For the next several days, chaos had a schedule—and her name was Freya Monar.

The silver-haired maid had become a one-woman logistical army, her every step trailed by merchants, couriers, and terrified suppliers.  

Each morning she materialized in the guild hall with armfuls of enchanted scrolls, arcane crystals, and spell-forged trinkets.  

By evening, she’d vanish again into the marketplace to refill what she’d just delivered.

Rhazel finally asked, “Does he even know what half this stuff does?”

Freya smiled sweetly. “No. He just said, ‘Buy everything shiny.’”

“Figures,” Velna muttered. “Our guild’s turning into a fireworks warehouse.”

But Freya wasn’t just buying. She was reporting.

Far away in the citadel of Ruin, **Lord Dalph Bakian** sat on his throne, a crystal screen floating before him.  

When he heard Freya’s voice echo through the spell conduit, his eyes narrowed in concern.

“You’re saying he’s… stocking up for the Guild War?”

“Yes, my lord,” Freya replied. “He’s been unusually active. Buying armaments, enchantments, and enough mana fuel to light up half of Vahraxis.”

Dalph straightened slightly, the corners of his mouth lifting.  

“So the little fool’s finally awakened his fighting spirit!”

He rose from his throne with renewed vigor, his voice booming across the hall.  

“Prepare the armories! Send him my reserves! Every last high-tier relic he can carry!”

Freya blinked. “My lord, he already—”

“No hesitation!” Dalph declared proudly. “If my grandson wishes to conquer the battlefield, then let him carry the wrath of the Bakian name!”

And with that, the Demon King himself began diverting his personal stockpile—  

ancient artifacts sealed for centuries, weapons that could level fortresses, scrolls that even generals weren’t allowed to touch.  

All quietly transferred into Freya’s care.

The maid sighed as yet another cart of doomsday-class artifacts arrived.  

*If he doesn’t use these, I’m going to need a second dimension to store them.*

Meanwhile, Jexy had absolutely no clue about the growing diplomatic incident his shopping spree had caused.  

He lounged in the guild’s courtyard, lazily tossing a gold coin in the air.

He wasn’t preparing for war.  

He was *shopping for entertainment.*

A few weeks later, the long-dreaded day arrived—the **Demon Realm Guild Survival Tournament**.  

Every guild that still had a functioning door was forced to participate.

The Chalice of Emberlight had been drawn against another F-rank guild: **The Bloodnight Coven**, seventy members strong, known for their size and tendency to solve problems by throwing bodies at them.

It was considered a fair match.  

Which, in the Demon Realm, meant everyone expected both sides to die horribly.

In the throne hall of Ruin, Dalph Bakian leaned forward on his seat, eyes burning with excitement.  

He’d ordered the court mages to project the battle directly onto the walls.  

“Finally,” he muttered, “I’ll see my grandson unleash his true power.”

His advisors whispered among themselves, too afraid to interrupt their lord’s glowing anticipation.

The battleground: **The Blood Wastes**—a scarlet desert of scorched stone and black sand.  

Nothing grew there, nothing lived there.  

It was perfect for demons to kill each other without paperwork.

On one side, seventy Bloodnight warriors, roaring with bloodlust.  

On the other, fewer than twenty members of the Chalice of Emberlight, standing in loose formation, their hands full of suspiciously expensive-looking artifacts.

Jexy walked to the rear line, dragging something behind him.

A chair.

He set it down, brushed off imaginary dust, and sat.

“You guys got this,” he said, reclining comfortably. “I’ll be moral support.”

Lyssara turned toward him, eyes twitching. “You’re literally not allowed to *not* participate!”

“I’m participating emotionally.”

Far away, in the Demon King’s fortress, Dalph squinted at the projection.  

His grandson, alone, seated like royalty amid his troops.

The Demon King smiled proudly.  

“Look at that posture,” he said, misty-eyed. “Even surrounded by common guilds, he keeps his noble composure.  

Exactly like me in my youth!”

The court mages exchanged wary looks but wisely kept silent.

Back on the field, the Bloodnight guild launched their opening assault.  

Forty demons surged forward, hurling waves of flame and cursed lightning.  

The ground cracked, the air screamed.

Lyssara raised her staff. “**Ember Shield!**”

A massive dome of glowing flame burst up, enveloping her team in a fiery barrier.  

The Bloodnight spells slammed against it, shaking the earth—but the shield held.

“Brace for impact!” she shouted.

That was when Velna smirked, pulling something from her belt.  

“Impact? Nah. We’ve got shortcuts.”

She unfurled one of Jexy’s scrolls—an ornate crimson talisman that pulsed like a heartbeat.

The moment she spoke the first syllable, the scroll detonated with divine fury.  

A blinding explosion swept across the wasteland, erasing the front line of Bloodnight demons before they could even scream.

Rhazel roared, charging in with one of the newly forged war axes Jexy had dumped on him.  

The axe howled as it cut through air—  

and through three enemies at once.

Tyria’s arrows left trails of blue fire, each shot igniting with an enchantment worth more than her yearly pay.  

Zerik, the “lazy scholar,” activated an orb so powerful it ripped the clouds apart.

The battlefield turned into a kaleidoscope of catastrophic light.

By the time the dust settled, half the Bloodnight guild lay unconscious, the other half too horrified to move.

“...Keep going,” Lyssara said coldly.

The Chalice of Emberlight advanced, hurling relic after relic, each one worth a small fortress.  

They didn’t fight so much as *spend aggressively.*

Within minutes, the Bloodnight guild was annihilated—  

their banner reduced to ash, their name struck from the registry.

Jexy stood up, stretched, and snapped his fingers.  

“Done already? Great work, everyone.”

He turned to Freya, who was standing behind him with perfect posture.  

“Let’s go. I’m bored.”

She nodded, unfolding another chair to carry his—because nobles don’t clean up their own seating.

Together, they strolled calmly off the field while the surviving members of the Chalice cheered.

In the Demon King’s hall, silence reigned.

Dalph leaned closer to the projection, eyes narrowing.  

He’d expected carnage. Glory. Heroism.  

Instead, he saw his grandson sitting through the entire match like he was watching a play.

For a brief moment, doubt crept in.

“…Wait,” he muttered. “Did… did he actually *not* move?”

His attendants said nothing.

He squinted harder, watching Jexy’s lazy exit.  

Then, slowly, a proud grin returned to his face.

“Of course he didn’t,” he said triumphantly. “He didn’t *need* to.”

He threw back his head and laughed, the sound shaking the pillars of the throne hall.

“That’s my bloodline—victory without effort!  

The others fight for survival, but my heir wins sitting down!”

The advisors nodded quickly, pretending to share his enthusiasm.

But deep down, even Dalph Bakian couldn’t shake one uneasy thought:  

*Something about this feels… suspiciously too easy.*

Meanwhile, miles away, Jexy was already back in Solneva, leaning against a wine counter and smiling faintly.

“See?” he told Freya. “Told you money solves everything.”

Freya adjusted her gloves, expression perfectly neutral.  

“Yes, my lord. Though I suspect your grandfather might soon send… more support.”

Jexy sighed. “Then I’ll need to spend faster.”

He raised his glass toward the sunset, eyes gleaming with mischief.  

“To the fine art,” he declared, “of winning without doing anything.”

And somewhere far away, the Demon King sneezed—  

the kind of sneeze reserved only for grandfathers who have no idea what their grandchildren are actually doing.