Half a year had passed since the last war, and the world had gone disturbingly quiet.  

Humans stayed behind their walls, demons stayed in their fortresses, and even the gods—those self-proclaimed cosmic landlords—had gone eerily silent, preparing their next “divine mistake.”  

But inside the Demon Realm, peace was somehow worse than war.  

Because every noble, every clan, every mother with a marriage-age daughter now had **one** shared goal:  

to marry their child into the **Bakian family**.  

And the target was, of course—  

Jexy Bakian, the most reluctant celebrity in history.

In the heart of Emberhold City, the headquarters of the Chalice of Emberlight had become both fortress and prison.  

Its proud heir sat slouched on his couch, one hand holding a wine glass, the other covering his face.  

“Six months,” Jexy groaned. “Six months of dodging women. I used to dodge bills, not brides.”  

Freya Monar smirked, flipping through a stack of letters. “You’re quite popular, my lord. I’ve received seventeen proposals today. The most recent one came with a dowry list that could fund a small war.”  

He nearly spat out his drink. “Seventeen?! I can’t even drink that much wine!”  

“Perhaps that’s the problem,” she teased. “You should drink faster.”  

Across the room, laughter exploded.  

Rhazel, the dragon warrior, slammed the table. “HA! The great ‘Spoiled Heir’—defeated by marriage!”  

Velna added with a grin, “Maybe if he accepts one, the line outside will finally shrink.”  

Jexy glared at them all. “You’re supposed to be my guild, not my comedy audience.”  

“Technically,” Freya replied, “we’re both.”  

Outside, banners bearing the Bakian crest fluttered over the streets.  

Dozens of carriages lined up daily, each carrying yet another hopeful bride.  

Rumors said that some families even camped outside the city walls, waiting for him to “accidentally fall in love.”  

He hadn’t stepped outside in weeks.  

Even the bartenders missed him.

“Remember when I was the fun drunk everyone loved?” Jexy complained. “Now I’m the drunk everyone wants to marry!”  

Freya raised an eyebrow. “Progress?”  

“Regression!”  

That afternoon, as he hid behind stacks of wine barrels, the ground trembled.  

A deep, booming laugh echoed through the castle halls.  

“HOHOHO! WHERE’S MY GRANDSON?!”  

Jexy froze.  

“…Oh no.”  

Moments later, the great Demon King himself entered the hall—**Lord Dalph Bakian**, the black-flamed monarch of the Tenth Throne.  

His laughter shook the ceiling beams.  

“Grandpa, what the hell are you doing here?” Jexy groaned.  

“I heard you’re getting married!” Dalph announced proudly.  

“I came to bless the lucky girl myself!”  

Jexy blinked. “WHAT? Who told you that?!”  

“Everyone,” Dalph said cheerfully. “It’s all over the realm! Half the nobles are fighting for invitations to your nonexistent wedding!”  

Jexy dropped his head into his hands. “I hate this family’s PR department.”  

But Dalph wasn’t done. He leaned closer, grin wide enough to split mountains.  

“Though personally, I think you’re looking in the wrong direction, boy.”  

Jexy groaned. “Oh great, here it comes. Who this time? Another duke’s daughter? A banshee princess? A volcano?”  

His grandfather laughed harder. “No, no! I’m talking about that fiery one already beside you.”  

Jexy blinked. “…What fiery one?”  

“The one who burned half her life to keep you alive,” Dalph said, eyes gleaming.  

“That girl—**Lyssara Veinflare**. Head of your little guild. That’s the one you should marry!”  

Jexy’s brain stopped. “Wait—WHAT?! She did *what*?”  

“She used the *Everburning Flame*. Almost killed herself. All for you.”  

Dalph patted his shoulder like this was an award ceremony. “A woman like that doesn’t come twice in a lifetime!”  

Jexy turned slowly toward the hall.  

There, by the mission board, stood Lyssara herself—armored, busy, focused as always, signing guild reports.  

As if summoned by fate (or misfortune), she looked up—right into their direction.  

“Why is she coming over here?” Jexy hissed. “Don’t let her come over here!”  

Too late.  

Lyssara marched over, expression calm but eyes sharp. “Lord Bakian. Jexy. You seem… to be talking about me?”  

Jexy immediately looked away. “Nope. Nothing important. Definitely not you. Zero. Nada.”  

Dalph grinned wider. “Actually—yes, exactly you!”  

“Grandpa!”  

The old demon ignored him and crossed his arms grandly.  

“Lyssara Veinflare of the Veinflare line!” he declared, voice booming through the entire guild hall.  

“Would you—be interested in marrying my grandson?”  

Silence.  

The air froze.  

Every guild member stopped breathing.  

Freya’s wine glass slipped from her hand and shattered on the floor.  

Rhazel’s jaw hit the table.  

Even the castle torches seemed to flicker out of sheer anticipation.  

Lyssara stood there, utterly still.  

“…What?”  

Jexy buried his face in both hands.  

“Grandpa, I swear to the Abyss, I’m going to exile myself to another dimension.”  

“Too late, boy!” Dalph laughed, slapping him on the back so hard the couch exploded in dust.  

“The whole guild heard it now!”  

Velna leaned toward Freya, whispering with a grin, “Oh, this is *way* better than any war.”  

And as Jexy sat there, surrounded by laughter, embarrassment, and the sound of his own dying dignity, one truth became clear—  

He had survived gods, wars, and the void itself.  

But no one could survive **a demon king’s matchmaking**.