Roy made up his mind and mouthed a tender "Good night" to Elsa.
He closed his eyes, ready to savor the peaceful night.
Ever since disguising himself as human, his habits had grown increasingly human-like.
As the Demon King, he shouldn’t need sleep at all.
Before his reincarnation, he’d been famously diligent—a tireless ruler managing affairs day and night.
His personal maid, Isabella of the Elvenfolk royal family, had never hidden her disapproval over it.
Whether it was his overwork or his lack of time for her… remained unclear.
Then again, Isabella always wore that perpetually frosty expression.
Yet after years together, Roy knew her body and moods like his own.
Beneath her icy mask, he could spot flickers of hidden emotions:
*a hint of annoyance*, *a trace of shame*, *a flash of anger*, *a glimmer of tenderness*…
If he called her out, her cheeks would flush crimson, tears welling in her golden eyes.
So Roy played dense.
Pretended not to notice.
And kept "teasing" her.
The sudden memory of Isabella made Roy shiver.
Not that he was henpecked…
But if she discovered the truth—that the Demon King seated in Demon King’s Castle, guarding the realm’s heart,
was merely a puppet conjured by his weapon, the Mystic Demonblade "Yukshir," mimicking its master—
Isabella would never forgive his deception.
Worse…
In her eyes, his current escapade in the human world
was nothing short of *sneaking off to play around*.
………………
At the same moment, in Ymir, the Demon King’s Castle.
The Demonfolk’s crimson moon hung high, bathing the shadowed land in eerie luminescence.
*Our Demon King remains as diligent as ever tonight!*
From the townsfolk’s view,
the highest spire of the Sovereign Tower—the Demon King’s private chamber for governance and contemplation—
glowed with unwavering light.
It hadn’t dimmed for weeks.
A symbol of their young ruler’s tireless devotion.
When Serasia, Queen of the Devilkin and former Demon King, abruptly abdicated to her young son,
the entire Demonfolk realm erupted in shock.
Few believed in the boy—not even the seven Autocratic Demon Generals guarding the Seven Strongholds.
Even his rare Succubus bloodline couldn’t convince them
that a greenhorn could steer the vast Demonfolk Empire.
But Serasia’s power silenced all dissent.
She forced her child onto the throne.
*Roy. The current Ruling Demon King.*
"Ruling" wasn’t a title given lightly.
It demanded monumental achievements, unanimous acclaim from the Demonfolk.
Only then would ministers propose it in court,
crowning him with the honorific prefix.
True glory, inside and out.
Serasia, a Greater Demon, earned her title "Dread Demon King" in war.
She led armies against the Elvenfolk, Human Empire, and Dwarven clans’ alliance.
Clad in armor, she carved through battlefields,
shattering the coalition’s spirit, forcing a humiliating treaty.
Yet to Roy, his mother was elegance itself—
a woman who’d gently stroke his pet kitten’s fur.
Impossible to link her to "dread."
(Though in Demonfolk culture, "dread" was a mark of highest honor.
"Ruling"? A title generations of Demon Kings craved.)
Still, Serasia insisted on gifting her son the best.
She bestowed "Ruling" upon him.
Roy felt the weight of her hope.
*"I’ll become a Demon King who makes you proud,"* he’d vowed. *"I’ll make our people thrive."*
Serasia only shook her head softly, kissing his forehead.
*"I only wish for your safety, my child."*
Under Serasia’s shadow, no one dared openly question the young king.
And though Roy lacked concrete achievements,
his diligence—proven by the tower’s ever-burning light—
steadily won the commoners’ respect.
No one knew the truth:
Inside that tower, the "Roy" seated at the desk
clutched his face, shoulders trembling.
The "boy" was on the verge of collapse.
*He’d processed endless paperwork without sleep for countless days!*
Around him, reports from the castle and Seven Strongholds formed towering piles.
No hope of finishing them.
Worse—dawn would bring fresh stacks.
And every Monday, he’d face court ministers on the throne.
*AAAAH! I’m just a poor, helpless demonblade!*
*Why must I endure this?!*
*Master… whimpered Yukshir silently.*
*They’re handing out gold bars in the castle—COME BACK!*
The true culprit?
Isabella, his ever-watchful Elven maid.
Whenever "Yukshir" hinted at rest,
the silver-haired girl with golden eyes would murmur coolly:
*"But Your Majesty, your duties await. Rest must wait."*
He endured it once. Twice.
But last time…
Yukshir finally snapped.
*"JUST DESTROY ME ALREADY!!"*
