Celoia slept until noon. When he finally drifted awake, he was still a bit dazed.
His arm was numb from being used as a pillow, covered in a patch of bright red marks, and his neck felt stiff and swollen—a prickling, paralyzed sensation.
He extended a finger to poke the flesh of his arm, then let out an unguarded “hiss” of pain, his arm twitching instinctively.
Deroville was drawn over by the commotion. His eyes held a flicker of expectation that he himself hadn’t noticed; he seemed to be waiting to see when Celoia would discover his own mess of a face.
But Celoia didn’t immediately groom himself as expected. Instead, he quickly looked left and right until his eyes landed on Deroville. Only then did he settle down, his eyes lighting up.
Celoia hopped down from his chair and trotted to Deroville’s side, resting his face naturally against the man’s knee. He looked up and asked expectantly, “Dero, can we go out and play together?”
Deroville let out a soft laugh and cupped Celoia’s face to keep him from leaning too heavily, his finger lightly stroking the tip of the boy’s nose.
“I thought we agreed the two of us would work hard together. How did you manage to sneak off into laziness all by yourself?”
Celoia pouted, his eyes widening as he tried to look as pitiful as possible. “Dero is the best! I really just want to play for a tiny, tiny bit. When you go back to work later, I’ll work hard with you again.”
He promised solemnly, “Falling asleep just now was an accident. I’ll definitely be very diligent later!”
Deroville didn’t believe a word of it, but he didn’t want to crush the child’s confidence. Since the documents were mostly handled, he clapped his hands and stood up, prepared to take Celoia for a walk.
However, as his gaze swept over Celoia’s face, his stepped foot retracted.
Celoia stared at him expectantly, whispering a prompt: “Dero, let’s go, let’s go!”
Suppreessing a smile, Deroville picked up a mirror from the desk and showed Celoia his little face.
Black and red ink everywhere—the boy’s own crooked handwriting was scrawled all over him. If one looked closely, they could practically sing a tune following the scribbles. On the right side of his cheek, a little pig sat vividly—cute, chubby, and so well-drawn that anyone seeing it would have to praise the artist’s superb skill.
Celoia really, really admired the artist’s talent—provided that the little pig wasn’t on his face.
He lunged backward, eyes full of shock. He covered his face tightly, his gaze landing on Deroville with an accusatory stare as he loudly expressed his dissatisfaction.
“Dero! You drew a pig head on my face!”
Deroville toyed with the pen in his hand. “The ink I used and the ink you used are different colors. Take a guess—what did I use to draw that little pig?”
Celoia’s pupils shrank, and a wave of guilt flooded his eyes. He pursed his lips and answered reluctantly, “You used my pen.”
“And when did I draw it?”
Celoia’s voice grew weaker and weaker, his face flushing crimson as he practically begged for mercy. “While I was sleeping.”
Deroville let go of the pen, letting it drop onto the open documents. He shook his head, his tone laced with a smile. “So, is Celoia a little pig?”
“Yes—” Celoia dragged out the word, then blinked and suddenly changed the subject. “Dero, I think you should have a drawing on your face too.”
Deroville tilted his chin with interest, signaling him to continue; he wasn’t angry in the slightest.
“See, I love sleeping, so I get a little pig,” Celoia pointed at the mountain of documents still on the desk, his eyes mischievous as he spoke with perfect logic. “And you, you’re so slow at handling these papers. They’re never finished, so you’re a slow-poky turtle.”
Deroville nodded as if agreeing with the logic. He pressed his pen into Celoia’s hand and half-squatted, exposing his cheek.
He said generously, “Then go ahead and draw a matching little turtle on my face.”
Celoia cheered, gripping the pen tightly. He worked on Deroville’s face with extreme care. Although the pig on his own face wasn’t ugly, it was definitely meant to be funny. Even so, Celoia had no intention of making Deroville look bad; every stroke was earnest. He truly wanted to draw the best little turtle possible.
Deroville realized that perhaps Celoia didn’t mind the “insult” of the pig; he just wanted them to match.
A clumsily drawn little turtle appeared on the Demon King’s face.
Celoia let go with satisfaction and held the mirror up to Deroville, wiggling it so he could see.
Deroville touched his left cheek with a sense of novelty. It was a round, cute little turtle—much like Celoia himself—soft and completely non-threatening.
He accepted the new graffiti naturally, taking Celoia’s hand to walk out the door. He even had the patience to answer the boy’s endless stream of questions.
“Dero, are you going to secretly rub it off?”
“No. I’ll wait until you rub off your little pig, and then I’ll rub off this turtle.”
“Oh,” Celoia peeked up at Deroville, trying to suppress the urge to skip. He asked with feigned indifference, “What if I never rub mine off?”
Deroville gave a light huff. “Then what can I do? I’ll just have to let it stay on my face forever.”
Behind the palace was a small garden maintained by the butler. It was filled with beautiful flora—some used for medicine, and others occasionally used by the two special assistants as a dating spot. It was a rare touch of sweetness in their painful lives as corporate slaves.
Celoia looked around curiously, his eyes darting restlessly. He looked clever, but his courage was far too small; he was frequently startled into a yelp by strange-looking plants.
Initially, he stayed a few paces away from Deroville as they strolled leisurely. Gradually, he edged closer and closer until he simply grabbed the man’s leg. Deroville walked with the added weight, his gait becoming uneven and floaty, a sense of helplessness creeping into his heart.
“Celoia, get down and walk on your own.”
Celoia gripped tighter, pressing his face into Deroville’s leg. “I won’t,” he muffled.
Deroville felt like his lifetime’s worth of patience was being exhausted here. He tugged at his clothes, narrowly avoiding a wardrobe malfunction as Celoia’s tugging caused his inner robes to slide down.
He lowered his voice, pretending to be fierce. “Celoia, Celine is watching you.”
Celoia slid off at lightning speed, straightening his clothes and looking perfectly prim and proper. Not daring to lift his head, he whispered, “Dero, Dero, where is Celine? Is she still looking?”
Deroville’s eyes darted around. After a moment of silence, he simply pointed in a random direction and lied through his teeth. “Right over there.”
Celoia clung to Deroville again, suggesting enthusiastically, “Then let’s walk over that way!”
Deroville was confused. “Why? Do you want to see Celine?” He was considering whether to call Celine back from her mission to give her fewer outdoor assignments.
Instead, Celoia shook his head and said earnestly, “I want to show Celine the drawings on our faces, and then ask her if she wants one too. I can draw a little bird for her.”
Deroville thought it was a fine idea, but he wasn’t going to allow it.
5:00 PM, Demon Realm Council Chamber.
Seven or eight people sat scattered about the room, chatting idly. Their tea had gone from scalding to lukewarm, yet the person they were waiting for still hadn’t arrived.
The lively-voiced youth was the first to lose his cool. He shifted positions several times; his once-orderly legs were now perched on the chair cushion, his hair was a bird’s nest of frustration, and he radiated irritation.
“What is Deroville doing? He specifically called us for a meeting just to leave us hanging for two hours. He’s played this trick several times—doesn’t he think it’s childish?”
Another man, who looked gentler and more refined, unhurriedly picked up the teapot and refilled his cup. He looked calm as he consoled, “Don’t be so impatient. He’ll likely be here soon. We probably provoked him, otherwise he wouldn’t lecture us like this.”
Thinking of this, he let out a helpless sigh. “Why couldn’t you hold back your mischief yesterday? You just had to blurt out the truth about his black cat form. He’s the Demon King now; he needs his dignity.”
The youth huffed, leaning back in his seat. “And he has dignity by using the excuse of ‘handling monsters’ to dodge work and hide in the forest? I stayed up for days handling his affairs—I’m the one with a grudge heavier than a ghost’s! Just watch how I confront him when he gets here. I’ll make him realize that demons aren’t meant to be slaves. He has to pay a price for this.”
Just as he finished, Deroville stepped inside with a leisurely stride, a faint smile on his lips and a hint of curiosity in his tone.
“Oh? Tell me then—how are you going to confront me? I’m truly eager to find out.”
The youth’s mouth snapped shut instantly. Not a single word came out.
The chamber fell into a deathly silence.
Deroville sat in his designated seat, resting his chin on his hand as his voice turned serious.
“I called you here today to discuss an important matter.”
“A few days ago, I left the palace to investigate the Carrion Beasts in the Withered Wood Forest at the border. I found that the overflow of monsters there has become very serious.” At this point, Deroville paused, subtly scanning the expressions of everyone present before continuing seamlessly. “Therefore, I suspect that higher-order Carrion Beasts have emerged within the Abyss. It is highly likely they have retained their sapience and are consciously occupying the Abyss while driving out the lower-order beasts.”
“This is not a good thing for the Demon Realm.”
“I need people to handle the lower-order beasts and scout the situation inside the Abyss. Who is willing to volunteer?”
Everyone fell into deep thought. No one spoke for a long time. Deroville didn’t rush them; he toyed with his pen, lost in thought.
But soon, the refined man spoke.
“I am willing to volunteer. However, I may need Celine’s assistance, as only she is familiar with the inner workings of that forest.”
Deroville nodded, granting the request.
In that brief moment, the graffiti on his cheek was revealed, catching the lively youth’s eye perfectly.
He gasped, crying out in disbelief.
“Deroville! Why is your face all black? Were you hit by something?”
Deroville frowned and shot him a glare, reminding him unhappily:
“Euan, your eyesight is truly failing. This is clearly a cute little turtle.”
Euan’s pupils shook. He stammered, unable to speak, his face twisted in a mess of confusion. He couldn’t decide what was more shocking: the fact that Deroville had a drawing on his face, or that the lump of ink was supposed to be a turtle.
Nolan, who was about to go look for Celine, also looked over with curiosity. For a moment, he was speechless. After a hesitation, he suggested tactfully, “Perhaps you should find an opportunity to remove it. Having that graffiti is… a bit lacking in majesty.”
Deroville smiled. He lightly touched the turtle on his face and raised an eyebrow triumphantly.
“Jealous? Celoia drew it for me.”
“He even wanted to draw one for Celine.”
Nolan looked at Deroville in silence, offering a perfectly insincere expression of envy. “Then Celine is truly fortunate to have a unique drawing.”
Deroville raised an eyebrow and added:
“By the way, when you find Celine, tell her this: I persuaded Celoia to take back that offer.”
“Because… I’m the only one allowed to have one.”