ButcherPete
patreon
Chapter 65: The 6th Luxuria & The Imp Guard
🕑 Added 2025-06-11 07:03:25 +0000 UTCThe High Hall of Chains in Hellnia’s capital rarely held silence; noise was its pulse, politics its lifeblood. But now, with the main session adjourned and only whispers crawling across its obsidian halls, silence had come.
The noble council had made their decision and chosen their move.
The matter of Suziana’s death had been closed behind layered politicking, deference, and strategic disinterest. A punishment, yes, but not a provocation. Too much risk in retaliating against Hannya directly, especially after the discovery that Dozeuff and Showeuff had returned alive, but deeply altered.
Still breathing meant it wasn’t war. But neither was it peace.
And an uproar was not worth the trouble. A young devil did not require such lengths.
Those of the Dream, Pride, and Pleasure factions bore the weight of decision. The warrior Norm had been selected behind closed doors, a dog of the council, one who could serve both as symbol and strength.
A message to this ‘Mountain Princess’.
Understand the hierarchy.
But for now, the rest of the council began to slither from the chamber.
All save a cluster of representatives from the Love Faction, the other side of the coin within the Luxuria lineage.
They lingered in a recess beneath carved archways that dripped with roses sculpted from ivory. Cloaked in perfumed robes and veils spun from touch alone, they whispered among themselves like serpents kissing in the dark.
The Love Faction had long stood as the sensual twin to the Pleasure Faction, but where Suziana’s ilk trafficked in ecstasy and indulgence, the Love Faction worshipped devotion, obsession, and the artistry of intimacy. They watched each other with narrowed eyes, then turned to the youngest council member among them.
Salitha stepped forward.
She looked soft, almost harmless, gentle skin of moon-pale complexion, eyes deep pink, almost purple. She bowed her head modestly, her silver hair cascading down as she clasped her hands in front of her silken robe. Her voice was quiet, nearly swallowed by the chamber itself.
“If the factions of violence are to test the waters,” Salitha murmured. “Should we not extend something more delicate?”
“We are not diplomats.” Hissed an older devil with a lover’s mark still fresh on his neck. “And she is not one of us.”
“She is not one of them, either.” Salitha replied, without raising her tone. “She is a new star, unbound, unclaimed. Would it not be wise to give her a chance to know us before others define us for her?”
The council devils stirred but gave no official word. Their silence was a tacit allowance.
They were not quick to shoot down Salitha’s words. She was a special case in their faction.
The daughter of their absent faction head. And her talent in charm laws was only beneath the current Luxuria patriarch.
Some within the family even suspected Salitha.
Quiet whispers of a title they dare not ask outright.
A young supreme.
Another voice spoke from beside her, firmer than hers but lacking arrogance. “I will accompany her.”
The room turned to see Shela, the Imp guardian at Salitha’s side.
She was taller, clad in a crisp mantle of black leather and azure frostweave, an unusual texture for the Love Faction. Her aura was sharp with frost, her red eyes narrow but unclouded. The frost demon blood in her gave her a cold presence, but none questioned her loyalty.
“Shela…” one devil murmured, “You are not of our bloodline.”
“I am of her bond,” Shela said, nodding to Salitha. “That is enough.”
Salitha turned and offered a warm smile that Shela did not return, though her gaze softened ever so slightly.
“Very well,” another councilor sighed. “Go. Speak to this... Princess of Hazy Mountain. See what her ambitions are. But do not commit us. Not yet.”
Salitha bowed again, lower this time, and Shela mirrored her with a knight’s precision.
“Thank you,” Salitha whispered. “We will bring you something worth hearing.”
As the pair exited through a velvet-lined side gate, the perfume of rosewater and winter’s breath followed in their wake. The air behind them was hushed. no longer with judgment, but with curiosity.
None of them had expected Suziana’s defeat. She was relatively strong within the Pleasure Faction, and her charm abilities were quite formidable.
Fewer still expected the mountain princess to outmaneuver three noble houses.
And none had guessed that a devil as soft-spoken as Salitha, or a hybrid born of demon and devil like Shela would volunteer to greet her first.
But the world of Hellnia had always been one of contrasts: hunger and opulence, madness and method, frost and fire, love and pride.
As the gates closed behind the pair, the council chamber exhaled its breath. The die had been cast again.
This time, with a flower.
~~~
Days later.
The carriage tumbled quietly over the stone-paved road, its wheels gliding against smooth stone as it ascended toward the mist-veiled ridges of Hazy Mountain. Outside, the world of Hellnia stirred in dusklight, a land of lurking beasts, whispering trees, and terrain twisted by both enigmatic haze and demonic will. The only barrier between the silence of this land and the beating of heart and hoof was the faint, steady creak of polished axles and reinforced devilwood.
Inside, Salitha the 6th Luxuria sat with graceful poise, a calm smile resting on her lips as she gazed out the window, watching the distant clouds break against Hazy Mountain’s crown like waves on an ancient reef. Her hands rested neatly in her lap, gloved fingers brushing the trim of her deep pink robes. One might have thought her at ease, bored, perhaps.
But Shela knew better.
Shela sat across from her, arms crossed over her chest, armored coat fastened tight. Frost shimmered at her shoulders, caught in the seams of her silver-black mantle. The red eyes within her black sclera had barely blinked since they'd crossed the lowland ridges, watching, sensing, predicting. She wasn’t nervous. She was ready.
“I’m not afraid of her.” Shela finally said, breaking the long silence.
Salitha blinked. “Of Hannya?”
“Yes. Or of this game the nobles play.”
“I know you aren’t.” Salitha replied softly. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t feel… something.”
Shela didn’t respond. Her gaze returned to the window. After a while, the frozen glow around her arms dimmed. She sighed, almost too softly to hear.
“I wonder if my father has ever been to the Hazy Mountain Range.”
Salitha turned her head, her smile fading slightly. “If he did, I think he would have liked it.” she said. “He always appreciated places that looked gentle but weren’t.”
A flicker of emotion crossed Shela’s face.
Her father, Bron, the Frost-Touched Flame, had once been a wandering warrior of noble blood, a rare Wrath Devil who tempered rage with wisdom. Before the gates of Hellnia had closed, he'd ventured into Neel on a mission with Salitha’s mother, a diplomatic envoy to establish an outpost and ease tensions between realms. The two had stayed behind to finish the construction. He promised to return for Shela.
But then the gates closed.
Severing contact. Severing fate.
Shela had waited years. Trained. Grown. Hardened.
And in that time, it was Salitha who stood by her side, never forgetting the bond between their families. She didn’t pity Shela; she respected her. Even as others in the Love Faction whispered about taking a half-breed into their inner circle, Salitha ignored them.
She had simply said, “Shela is my guardian.”
And no one challenged it again.
“I wonder if they're both still alive…” Shela said, barely more than a breath.
Salitha didn’t answer immediately. Her pink eyes shimmered faintly in the lantern light, then closed as if offering a silent prayer. Though she wasn’t close with her own mother like Shela was to her father, she still felt the sting of loneliness without her.
“If they are,” she said, “then they’d be proud. Especially you, Shel. You’ve become everything he hoped for.”
Shela's fingers curled slightly at the words.
Outside, a flock of red-winged crows passed overhead, casting shadows through the evening mist. The road narrowed. The incline steepened.
Salitha reached into her sleeve and removed a small envelope, sealed in golden wax shaped like a rose. She offered it across the carriage to Shela.
“What’s this?” Shela asked, taking it with a wary glance.
“A gift,” Salitha said, smiling again. “To be opened only if I’m taken, killed, or make a deal behind your back.”
“…You don’t trust yourself?”
“I trust you more.”
Shela didn’t answer, but she carefully tucked the envelope into her coat.
A moment passed. Then another. And then Shela finally looked Salitha in the eyes.
“Do you really think this Hannya is different from the other upstarts?”
Salitha smiled again, this time with something unreadable behind her calm. “She didn’t just defeat three nobles. She ate one. That makes her either reckless…”
“…or clever.”
Salitha nodded. “And I want to find out which.”
The carriage continued upward, deeper into the realm of mist and dreams. The Hazy Mountain loomed ahead, its presence impossible to ignore. And the Princess of Hazy Mountain waited within.
And so, with resolve in their hearts and ancient ties binding them, the reassuring rose and her frost-forged guardian pressed on, into the unknown.
As the carriage crested the final bend of the winding road, Hazy Mountain unveiled itself like a slumbering giant wrapped in fog. Its trees were green-leafed and blue-barked, the stones glittered with mineral veins that pulsed faintly under the strange light of Hellnia’s dark sky. The air was thick with the perfume of dreamlotus and demon mint, sweet but tinged with a metallic sharpness, like a battlefield doused in rosewater.
The horses, bred from magical beasts and fiends, snorted uneasily.
Shela reached for her blade out of habit, her frost aura leaking from her fingers, but Salitha gently waved her hand.
“We’re expected.” she said, serene as always.
The carriage slowed to a halt on a plain, stone-paved road that led to the upper sanctum of Hazy Mountain. There was no grand gate, only a low-arched entry framed by blackvine and polished duskwood. Before it stood two figures.
One was a lanky man dressed in a sharp, pale blue vest and gloves, his skin pale and lined with subtle golden runes that shimmered faintly under the mist surrounding the area. The other was a blue sundressed young devil girl with curling horns and twin-tailed hair, bouncing on her heels like she’d waited all day for this moment.
The man bowed low, arms sweeping dramatically. “Honored guests of the House of Love, welcome to the Hazy Mountain. This one goes by Mirro, henchman number one.”
“I’m Nini!” the girl said, mimicking his pose with less grace. “Henchman number two!”
Shela’s gaze narrowed. On Mirro’s collarbone and Nini’s cheek glimmered a small star-shaped tattoo, only one each. One-star devils. That made her pause. Most nobles wouldn’t let such weak attendants anywhere near a diplomatic reception.
Salitha, ever the diplomat, offered them a gentle nod. “You’re quite the duo.”
“We try.” Mirro replied cheerfully. “Hannya-sama said to escort you directly to the audience chamber. She apologizes for not greeting you herself. She’s currently, ah... tending to a noble from the Greed Faction. A… disagreement over some missing ledgers and unpaid bribes.”
“A random one?” Shela asked, brows raised.
“Very random.” Mirro said dryly.
“This way, please!” Nini chirped.
They began walking down the road that curled gradually up the mountain. It wasn’t elaborate or ceremonial, just neatly paved stone flanked by low walls of green-thread ivy and sleeping lanterns. But there was life all around. Demon workers, wearing loose robes and tool belts, moved to and fro carrying baskets, adjusting wards, laughing in their native tongues. They bowed politely to Salitha and Shela as they passed.
“Are those... residents?” Shela asked quietly.
“They are.” Mirro answered with pride. “Hannya-sama calls them her dreamfolk. Most were vagrants or castoffs from the middle circles and western wastelands. She gave them food, shelter, and tasks. In return, they rebuilt the lower gardens and paved the new east road.”
“She gave them work?” Shela asked, surprised.
“And choices.” Nini said. “And candy. Lots of candy.”
Salitha looked genuinely pleased. “It’s unusual for a devil noble to treat the rootless so kindly.”
“She says loyalty without fear tastes sweeter.” Mirro said with a grin.
As they climbed, the wind grew colder. Beyond the haze, the upper pavilion began to take shape, thatched roofs layered in moonstone tiles, faintly glowing like pearls. From here, it resembled a temple more than a fortress, with hanging vines and whispering chimes that jingled without wind.
The entrance to the castle and its audience chamber soon loomed ahead. Twin statues of Dream Knights flanked it, their swords pointing to the ground, resting on stone tablets carved with devil scripts. More attendants stood at attention, some demons, some lesser devils, all unarmed, all alert.
Mirro stopped just before the door.
“This is where we leave you.” he said, placing a hand over his chest. “We’ll be waiting at the front gate if needed.”
Nini winked at Shela. “Don’t worry. We cleaned up the room and everything. No bloodstains. Well, barely any.”
The chamber doors opened on their own, pushed inward by a ripple of chi, delicate but purposeful.
Salitha adjusted her robe and turned to Shela. “Stay close.”
Shela nodded, hand near her blade, frost mist curling gently around her wrist. Together, they stepped inside.
The audience chamber was thick with scent, honeyed incense, scorched sugar, and something darker underneath. The mist clung to the ground, rippling in hypnotic currents across the pale flooring. Silk-draped beams stretched across the high ceiling, and the walls were painted in soft colors with surreal dreamscapes, half memories, half illusions of battles within the fissure.
And in the center, reclined on a modest throne of blackwood and hazeglass, was the princess of Hazy Mountain herself.
The two observed her in surprise.
Hannya looked young. Not merely youthful, but young, with soft skin painted pale pink by the mistlight, eyes like pink tourmaline shimmering through a curtain of smoke. Her horns curved like twin flames, and beneath a veil, her lips bore a faint smile that did not quite reach her eyes. Her dress was simple yet elegant, a layered kimono of ghostly white and powder blue, revealing flowers with shifting runes across, unrecognizable sigils that writhed with subtle menace.
She was alone. No guards, no attendants. Just her.
She reached for a cloth and daintily wiped a faint smear of red from her finger before folding it neatly in her lap.
“You’re early.” she said, her voice like a lullaby laced with static. “I do admire efficiency.”
Salitha offered a graceful bow. “We didn’t wish to delay your time, Princess of Hazy Mountain.”
Shela, ever the sentinel, stood close behind her. She said nothing but scanned the room carefully, noting small things; the tension in the air, the distant hum of spellwork woven into the very walls, the faint shimmer of a defensive array beneath the throne.
Hannya inclined her head. “A pleasure. And I see the rumors were true. House Luxuria sent their cherished bloom herself.”
Salitha smiled faintly. “Salitha, the sixth Luxuria, daughter of Lady Verona. It is an honor to be received.”
‘Sixth?’ Hannya’s expression didn’t change, but the mist behind her shimmered like rippling silk. She could feel her blood shift from the audacity. ‘Cute lie.’
“I’ve heard of you,” Hannya replied. “Your charm is said to soothe wars into whispers.”
Salitha stepped forward, just a bit, and with a subtle breath, exhaled a barely perceptible pulse of charm aura. A sweet warmth spread gently through the air, brushing against the lingering tension in the room. The scent of magnolias briefly overtook the smoke.
The aura wasn't aggressive. It was diplomacy, expertly performed. A soft veil to make conversations glide more smoothly. Standard noble practice in negotiations. It danced across the space, trying to settle the room into a polite calm.
But it didn’t last a second.
The mist stirred.
With a lazy flick of her wrist, Hannya exhaled, not a sigh, not a breath, but a blow, like a dragon dismissing smoke. Her own aura rose in a gust of overbearingly attentive charm and swept through the room like a curtain falling.
Salitha’s charm was shredded.
“Please.” Hannya said, still smiling, “That compliment was not an invitation; don’t perfume my home with borrowed incense.”
Salitha's eyes widened slightly. That hadn’t happened to her before.
“I meant no offense, of course,” she said smoothly. “Force of habit.”
“Of course,” Hannya said, letting her gaze linger just a beat longer than necessary.
Shela tensed. She caught something under that smile, a flicker of something odd, sharp, and clever.
Hannya gestured lazily to the side. A tea tray floated forward from the shadows, suspended by a swirl of mist. Two cups clinked as they filled with steaming red liquid.
“Let’s talk,” Hannya said. “But understand this, my mountain breathes through my lungs. My domain listens to my voice. Attempting to soften my will is like telling the sea to sit.”
Salitha bowed slightly. “Understood.”
Still, she sat with grace, accepting the tea. Shela stood beside her silently, eyes never leaving Hannya.
The mist thickened once more, curling around the room like a cat preparing to pounce.
For all the smiles and soft tea, Shela knew one thing: negotiations here would be unlike any she had experienced in Hellnia.
And she had the distinct impression that Hannya wasn’t just a new noble.
She was something far more dangerous.
Hannya’s gaze, which had so far drifted lazily between the tea, the ceiling murals, and Salitha’s practiced expressions, now quietly slid toward Shela.
‘Shela the Frostborn…’
The name stirred something private within Hannya. A memory, not from this world, but from long nights curled up in her old bed with flickering screen light. A thousand forum threads arguing over tier lists. The fan polls. The heartbreak arcs.
Shela, one of the Eight Destinies. A main character.
‘She’s still so young,’ Hannya mused. ‘Still cold, still cautious, still sweet in the center. And still wearing that same look from Chapter 111. How nostalgic.’
Her fingers thrummed slightly on the armrest of her throne.
‘I hope this goes well,’ she thought, something unusually earnest fluttering beneath her practiced calm. ‘It would be a waste to lose you early…’
Shela turned slightly, catching the glance. Their eyes met… briefly.
Hannya smiled just a bit wider, the curve of her lips unreadable.
And just like that, she looked away.
“Shall we begin?” she asked sweetly, and the room creaked with fate.
Comments
Ewout
And is Hans truly dense enough to not realise that Guila has a crush on him
Ewout
I wonder, how will Hannya fullfill her contract with Hans, and does Guila know of it?
Aune
Can't wait for the future Story 'arc' about the scheming 'false ascension news spreader Devil(maybe even a "Hero" or two) receive unexpected Retribution from Butler Hans, and the wrath of Gula Might be felt from a unintended word or two by Hannayj's about of how THIS, was Han's Fall, by the hands of a greedy soul
