Victory was sweet.  

For the first time in years, the Chalice of Emberlight wasn’t being laughed at—it was being *talked about.*

Rumors spread through the Demon Realm like wildfire.  

An F-rank guild had annihilated its opponent, the Bloodnight Coven, in less than five minutes.  

The name “Chalice of Emberlight” was suddenly on everyone’s tongue.  

Recruiters called it a miracle.  

Skeptics called it luck.  

And most demons simply called it *ridiculous.*

A week later, the guild received an official notice from the Guild Authority:  

**Permission for Advancement Trial.**  

If they won again, they could ascend to E-rank.  

It was a dream every small guild chased—a step toward recognition.

But when the letter arrived, Lyssara didn’t celebrate.  

She stared at it for a long time, fingers drumming softly against her desk.  

Finally, she sighed.

“No.”

Velna nearly dropped her drink. “No? You’re refusing?! After we just wiped the floor with seventy blood freaks?!”

Lyssara nodded. “That battle wasn’t won by our skill, Velna. It was bought by Jexy’s coin purse. If we climb now, we’ll just fall harder next time.”

Rhazel crossed his arms. “You’re saying we stay where we are?”

“I’m saying,” Lyssara said quietly, “we survive. One more year. No deaths. No debts. That’s progress enough.”

For once, no one argued.  

Even Velna, usually the loudest, just nodded slowly.  

They all knew she was right.  

They hadn’t *won* that fight. They’d just survived it with style.

Jexy, of course, didn’t care about politics.  

When he heard Lyssara was stressing over recruitment, he nearly laughed.

“That’s it? She’s worried about new members? Please, that’s easy.”

He kicked his chair back, calling to Freya, who was sorting invoices.  

“Freya, let’s fix this.”

“How, my lord?”

“Simple. We make the place irresistible.”

He wasn’t exaggerating.  

Within days, contractors flooded the guild grounds again.  

The plot of land behind the guild—recently purchased by Jexy “for aesthetic purposes”—was being turned into a *member’s paradise.*

Luxury dormitories, each with personal mana-stabilizing chambers.  

A training arena with self-repairing floors.  

A *magic-powered hot spring* that glowed blue at night.  

Even a bar that served imported human liquor, “for cultural exchange,” as Jexy called it.

When Velna heard about the plans, she almost spat out her drink.  

“He’s building a *spa?* This is a guild, not a vacation resort!”

Rhazel just shrugged. “I’m not complaining. The beds are softer than my conscience.”

Velna immediately ran to tell Lyssara.  

At first, the guildmaster buried her face in her hands, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer for patience.  

But when she went outside and saw the shimmering marble baths and renovated training fields, even she couldn’t help but admit it looked… impressive.

“Fine,” she said at last, crossing her arms. “If he wants to turn this place into a mansion, let’s at least use it.”

They opened the gates for *recruitment tours.*  

Lyssara made it clear: the guild welcomed newcomers, but only those with proven combat ability would be accepted.  

Velna led the tours, Rhazel supervised sparring tests, and Jexy… lounged on a balcony, watching with a drink in hand.

Word spread fast.  

“Did you hear? The Chalice of Emberlight has a mana hot spring!”  

“They serve real food—meat, not fungus!”  

“They pay for healing potions upfront!”  

“What kind of F-rank guild *has* servants?!”

Within two weeks, the front gate looked like a festival.  

Applicants lined up down the street.  

By the end of the month, over fifty new members were officially accepted.  

For the first time in its history, the Chalice had real numbers—and real talent.

Far away, in the Demon King’s citadel, another story was unfolding.

Dalph Bakian sat on his throne, watching a glowing scrying mirror as his trusted adviser knelt before him.

“So,” Dalph said, “the guild my grandson joined… how fares it now?”

The adviser smiled carefully. “Remarkably well, my lord. Their name is spreading. They’ve doubled in size.”

Dalph leaned back, satisfied. “Excellent. My boy’s finally proving himself.”

He paused, then gestured toward another kneeling figure—one of his Ten Advisors, known as the Whispering Strategist.  

“You. Contact the Mission Consortium. Make sure that guild receives priority assignments. I want them challenged—but rewarded.”

The strategist bowed. “As you command.”

Thus, quietly and efficiently, the Demon King’s influence reached the mission boards of every city in the lower realm.  

Soon after, the Chalice of Emberlight began receiving missions that were suspiciously generous—higher pay, better rewards, even direct referrals from noble families.

Lyssara noticed the pattern immediately.  

“This is… unusual,” she murmured, scanning the newest listings.  

“High pay, rare materials, but still within our range.”

Rhazel grinned. “Who cares? As long as it pays.”

“Exactly!” Velna chimed in. “For once, luck’s on our side.”

But luck had nothing to do with it.  

Between one lazy noble’s bottomless wallet and one overly proud Demon King’s silent meddling, the Chalice of Emberlight was accidentally turning into a powerhouse.

By the end of the season, the once-forgotten F-rank guild had transformed.  

New members filled the halls.  

The smell of good food wafted from the kitchen.  

The training yard echoed with sparring laughter.  

And in the center of it all sat Jexy Bakian—sprawled in a chair, sipping wine like the world’s most unbothered aristocrat.

Freya approached quietly. “The guild has grown considerably, my lord.”

He smiled lazily. “Of course it has. I told you—money solves everything.”

“Even reputation?”

“Especially reputation.”

She tilted her head. “And when they learn who you truly are?”

Jexy smirked, swirling his drink. “Then they’ll realize they were working for royalty all along.”

He looked out the window, where the guild banner fluttered proudly against the crimson sky.  

The laughter of his guildmates drifted through the air—warm, loud, alive.

A small, satisfied grin tugged at his lips.

“Not bad,” he murmured. “For an accident.”

Back in the Demon King’s citadel, Dalph Bakian sneezed again.  

He rubbed his nose, frowning. “Strange. I feel like my grandson’s doing something dangerous… or expensive.”

His steward coughed politely. “Likely both, my lord.”

The Demon King smiled faintly.  

“Good. It runs in the family.”