The bar was packed to the brim.
One of those establishments the demonic capital only revealed after nightfall, when the biting cold outside drove bodies together, pressed them close, made them forget. The dark wood of the walls was blackened by decades of smoke and spilled alcohol. Red lanterns cast a warm, flickering light, turning every face into a shifting mask. The air was thick with mingled scents: strong beer, grilled meat, sweat, burning spices.
The room vibrated.
Around a large, roughly assembled table, a dozen demons were crammed together, tankards raised, voices united in the same primal chant, shouted with almost religious fervor.
"BOTTOMS UP!"
"BOTTOMS UP!"
"BOTTOMS UP!"
At the center of the uproar, a white-haired woman was drinking.
She didn't sip. She tipped the three-liter tankard straight to her lips, head slightly thrown back, throat working with steady, deep swallows. The amber liquid vanished at an indecent speed, sometimes spilling down her chin before disappearing into the dark fabric of her cloak.
Across from her, a pink-skinned demon with green hair standing up in messy tufts tried to keep pace. His blue eyes were already bloodshot, his laughter too loud, too confident. He drank fast. Too fast.
Both tankards emptied almost at the same time.
They slammed onto the table with a sharp crash, joining a dozen others already overturned—silent witnesses to the ongoing battle.
A brief silence.
Then the explosion.
"YEAH!"
"Another!"
"By the Abyss, she drinks like an archduke!"
The woman casually wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, a broad smile on her lips, cheeks slightly flushed with alcohol. Her blue eyes sparkled with a lively, almost childlike gleam.
"Two more, boss!" she called out brightly.
A roar of approval shook the table.
But the pink-skinned demon didn't respond.
His head suddenly tipped forward. It struck the wood with a dull thud, then his body slowly slid down, gracelessly, to the floor. A moment later, he was already snoring, sprawled between two benches.
A wave of laughter swept through the room.
"HAHAHA!"
"DOWN!"
"The saint walks among us, brothers!"
"Carve her name into this table!"
The woman burst out laughing herself. A frank, unrestrained laugh. She grabbed the two new tankards that had just been brought over, taking one in each hand.
Without waiting.
She drank.
A long gulp from the right.
Then from the left.
Again.
And again.
Around her, the demons clapped their hands, stomped their feet, shouted a chaotic but infectious rhythm. Some climbed onto the benches, others knocked over tankards, alcohol splashing across the already sticky floor.
Someone started a deep, off-key chant.
Another joined in.
Then the whole table followed.
Soon, they stood.
Arms slung over each other's shoulders, they formed an unsteady circle, turning slowly at first, then faster and faster. Their steps were clumsy, out of sync, but the energy was raw, sincere. Tankards emptied, refilled, overturned. The improvised music—drums beaten on tables, clapping hands, hoarse voices—filled everything.
The woman let herself be carried away.
She laughed. She spun. She drank again, her head light, her body warm, her mind floating just enough for thoughts to become simpler… but never absent.
The bar pulsed like an overfilled heart.
Voices collided, carried by the raw music spat out by abused instruments, by laughter too loud, by the repeated clash of tankards against wood. A demon staggered past, nearly falling before bursting into laughter on his own. Further away, two others sang off-key, arms around each other, their gazes already drowned.
At the center of it all, she danced.
The white-haired woman spun with the demons, her cloak tracing wide dark arcs around her. She drank without counting, laughed without restraint, raised her tankard beneath cries that chanted her name without knowing it. Her cheeks were flushed with alcohol, but her gaze remained sharp, attentive, always moving.
They live like this, she thought.
In noise. In oblivion.
At the far end of the bar, at a slightly secluded table, a young girl quietly drank her fruit juice.
Lily watched the scene without missing a thing. Her eyes followed the woman again and again, even when she raised her tankard to her lips. Since childhood, Lily had known only discipline, reprimands, endless training. Shouts of joy, shared drunkenness, bodies dancing without fear… all of that was foreign to her.
And yet, they looked happy.
How can they laugh like that?
How can they let go so completely?
She never took her eyes off the woman.
Someone sat down beside her.
A low-rank demon. Frail. His silhouette resembled that of a goblin, stretched to human height. Dull skin, shifty eyes, a smile too quick.
Lily immediately felt a dull irritation rise.
How dare he…
He leaned slightly toward her.
"Hey there, little one. Aren't you feeling a bit lonely?"
She didn't answer. Her gaze stayed fixed on the improvised dance floor, on the woman still laughing, a tankard raised above her head.
The demon moved closer.
"Isn't it a bit boring, watching your mother have fun while you sit here all alone?"
His hand rested on the back of her neck.
At that exact moment, something broke.
For the first time in her life—no, more than that—for the first time in her entire existence, Lily felt a black rage. A deep, abyssal rage, cold and crushing. Him. This low-rank demon, with his weak body, dared to look at her with pity. Dared to touch her. Her, heir of the Sea Clan.
He opened his mouth again.
"You wanna go somewhere quieter, I—"
He never finished.
On the dance floor, the woman slightly turned her head. Their gazes met, through the crowd, through the noise.
Her lips moved.
Kill him.
Lily understood.
The screams, laughter, and music drowned everything out. The bar had become a joyful chaos, saturated with alcohol and voices too loud, where bodies danced without order, collided, supported each other in half-drunken camaraderie. No one paid attention to what happened on the outskirts, where the lantern light barely reached the floor, where shadows spread thicker than anywhere else.
Seated at her table, Lily did not move.
Her face remained calm, almost impassive, but something had changed. Beneath her feet, her shadow slowly stretched, as if detaching from her body. It thickened, warped against the sticky floor of the bar, gaining depth, density. Inside it, indistinct shapes writhed, patient, held back for far too long.
The demon finally sensed the danger.
He tried to stand, to back away, to put distance between himself and the table that had suddenly grown too cold, too silent. His words died in his throat. His hand searched for support that no longer existed. The shadow climbed his legs before he could understand, wrapping around him with a deceptive gentleness, almost affectionate.
No one screamed.
No one looked.
The music kept pounding, tankards kept clashing, and laughter covered everything, right up to the final moment.
When a distracted glance eventually returned to the table, there was only an empty chair where he had been. Lily's glass of fruit juice, however, was still there, untouched, barely disturbed, as if nothing had ever existed beside her.
Lily inhaled slowly.
For the first time in her life, she hadn't wanted to simply carry out a mission. She had wanted to give voice to her anger, to prolong the moment, to stretch out the fear, the awareness of the mistake. The desire had been brief, but real.
Then she remembered.
It had been an order.
So she had merely obeyed.
At the center of the room, the white-haired woman raised her tankard once more amid the cheers. She was still laughing, carried by drunkenness and dance, as if nothing could touch her. Her smile was light, almost carefree, perfectly in tune with the atmosphere.
But deep in her blue eyes, behind the alcohol and the revelry, reigned absolute calm.
A lucid calm.
A calm that knew exactly what had just happened.
A few hours later, the bar was nothing but a field of ruins.
Demonic bodies littered the floor, slumped in improbable positions—some still clutching empty tankards, others sleeping with mouths wide open, defeated without glory. On several tables, silhouettes breathed heavily, unable to decide whether to fall or stay upright. The stench of stale alcohol mixed with vomit and cold sweat.
In a corner, a certain pink-skinned demon with green hair was bent against a pillar, wracked by loud spasms as he emptied what remained of his stomach into a dented bucket. Each retch was punctuated by a muffled curse.
Yet one table still held.
Around it, the last survivors of the night stood upright through sheer stubbornness. They were few, eyes red, voices thick, but still driven by that strange need to talk when silence grew too heavy. One of them was half-lying on the wood, cheek pressed to the table, his tankard still firmly gripped in trembling fingers.
"You… hic… you felt it too, right…?" he mumbled, vaguely lifting his head. "The castle's aura… lately…"
Another, slumped back on his bench, let out a short laugh before grimacing.
"Terrifying… yeah… some say there was an ice storm, hic, inside the palace itself."
"Just their failed experiments again," spat a third, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Always messing with things beyond us…"
He weakly thumped his fist on the table, nearly knocking over his tankard.
"Since the last Demon King, they don't even look at us anymore. No work. No organized fights. Nothing. Just… waiting."
A hiccup cut him off. He resumed, his voice more bitter.
"And on top of that… they requisitioned all the scholars, all the important mages… locked up in the castle for centuries. What a future…"
"I'm telling you," grumbled another, pointing an unsteady finger at the ceiling, "something's being cooked up. Something bad."
The white-haired woman, who had been leaning against the table until then, burst into clear laughter.
Without warning, she climbed onto the tabletop, swaying but surprisingly steady, a tankard in hand. Her cloak slipped slightly from her shoulder as she raised her glass, cheeks still flushed with alcohol, eyes shining.
"Anyway… when I become Empress…"
The demons looked up at her, some already snickering.
She took a long gulp before continuing, her voice loud, sincere, almost too much.
"I'll make all demons happy. I'll improve their daily lives. I'll give them battles in abundance… real battles. No demon will wander aimlessly ever again!"
A floating silence followed her words.
Then laughter erupted.
"Haha!"
"Big ambitions you've got!"
"Start by being a good mother first!"
The one who spoke vaguely gestured toward the back of the room.
"Look at your poor kid… she watched you all night. Not a word. Not a single complaint."
"The father shouldn't have left!!"
Laughter swelled again, tankards were drained one last time, and conversations drifted toward lighter, blurrier topics as fatigue set in.
The woman lowered her gaze.
A softer, truer smile curved the Empress's lips.
She raised her tankard to her mouth one last time.
The night was coming to an end.
But some promises—even drunken ones—had just been made.