Days after the great war,  

the Blood Rift battlefield finally fell silent.  

And among the countless banners that returned home,  

none shone brighter—or more absurdly—than the banner of the F-rank guild **Chalice of Emberlight**.

They had become the talk of the realm—  

a guild once mocked as bottom-tier, now hailed as the “storm of gold.”  

Every report, every rumor said the same thing:  

wherever they went, victory followed—and so did explosions.

At the center of that storm sat their benefactor, **Jexy Bakian**,  

who, aside from that single moment of retaliation when ambushed,  

never lifted a finger again.

That one “legendary” strike?  

Not strategy. Not valor.  

It was panic—pure and simple.  

Because at that very moment,  

a holy spell was flying dangerously close  

to his thousand-year-old vintage *Flame Whiskey.*

His demonic instincts sensed danger,  

but his mind only thought:  

*If that bottle breaks, I swear I’ll kill someone.*

So he waved his hand—  

and annihilated an entire squad by accident.  

Later, Freya only sighed.  

“He didn’t save himself, my lord,” she murmured. “He saved his drink.”  

But that, of course, was the real Jexy Bakian:  

the man who would rather waste fortunes than lift a sword.

“Why fight,” he always said, “when you can pay someone else to do it?”

Unfortunately—or fortunately—  

his one flashy moment had sent his grandfather, **Dalph Bakian**,  

into a spiral of delusion and pride.

Inside the Demon King’s palace,  

Dalph replayed the battle footage a hundred times,  

eyes gleaming with paternal glory.

“Look at that precision! That timing!” he shouted to his advisors.  

“He was holding back this whole time! A genius strategist! A born commander!”  

The advisors, fearing for their jobs,  

nodded until their necks nearly snapped.  

“Indeed, Your Majesty! The young master hides his true power!”  

“Such wisdom! Such restraint!”  

And so, the myth of the “Tactician Heir of Bakian” was born—  

crafted entirely by a grandfather’s imagination.

The war itself ended faster than anyone expected.  

Because the high-tier front collapsed too soon,  

the S-rank **Crimson Devils** were able to reinforce the mid-tier battlefields,  

and what followed was nothing short of a massacre.

Within three days,  

the Human Alliance’s defense line was in ruins.  

Eventually, the Seven Human Kingdoms  

and the Ten Demon Lords reached a peace accord.  

“Peace,” of course, meaning surrender.  

The humans ceded vast borderlands to the Demon Realm as “compensation.”

The war was over.  

The demons had won.  

Rumors of a Bakian heir joining the war spread like wildfire.  

Every guild whispered the same question—  

*which unit had the Bakian bloodline among them?*

Most assumed it was the Crimson Devils.  

Some said he was secretly commanding the army from the shadows.  

No one imagined the truth—  

that the Demon Realm’s most powerful heir  

had spent the entire war sitting on a chair, drinking whiskey,  

and watching the sky burn.  

When the dust settled,  

the Guild Authority announced the results:  

**Chalice of Emberlight – promoted from F-rank to B-rank.**

It caused an uproar.  

They had shattered expectations; they deserved A-rank, even S.  

But no—by personal decree of the Demon King Dalph Bakian himself,  

their rank would only rise “modestly.”  

“Too fast an ascent ruins a young man’s motivation,” he declared gravely.  

“He must want to earn his glory slowly.”  

So it was decided:  

only a small promotion—  

but the *rewards* were massive.  

Funding, artifacts, mana veins, rare contracts—  

enough resources to rival entire duchies.  

Overnight, the Chalice of Emberlight became the most sought-after guild in the Demon Realm.  

Thousands lined up to join,  

hoping to experience “heroic victory through excessive spending.”

A few days later, the guild hall was chaos.  

Lyssara and Velna buried under piles of applications,  

interviewing hundreds of would-be recruits.

“Three thousand forms,” Velna groaned. “We can only take thirty!”  

Lyssara rubbed her temples. “I swear, I’ll kill him if he doesn’t show up to help.”  

But the guild’s precious benefactor was far, far away—  

in Solneva’s most expensive bar,  

**Succubus Kiss**.  

There, Jexy lounged on a velvet sofa,  

a dozen alluring succubi gathered around him,  

filling his glass, laughing at his jokes.  

He raised his drink, smiling lazily.  

“Ah… nothing like a good postwar celebration.”  

Freya, standing behind him, sighed.  

“My lord, your guildmates are overwhelmed with work.”

“They’re learning management,” he said cheerfully.  

“I’m contributing too, you know.”

Freya arched an eyebrow. “By drinking?”

“By marketing.” He gestured around.  

“Think about it. When word spreads that I’m here,  

every demon will want to join *my* guild.  

Brand image, Freya. That’s leadership.”  

Freya exhaled slowly and refilled his glass without a word.

Meanwhile, back in the Demon King’s hall,  

Dalph Bakian read the new promotion list with quiet pride.  

“B-rank,” he murmured, smiling.  

“Just as I expected. My grandson—humble, disciplined, noble.”  

His advisors bowed in unison.  

“The young master is truly his grandfather’s successor!”  

“Long live the Bakian bloodline!”  

Applause filled the chamber once more.  

And somewhere far away,  

that very same “humble, disciplined” grandson  

clinked glasses with ten giggling succubi,  

toasting with a grin.  

“To peace,” he said,  

“and to the fine art of spending money wisely.”