{Chapter: 56: Dex's Demon Aftermath And Place Confrontation}
The thick, metallic scent of blood hung heavy in the air. Dex inhaled it deeply, like a wine connoisseur savoring the bouquet of a rare vintage. His brow, usually creased in thought or subtle irritation, slowly eased into a rare expression of contentment.
"I feel very good," he murmured, almost to himself.
For demons, the notion of peace was a strange and foreign thing. They could endure it, even toy with the concept for a time, but it never truly satisfied. Something always felt missing—the heat of battle, the chase, the raw essence of life and death tangled in a violent dance. And today, the great purge that had swept through the royal capital had provided just that. It had been brutal, chaotic, and bloody—a beautiful storm that left Dex feeling, oddly enough, serene.
He didn't care much for the details. The politics of mortals, the schemes of other demons seeking to infiltrate this realm—none of that concerned him. With his current strength, he wasn't yet powerful enough to conquer this world, nor foolish enough to try. He likened himself to a mouse in a granary—surrounded by riches, able to indulge in luxury, but ultimately insignificant in the grander scheme.
Let others come if they could. Let other demons claw their way into this realm. If they succeeded, good for them. If they failed, oh well. He would neither open the door nor close it. He was merely... present.
Still, the thought of killing other demons wasn't entirely unappealing. Not out of principle, of course—he wasn't one to preach. But the rewards were often worth the effort. Slay a demon, harvest its essence, and you could walk away with treasures, influence, or power. A practical demon was a prosperous one.
Peering up through the layers of soil and stone that separated him from the night sky, Dex caught a glimpse of the pale moon. He stretched languidly, joints popping in a slow ripple of motion.
"...I really want to move around a bit," he muttered.
There was a flicker, like a bubble bursting midair, and he vanished, dissolving into the shadows of the basement without a sound. He had places to be, and blood to drink in—metaphorically, of course.
---
Elsewhere, far above, two factions converged in front of the towering palace gates. The bloody purge had concluded, for now, and the survivors gathered in the cool, silvery aftermath of the moonlit night.
Safi arrived first, robes dusty and stained, but his expression composed. He approached the group of soldiers and nobles with a measured calm, brushing back his hood as he turned to address the figure beside him—Crown Prince James Woz.
With a calculated sigh, Safi said, "Your Highness, I must express our church's dissatisfaction. This agreement was meant to prevent a demonic incursion, not to cleanse the capital of its underground networks. And yet, we ended up dismantling no fewer than a dozen cult cells and at least eight hidden crime syndicates. This goes well beyond our mandate."
His tone was diplomatic, but laced with complaint.
James Woz, ever the charming politician, chuckled and waved a dismissive hand. "Come now, Bishop Safi. The Principality of Marton paid handsomely for your assistance. Besides, your clergy seemed to handle themselves quite well. A bit tired, perhaps, but largely unscathed. I'd say you got a fair deal."
The message was clear: the contract was sealed, the services rendered, and the prince had no intention of renegotiating.
Safi gave him a thin smile, recognizing the futility of pushing further. James was not a man easily manipulated. He wore his arrogance like armor, and behind that charming smile was a mind as sharp as any blade.
Still, Safi wasn't without his own weapons.
He shifted his gaze to the line of blood-streaked carriages behind the prince, noting the faint cries and muffled sobs from within.
"It seems Your Highness had his share of troubles as well," Safi said, voice smooth as silk. His eyes gleamed with veiled amusement.
James gave a lopsided grin. "Ah, yes. You know how it is. Traitors always hide in plain sight. As crown prince, it's my duty to cleanse the rot. We found spies in the palace guard, in the merchant guilds, even among the minor nobles, I would feel uneasy if I didn't deal with them all. In order to warn those who come later, I also asked the soldiers to have Heads roll—literally. They'll be displayed at the city gates come morning."
Safi arched an eyebrow. "Gruesome, and perhaps... excessive? The people will whisper."
"Let them," James said coolly. "Fear is a kind of loyalty. Besides, the palace must remain untarnished in the eyes of the world."
"Of course," Safi nodded. "I shall advise my priests to remain... restrained, during our search."
"Much appreciated," James said, his tone clipped now, the smile thinning.
With that, he raised his hand and made two swift gestures. The massive palace gates groaned open, revealing a perfectly organized unit of guards standing silently inside. Their expressions were blank, their eyes cold—ready.
Safi observed the scene carefully. Something about the coordination unsettled him. This wasn't just a cleanup. James had systematically rooted out resistance and planted his own loyalists. The Principality of Marton had changed.
Facing this situation, Safi frowned slightly: 'It seems that he has basically taken care of all the key places in the Kingdom of Marton.'
"He has the palace. That means he has the kingdom," Safi thought grimly.
Still, he said nothing. Only nodded to his entourage, and together they passed through the gate.
"Let us proceed," Safi said aloud. "The night is not yet over."
Regardless of what they were thinking, James took the lead, his warhorse stamping the cobblestones as he rode ahead with regal composure. The palace loomed before them, a fortress of old stone and steel, its shadow cast long by the moon overhead. The columns bore scars of time, weathered by generations of rulers and their conflicts, yet it stood as proud and impenetrable as ever.
His cloak fluttered behind him, dust rising in his wake. The sounds of hooves echoed through the vast courtyard. Behind him, the clergy and soldiers followed in silence, their expressions tense and uncertain. The capital had not known such a military presence at its heart for years. This was more than an inspection—it was a reckoning.
But just as James crossed the arched threshold into the main hall, a figure appeared beneath the golden chandelier, its back turned, framed by the fading evening light.
His breath caught.
A familiar silhouette. One he hadn't seen in far too long.
He dismounted quickly, the warhorse snorting as it came to a halt. Stepping forward with a mix of restraint and urgency, James knelt down on one knee.
"Mother," he said, his voice quiet but resolute. "It's been a long time."
The woman did not turn. Her voice, when it came, was cold as the stone beneath their feet.
"I have no son."
Her words struck like a blade. No rage, no tears—only indifference.
Still kneeling, James didn't let the blow show. He had steeled himself for this moment, perhaps even expected it.
"There are cultists in the capital," he explained carefully, respectfully. "They pose a serious threat. Some may have infiltrated the palace. I must conduct a full search. I hope you will not take offense."
She scoffed, still refusing to meet his eyes. "Offense? What does it matter what I feel now? You've already made your choices."
Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked away, her ceremonial gown sweeping behind her. The silence she left in her wake was deafening.
Safi, who had dismounted as well, observed the exchange with veiled curiosity. His expression didn't betray anything, but inwardly, he was surprised. A rift between mother and son this deep spoke volumes about the politics of the royal court.
As the queen disappeared down a corridor, James rose to his feet without a word. He gave no sign of pain or turmoil.
"Begin the search," he ordered. "Be thorough, but do not damage anything. The palace is the soul of the kingdom."
The knights and priests dispersed quickly, fanning out through the vast halls.
Only Ciel, James's most loyal aide, noticed the dullness in the prince's eyes. For a moment, James seemed far away, not here in this gilded prison of stone, but in the past—perhaps reliving a memory, a regret.
But Ciel said nothing. He understood his master. James was not the type to reveal weakness. Whatever pain lingered in his heart, it would be buried beneath duty and discipline.