CHAPTER 2 — The Day Off That Wasn’t

  Six months after the throne room, the palace stopped treating my power like a miracle.

  And started treating it like infrastructure.

  That morning, I sat at a breakfast table long enough to qualify as a diplomatic summit. Dishes from every region of the Demon Kingdom crowded the surface—charred meats glazed in black syrup, bowls of molten grain, spiced fruits that steamed faintly in the cool air. Even human food had been prepared, arranged carefully, as if the chefs were terrified I might notice the effort.

  And then I saw it.

  Coffee.

  A porcelain cup sat beside Father’s hand like it belonged there.

  King Malphas. Demon King. Drinking coffee like this was normal.

  I stared at it, then at him, then at the cup again.

  Across the long table, my mother sat at the far end, serene as ever. Lysandra cradled a glass of dark-blue Aetherplum wine, watching me with a quiet smile that felt almost… fond. Like she was witnessing something she’d waited a long time to see.

  To Father’s right, Draxx was shoveling food into his mouth like a soldier refueling between battles. Grease on his cheek. Zero shame. A menace to table manners everywhere.

  To my left, Riku sat straight-backed, eyes closed, expression neutral—like he was meditating through his younger brother’s disgrace.

  Seated near them were their mothers.

  Draxx’s mother, Lady Vahlra, Marshal of the Demon Armies—an Oni with iron-red skin and eyes like tempered steel. She ate sparingly, posture rigid even at rest.

  Riku’s mother, Lady Nyxeris, High Strategist of the Eastern Legions, a succubus whose beauty felt deliberate rather than natural. She smiled politely at everything, which somehow made it worse.

  I turned back to Father.

  “…Can I have some?” I asked, nodding at the coffee.

  Father froze mid-sip.

  The table went silent.

  Riku’s eyes opened.

  Draxx paused chewing.

  A servant flinched like he’d just heard blasphemy read aloud.

  Father stared at me.

  Then, slowly, he said, “Yes.”

  The servant nearly dropped the pot.

  “Light and sweet,” Father added calmly.

  My heart did a little flip.

  The cup was placed in front of me like a live explosive.

  The servant’s hands shook.

  “Are you… alright?” I asked him.

  He swallowed. “Last time you drank coffee, Princess, you threw it in my face.”

  “Oh.”

  I reached out and gently took his hand.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, honestly. “I don’t know what came over me back then.”

  He stared at me like I’d just grown wings.

  Lysandra’s voice cut in, smooth and amused. “My. You’re enjoying it.”

  I took a sip.

  It tasted like relief. Like a break room at 3 a.m. Like surviving another shift.

  Around the table, no one spoke.

  But I felt it.

  Lysandra had already warned them.

  Don’t question it.

  Don’t press her.

  Don’t make my daughter cry again.

  Conversation resumed, carefully.

  And somewhere between sips, it hit me.

  Six months had passed.

  After the throne room, Father built a hospital.

  Not a symbolic one.

  A real one.

  Nocturne Mercy Ward rose from black basalt near the borderlands, where skirmishes happened “by accident” and holy residue clung to wounds like a curse that refused to die. Demons didn’t heal. They endured. They adapted.

  And then there was me.

  I treated soldiers too damaged for traditional means. First aid teams stabilized what they could. When they couldn’t, I was called.

  The Ledger followed me everywhere.

  Wounded: 0/10

  Illnesses: 0/5

  I learned fast.

  Too fast.

  I learned that Umbral Grace could treat disease, not just injury. I learned how to make potions—how to change their properties with my power. I learned that overusing Umbral Grace made me cold.

  Feverish.

  Umbral mist leaked from my breath like my lungs were burning something they weren’t meant to.

  The first time it happened, I collapsed at the reception desk at two in the morning.

  Lysandra found me there.

  She didn’t scold me.

  She handed me a flask.

  Aetherplum wine. Especially prepared. Engraved with my name.

  “Drink,” she said.

  “One sip.”

  The fever broke instantly.

  “This sickness,” she told me later, “is one we share.”

  She apologized for not telling me sooner.

  I never held it against her.

  That morning, Father cleared his throat like he was about to announce an execution.

  “You are not working today.”

  I blinked so hard my lashes stung. “I’m… not?”

  “A day off,” he said.

  Relief hit me so fast it felt like someone lifted a weight off my ribs. I stood immediately.

  “Then I’m going back to my room.”

  “Sit,” Father said calmly.

  My legs obeyed before my pride could argue.

  Father’s eyes didn’t even move when he continued, “Just because you are not working does not mean you will idle.”

  My day off began dying in real time.

  “We will observe your brothers’ training,” Father said, as if this was generous.

  Draxx grinned like someone had just promised him a brawl and dessert.

  Riku inclined his head, perfectly composed, like he’d been expecting this command all morning.

  I leaned back in my chair, already planning my escape route anyway.

  Then—

  A shadow fell over me.

  Aunt Sera’s voice arrived behind my ear like fate wearing boots. “Ah.”

  I froze.

  She sounded pleased.

  “Almost escaped.”

  I turned my head slowly.

  Aunt Sera stood there like she’d been waiting the entire time. Calm. Patient. Deadly. The kind of person who could find a runaway thought inside your skull and drag it back by the collar.

  “I wasn’t—” I started.

  She scooped me up.

  Again.

  Like I belonged in lost and found.

  I made a sound of protest purely out of principle while she walked.

  Draxx laughed. Riku’s mouth twitched, like he found it amusing but would never admit it.

  Father didn’t comment.

  He just stood, and the room shifted around him like the castle itself stood at attention.

  Moments later, we were outside—air cooler, sky heavier, the castle behind us looming like a weapon pretending to be architecture.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  A black chariot waited at the gate, sleek and armored, pulled by a horned demon-horse with smoke curling from its nostrils. The driver held the reins with both hands like he was holding his own lifespan.

  Aunt Sera set me inside like I was a stubborn parcel.

  Father sat beside me, heavy presence, calm posture.

  My brothers sat across from us—Draxx leaning back like the world was his couch, Riku upright with his katana resting near him like an oath.

  The chariot lurched forward.

  And we rolled into the Demon Kingdom.

  The road stretched wide and clean—stone laid by hands that didn’t ask permission. Along the path, I saw demons of every kind.

  Ogres the size of small houses paused to bow as we passed, then continued walking like nothing in the world was worth slowing down for longer than respect.

  Families stood outside modest homes built from dark brick and warded wood, children peeking from behind parents’ legs, eyes bright with curiosity and fear. Merchants pulled carts of glittering ore and bundled herbs that steamed faintly in the cold air.

  It wasn’t a battlefield.

  It was life.

  And somehow that made everything feel sharper.

  Ahead, the city rose out of black stone and red glow—towers like teeth, bridges like ribs, lamps burning with disciplined flame.

  A sign carved into basalt marked it:

  Blackgate City.

  (If we rename it later, easy.)

  We passed markets, schools, gambling halls that looked too classy to be legal, and towering apartment blocks layered like stacked coffins—busy windows, hanging lanterns, voices, movement.

  And in the center of it all—mounted high like a god of entertainment—was a massive screen.

  A pop idol smiled down at the city like she owned it.

  Music thundered softly through street-speakers. Cheers rose from a crowd gathered beneath.

  I stared, caught off guard. “Wait… they have that here?”

  Riku’s voice slid in beside my ear, calm and smug.

  “Oh. Her?”

  I turned to him. “Yeah?”

  “That,” Riku said, eyes half-lidded, “is going to be your sister-in-law.”

  My brain stalled.

  I stared at him like he’d just told me the sky was married.

  “…What?”

  Riku’s mouth curved, barely. “I could get you tickets.”

  I didn’t speak because my thoughts were crashing into each other.

  Riku watched me process it like it was entertainment. “I’ll introduce you one day. Watch.”

  I swallowed. “You promise?”

  “Bet,” he said, like the word belonged in a royal mouth because he decided it did.

  Draxx leaned in, grinning. “My fiancée isn’t popular like that, but she cares for me.”

  Riku didn’t even look at him when he replied, “More like she knows how to handle you.”

  Draxx burst out laughing. “You know what? That’s true! Ha!”

  The chariot turned again, leaving the loud center of the city behind—

  —and stopped before something enormous.

  A stadium.

  A coliseum of black stone and iron ribs, built for violence like a cathedral built for prayer. Its roof was open, but heavy mechanisms ringed the edge—ready to seal it shut when seasons changed or storms tried to interfere with entertainment.

  I leaned forward. “Is this… a coliseum?”

  Father helped me down from the chariot with one hand, steady and absolute.

  “Yes,” he said. “Demons seek strength. They seek proof.”

  He looked up at the stadium like it was an obligation and a promise.

  “As Demon King,” Father continued, “we oblige.”

  Riku and Draxx were already moving—jumping the steps like they’d done it a hundred times—heading toward the training grounds below.

  Father guided me upward instead, into a closed section high above the field.

  VIP.

  Protected.

  A place to watch war like a show.

  I walked up to the security wall and looked over—

  —and saw the yard already prepared.

  Training dummies stood in formation. Targets set. Ward-lines glowing faintly like sleeping embers.

  Riku was already in motion.

  Draxx was already grinning.

  And I realized with a strange, sinking certainty—

  My “day off” was about to turn into a lesson.

  The training grounds were vast—obsidian pylons at the corners, ward-lattices shimmering overhead like invisible glass. Duel rings marked the floor, and magic hummed under the stone like a heartbeat.

  Below us, Riku stepped into the ring first.

  He didn’t swing wildly.

  He didn’t show off.

  He moved like a law.

  One cut.

  A target split.

  A second cut.

  Another target fell apart like it had always been broken.

  Then Draxx entered like a disaster with a good mood.

  His chain snapped out, latched onto a warded dummy, and yanked it close so fast the air popped.

  He punched.

  BOOM.

  The target exploded into smoke and splinters, ward-lines flaring and dying like they’d been insulted.

  I winced. “That can’t be good for his joints.”

  Father’s voice was calm. “He will survive.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “That is the only answer.”

  I huffed, still watching—still trying to match what I remembered to what I was seeing.

  In the manga, Riku was supposed to be flamboyant. Loud. Fifteen. Unmarried because he was arrogant and insufferable.

  This Riku wasn’t that.

  This Riku was worse.

  Because he was controlled.

  And Draxx—thirteen in the story, noble fighter, clean finishes—

  This Draxx looked like a warhound that learned to laugh.

  I didn’t know which version scared me more.

  Then Father’s hand settled on my shoulder.

  “Sit still,” he said.

  Before I could argue—

  black fire wrapped around me.

  Not hot.

  Not burning.

  Soft.

  Cozy.

  A sealed ember that held me like a protective cage.

  I blinked. “A Black Fire Basket?”

  Father didn’t answer.

  Riku glanced up, saw it, and—somehow—looked amused.

  “Father can be… extreme,” he called lightly, like we were talking about a strict tutor instead of a Demon King.

  I glared at him through the warded fire. “I am literally contained.”

  Riku’s mouth twitched. “You’re safe.”

  “That’s not the same thing.”

  Below, Draxx yanked another target close, chain rattling.

  And then the air changed.

  Not wind.

  Not the weather.

  A ripple.

  The ward-lattice overhead flared—

  —and shattered.

  Sparks rained down like broken stars.

  Then arrows followed.

  Not random.

  Not stray.

  They curved midair.

  Seeker-hexed.

  Aimed at me.

  My stomach dropped so hard I felt sick.

  Draxx moved instantly, chain snapping upward to intercept one arrow—

  Riku vanished—

  —and for a heartbeat it looked like the world forgot he existed.

  His voice cut through the chaos, calm and sharp:

  “Demon Step I — Vanishing Shadow.”

  He reappeared inside the swarm of attackers like a mistake reality tried to correct.

  Steel whispered.

  Bodies dropped.

  And the sound of his blade returning to the sheath came after the kills, like the world was late catching up.

  Humans spilled onto the field through ruptured shadows and broken ward seams.

  Not soldiers.

  Assassins.

  And—worse—heroes.

  Disposable ones.

  The kind the Holy Kingdom tossed at problems like spare coins.

  Draxx met them like a living catastrophe.

  He imbued his chain with demon mana—links glowing faintly—range extending past what it should’ve allowed.

  The tip shifted shape as his intent hardened.

  Hook.

  He snagged a massive hero—so big he could’ve passed for an ogre—yanked him forward, and swung him around like a weapon.

  Once.

  A full circle.

  A human helicopter.

  Bodies got erased in the path of that swing—crunch, impact, collapse—like they weren’t people, just obstacles.

  Draxx’s face tightened during it, eyes strained like it hurt—

  then he finished the rotation and laughed, breathless, as if the pain was just effort.

  He let the big hero drop.

  “Wow,” Draxx said, cheerful, “you need to lose some weight.”

  For a brief second—just a breath—the yard tried to settle.

  Smoke drifted.

  Blood steamed faintly against warded stone.

  Then a spear hero stepped in.

  Not rushing like the disposable ones.

  Walking like he believed he mattered.

  He struck Draxx with a blow that wasn’t meant to kill—

  just meant to prove a point.

  Draxx slammed into the wall beside our VIP section hard enough to crack stone.

  He slid down with a grunt, shaking it off like it was insulting more than painful.

  “Rude,” Draxx muttered.

  And that was the moment Father moved.

  One moment he was beside me.

  The next—

  he was on the field.

  Between Draxx and the spear hero.

  The hero thrust, confident—

  and the spear melted in his hands like wax.

  The hero’s eyes widened.

  His courage fractured.

  He stumbled back and dropped to his knees.

  “W-wait—!”

  Father didn’t raise his voice.

  He didn’t need to.

  His words landed like a verdict.

  “You came here,” Father said, calm, “to kill my sons.”

  The hero shook his head violently, pleading. “I—I was ordered—!”

  Father lifted one hand.

  Snapped.

  Black fire erased the hero so cleanly it felt unreal.

  The remaining humans broke.

  Fleeing.

  One scout managed to escape—vanishing toward the open ceiling like a rat finding a crack.

  Father didn’t chase.

  He turned back instead.

  Back to me.

  Back to the basket.

  Because even now—

  even after killing—

  his priority was still the same…Me.

  We returned in silence.

  That night, Lysandra visited my room.

  “We’ve been receiving messages from your hospital, the Nocturne Mercy Ward ,” she said.

  “Did it get destroyed?” I asked.

  She smiled slightly.

  “You're familiar.”

  I sat up. “My what?”

  “He’s… loud,” she admitted. “Uncooperative. Refusing handlers. Making a mess. Demanding you.”

  I stared at her.

  “…I don’t even know him.”

  Lysandra’s smile softened.

  As mentioned above, AI is used as a writing assistant, but the creative work and decisions are my own, and I keep draft snapshots for transparency. See you next chapter!