The citadel of Ruin stood beneath a blood-red sky, its jagged towers jutting into the clouds like black spears.  

Thunder rolled somewhere in the distance—not from a storm, but from the heartbeat of the realm itself.  

This was the dominion of the Bakian family, the Tenth Realm of Destruction.  

And within its throne hall, the air was thick with power… and annoyance.

Lord **Dalph Bakian**, Demon King of Ruin, sat upon his throne—a monument of obsidian and chained souls.  

His expression was that of a monarch who had endured centuries of war, betrayal, and paperwork.  

But none of that compared to the headache currently gnawing at him.

“Let me guess,” he rumbled, tapping one claw against the armrest. “Humans again?”

The kneeling officer swallowed hard. “Y-yes, my lord. The mortal kingdoms are once again gathering holy knights. They’re calling for—uh—another ‘righteous crusade.’”

Dalph groaned. “They’ve been calling for that since before I grew this beard. They never *start* the crusade; they just *practice shouting about it.*”

The officer chuckled nervously but wisely chose not to agree too loudly.  

Dalph slouched in his seat, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Let them scream at their clouds. At least it keeps them busy.”

He leaned back, the throne creaking under the weight of his presence.  

For a moment, silence ruled the hall—until his voice dropped into a growl.  

“Now. About something far more dangerous than the humans.”  

His crimson eyes glowed faintly. “Where is my grandson?”

The officer froze. His horns twitched. “A-ah… Young Master Jexy has not… been sighted recently.”

Dalph’s gaze sharpened. “Define *recently.*”

The officer gulped. “Approximately… five days, my lord.”

The Demon King’s hand met his forehead with a slow, heavy *thunk.*  

“Five days,” he muttered. “Last time he went missing for that long, I had to bail him out of a siren casino.”

He sighed, then raised his voice. “Freya Monar. Step forward.”

A shimmer of purple light coalesced before the throne, and a graceful figure knelt upon one knee.  

Silver hair, curling horns, and an aura of restrained exhaustion—**Freya Monar**, the personal maid of the most exasperating young demon in history.

“My lord,” she said softly. “You called for me?”

“I did,” Dalph replied. “Where is that troublemaker?”

Freya hesitated, lowering her gaze. “I… do not know, my lord. He left three days ago, saying something about ‘fresh air’ and ‘checking on market trends.’ He has not returned since.”

Dalph blinked once. Twice. “Market trends.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He sighed again, dragging a hand down his face. “That boy’s idea of market research is drinking his way across the continent.”

Freya bit her lip to suppress a smile. “It is… one of his more consistent habits.”

The great Demon King leaned back and stared up at the ceiling as if searching for divine patience. “He’ll come back. He always does. Probably dragging half a tavern with him.”

He fell silent, his gaze softening. Despite his outward irritation, there was a shadow of tenderness in his eyes.  

Few in the realm knew that the terrifying Lord of Ruin had once held a crying infant in his arms—the son of his second-born.  

That child’s father, Dalph’s own son, had perished in the great war against the human kingdoms.  

And so, Dalph had raised the boy himself, vowing that the family’s legacy would not end in ashes.

He remembered that day on the battlefield—  

A thousand holy knights charging under banners of light.  

The heavens split open as divine fire rained down.  

He had felt the blade pierce the air behind him—  

And then, the world exploded.

A blinding surge of black flame erupted from his backline.  

His grandson—just a child then—stood trembling, eyes glowing like twin suns of ruin.  

The explosion that followed erased everything—enemy and landscape alike.  

Tens of thousands gone in a blink.  

Even the gods, watching from afar, had recoiled.

The world thought it was Dalph’s doing.  

But Dalph knew the truth.  

That terrifying wave of annihilation had not come from him.

It came from *the boy.*

And now, that same boy spent his days gambling, drinking, and spending more gold than entire cities owned.  

He’d gone from savior of the battlefield to accountant’s worst nightmare.

Still, Dalph smiled faintly, resting his chin on his fist. “Let him waste a few fortunes. The Bakian family can afford it. If we ever run short, I’ll just send a few raiding parties topside to ‘restructure’ human finances.”

Freya exhaled softly. “Understood, my lord.”

He waved her off with a sigh. “If you have time, find him. Check which tavern he’s hiding in, and make sure he hasn’t fallen in love with another succubus bartender.”

Freya bowed gracefully. “Yes, my lord. Though if he has… shall I remind him of his debts?”

Dalph smirked. “No. Just make sure she’s at least prettier than the last one.”

The silver-haired maid hid a smile behind her hand. “As you wish.”

As she disappeared in a shimmer of magic, Dalph Bakian leaned back on his throne, eyes half-closing.  

The mighty ruler of the Tenth Realm—slayer of heroes, crusher of armies—sighed like a tired grandfather.

“Maybe he’ll surprise me one day,” he muttered.

Then, after a pause, he added quietly, “But knowing him… that surprise will probably explode.”