Chapter Thirty-Two: The Ministers of Darkness

Passionate Tavern.

This tavern, named for its supposed warmth, was nestled in the southwestern corner of the city of Hermetica. It wasn’t exactly a bustling district, but even as night deepened, many young people who loved lively songs and wild dancing lingered here—calling for a few girls, sipping drinks, crooning sultry ballads, swaying to heated dances, and then, intoxicated by the madness provoked by the alcohol, plunging into reckless entanglements with the girls, losing themselves in chaos.

But tonight was different.

The Passionate Tavern was anything but passionate; indeed, it was rather desolate.

It wasn’t for lack of patrons—tonight, the guests were not few. Dozens of couples nestled together, along with the seasoned hunters who stalked the night for prey and women engaged in certain unspeakable trades. While hundreds might be an exaggeration, at least a hundred souls filled the room.

Yet, among them, only three remained animate.

Mars was one of these three.

He was also the sole survivor—the only fortunate soul among a hundred still alive.

Though he himself was hardly aware of it.

And indeed, who could be expected to recognize their luck when all those they knew, all strangers alike, had died, and they themselves were forced to serve two murderous demons, facing death at any instant? Who could realize how rare it was to be the last one left alive?

No, perhaps it couldn’t be called luck.

His continued existence was more of a necessity.

After all… even the most wicked demons needed a bartender in a tavern.

It was a sad truth, but the fact remained: his meager life was preserved not for any other reason, but simply because… he was still marginally useful.

Terrified—terrified—

Crouched behind the bar, he carefully watched the two unwelcome guests sipping quietly at their table.

One of them made no attempt to conceal his appearance. Long, silver-gray hair cascaded over his shoulders, his face exquisitely beautiful like a figure in a painting, paired with striking, almost supernatural heterochromatic eyes. His attire, a pure black suit of refined elegance, lent him the air of a fantastical prince from a fairy tale emerging from the night. Everything about him radiated an unreal aura, every gesture imbued with a surreal beauty.

Even as a fellow man, confronted with such breathtaking allure, one could not muster even a hint of jealousy.

He was a perfect being.

No—perhaps not even a human.

At this thought, Mars recoiled as if shocked, withdrawing completely beneath the bar like a frightened rabbit, trembling, haunted by a memory too dreadful to be forgotten—

It was vivid in his mind.

“Too noisy.”

The man, beautiful beyond envy, paused at the tavern’s entrance, his elegant brows creased, then glanced at the man behind him—the same one now seated across from him at the table, or rather, demon. Cloaked in darkness, he radiated a chilling, ominous aura. His loose hood obscured his features, but his red eyes burned with a hatred for the world, as if they belonged to a denizen of the deepest nine hells.

Unexpectedly, there was no violence.

“Make them quiet.”

He spoke in a cold, mechanical monotone, uttering these ordinary words.

“Truly a cruel and ruthless decree,” the prince-like man replied, turning to his companion with a smile of ambiguous meaning, “But that’s exactly what I like about you—tell me, would you be interested in becoming my familiar, O black-haired, red-eyed Harbinger of Death?”

“If you have the confidence to stand alongside the Millennium Duke, I might consider it,” replied the so-called Harbinger of Death, his tone as calm and flat as still water. “But I don’t think highly of you, wizard. Your madness will be your ruin.”

“That’s the best joke I’ve heard all year,” the prince shrugged, betraying not the slightest anger. “But when the protagonist of the joke becomes me, it ceases to be funny—right, Harbinger?”

Despite naming his companion, he didn’t glance back.

He simply spread his arms—

Blackness, blackness, terrifying blackness, hopeless blackness, and… the blackness of death.

It was a feast for ravens, a feast for death.

No distinction of gender, no distinction of age; all were granted true equality—right before the end.

Mars watched it all, watched familiar and unfamiliar faces twisted in agony, watched vibrant lives lose all color, watched… this world suddenly rendered strange.

—Then.

Compelled to obedience, he went through his tasks like the walking dead, only later realizing what had happened, hiding behind the bar, awaiting imminent death.

But… death did not come as he expected.

Not then. Not yet.

The two figures stood calmly amid the piles of corpses, drinking and conversing, as if they had forgotten his existence, as if he were nothing more than a lucky ant overlooked beneath their feet.

He truly didn’t know whether to be glad or mournful.

Still, whatever the case, he had survived—for now.

Yet before he could breathe a sigh of relief, another twist occurred—

Someone arrived.

It wasn’t unusual; as the only tavern open all night in the area, the Passionate Tavern attracted guests at all hours. Yet… now was certainly the wrong time.

—They will die, they will be killed.

He instinctively sensed the fate awaiting the newcomer, yet his mood was eerily calm… or numb.

He had grown accustomed.

Accustomed to slaughter, to death; even the mercy in his heart was nearly gone.

But as he prepared to ignore the next doomed arrival, the visitor appeared at the tavern’s door—a little girl, seven or eight years old, with long, dark hair like night cascading down her back. Her eyes, black as ink, were filled with innocence; her delicate features and gothic black dress made her look like a fairy from a forest in a storybook.

He could not let her be.

The instincts of fatherhood or manhood forbade him from allowing indifference to take root, yet reason kept reminding him—he was but a server; what could he do against two beings so clearly not human? Should he just rush out and… die in vain?

His mind warred between emotion and logic, until—

His body acted on its own.

“No—don’t come in!” He rushed to block the girl’s path, making a desperate, futile attempt. “It’s very, very dangerous here—please, go!”

“Oh?” The girl tilted her head, her expression as adorable as a kitten, then flashed two little tiger teeth and gave him a sweet smile. “Thank you, big brother, but I’m not afraid.”

Not… afraid?

He opened his eyes a little wider—only a little, not from lack of surprise, but because… he could do no more.

After all…

He was already dead.

Dead beyond hope, he could not hear the girl’s next words.

“Those who should be afraid… are them.”

The little girl smiled innocently, letting crimson blood splash across her dress.

She dipped a finger in the still-warm blood on her cheek, maintaining her childlike innocence. Slowly, gently, she brought her fingertip to her lips, licking the viscous blood as if it were candy, then looked at the two remaining figures in the tavern: “Don’t you agree?”

“Lady Pandora.”

“You’ve finally arrived.”

The two, both members of the Dark Nobility, rose together, not without reverence for the girl before them.

—Pandora.

No title, no name—or rather, Pandora was both her title and her name.

Though she appeared as a little girl, her essence was that of a true monster, so terrifying that even the Dark Nobility trembled before her. Among the entire Cult of Chaos and its hundreds of Nobles, only eight could stand as her equals, and those above her could be counted on one hand—only three, the supreme triarchs at the very apex of the cult, unfathomable as the deepest abyss.

The Duke of Piercing, the Millennium Duke, and… the Demon Duke.

Beneath these three, only the Nine Nobles, the foremost among the Dark Nobility.

Pandora was one of them.

“I am very disappointed." This great figure, one of the Nine Nobles of the Cult of Chaos, now wore her emotions openly, like a child who had lost her favorite toy. “Alfred, you’ve disappointed me—Amy Ulysses escaped—he’s alive, alive and well, full of vigor.”

“That’s impossible.” The dark wizard raised an eyebrow, repeating, “He couldn’t possibly have escaped then.”

“Ulysses must die.” Ignoring the confusion and puzzlement of the prince-like man, the little girl’s face suddenly showed keen interest. “Besides, I’m quite intrigued by Amy Ulysses—he might be worthy of being the vessel for ‘Hope.’”

She paused, then issued another command, one diametrically opposed to the previous fate.

“I want him.”

“If that is your will,” the Harbinger of Death bowed slightly, “I shall fulfill it for you.”

“Thank you.” Pandora smiled as if she had just received a new toy, twirled her dress, and her smile faded. “But before that, we have other business to attend to.”

“What do you mean?” Alfred looked at the highly ranked girl.

“Order is but a fleeting illusion; only chaos endures forever.” The little girl’s face radiated a sacred glow, her black dress making her seem like a black lily blooming in purgatory. “There are more meaningful things for us to do—such as making Hermetica…”

A brief pause.

“—become history.”