The maid had just reached for the door when Deamon's voice, soft and steady, called her back.
"Wait."
She froze, turning around, her hands clasped neatly in front of her apron.
"Yes, my lord?"
"Your name..."
"Its-its Sandra"'
He leaned back against the velvet armchair, expression warm but calculating.
"I hope I'm not troubling you, but could you tell me more about the palace's layout? I enjoy walking at night. Clears the mind."
Her eyes flickered, something shifting behind them.
"Layers...? I-I wouldn't know, my lord. I'm new here."
Deamon let out a light, disarming chuckle.
"Oh, how thoughtless of me. Of course you are. But you see..." He tilted his head slightly, his tone softening like a silk thread pulling taut. "I tend to wander before I sleep. The mind's an unruly thing when left restless."
The girl hesitated, fidgeting with her sleeves.
"Ah, I see... but I don't think the guards allow guests to roam the halls at night, my lord."
Deamon's smile never wavered.
"Hm?" he blinked innocently. "Is there something I should be concerned about?"
Her mouth twitched. The silence stretched thin.
"No, it's just... there are places we're told not to go. I don't know why. Honest."
Nyxtriel, lounging by the window, turned her sharp crimson gaze toward the maid.
"Father, should I force her to talk?"
Sandra paled instantly.
"W-what?"
Deamon raised a hand lazily, waving off the suggestion like swatting a fly.
"No, no. There's no need for violence, Nyxtriel." He turned back to the maid, the gentleness returning to his voice like a wolf adjusting its mask. "I believe you, Sandra."
The girl's shoulders dropped slightly, her relief so visible it was almost pitiful.
"You know," he continued smoothly, folding his hands together, "Sandra is a beautiful name. Fitting for someone so honest."
She blinked, confused by the shift in tone.
"T-thank you, my lord..."
"But," Deamon's eyes sharpened, the warmth in them cooling into something cold and unreadable, "I don't like half-truths. You've noticed something, haven't you? Something strange about this palace."
Sandra swallowed, her throat dry.
"I... only that the others— the staff, they're not normal. I thought it was just me, but sometimes they stand there too still. They don't even blink, not unless someone's watching. That's all I know, I swear."
Deamon leaned back, satisfied for now.
"I see."
Nyxtriel's gaze lingered on the trembling girl, but Deamon's mind was already moving past her. Something was clearly wrong with this place — the lifeless servants, the king's too-perfect hospitality, and the shadow of the Duke's name still hanging over everything. He needed more strength, more leverage.
And a test.
His eyes slid back to Sandra, curious now. He tapped his fingers along the chair's arm, calculating the risk, the reward.
"The king spoke of fusing Astra cores... But I haven't tested that theory."
Sandra stiffened, her voice a weak whisper.
"My lord...?"
Nyxtriel turned sharply.
"Father!" Her voice was sharp with concern. "If you test it now, what if something happens to you?"
Deamon's smile returned, slow and reassuring.
"I have you, don't I?" His words were soft, but his intent was unshakable.
Nyxtriel's eyes widened at that, her heart tightening, but she nodded.
Without another word, Deamon rose from the chair, closing the distance between himself and Sandra. Before she could react, his hand wrapped around her throat, lifting her easily off the floor. Her legs kicked weakly as he drew in her energy cold and bright, pure mortal life force and funneled it into his Astra core.
"Forgive me," he murmured, watching her eyes fade, "but you were useful for one thing, after all."
Deamon's grip tightened around Sandra's throat as the soft pulse of her life force trickled into his core. His senses, sharpened by his demonic inheritance, sifted through the energy like a hunter inspecting a kill.
His thoughts sharpened.
"Strange... the more I absorb, the more this feels different from normal aura."
The current of power was raw, wild — not the structured feel of an Astra core, but pure life essence. Human and unrefined.
Sandra coughed, tears streaking down her face as her fingers weakly clawed at his wrist.
"M-My lord... please... forgive me..."
But Deamon didn't spare her a glance. He continued, his focus locked on the faint traces of energy within her. He'd hoped for something useful — perhaps the spark of an undeveloped core — but the deeper he reached, the more disappointment settled in.
"Tch." His tongue clicked against his teeth. "Useless."
And still, he wasn't done. He absorbed enough to watch her skin pale, her youthful features wither and dull as her body aged years in minutes. Only when her frame sagged limp in his hand did he release her, tossing her onto the floor like an empty husk.
Her chest barely rose, her breath ragged and thin.
"Father," Nyxtriel's voice broke the silence. "Did it work? Do you feel different?"
Deamon flexed his fingers, inspecting the quiet strength simmering under his skin.
"Not much. No real gain. Barely two percent... her life force was weak. No Astra core at all."
Nyxtriel's eyes flickered.
"Should I lure in a soldier for you, then? Someone stronger. Maybe with a core."
A slow, sharp smile tugged at Deamon's mouth.
"Mmm. That's a fine idea."
Without waiting, Nyxtriel's form flickered, her blade-like presence vanishing from the room as she slipped into the palace halls on her quiet hunt.
Deamon, left standing above the broken maid, stared down at her as she gasped for breath. Her body was withered, her spirit nearly broken, but her voice still cracked through the air.
"Spare me... please..."
He tilted his head, thoughtful.
"Oh. Right — I almost forgot you were still alive." He crouched, studying her half-ruined face like one would inspect an insect pinned under glass. "But you'll be useful. I need someone for a few more tests. Be patient, Sandra."
Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her voice rasped, hoarse and broken.
"D-demon..."
"Oh"
For a moment, her words hung in the air, the old insult sharp and bitter.
But Deamon's smile only widened, calm and genuine.
"...A demon, huh?" He straightened, brushing the dust from his sleeves. "I used to hate hearing that." His voice dropped, soft and amused. "But now... I think it suits me. Thanks, Sandra."
Meanwhile inside the palace.
The soldier patrolling the dim corridor paused when a pale figure drifted into view, her white hair like strands of moonlight, her crimson eyes gleaming softly in the dark.
"Who's there?" his voice echoed down the hall,steady at first, until he saw her.
Nyxtriel stepped out from the shadow, her expression calm, her beauty disarming. The soldier's stance faltered slightly ,the sharp discipline of a trained man dimmed under the weight of her unnatural charm.
"My apologies, good soldier," she said sweetly. "I was wandering the manor when a maid, Sandra, warned me I shouldn't be out here. She said I wasn't allowed."
The soldier relaxed, shoulders lowering, though his gaze lingered.
"Well... she's right. Guests aren't usually allowed to roam freely. But if you've lost your way, I can escort you back to your chamber."
Nyxtriel's lips curled into the faintest smile.
"You'd do that for me? How kind."
The man cleared his throat, a little too fast.
"It's no trouble, Lady. This way."
They walked the length of the corridor, the soldier's steps stiff, his mind wandering toward the quiet fantasy of being near a woman so beautiful. When they reached the room, he hesitated.
"This is it, I believe. You're safe here now, Lady."
Nyxtriel tilted her head, voice soft and coaxing.
"Won't you step inside for a moment? I'm still a little scared... I'd feel much safer."
His heart thudded hard in his chest.
"...Inside?"
He hesitated. Too close. Too risky.
"I'm sorry, Lady. I can't. I'd lose my post for crossing the line."
He offered a stiff, polite smile and turned to walk away.
Nyxtriel's soft voice followed him.
"Pity."
Before the man could take another step, Nyxtriel's hand caught his arm with unnatural strength, effortlessly dragging him inside the chamber and hurling him across the room like a doll. He hit the floor hard, skidding against the cold stone.
Disoriented, he staggered up — and froze.
His eyes fell on Sandra, crumpled in the corner, her face twisted with age, her body withered and frail like she'd been starved for decades.
"What the hell...?" His hand went for his sword. "An enemy—!"
But Deamon moved first. With terrifying speed, he closed the distance, slamming the soldier's head into the stone floor with a brutal crack. The soldier barely had the strength to gasp as Deamon's hand gripped his chest.
"Apologies," Deamon whispered, almost mockingly, "I can't let you ruin my little experiment."
With one sharp pull, Deamon began draining the soldier's life force. A different sensation this time — stronger, richer. His instincts sharpened as the man's core pulsed against his grip.
A faint glow flickered around the soldier's chest.
Third star. A proper Astra core.
A thin, dark smile cut across Deamon's face.
"Finally. Someone worth the trouble."
The soldier's strength bled away, his skin paling, his limbs going limp as Deamon absorbed the core into his own. The rush of power washed through him — fierce and addictive — and for the first time, he felt the gap between his current strength and the next threshold narrow, just a little more.
He released the body with a quiet sigh as it slumped to the floor, lifeless.
Nyxtriel stood beside him, hands folded behind her back, her crimson gaze sharp.
"How do you feel, Father?"
Deamon flexed his fingers, feeling the pulse of borrowed strength settling into his bones.
"Better." His smile deepened, slow and satisfied. "Much better."
He glanced at the withered maid, barely alive, and the corpse on the floor.
"A little more of this, and I'll reach the next star in no time."