As Charles was lost in thought, someone suddenly poked their head out from the crowd in the distance and shouted, "Isn’t that Lord Charles? It’s him, right? My lord, the count—please, give us an interview!"

They called out, trying to push their way over, but several Battle nuns quickly moved forward, blocking them and keeping order.

Charles looked a little surprised and turned to Sephera. "Who are these people?"

Sephera quickly replied, "Reporters. As soon as news of the fire spread, they rushed over."

Charles frowned. "Reporters? How’d they get here so fast?"

Sephera shrugged, looking helpless. "Well, Muse District is basically these reporters’ home turf. They all live around here, so the moment something big happens, they’re first on the scene."

He had to admit, that made sense.

Charles patted his head—so much had happened tonight that his mind was nearly fried; he’d even started to forget obvious details like that.

But as he watched the reporters, a bold idea suddenly sprang to mind.

Hmm, if I can pull this off, it might take a lot of the heat off of me...

"Let’s go," he said. "Tell the reporters the fire’s been put out, the crisis is over—they’re now free to go inside and investigate."

He straightened his clothes with a calm gesture. "And I’ll go give those reporters their much-anticipated interview!"

...

As soon as Charles delivered the good news that "the fire has been completely extinguished," the reporters, who had been wandering anxiously near the theater doors, surged inside like a flood. They spread out everywhere, searching for clues and scrambling for first-hand intel.

At the same time, those guards who still hadn’t found their masters finally summoned the courage to re-enter the theater, searching every room for their charges. Unsurprisingly, they discovered the naked bodies of their noble masters right where they’d last seen them.

The guards were stunned and lost, but the reporters pounced like vultures sniffing out carrion. At the sight of all those noble scions sprawled out in the nude, they erupted in shouts—ignoring protests and even violence from the guards as they feverishly snapped photos and scrawled notes for their stories.

The decadent lifestyles of hereditary nobles had always been their favorite topic—no doubt the next few days’ newspaper sales would break every record.

Naturally, the reporters were willing to take a beating if that’s what it took to get first-hand evidence.

Inside, as guards and journalists wrestled in a chaos of shouts and flying fists, Charles conducted himself outside—poised and elegant—giving interviews.

He explained smoothly that he’d visited the Grand Theater tonight with newly made noble friends to enjoy the arts. A few hours later, just as people were winding down, a deliberate arsonist set the place ablaze.

He described how he’d used magic to extinguish most of the fire, then faced off in a life-or-death battle against the night’s true criminal, a red, flying demon—ultimately bringing the chaos under control and preventing greater loss of life. As for those poor nobles slain by devils, he could only express his heartfelt sympathy.

On the subject of the rumored scandals between nobles and dancers, he insisted the stories were completely unfounded slander—he’d certainly never seen anything so depraved himself. He pleaded for people not to believe or spread such malicious rumors.

Of course, no matter what he said, it was anyone’s guess how many in the crowd actually believed him.

In the end, Charles stayed to be interviewed at length, answering every question the reporters threw until the sky began to lighten.

With so much attention focused on Charles, hardly anyone noticed as the Battle nuns silently slipped away, secretly escorting a number of girls—formerly members of the various dance troupes—off-site...

—

The next day.

The tragedy at the Cassalanter Grand Theater exploded onto the front page of every major newspaper, instantly stirring up citywide controversy. Nearly everyone agreed: this was the result of a depraved orgy by the hereditary nobility. Their demise was simply karma. Some even called for a thorough investigation—not just of those present, but of their entire families and backgrounds.

Behind all this, of course, were those happy to fan the flames. In a city dominated by multinational corporations, the local rich and powerful had long been seen as eyesores. The times were changing. It was high time the nobles gave up their power and let new actors onto the stage.

The city’s elite, naturally, refused to accept this. They furiously denied every slanderous guess and demanded the harshest punishment for rumormongers—determined to defend their honor and dignity.

Arguments raged, but this was just the beginning. The real bloodletting was yet to come.

Meanwhile, deep in Mithral District, in the Cassalanter family’s castle—

BANG—!

"Bastard!"

Ammalia Cassalanter hurled her wineglass so hard it shattered, her shriek shaking every roll of fat on her body.

She couldn’t understand it—decadent parties like this were old news to her. The plan should have been flawless. So while was it her night that went so catastrophically off the rails?

Was fate itself targeting her? Or did she have some subtle enemy working against her from the shadows?

She had no idea. What she did know, was that the spellcasting power she’d lusted after had utterly eluded her; her fortune had taken a beating. The other nobles now hated her, and even her contact with Regolas had been lost...

She’d lost. Utterly.

Furious and desperate, she wanted—needed—to lash out, to break something, get revenge. But there was no target. Only impotent rage.

At that moment, a voice suddenly whispered in her mind: "So you’re Ammalia Cassalanter? Regolas’s old partner?"

Ammalia’s head jerked up. "Who—who’s there?"

"Look behind you," the voice said. Ammalia spun around, and in the mirror she saw—not her own reflection, but a figure nearly three meters tall, skin blazing red, two horned brows curving upward from a chiseled demonic face. The devil lounged on her sofa, legs crossed, smiling at her.

She whipped her head back to check the actual sofa. Empty.

All she could do was turn back to the mirror, wary, facing the devil’s image. "And you are?"

"I’m Mephistopheles," said the towering devil with a sly grin. "Regolas has returned to his master. From now on, you’ll deal with me directly."

Ammalia’s eyebrow arched, and she sneered, "Of course—another one. Let me guess: you’re here to tell me Regolas’s promises don’t count, everything’s void, and we have to renegotiate from scratch?"

The devil’s eyes narrowed slightly. "What did Regolas promise you?"

Ammalia Cassalanter’s sneer deepened. "He didn’t even bother to tell you? Some handover. He promised me magic—real power! Enough arcane might that I could freeze this whole manor at a snap of my fingers!"

~~~

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