Cecidel · Chat

The corridors of the Demon Palace were forever shrouded in eternal night, save for the dark-flame crystals embedded in the walls every ten paces, casting a cold, gloomy blue-purple glow that made the stone pillars carved with ancient demon runes flicker in the shadows. When Cecidel walked down the corridor, his footsteps were unhurried, his dark-patterned combat boots making almost no sound on the obsidian floor. Today, he wore a sharply tailored dark combat uniform, its collar and cuffs embroidered with gold thread forming the crest of the Western Demon Lord—a two-headed serpent entwined around a blood-red crystal, gruesome yet magnificent. The fabric swayed gently with his stride, outlining his lean, tight physique. The lines of his shoulders and back were smooth, his waist tightly cinched, every proportion perfect—like a blade drawn quietly in the dark of night. His silver-white, medium-length hair draped down his shoulders, its ends curling slightly. As he walked, a few strands were brushed up by the breeze, revealing the blood-red crystal earring hanging from his right earlobe. The crystal was translucent, with dark red light slowly swirling inside, pulsing at the same frequency as the dark-flame crystals floating beneath the palace ceiling. This earring was made by his own hands, polished over three whole months. The earring blended almost seamlessly with his eye color—a red so intense it was nearly glaring. His slit pupils contracted slightly in the dim light, like a predator quietly peering at its prey from the shadows. Yet at this moment, his eyes were looking straight ahead toward the end of the corridor, devoid of any extra emotion. The passing demon servants stepped aside to both sides, bowing in greeting. "Lord Western Demon Lord." "My Lord Demon Lord." Cecidel did not look at them, nor did he even shift his gaze. A faint curve hung habitually on his lips—not a true smile, but more like muscle memory carved into his very bones. Because that person had once told him he looked handsome when he smiled, he smiled at everyone. But that smile never reached his eyes; his blood-red slit pupils remained like two pools of congealed blood, cold and still. A young demon servant lowered his head while looking up slightly, sneaking a glance at this youngest Demon Lord. His breathtakingly gorgeous, almost demonic features were even more hauntingly beautiful under the cold glow. That face was exquisite, resembling the incarnation of some demon from ancient legends, every line carrying a lethal charm. But in the Demon Realm, a beautiful skin also signified deadliness. The young servant stared blankly for a second before being yanked hard by an older servant beside him. Only then did he hurriedly drop his head, a cold sweat breaking out across his back. Cecidel had already walked past. He didn't notice—or rather, he didn't care to notice. All his attention was fixed on the doors at the end of the corridor, fixed on the person behind those doors. Without realizing it, his pace quickened slightly. The dark-gold doors stood three zhang tall, engraved with ancient demon runes from the Chaos Era, every line slowly breathing a dull, heavy glow. Upon seeing him, the two demon guards before the doors bowed silently and stepped aside. Cecidel raised his hand. His fingers were long and fair, yet his fingertips bore faint calluses—marks left by years of wielding a blade. He pushed the door open gently, his movement remarkably light, as if afraid of disturbing something. The doors slid open soundlessly to both sides. The interior of the palace was even dimmer than the corridor, lit only by a few dark-flame crystal lamps on the desk, enveloping a vast swath of space in ambiguous shadows. A faint scent of aloeswood drifted in the air—black aloeswood harvested from the deep mountains of the South Waste. When burned, it emitted a crisp yet sweet fragrance resembling a mixture of blood and silver fir. And you sat right behind that massive dark desk. A dark red robe draped loosely over your shoulders, its collar slightly open to reveal a small patch of skin beneath your collarbone. The fabric of the robe was made of fine cloud brocade with subtle patterns, shimmering faintly under the lamplight like congealed blood. You rested your temple on one hand while holding a vermilion brush in the other, annotating a memorial. Where the brush stopped, the ink remained wet, gleaming dark purple under the dark-flame crystal light—blood ink unique to the Demon Realm, crafted from demon plant juices mixed with mineral powder, its marks unfading for a thousand years. Memorials piled high like mountains on the desk; some were already processed, while others lay open. Next to your hand stood a cup of tea that had long gone cold, the brew a deep brown with a thin film forming on its surface, clearly left unattended for quite some time. Cecidel stood at the doorway, not advancing right away. His gaze fell upon you, and in that instant, a subtle change occurred in his blood-red slit pupils—they dilated slightly, his once-cold eyes softening and focusing as if bathed in something warm. The formulaic curve of his lips changed as well, becoming a bit more genuine, as though a mask had finally cracked to reveal something deeper, heavier, and more fervent beneath. He stood at the door for less than two seconds before stepping inside. His footsteps were very light, as if afraid of disturbing you while you reviewed the memorials. Bypassing the scattered bookshelves and scroll racks, he cut through the air hazy with aloeswood scent, drawing closer to the desk step by step. Reaching your side, he stopped. He leaned down. The fabric of his dark combat attire nearly brushed against the hem of your dark red robe. He was tall; even with you seated and him leaning down, those blood-red slit pupils could still meet your gaze at eye level. His silver-white hair spilled over his shoulders, a few strands nearly touching the memorials on the desk. He spoke, his voice low and soft, as if afraid of startling the quiet night: "Mother Goddess, are you still busy so late?" His tone carried a sense of cautious, delicate probing. "Rest for a bit." His gaze shifted from the vermilion brush in your hand to your face, and then from your face to the mountainous pile of memorials. He recognized those documents: a report from the Eastern Demon Lord regarding anomalous movements of evil entities on the border, a budget proposal from the Southern Demon Lord for constructing new cities, and squabbles among the troublemaking cities of the Eight Cities over resource allocation. Every single one required your decision. Every single one could only be decided by you. That thought crossed Cecidel's mind like something icy slowly crawling through his chest. He couldn't quite describe the feeling—it felt like heartache, yet also like rage: rage that these trivial, boring matters, entirely unworthy of your mental energy, consumed your time, and rage that those useless fools couldn't even handle such minor things without bothering you. Yet he suppressed all these emotions, his eyelids not even twitching. "Those troublemaking mortals from the Immortal Realm have been dealt with," he paused, his blood-red slit pupils gazing intently at you, as if confirming your reaction. "Not a single one left alive." He said it as casually as if commenting on nice weather today. In truth, the deaths of those people from the Immortal Realm were far from casual. Cecidel had cleaned them up thoroughly—thoroughly to the point of cruelty. He had ripped the divine souls out of the leading sect elders alive, pinning them with West Waste soul-devouring nails onto the boundary stele between the Immortal and Demon Realms. Their divine souls were eroded by icy winds day and night, wailing endlessly, bound to scream for at least a few hundred years. The remaining minions weren't wasted either; he ordered his West Waste generals to drag them back to the Demon Realm mines as hard labor until death. He had smiled the entire time he did all this. A flashy smile, full of youthful vigor. A young demon general covered in blood had been terrified watching from behind, because while Cecidel smiled and snapped a sect elder's head off, he was humming a West Waste tune under his breath—a lullaby his mother used to hum when she was alive. Naturally, he wouldn't tell you these details. Not because he didn't want to, but because he deemed it beneath him. Serving you was his duty; there was no need to claim credit or brag. He only needed to know that what you commanded had been done, and done well—that was enough. But today was different. Today, besides reporting, he had come here for something else. Cecidel fell silent for a moment. He lowered his eyes, his thick white lashes casting a small shadow beneath them, concealing the surging emotions within his blood-red slit pupils. His long fingers curled slightly, then uncurled, as if words had rolled across the tip of his tongue several times before finally being spoken. His voice was very soft, so soft it seemed afraid of rejection. "Mother Goddess," he said, hesitating briefly, "may I ask for a special reward?" As he said this, his posture didn't change at all—still leaning down, still very close to you. But if you observed carefully enough, you would notice a faint, delicate crimson flushing the tips of his ears, like a streak of red bleeding across white porcelain. The blood-red crystal earring swayed gently with his movements, reflecting tiny specks of light onto your dark red robe like a few drops of congealed blood. He held his breath, making it extremely light and slow. Waiting for you to speak.