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How many could boast of facing off a Rank A demon warrior, winning, and coming off unscathed?

Unfortunately, his System wasn\'t feeling the uproarious joy he was. One would think destroying a formidable adversary like Typhon would grant Rafel an astronomical rise in power levels. But no. In addition to being a necrophilic sicko psycho, Typhon was also a stingy prick.

The son-of-a-bitch had already gambled his death cards, so that when Rafel killed him, all of his runes and A-rank glory were speedily returned to his master, Mephistopheles.

Meph had so wrung out the demon Lord, Typhon, that Rafel didn\'t see a single soul coin in the aftermath of the battle. His only trophy collected was an ancient [Druid Script], ranked [Hallowed] which could not be used at his current [Warlock] level.

He\'d hidden the locked script in his pocket dimension, same place he used for all his weapons, keepsakes and beloved souvenirs—like Agaliath\'s forehorn.

But Rafel didn\'t mind.

A good name in Hel was more valued than ten thousand souls. Any fool could buy himself a [Blessed] Arcane Rune. But the name Bloodthirsty? Hell fucking no! He was Champion of Hel. The Crimson Death.

The Burning One. Bringer of Blood. Seventh from Lucifer. Nah! Rafel was good. He had a pretty good guess that his name was top on the blackboards of many underworld pubs, lucky winners who had bet on him winning the fight against Typhon cashing out.

He could almost see the smiling gamblers, roaring their good fortune, smashing together jugs of stale whiskey, and grinding on the nearest Succubus by the dirty, blackened brick walls of alleys.

Besides, all the thanks he needed for slaying the Lord of Monsters had being right there in Ravenna\'s eyes at his victory. The green in her eyes was so potent he could paint a savanna off the emerald pools.

Stepping out the shower, he heard women laughing.

Rafel grabbed the nearest shirt and trouser pair he could find, rushing out to the source. The kitchen.

The air was light, rich in excitement, and the sun splashed in through the floor-to-ceiling crystal windows as he walked in. Rafel paused at the entryway, admiring the ladies. They were smiling about something.

Cora stood by the long shined island countertop, a bowl of robust dough in her hands. She was mixing. And both Ravenna and Aya stood at her sides, staring in.

"What are we celebrating, girls?" He asked, folding his arms across his chest and walking over.

"Victory!" Cora lifted her eyes up to his first. "Victory, Your Grace."

Aya popped a bottle of white wine, filling up four glasses. As they clinked together, she toasted, "To killing fucking Minotaurs!"

"Aye!" Rafel laughed along with them.

And then when his cup was empty, he teased, "At least one of you knows how to cook. I must admit, I wasn\'t expecting it to be Corazón."

"Hey! I can cook too." Ravenna chipped in. "It\'s pretty much a given when you grow up without a mom."

Aya only shrugged. Succubi were average with a pot. But phenomenal at other things...

"I gave the servants the day off, I hope you don\'t mind, Your Grace. I felt we needed the privacy to celebrate as inner circle. I\'m baking. The muffins and cake should be ready before noon. Then, we can fully sink into your smashing victory against the Lord of Monsters—however as you please." Cora told Rafel.

By her left, Aya was bent over with her elbows on the island\'s top. She rolled her hips this way and that, making her big ass all the more obvious in her tiny cashmere shorts.

"Get this thing outta my face!" Cora spanked her with a laugh.

Aya jerked with a giggle, and Ravenna blushed. Rafel viewed them with a satisfied smile. Finally, they were all getting along.

Though he would love to hold his light-skinned slave down, bent over the island\'s edge, grip her hair and push her shorts down to her knees, stretch aside her panties, slap that ass a few more times, and proceed to dutifully pound her pussy. . . Ravenna was in the room. And so he stuck to imagining.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

Cora wiped her flour-dusted hands to get it but Rafel held up a hand.

"Where do you think you\'re going, young lady? I\'ll get the door. You stay here and cream that up good and nice. Make sure you slather the icing all over. I like my sugar."

Rafel left all three women blushing and open-mouthed as he slipped out the kitchen.

Was he still talking about cake?

Not really.

[Ding!] came his system.

[Update Notification!]

[Rank: Earl (Warlock)

Rank II: Earl (Pussy Wetter).]

His system had to be joking. [Pussy Wetter] wasn\'t a level.

[Ding!]

[It is on earth! Infact, according to my intelligence, very few mortal men attain this rank in their lifetime.]

Hmm, Rafel thought. This was true.

He reached the doors in a minute and calmly pulled them open.

Rafel was immediately confronted with the contrasting images of two well-dressed military men. The one in front was rail-thin, gaunt, at most 5\'11. The one behind was stout, had a severe moustache, and boasted 6\'3. The lean one, who frankly should be the lackey, was the one with the silver eagle upon his shoulders.

Both men removed their green caps on seeing Rafel.

The mustached Aide began introductions.

"The Lord Commander of Her Majesty\'s Western Regiment. Governor and Legatus of Rocasus. General Ian Noguri."

He was about to go on but the rail-thin man held up a hand to stop his taller, bulkier aide. "Please, Your Grace, call me Ian. I sent you the letter about a fortnight now."

Rafel nodded with a small smile, easing the men\'s rigid backs. "Yes, the General! Do come in."

Rafel heard the women clutter pans and chat in the kitchen as he led the military visitors into the opulent innards of the Day Room. It was gold from chandelier to carpet. Sunlight literally painted the walls. The many open windows overlooked the northern grounds where the scent of blooming citrus blew in from.

As Rafel settled the men into plush couches and small talk about the Empire\'s borders and affiliates, he let the General do most of the talking. His mind however turned to other things. Particularly the small draft which the inquisition into the General\'s background had turned up.

Parents, middle class. Graduated top of his class at Her Majesty\'s Military Academy. Rose in ranks quickly to become General. Soon appointed military Governor of Rocasus, a trendy western state famous for its inclusive culture of magical factions.

Everything about the man screamed loyalty. So why the hell did he want to go to war? Against a Fey Queen?

And he was human, Rafel sniffed.

Strange.

Frankly, he expected the Legatus to be a brawny, bulky, egoistical misogynistic braggart. From Giselle\'s point of view, that was how she\'d described the Rocasian General. But the man sitting across from him was small in comparison, soft spoken, had doe eyes, and looked like he fished for a living.

Ian Noguri was a strange General.

Rafel noticed the man had stopped speaking and recrossed his legs on his sofa as he said,

"You have a distinguished air, General. I like it. But tell me, why should I donate such a grand sum to this enterprise of yours? The endgame is to enter into battle with the Crown, is it not?"

Rafel squinted when the General smiled slowly, like a wisened old crone.

"Your Grace, I mean no disrespect but you are young. You look to me about twenty years old."

This time, it was Rafel who smiled. Eighteen years in Hel was hundreds on earth. Rafel took his first breath when men still wore leaves as skirts and grunting was the only form of communication.

But he said nothing, letting the General finish.

"Eldoria is a realm blessed in gold, but cursed in secrets. Everything here is not as it seems. Your donation to my campaign is an investment into the future. I only seek the welfare of a free Rocasus. The Queen may seem like she has stability and prosperity shooting out her gilded arse. But a fart\'s still a fart.

It\'s the same promises her father, his father and those before him gave. The same lies. The same generation. Why should an entire Empire consisting of several thriving units of witches, faefolk, human, elf, and mermaid, be ruled over and over by one single bloodline who consider themselves the stellar race?

The Nova Imperia dynasty have ruled Eldoria since it was a tiny camp by the sea. Mermaids and mortals forged this city. Not the fairykind. We simply want back a share of what\'s rightfully ours. I will only suggest this to the Queen. And if she refuses, that\'s when your money comes in.

It will fund my armies to rival hers.

If blood is the price of war, then shall money be of consequence?

A new Eldoria shall be born. And you, Lord BlüdThïrste are being offered a frontrow seat to its rise."

Rafel listened to the General without saying a word.

What could he say? Giselle was his friend. A lover. They had destroyed an entire city together. Drowned the Lord of Frostholm along with his whole family. Together.

Did Ian not know about this?

Here he was, trying to seed doubts into Rafel\'s mind. Feykind were powerful, with ancient Druid bloodlines that dated centuries past. Pure elemental magic flowed in their veins. But they wouldn\'t force anyone under their heel. Would they?

When Aya appeared with offered wine, Rafel clinked glasses with the men. And minutes later, as he walked them out, he said offhandedly,

"You\'ll get your funding, General. Safe travels."

But Rafel already knew he would tell Giselle.

He could play both sides. For now. As a Hellion, he was invincible. \'You can\'t hope to murder Death, son. It\'s not in the cards!\' was his Uncle, Lord Morningstar\'s favorite mantra. But what was even more chilling was General Ian\'s admission.

Everything here is not as it seems.