The night in Solneva was lively as always.  

Music, laughter, and the scent of sin drifted through the crimson-lit streets.  

Inside the *Succubus Kiss*, Jexy Bakian was halfway through his third bottle of aged flame whiskey,  

a small crowd of succubi around him,  

their laughter blending with the clinking of glasses.  

He leaned lazily against the seat,  

clearly in his element.  

If paradise existed in the Demon Realm,  

it would probably look like this—dim lights, good liquor, and no responsibilities.  

That was when one of the succubi, her eyes glowing faintly from a telepathic relay, froze mid-laugh.  

She turned toward him hesitantly.  

“Um… Lord Jexy? I just got word—  

your guild… might be under attack.”  

Jexy blinked, poured himself another drink.  

“Attack? You mean *Chalice of Emberlight*?”  

She nodded. “Yes… they say a guild called *Devourer’s Soul* showed up.”  

He chuckled softly.  

“So what? They’ve got plenty of capable fighters.  

They’ll handle it.”  

And truthfully, he believed that.  

Even without his money, his guildmates were no pushovers—  

hard-working demons forged in hardship,  

trained under pressure, refined by survival.  

He raised his glass again, muttering,  

“They’ll be fine. Probably already scared the idiots off.”  

But then, the same succubus stiffened again.  

Her eyes widened in alarm.  

“Lord Jexy… the new report says the battle isn’t going well.  

They— they said your guildmaster is… about to be killed.”  

The sound of glass shattering broke through the music.  

Jexy’s drink slipped from his fingers, spilling across the table.  

He stared at her.  

“What did you just say?”  

Her voice trembled. “Th-they said… she’s—”  

Jexy’s chair screeched against the floor as he stood.  

For the first time that night, his smile vanished completely.  

A dark heat pulsed beneath his skin—  

a warning sign to anyone who knew what he truly was.  

“…You’re lying,” he said quietly, though his tone shook.  

But the unease had already set in.  

Without another word, he turned and strode out of the bar.  

Every step echoed like a heartbeat.  

The succubi watched him go,  

and the laughter in the *Succubus Kiss* faded into silence.  

When he reached the guild,  

the doors were shattered, walls scorched.  

The floor was littered with broken weapons and scorch marks.  

And at the center of it all—  

**Lyssara Veinflare**, half-kneeling,  

her armor torn, her body covered in blood.  

She looked up weakly, eyes unfocused,  

barely recognizing the figure standing in the doorway.  

Her lips moved faintly.  

“Y-you idiot… why’d you come back…  

You’ll just… make a mess again…”  

Then she collapsed forward.  

For a moment, Jexy stood there—silent.  

Then the air changed.  

The entire guild hall trembled as his magic flared.  

A torrent of power erupted like a volcano,  

black and crimson light swirling around him.  

From the rubble, Kagura M’Zern—the ogre guildmaster of *Devourer’s Soul*—  

turned to look.  

“Oh? Another one still standing?” he sneered.  

He spotted the sigil on Jexy’s coat.  

“An unranked brat, huh? Heh… what are you gonna do, boy?”  

Jexy raised his head.  

His golden eyes gleamed like twin suns of fury.  

“What did you do to her?”  

Kagura snorted. “What do you think?  

Now, kill him!”  

The moment his words fell,  

the world went dark.  

Jexy exhaled once.  

He didn’t even lift his hands.  

Magic simply *answered* his will.  

Dozens—no, hundreds—of high-tier incantations bloomed into being.  

Forbidden sigils spun around him like a storm.  

In the blink of an eye,  

the air turned into a sea of annihilation.  

Where *Devourer’s Soul* had stood,  

nothing remained but dust and silence.  

Those who weren’t instantly vaporized screamed once—  

and vanished.  

Kagura stared in disbelief,  

his massive frame trembling,  

sweat pouring down his gray skin.  

“This… what kind of monster—”  

Jexy took a step forward.  

With each step, the floor cracked,  

and another wave of magic detonated outward.  

He wasn’t even looking at his targets anymore—  

his rage simply *unmade* them.  

Kagura’s legs gave out.  

He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.  

Around him, his men were disintegrating one after another,  

turning into drifting gray ash.  

“This isn’t a fight,” he gasped,  

voice breaking.  

“This is—”  

**A massacre.**

Far away, in the Demon King’s throne hall,  

a crystal orb flickered to life, showing the same scene.  

Dawf Bakian rose from his seat,  

eyes wide at the sight of his grandson’s unleashed power.  

Then he laughed—loud, thunderous, proud.  

“Did you see that?! Did you SEE that?!  

That’s the Bakian bloodline! Power unmatched, pride unshaken!”  

His advisors exchanged nervous glances,  

each silently agreeing on one thing:  

The “Spendthrift Heir” wasn’t just a nuisance anymore.  

He was a catastrophe in waiting.