners derided the canal as a wasteful endeavor, they remained unaware of the impending treaties that would transform the canal into a vital trade artery.
The economic incentives—trading common goods for gold and diamonds—were merely surface-level benefits. The true prizes lay beyond commerce: land acquisition, slave trading, and tribute extortion. The beastman territories were a feast for the taking, and the Nightmare Duke intended to control the main artery that would ensure the empire's dominance.
Despite Shu's inexperience, his noble status and influence made him a suitable choice to oversee the canal construction. Unlike "outsiders" like Slowe, Shu's loyalty was beyond question.
"Understood," Slowe responded calmly, his demeanor unchanging.
"Let's move on." Connor returned to the board, placing a new sheet and scrawling Airstrike in bold letters. He cast an impatient glance at Slowe, who remained engrossed in his book. "Lampes, are you done yet? Put that thing away!"
"Of course," Slowe replied, closing the book with deliberate ease. A faint trace of red seeped from the book's edges before vanishing. Connor's sharp eyes caught the detail, and he stared at Slowe with an unreadable expression.
"Finished with… whatever that was?" Connor asked, his voice heavy with implication.
"Almost," Slowe replied in a flat, perfunctory tone. "Please, continue."
Connor softened his demeanor, regaining his characteristic affability as he addressed the group. "You're all aware of the airstrike. The Emerald Holy Lance moved their Sky Fortress over Camper City on our border and unleashed a death-ray bombardment within thirty minutes."
Though the higher echelons of the empire already knew, the weight of the revelation sent a chill through the room.
A middle-aged officer, his uniform spotless, cautiously inquired, "Were there any survivors in Grand County?"
"None—not even a horse," Connor replied curtly, though the statement was a lie. His demeanor darkened. "Are you on vacation in Flynne County, or do you simply lack any understanding of the situation? Get out!"
The officer scrambled to leave, his composure shattered.
Another portly officer, whose perpetually smiling face undermined his solemn tone, spoke next. "Does this suggest that St. Lanscart is targeting Flynne County's trade routes?"
Connor shot him a glare filled with disdain. "Are you really a graduate of the military academy? Your beer-barrel physique suggests culinary school would have been more fitting. Join the other fool outside."
The "chef-turned-officer" waddled out hastily, leaving a lighter atmosphere in the room.
Connor cleared his throat and gestured at the map Slowe had conjured. "Overlay the national borders and cities," he ordered.
Slowe complied, illuminating the map with clear demarcations.
Connor tapped on key points as he spoke. "The three empires have a shared interest in exploiting the beastman territories. No single nation can dominate the region outright, and no one is foolish enough to launch a war at the height of trade negotiations next year. Let's leave the idiotic questions behind."
A sharp-faced woman in a flamboyant red dress raised her hand. Her attire was more suited for a ballroom than a war council. "St. Lanscart clearly has ulterior motives!" she exclaimed, parroting Connor's earlier assertions.
"I don't need someone to parrot me," Connor snapped, glaring at her overly made-up face. "Wash that mess off before you speak in my presence—no, actually, don't bother. I wouldn't want to see you again even with a clean face. You're dismissed. Permanently."
The woman's face turned deathly pale as she stumbled out of the study, tripping over her gown multiple times in her haste. Her expression, filled with shame and despair, made it clear that she felt utterly humiliated, as though her world had collapsed.
The remaining attendees in the room quickly understood one thing: speaking out, unless you were Slowe, meant risking immediate dismissal. They wisely chose silence.
"So, St. Lanscart clearly has other motives," the Nightmare Duke continued, unaffected by the earlier incident. "His Majesty has decided to wait and observe their next move. If they do nothing further, we'll await their reparations. But if they act again, we'll prepare for war."
The emperor was neither pro-war nor pro-peace. He had a knack for staying neutral, allowing his nobles and ministers to fight among themselves while he reaped the benefits. He was clever, always balancing his power to maintain his throne.
"I personally lean toward demanding reparations. St. Lanscart has no reason to declare war. If they wanted to breach our western defenses, this attempt was pathetically amateurish," Connor said confidently. "As for the real reason behind their attack on Camper City, we'll uncover it in due time. For now, let's prepare to receive their envoys for peace talks."
For the Nightmare Duke, addressing the plight of disaster victims was secondary. His primary focus was how to exploit the talks to gain advantage.
While envoys typically traveled directly to the imperial capital, "direct" often meant stopping at various locations en route. From the border to the capital, they would pass through four counties. Without rest, reaching the capital would be impossible. St. Lanscart's air cavalry was barred from Proman airspace, and ground transport had been disrupted by the airstrike. This meant the envoys would likely stop to rest after passing through the devastated Grand County.
This gave the Nightmare Duke a critical window to engage the envoys before anyone else, even the emperor.
Though it was uncertain if St. Lanscart would send envoys at all, Connor had already begun preparations. Staying a step ahead was the secret to his success.
After delegating tasks to receive the potential envoys, Connor dismissed the remaining officials.
"Now, the final issue—my heir, Shu," he announced.
The duchess stared in horror as her body slowly dissolved, devoured by a monstrous entity.
Fortunately, she had already lost sensation.
Her voice, ragged and broken, echoed in the room like a wheezing bellows. "Demon… You're a demon!"
"To be called that by you is the highest honor," a shadowy figure replied, his tone laced with amusement. He stood before her, dark and imposing. "How do you feel now?"
The duchess hung suspended from the chandelier, which had transformed into a grotesque creature. Its corrosive secretions burned through her delicate skin, dissolving her lower body into a pool of viscous liquid. These crimson threads wove themselves into a cocoon of flesh, growing larger and more alive as her body was consumed.
"I… I see hell…" she whispered, her trembling voice thick with tears.
The figure chuckled softly. "This is a blessing from the Eternal Night Goddess. Please accept it with gratitude."
The duchess let out a piercing scream. "Tell Connor… Bargains with demons always lead to ruin! His end is near!"
Her intestines dissolved into the cocoon, her lower body fusing with it. She remained alive, forced to witness her own consumption.
The figure's voice turned fervent, almost worshipful. "Death is merely a return to the goddess's embrace."
The duchess's voice fell silent as her throat was consumed, becoming part of the cocoon.
The figure stepped closer, drawing a silver, inverted cross on her forehead. It glowed coldly before sinking into her flesh. The cocoon pulsed and writhed, its outer layer thinning to reveal the wriggling, bloodied mass within. Slowly, the flesh inside began to take human shape.
The cocoon swelled before bursting apart, showering the room with gore.
From within emerged a naked woman, identical to the duchess in every way—her face, her poise, her demeanor. She stood amidst the bloodied remains, her movements awkward and unsteady, like a newborn learning to walk.
The figure in the shadows watched silently. Finally, "she" lifted her head, smiled demurely, and said, "I feel wonderful. You may attend to your other matters now, Professor Slowe."
Slowe nodded calmly, his body gradually turning translucent. "Yes, Your Grace."