“Lord Gill! We’ve traced the Daemons’ movement patterns!” The shout sliced the still hall like a cold blade through silk.

An elder knelt, his beard long enough to brush the stone like winter moss. Not far ahead, a black‑haired, red‑eyed youth savored red wine like sunset in a glass, his cheeks warm as dawn.

“Have those ghoul‑things truly lost consciousness?” His voice drifted like frost over quiet water.

“Yes, my king.” The elder’s head stayed low like a bowed willow. “Just as you guessed, every Daemon seems soulless, like the ‘zombies’ of old tales.”

Gill tipped his chin and drained the last ruby drop like a swift river, then set the glass on a silver tray with a bell‑soft chime.

The flush fled his face like a tide pulling back, leaving you to wonder if the earlier color was smoke or mask.

“So, it’s true. Then tell me, how do they move?” His words climbed the throne steps like a cat in moonlight.

“The scouts all reported this.” The elder’s breath trembled like paper in wind. “If you don’t touch a Daemon, you could dance or fling a friendly peace sign, and it won’t react.”

“But if you touch them, they strike at once, like a trap springing in tall grass. Then you either kill it, or it hunts you until your dusk.”

Curiosity curled in Gill’s eyes like incense. “Permanent tracking, huh. That’s not quite like those so‑called zombies.”

“Lord Gill, there’s one more thing…” The elder’s voice thinned like mist over a pond.

“Speak.” Gill’s smile flowed like warm water yet felt like ice. “Merciful me won’t mind your rudeness.”

“A soldier, for reasons best left to shadow, seized a villager and forced him to touch a Daemon.” The words fell like stones into a well. “The Daemon didn’t react.”

“They brought more villagers. It stayed the same, like a statue in rain. If we haven’t misread…”

“Daemons don’t kill unarmed villagers, do they?” Gill’s eyes glowed like embers under ash.

“…Yes.” The elder’s praise trembled like a reed. “Lord Gill’s wisdom is beyond any mortal measure.”

“Keep it humble.” Gill’s fingers tapped the armrest like rain. “Then what? Did you try letting someone unarmed kill a Daemon?”

“We did.” His answer creaked like an old gate. “If you harm a Daemon enough, it will strike, no matter who you are.”

Gill lifted another glass the maid offered, lips brushing the rim like a moth to flame. He took a light sip, a ripple over dark wine.

Strange Daemons. They don’t spill innocent blood and won’t lunge first, like dogs leashed by unseen iron. Someone gave them orders, neat as knots. I’d like to meet that someone; we might be friends, like two crows on one branch.

“Right, what about the villager who attacked the Daemon and got hit back?” His question drifted like smoke.

“He didn’t die.” The elder’s relief fell like a weak sunbeam. “A soldier cut the Daemon down and saved him. He’s gravely injured, but the doctor is still…”

“Ah, la‑la—how tragic.” Gill’s sigh fluttered like a silk fan over thorns. “Grievous wounds, and no remedy beneath this sky. He must be in pain.”

“Tell the soldiers to give him a swift end, clean as a winter blade.” His smile shone gentle as moonlight, cold as a glacier. “I’m the kindest king in this world.”

The elder looked up and met Gill’s pupils, red as a blood moon, a gaze that made the soul shiver like leaves in a storm.

Long moments passed like stones sinking. He lowered his head, and his answer buzzed softer than a mosquito in summer dusk. “Yes… I understand.”

The elder withdrew like shadow at dawn.

Gill remained upon his high throne, a mountain of iron and lacquer. Two maids fanned him, their wrists trembling like willow branches in wind.

The day was cool as shade, not hot at all, yet Gill had them heft heavy iron fans, slabs that barely stirred air, like tomb doors nudged by breath.

He tipped his head and drained the wine again, exhaling like a man who tasted rare snow. His eyes lingered on the empty glass like a fox on a trap.

“Bring me another cup.” His request floated light as silk.

The maid stepped forward, took the cup, and paused, her silence like frost. “Forgive me, Lord Gill. We’re out of wine.”

“Hm? I remember we had plenty.” His gaze flicked like a blade. “I even paced myself. How’s it gone so fast?”

I only open a bottle, pour a small sip, then toss the rest like rainwater. How could it vanish this quickly?

“Fine. If there’s no wine, go ask them for more.” His tone rang like metal on stone.

“But, my lord, we asked three days ago.” Her worry hovered like a falcon. “To go again so soon…”

Her hesitation lay plain to Gill’s eyes, a tremor in still water, but he pretended not to see, like moonlight ignoring clouds.

“I don’t care.” His words fell like frost on fields. “If they don’t bring wine, use their blood. Preferably Type B.”

The maid bit her lip like a petal in teeth; her grip tightened on the tray like claws.

She knew if someone truly brought blood, this cruel king would toss it like gutter water and hand her a one‑way ticket to the underworld, black as river mud.

“Ah, right.” Gill’s voice went airy as snow. “If you need blood, don’t use it from hot‑blooded folks. Their blood burns the tongue.”

She watched him drop such chilling jokes with calm as still water. After a heartbeat’s doubt, she bowed like bamboo in rain and left with a soft, “Yes.”