If someone had told me, during my first life, that after two deaths, an endless war, and several decades spent in Hell, my biggest problem of the morning would be a plumbing problem, I probably would have advised them to see a psychiatrist.
And yet, there I was, crouched beneath my kitchen sink, an adjustable wrench in one hand and an expression that I imagined was particularly unworthy of an Overlord on my face.
A drop of water fell directly onto my forehead.
I closed my eyes.
“Fucking hell.”
I wiped the water away with my sleeve before tightening the metal fitting once again.
I had been trying for almost twenty minutes to find the exact source of the leak and, despite several decades of experience in fields as varied as magic, military strategy, financial management, and the administration of an infernal territory, I had to admit that this fucking pipe was putting up remarkable resistance.
Another drop appeared.
I watched it slowly grow.
“Don’t do that.”
It fell.
I remained still for a few seconds before pulling my head out from under the sink.
Two of my soldiers were standing in the kitchen.
They had arrived ten minutes earlier after hearing my swearing from the hallway and had since done absolutely nothing, which was technically in accordance with my orders since I had not asked them to do anything.
The first was holding a toolbox.
The second watched me with his eternal white smile, perfectly motionless behind the counter.
“You could at least look concerned.”
No reaction.
I sighed, reached toward the box, and made a motion with my fingers.
“The pliers.”
The soldier immediately searched through the tools and handed me a pair.
“Thank you.”
I went back under the sink.
This was what the life of a powerful Overlord of Hell actually looked like.
The rumors talked about hundreds of souls under contract, armies capable of materializing from shadows, bombardments that had wiped certain districts off the maps, and a demoness dangerous enough to have survived every Extermination since the forties.
No one talked about plumbing.
That was unfortunate, because plumbing was much more persistent than the majority of my enemies.
I tightened the fitting one last time, slowly turned on the faucet, and watched the pipe.
Nothing.
I waited a few more seconds….
Then the water started flowing.
A satisfied smile appeared on my lips as I stood back up.
“There.
You see?
No need for magic, no need for explosives, and most importantly, no need to destroy half the room to solve a problem.”
The two soldiers continued to look at me.
I placed the wrench on the counter and frowned.
“Why do I get the feeling that lesson was meant more for you than for the pipe?”
One of them tilted his head slightly.
“Permission to respond?”
I stopped.
That happened rarely enough to catch my attention.
“Granted.”
“We have never destroyed this kitchen.”
I looked at the soldier, then at his comrade.
I picked up the cup of coffee I had left near the sink.
“That’s true.
But only because I forbade you from using explosives in here after the oven incident.”
The soldier remained perfectly straight.
“The objective had been achieved.”
I took a sip.
“The oven had exploded.”
“The door was open.”
“Because it had gone through the wall.” I said, closing my eyes.
A silence followed.
I made a small gesture with my hand.
“Get out.”
They turned simultaneously and left the kitchen at the same pace, their boots echoing through the hallway until the sound disappeared.
I looked at the door behind them.
Over the years, I had developed a theory that my creations did indeed possess some form of humor, but that they only used it when they knew I would never be able to prove it.
That idea was deeply unsettling.
I took my cup and headed toward the large bay window overlooking the back of the manor.
The day was relatively calm.
Which, in Hell, simply meant that nothing was exploding close enough to make my windows shake.
My domain stretched beyond the garden, surrounded by a forest of tall trees with almost black trunks.
Unlike Pentagram City, where every square meter seemed required to contain a building, an obscene advertisement, or a public murder, I had deliberately kept a large portion of my territory relatively empty.
The complex occupied the center.
The manor was the oldest construction, even though it had been expanded several times since I acquired it.
Three floors, a dark stone façade, large windows, and two side wings built over the decades to house my archives, my offices, and a few bedrooms that almost no one ever used.
Around it, the buildings necessary for the domain’s operation had gradually been added.
Barracks for soldiers who did not actually need to sleep.
Warehouses.
Workshops.
A garage.
A training ground.
Several administrative buildings.
And, since Crane’s attack, an absolutely indecent amount of reconstruction work on the Eastern border.
It had now been a few years since that idiot had disappeared from circulation, but I had retained a perfectly healthy hatred for the memory of his financial decisions.
Repairing a road was expensive.
Repairing a road after dropping several dozen magical shells on it was even more expensive.
I had learned that lesson in the least economical way possible.
I left the kitchen, crossed the great hall, and pushed open the doors leading to the terrace.
The hot air immediately struck me.
Around ten soldiers crossed the courtyard in formation while another group returned from the training ground.
They did not need to practice their movements in the same way as real soldiers, but I continued to organize regular exercises anyway.
Hell changed.
Weapons changed.
Tactics did too.
And contrary to what some idiots in Pentagram City seemed to think, having won a battle twenty years earlier absolutely did not guarantee winning the next one.
A soldier stood guard near the terrace.
He straightened slightly when I passed him.
“Commander.”
“Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
I continued on my way before stopping after three steps.
I turned around and noticed that he had not moved.
“You see?
That’s exactly the kind of progress I appreciate.”
The soldier tilted his head.
“Commander?”
“Nothing.
Carry on.”
I resumed walking with my cup.
It had taken me nearly fifteen years to teach them to respond properly when someone greeted them.
I had commanded military operations that were less complicated.
The domain had not always looked like this.
When I had arrived in Hell, I owned nothing, except clothes, magic I barely understood, and a remarkable ability to attract trouble.
Marvin had indeed shown me Pentagram City as I had asked him to.
He had also tried to sell me three times, involve me in two scams, and disappear with my money less than a week after we met.
Strangely, we had remained on good terms.
Well, as good as relations could be between two sinners when one had once tried to steal the other’s coat at gunpoint.
He had permanently died during an Extermination in the fifties.
I had learned the news two days later.
Even after all these decades, I still remembered perfectly the empty glass sitting in front of me when one of his former associates came to tell me.
I had simply nodded.
Then I had ordered two coffees.
The second remained untouched until it went cold.
Hell was not a place where it was advisable to become too attached to people.
I had understood that rule quickly.
That did not mean you stopped doing it completely.
I walked down the terrace steps and took the main path toward the training ground.
Several soldiers saluted me as I passed while others continued their work without paying me any more attention.
I preferred that.
I had never wanted to live surrounded by lackeys bowing every time I entered a room.
I had seen enough leaders develop that kind of complex to know how badly it usually ended.
My first years had mainly been devoted to understanding the rules.
Not the official laws.
Those were practically nonexistent throughout much of the Pride Ring.
I was talking about the real rules.
Who owned what.
Who owned which street and which businesses paid which Overlord.
Which contracts could be broken and which could condemn you for decades.
Which demons could be insulted without consequence and which were capable of making someone disappear before they had even finished their sentence.
I had started small.
A few contracts.
Relatively simple business.
Protection, security, debt collection.
Activities for which my experience ultimately suited me much better than I would have admitted.
It was fascinating to see how much Hell’s criminals appreciated a protection service when it was actually capable of protecting them.
The concept eventually grew.
One business became three.
Three became fifteen.
Then I started owning souls.
The first had been an accident.
Or rather, a consequence I had not entirely understood.
A demon had accepted a contract in exchange for my protection without properly reading the conditions, which was a mistake stupid enough to make me lose all compassion.
When the agreement had been concluded, I immediately felt something change.
Not an explosion of power.
Not a spectacular transformation.
A pressure.
An additional presence somewhere deep inside me.
I spent the next three weeks experimenting.
That was how I discovered that souls under contract directly fed my magic.
What followed became fairly predictable.
I had never forced someone to sign simply to increase my reserves.
That would have been bad for business.
On the other hand, when an individual was desperate, stupid, or ambitious enough to offer their soul in exchange for something I could provide, I had never felt the need to refuse on moral principle.
Hell had certain qualities.
The clarity of transactions was sometimes one of them.
I passed a workshop whose large doors were open.
Inside, several soldiers were dismantling an armored vehicle while another examined a metal part with enough concentration that one could almost forget he had no eyes.
At first, I had created my soldiers out of necessity.
Ordinary employees were unreliable.
Mercenaries even more so.
As for the other Overlords, the very idea of depending on them for my security made me want to laugh.
So I had tried to produce something simple.
A creature capable of following my orders.
The first result had been about one meter twenty tall, possessed three arms, no mouth, and had spent two hours walking into a wall because I had ordered it to move forward.
I had dissolved it.
The second had been slightly better.
The fiftieth could hold a rifle.
After a few years, I had finally obtained the soldiers who still accompanied me today.
They were not intelligent in the classical sense.
They did not read for pleasure, tell stories, or have any identifiable personal ambitions.
On the other hand, give them a position to defend and they instinctively understood how to establish firing lines, distribute their ammunition, exploit the terrain, and react to an attack.
I still did not know whether I had created soldiers possessing limited intelligence or a form of intelligence whose almost entire potential was absurdly specialized.
The distinction had never mattered much.
They were loyal.
They were efficient.
And unlike the majority of Hell’s inhabitants, none of them had yet tried to stab me in the back.
In my eyes, that already placed them well above average.
“Commander.”
I turned my head.
One of my officers had just stepped out of the workshop.
His cap and coat distinguished him slightly from the ordinary soldiers, although the same impossible smile still occupied his face.
He approached and handed me a tablet.
“Weekly report from the Northern sector.”
I took the device.
“Anything interesting?”
“Two minor intrusions.
A group of four sinners and three Hellborn crossed the outer boundary.”
I quickly went through the report.
“Intentions?”
“The sinners were looking for a shortcut.
The Hellborn were hunting a wild creature.”
I raised my eyes.
“And no one was shot?”
“In accordance with your directives, they were escorted out of the domain.”
I handed the tablet back to him.
“Excellent.
It has been almost four months since we killed anyone by accident.”
The officer remained silent.
I narrowed my eyes slightly.
“That was not an invitation to break the record in the other direction.”
“Understood.”
I continued toward the training ground and noticed that he accompanied me.
“Anything else?”
“Several messages from Pentagram City.”
I let out a sigh.
That had a greater chance of ruining my day than an invasion.
“From whom?”
“Three business proposals.
One invitation to a reception.
Two requests for meetings.
One threat.”
“A threat?” I turned my head toward him with renewed interest.
“Identity?”
“Sinner who arrived eleven days ago.
He is demanding the return of a vehicle seized after his illegal entry onto the domain.”
I thought for a few seconds before remembering a red car abandoned near the border the previous week.
“That was his car?
It contained six crates of narcotics, three stolen weapons, and a body in the trunk.”
“Correct.”
“Tell him he can come and retrieve it.”
The officer nodded.
“Should I prepare an escort?”
“No.
Simply tell him that he can come personally to claim his property and that I will be delighted to discuss it with him.”
My smile must have been visible, because the officer remained silent for one second longer than necessary.
“Understood.”
“And the invitation?”
“Party organized by Velvette.”
I grimaced.
“Politely decline.”
“What reason should I give?”
I slowed down.
“That one.”
The officer looked at me.
I looked at him.
“Write exactly: ‘Thank you for the invitation, but I have better things to do.'”
“Understood.”
We finally arrived near the training ground.
A full company was carrying out an exercise in advancing under fire.
Magical barriers simulated enemy fire while the soldiers moved from cover to cover, several groups supporting one another without any verbal orders being necessary.
I settled onto a small platform intended for observation.
The officer remained near me.
I placed my cup on the railing while gesturing with my hand.
“You may go.”
“Commander.” he saluted me and turned around.
“Wait.”
He stopped.
I once again watched the soldiers moving across the field.
“Also respond to the two meeting requests.”
“What response?”
“No.”
The officer waited.
I turned my head slightly.
“What?”
“Should I provide a reason?”
“No.”
He nodded and left.
The decades had at least had the advantage of simplifying certain social interactions.
There had been a time when I would have spent an hour writing a diplomatic response explaining why my schedule unfortunately did not allow for a meeting.
Today, “no” worked perfectly.
It was one of the privileges of power that no one mentioned enough.
I leaned against the railing and watched my soldiers.
It had taken a long time to achieve this peace.
Far too long.
My rise had not been a triumphant march to the top of Hell, contrary to what some young sinners seemed to imagine when they told my story in bars.
I had lost contracts, territories, money, and I had even been betrayed.
I had been temporarily killed three times before I even understood how my regeneration worked properly.
The first time had been particularly humiliating.
A demon armed with a shotgun had shot me in the back as I was leaving a restaurant.
I had woken up two days later in a dumpster.
I had found the person responsible and we had a conversation.
After that, he had never done it again.
Over time, my power had increased.
The weapons I materialized had become more powerful.
My barriers more resistant.
My flight faster.
Then I had discovered the portals.
The first had not been intentional.
I was trying to create a piece of artillery far too heavy to be materialized directly when the space in front of me had torn open.
The cannon had appeared on the other side.
I had spent nearly five minutes staring at the phenomenon like a child discovering a new toy.
A few years later, I could open an entire battery above a battlefield.
That was when the trouble had really started.
Power attracted attention and some Overlords had wanted to buy me.
Others wanted to recruit me and a few had tried to kill me before I became a problem.
That last category had considerably decreased over time.
The battle against Crane had not created my reputation.
It had simply reminded a generation that was beginning to forget it.
The Devil of the Red Sky.
I still hated that title.
Not enough to try to make it disappear, obviously.
Nicknames had their uses, especially when they helped avoid wars.
But I would have liked to meet the son of a bitch who had decided that a name like that was necessary.
I knew several versions of its origin.
According to some, it had appeared after the destruction of an old Overlord in the sixties.
According to others, survivors of a battle had seen the entire sky turn red when my portals opened.
A third story claimed that I had personally chosen the title and had everyone who refused to use it executed.
That last one was my favorite.
Mainly because it was so ridiculous that it had eventually become believable in Hell.
The truth was much less spectacular.
I had never tried to become famous.
I simply wanted to become dangerous enough to be left alone.
The problem was that in Hell, reaching that level usually required killing enough people for everyone to know your name.
An unfortunate contradiction.
The exercise ended.
The soldiers regrouped on the field while an officer began evaluating their performance.
I watched for a few more minutes before retrieving my cup and heading back toward the manor.
I had worked enough for today.
Well, “worked” might have been an exaggeration.
I had repaired a sink, refused several invitations, and watched a military exercise.
For a former child soldier who had once spent her days being shot at several kilometers above the ground, it almost felt like a vacation.
I smiled at the thought.
Perhaps that was what would have annoyed Being X the most.
I was in Hell.
Literally in Hell.
And despite everything, my life had become more pleasant.
It had been decades since I had last heard his voice.
At first, I had waited.
Every strange event had become suspicious.
Every new ability I discovered.
Every coincidence that was a little too strange or convenient or every disaster that happened to me.
During my first years, I had sometimes looked up at the sky after a victory, expecting to hear that arrogant voice explain to me that everything was part of some new trial.
Nothing.
Then the years passed.
Five years.
Ten.
Twenty.
At some point, I had simply stopped waiting.
I still did not know whether Being X existed in this universe.
I did not know whether this Hell belonged to the same creation as my old world or whether my death had thrown me into something completely different.
And above all, I cared less and less.
If he was here, he had at least learned to shut the fuck up.
If he was not, even better.
Either way, I considered the situation an improvement.
I climbed the terrace steps.
Inside, the manor was quiet.
A few soldiers occasionally crossed the hallways, but no ordinary servants lived there.
I had tried hiring staff at first.
The experience had ended when my butler sold the location of my bedroom to an assassin in exchange for fifty thousand dollars.
He had then been deeply surprised to discover that, at the time, I very rarely slept in the same bedroom two nights in a row.
The assassin had been even more surprised.
Today, my soldiers handled almost everything.
They cooked properly after several decades of learning and only two major fires.
They cleaned and maintained the place.
They even knew how to make acceptable coffee, which was probably their greatest achievement since their creation.
I finally reached my office.
The room was exactly as I had left it that morning.
A large bookcase covering two walls, the fireplace extinguished at this hour, a dark wooden desk in front of the windows, and several armchairs intended for visitors who came so rarely that they probably could have been removed without anyone noticing.
I set down my cup and settled into my chair.
Several files were waiting for me on the desk.
I looked at them for a moment before my gaze shifted toward the book lying beside them.
A detective novel I had started the day before.
The choice was remarkably easy.
I picked up the book.
There had been a time when I would have felt somewhat guilty about abandoning administrative work in the middle of the day.
That time had died somewhere between my second resurrection and the acquisition of my fiftieth soul contract.
I settled more comfortably and resumed reading.
For nearly an hour, no one came to interrupt me.
It was probably the best hour of my week.
Then three knocks sounded against the door.
I did not immediately look up.
“Come in.”
The door opened.
One of my soldiers entered and stopped a few steps inside the room.
I turned a page.
“If it’s another invitation, decline it.”
“No, Commander.”
“A threat?”
“No.”
I finally looked up.
“A problem at the border?”
“No.”
I slowly closed my book while keeping one finger between the pages.
The soldier remained perfectly motionless.
“Then what is it?” I asked, looking at him slightly.
“A vehicle is approaching the main gate.”
I frowned slightly.
“Identified?”
“Royal limousine.”
This time, I completely removed my finger from the book.
A royal limousine.
There were not fifty people in Hell likely to use that kind of vehicle.
I placed the novel on my desk and straightened up.
“Lucifer?”
“No.”
That considerably narrowed down the possibilities.
I took a few seconds to think before looking at the soldier.
“How many people?”
“Two.”
“Armed?”
“Yes.
Commander.”
I sighed.
Naturally.
Even courtesy visits in Hell generally involved weapons.
“Did they identify themselves?”
The soldier tilted his head slightly.
“Yes, Commander.”
I waited….
But he did not continue.
I slowly tapped two fingers against the desk.
“And?”
The soldier stood straight in front of me, his white smile still just as wide.
“A guest.”
I stared at him.
He stared back at me, which was a particularly strange expression to use for a creature without eyes.
“I see that several decades of communication training have not yet fully paid off.”
I stood up from my chair, picked up my cap resting near the files, and placed it properly on my head.
“Very well.
Let them in.”
I walked around my desk.
“And since you seem determined to turn this into a guessing game, at least tell me who just crossed half the Ring to come visit me.”
The soldier answered immediately.
“Charlotte Morningstar, Princess of Hell.”
My hand froze on the back of the chair.
For several seconds, I said nothing.
Then I looked through the window toward the distant entrance of the domain.
Lucifer’s daughter.
At my home.
Without an appointment.
I slowly closed my eyes before letting out a sigh.
“Fuck.
I should have stayed under that sink.”
That makes three chapters so far, and I don’t have a set publication schedule.
I have one week of vacation left before going back to work.
I’m aiming for at least one chapter a week.
Chapter 4 is coming soon.
If you’re starting to like this story, follow it.