Shin's voice was steady, smooth as tempered steel, as he guided Nine through the palace—a sprawling dominion carved from stone and shadow.
Elsewhere, Aya, Colla, and Seven were already being ushered into the depths of the estate, attended to by meticulous hands. But Nine, indifferent to the grandeur around him, barely spared a glance at the wealth on display.
Polished marble stretched beneath his feet, gleaming like frozen moonlight. Towering pillars loomed overhead, their elongated shadows draped across murals depicting forgotten wars. The chandeliers above cast a dim, flickering glow, failing to warm the cold vastness of the halls. Heavy silk drapes veiled the windows, allowing only fractured streams of daylight, as if even the palace recoiled from the sun.
Shin spoke of estates, training grounds, private chambers—every word laced with reverence. Yet Nine barely listened. His gaze wandered, his mind elsewhere.
Until, at last, he spoke. His voice was quiet, but absolute.
"Build a separate residence for Aya. Connected to my chambers."
It was not a request.
Shin inclined his head, unshaken. And to Nine's mild amusement, construction had already begun the moment the words left his lips.
They continued their tour, but before long, Nine veered away, drawn toward a secluded pavilion on the outskirts of the main hall. The air was quieter here, untouched by the suffocating opulence of his new domain. Without a word, he settled into a chair, the weight of command rolling off his shoulders in increments.
He gestured for Shin to sit across from him.
A servant hovered nearby, awaiting orders. Nine flicked a hand.
"Liquor."
The servant bowed and vanished.
Shin, ever composed, took the seat across from him. Hands folded. Expression unreadable.
Nine studied him for a moment before speaking. "Your position within the demonic faction?"
Shin met his gaze without hesitation. "I am the third son of the previous Demon Lord."
Nine tilted his head slightly. "Your skillset? You don't carry the presence of a warrior."
A chuckle. Amused, self-aware. "You're correct, my Lord. I do not fight. I make money."
Nine raised a brow. "You like money?"
Shin's lips curled, slow and sharp. "I love money."
Nine grinned. "Good."
The servant returned, setting down a jug of wine and two cups. Nine poured generously, offering Shin the first drink—a silent proposition.
"Work under me," he said, voice smooth, laced with something both easy and inevitable.
Shin lifted the cup with both hands—a gesture of acceptance. "Gladly."
They drank.
The atmosphere between them shifted, solidified. Not simply an exchange, but an unspoken agreement.
Nine set the jug down with a dull thud. "Brothels. Gambling. Drugs. Do any of these run in the southern regions?"
Shin answered without hesitation. "Slavery. Smuggling. Rape." His tone did not waver. "That is the current trend."
Nine clicked his tongue, tapping his cup's rim. "And the other Lords?"
Shin's gaze was steady. "It has been exactly a year since all the Lords were identified. You were the last." He paused, then added, "The others have already begun their training, strengthening their essence as we speak."
Nine grinned, sharp and knowing.
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I'll send you a letter outlining your first task. Wait for it."
Then, without another word, he stood and walked away.
Shin blinked. "…My Lord?"
But Nine did not respond. His steps carried him toward Aya's quarters, his mood lighter, a hum escaping his lips.
Shin exhaled, glancing down.
A dark stain of spilled liquor had spread across the table. But as he looked closer—he realized.
It was not a spill.
It was a map.
Nine had drawn a rough layout of the entire compound using the wine, the jug itself marking the temple at the estate's heart.
Shin chuckled under his breath. He downed another shot, then stood, flicking his robe behind him as he strode off.
"He's hard to read."
---
"You'll be Shin's secretary on this project. Report anything you find out about him."
Nine handed Colla a scroll.
She took it without question, gave a small bow, and melted into the shadows.
With that handled, Nine turned toward the training grounds.
He exhaled slowly, expanding his senses. The essence of Lust had become part of him, entwining with his qi so seamlessly it was as if it had always belonged. Strength, speed, perception—it refined itself naturally, requiring no cultivation, no deliberate effort. It was too efficient.
But raw power meant nothing without control.
He needed to forge something from it.
Techniques.
Nine cracked an eye open, then let out a short laugh.
"Techniques… with Lust?"
The absurdity of it amused him. But he didn't dwell on it. He stood, shrugging off his robes, and grasped his sword.
Infusing qi into it should have been simple. But as soon as the energy entered the blade—
Crack.
The sword trembled violently before shattering into jagged shards.
Nine stared at the broken pieces. This was the same sword he had wielded in countless battles, the blade he had honed his skill with.
Slowly, he knelt. His fingers ghosted over the fragments before he gripped them, the sharp edges biting into his palm.
He tried again.
A pulse of qi. The shards quivered, drawn to the energy, shifting, reforming—only to collapse again when he lifted them.
Again.
And again.
Each attempt met with failure.
Frustration simmered beneath his skin, but he exhaled through his nose, adjusting his grip. This time, he abandoned the shards entirely, holding only the hilt.
He focused.
A single thrust forward.
Qi surged outward, sweeping over the fragments. The pieces stirred, drawn to him, reassembling into a full blade.
Nine swung it experimentally.
It held.
But it wasn't enough. The technique was powerful—yes. Flexible. But it lacked lethality. It relied too much on his qi, making it impractical for extended combat.
He needed something sharper. Simpler.
Before he could continue, a voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Take a break."
Nine turned.
Aya stood at the edge of the training grounds, her silk robe shifting with the evening breeze. The deep, rich hues of the fabric accentuated the elegant lines of her frame, the soft shimmer of embroidery catching the dying light.
Something in Nine's chest tightened.
Without hesitation, he moved—swift, effortless.
His feet barely touched the ground as he closed the distance, arms wrapping around her before she could react. A soft gasp left her lips as he lifted her, spinning once to lessen the impact before pressing her tightly against him.
His fingers curled at her back, grounding himself in her warmth.
Aya laughed softly, her breath ghosting against his neck. "I made refreshments," she murmured. "Let's drink together. Seven's taking a nap."
Nine exhaled, his grip loosening just slightly.
For once, he didn't argue.
No teasing. No resistance.
Only him, following her, listening to the gentle cadence of her voice as she spoke about a new recipe she had learned from a servant.