“Jasmine, get the materials in order. The meeting’s important…”

Nero stood before the dressing mirror, breath tight like a bowstring. Christine buttoned him into formalwear. Beside them, Jasmine sorted contracts and key files, paper whispering like dry leaves.

The meeting with that big figure had been on the calendar, a looming storm on the horizon. It got moved up without warning. He had no polite way to refuse, not at this critical hour.

The thought needled him. Had that figure caught a whiff of something? With her net spread over the entire Demon World, nothing stayed hidden for long. Yet what he’d done was still inside the “rules.” So why the sudden knock at his door?

Jasmine didn’t answer. She silently counted the files. Her fingers paused over a “special” folder. She hesitated, then asked, voice a soft ripple.

“The file on Aphelia…”

“Don’t bring it. If she doesn’t ask, we don’t say. If she does, we choose every word.”

He fastened his cuff buttons with clipped precision. He checked himself once, a hawk’s sweep, and let out a steady breath. Jasmine finished packing everything into a storage ring. They moved for the door.

“This time, it’s a true heavyweight,” he said, voice low as winter dusk. “We can’t afford a single misstep.”

He walked and reviewed his plan, each step like beads on a string. The gravity on his face spoke for him; only someone tied to the throne could make him prep like a fresh recruit before an interview.

“In that case, shouldn’t Zhe go with you?”

“No. That person… how to put it…”

Christine had already hurried ahead to open the mansion’s doors. Cold air met them like clean water.

“She’s strict about certain things,” Nero said. “Or call them odd. You can call it rigid. Just don’t offend her. She won’t quibble with you… No, truth is, there are few people she’d even find worth quibbling with.”

Jasmine nodded. She agreed without words. When Aphelia wasn’t around, she served as Nero’s secretary and his guard. The extra weight never slowed her. If anything, she executed better, a blade honed by use.

For prudence’s sake, she still asked one more.

“What is her position?”

“She’s the overseer of this struggle. I can’t reveal more.”

They stepped out. A carriage waited at the gate, the sort nobles alone could command. Its trim carried the frost-kissed style of the North, crystal-bright but not gaudy. Even the current Demon King would offer praise.

A gentleman stood before it with natural ease. He moved to greet them as they emerged.

If Nero hadn’t met him several times through that big figure, no one would mistake this man for a coachman. His formalwear was immaculate, his hair slicked back with orderly shine, like a gentleman walking out of a book.

Jasmine thought, even a cheap suit would look noble on him. He wore air the way others wore cloth.

They reached the steps. The coachman stepped down, bowed with practiced grace, opened the door, and invited them in with a gloved hand.

Nero nodded, calm on the surface. He and Jasmine boarded. The coachman closed the door gently, returned to his seat, and took the reins.

He smoothed his neat mustache, checked his slicked-back hair in a small mirror, and looked unhurried, as if the road itself would make way. A bell chimed, a clear jingle, to cue their departure. The carriage rolled toward the city’s heart.

“Lord Nero, Lord Senro has already arrived at the Administration Hall,” the coachman called back, voice steady as a cool stream. “Do you require—”

“No. I’ll apologize to Lord Senro myself. I’ll also give her a satisfying answer.”

Nero’s tone was composed. Even so, Jasmine saw sweat bead at his temple like dew. The name Senro tightened him. He sat straight from the moment they boarded, spine locked like a spear.

How terrifying is she? Jasmine found herself sitting even straighter, as if Senro’s eyes could already be on her from the shadows. Pressure settled like frost on her collarbones.

The mansion wasn’t far from the Administration Hall. The carriage soon slowed at the grand steps.

The coachman drew to a gentle stop, set the brake, and chimed the bell. He stepped down, opened the door, and bowed again, every motion smooth as ink.

“May your meeting with Lord Senro go smoothly.”

He left them with that and guided the carriage to the parking lane, unhurried as ever.

They didn’t waste words. At the entrance, guards saw Nero’s special seal and dropped to their knees, heads lowered like reeds in wind.

“Welcome, Your Highness. Shall we lead the way?”

“No need. I know the route. Carry on.”

Nero flicked a hand. He led Jasmine inside. Only after they slipped through the doors did the guards raise their heads and resume their watch.

Within the hall, before an Eastern painting, stood a woman with pale-blue hair falling like a waterfall. She wore a white gown light as gauze, a blue shawl set with perfect restraint. One word fit her: a high mountain flower, untouched by dust.

She was a blossom on a sheer peak. Not cruel, but so cold you didn’t dare lay a hand.

She studied the painting, now and then drawing Runes in the air. Her thoughtful gaze glinted like ice in sunlight. Inspiration, it seemed, had just brushed her sleeve.

When she finished, she turned, slow as turning pages. Her voice floated out, mature and cold, a clean blade.

“Nero. It’s been a while.”

“Lord Senro, it’s been a while. I hope you’ve been well.”

Nero bowed like a junior before an elder. Jasmine wasn’t slow. The scene startled her, but she followed with a proper bow.

Nero was already among the few nearest the core of power. For someone to make him bend this deep, they had to be above the summit. And he’d said she was the overseer. Only someone at the very top could claim that seat.

“Lord Senro, shall we sit over there and talk? I’ve had servants prepare—”

“No. We can settle everything here.”

Senro cut him off without a ripple. A pale-blue array flickered into being between her hands. Ice crystals bloomed from thin air, starlit and precise. Her slender fingers traced lines, and a finely carved ice chair took shape, every curve clean as winter moonlight.

She set it behind her and sat with unhurried grace, looking at Nero and Jasmine.

If you looked closely, you saw it—the filigree patterns were art. And this was a moment’s conjuration. As a water-element practitioner, Jasmine could only marvel at Senro’s mastery of ice.

Nero wouldn’t keep standing. He lacked Senro’s control, so he signaled the hall servants to bring a table and chairs.

Senro sighed, a soft gust against glass. If Nero hadn’t known her, that sigh alone could make men his age blush and want to sink into the floor.

“Nero, since I last saw you, your strength hasn’t improved much.”

She tapped the tabletop. Nero apologized at once, without offering excuses. Even if he made one, she wouldn’t care.

“Forgive me, Lord Senro. I’ll push harder. I’ve prepared the recent key documents for your review…”

“I didn’t come early to read those.”

She laced her fingers and leaned back with a hint of lazy poise. Her eyes held an appraiser’s light.

Nero’s heart sank like a stone in cold water. It was coming. He could not expose the source of Aphelia. He couldn’t predict how she’d react.

Truth was, in the entire Demon World, few could guess what a woman this cold and flawless held in her heart.

“What is it, Nero? Don’t disappoint me. Don’t make me remind you of something so simple.”

Senro’s gaze didn’t waver. That cold look felt like it could see through bone. The pressure on Nero grew, sharp and chill as ice.