Chapter 571: Last Night
The North of the Underworld was a region that breathed like an open wound. The territory’s name was already a feared whisper: Last Night. There, the infernal flames did not illuminate like the rest of Hell; the sky was eternally dark, starless, only a blanket of pitch cut by occasional lightning that exploded within the crater itself.
The city grew around what everyone simply called The Mouth—the gigantic crater that gave access to the Abyss, the forbidden border that even the Demon Kings treated with caution. From it rose a cold wind, permeated with a dry, metallic smell, and those who approached could hear murmurs, distorted voices that seemed to try to persuade any living being to jump in.
But what kept Last Night alive was not just fear of the Abyss, but the riches it offered. On the crater walls, in the galleries that stretched around it, demons mined Void Ore—solid fragments of an energy that shouldn’t exist, matter plucked from absolute nothingness. Black as liquid obsidian and shimmering with silvery-gray reflections, each sliver of this ore could fuel forges, weapons, or enchantments capable of rivaling even divine treasures.
Last Night was a city of iron and stone, built in rings around the crater. The constant sound of hammers striking ore and chains dragging carts echoed through every street. Demons of all castes labored, some volunteers, some condemned. The taverns never closed, for everyone knew the next shift began before their throats had even finished the last mug of drink.
At the heart of the city stood the Keep of Countess Ingrid Asmoday, brutal ruler of the region. A feared demon, as feared as she was irresponsible.
And it was because of her that Aveline, her chief assistant, was living a private hell.
Aveline was thirty-six years old—a young age for a demon of medium blood—but she already bore the dark red circles of centuries under her dark eyes. Her black hair was always tied in a messy bun, the nib of her enchanted pen never stopped scratching parchment, and the small horns on her forehead were worn from banging against doors and walls in fits of rage.
That morning—if Last Night had mornings—she walked through the hallways with a stack of reports in her hands, growling curses.
“For heaven’s sake, that brute did it again!” she yelled, kicking the door of a records room. “Ingrid dove into the Abyss like it was a Sunday stroll! And who’s to get screwed? Me! I’m the one who has to redo the entire week’s schedule, rearrange the mining shifts, handle the export contracts!”
She threw the parchments onto the table, nearly knocking over the inkwell. Another group of demonic scribes and accountants retreated silently, already accustomed to the hurricane that was the assistant’s routine.
“I should be in a tavern right now!” she continued furiously, twirling her quill in the air. “Meeting rich, pompous demons with large wings and polished horns! A night of wine, music, and perhaps a little… physical relaxation!”
She sighed, muttering under her breath:
“But no… never. I never have time. Not for dating, not for drinking, not for sleeping… because that idiot thinks it’s cool to disappear in the middle of the night to play in the damned Abyss!”
Aveline scribbled, signed, sealed, organized into piles, and then shouted to her assistants:
“You! Deliver this contract to the transportation department.” You there, check the containment runes for the mine’s 3rd circle, or the damn void will escape and corrode half the city. And you… don’t give me that pregnant cow look, hurry up!
The room looked like a battlefield of flying papers.
That’s when the sharp knock sounded on the door.
Knock. Knock.
Aveline looked up, irritated.
“What now?”
The door creaked, and a young demon entered, holding an envelope sealed with dark wax.
“Yeah… it’s for you, Mistress Aveline.”
“Good, more paper,” she grumbled, snatching the envelope from her underling’s hand. “Make it quick, because if it’s another late notice from the foundry, I’ll—”
She stopped.
The burnt wax seal on the envelope bore the mark of Amon.
A flaming trident encircled by circles.
Aveline felt her throat go dry. Cold sweat trickled down the back of her neck.
“Oh… oh, no. No, no, no, no, no,” she murmured, clutching the letter to her chest as if it were a curse. “Why him?!”
Amon, the number one Demonic Arclight. The only one capable of turning entire cities to ash simply by waking up in a bad mood. At least, that’s how most demons saw him. Something quite unrealistic… Sapphire would be more likely to wipe out a demonic city.
If he sent a letter, it was never for “compliments.” It was a demand, an order, a threat.
Aveline’s legs trembled.
“Ingrid… you irresponsible bitch…” she cursed, looking up as if she could glare at her absent countess. “You leave me with all the paperwork in the world, go play in the Abyss, and now I’m the one getting a damned letter from Amon?!”
She opened the letter with trembling hands. The seal broke, and a smell of burnt sulfur filled the air. The scribes in the room backed away, some even dropping papers on the floor, afraid of what was to come.
Aveline took a deep breath, read the first line, and widened her eyes.
“He… he… guys,” she stammered. “Can someone… get me some medicine? I’m going to faint…”
A deathly silence fell over the room.
“I… I’m going to die.” “I’ve lived nothing, I’ve drunk nothing, I’ve never kissed anyone… and I’m going to die so young…”
“No one wants to know you’re a virgin, Headmistress! Speak up!” a demon yelled at her to hurry up.
Aveline breathed as if she’d run out of air. Her eyes ran line by line, but the meaning no longer mattered—she only saw the printed sentence. Her hands were shaking so badly they nearly ripped the parchment.
She stood up, her face pale for someone with naturally ruddy skin.
“He…” her voice trailed off. She swallowed hard, trying to compose herself. “He… is coming here.”
The effect was immediate.
The records room exploded into chaos.
A scribe dropped the entire stack of contracts, another tripped over his own wings trying to run away, two accountants began shouting at each other about what “needed to be hidden” before Amon arrived. The sound of inkwells smashing on the floor mingled with curses and screams.
“SHUT UP!” Aveline roared, her voice reverberating like a whiplash. Everyone froze.
She braced both hands on the table, taking a deep breath, and repeated again, almost in disbelief:
“Archon Amun is coming to Last Night… in person.”
A short scribe raised his hand nervously.
“W-what do you mean, in person? Doesn’t he send messengers? Famuli? Projections of fire?”
“Idiot!” Aveline twirled the parchment in front of his face. “It says here. He’s ‘on his way for a visit and direct inspection, make sure he’s there.’ Direct inspection! Do you know what that means?”
The scribe swallowed hard.
“That… that he’s going to see everything… with his own eyes?”
“Exactly, imbecile!” Aveline rubbed her face with both hands. “He’ll see the mining delay, he’ll notice that Countess Ingrid disappeared and stuck her ass in the Abyss, he’ll notice that the reports are a pile of shit, and, even worse, he’ll realize that I’m trying to hold this city together with duct tape and desperation!”
She tossed the letter on the table. Amon’s seal still smoked, as if mocking her.
“Oh, of course… and me? I’ll be the first to burn!” Aveline raised her arms theatrically, as if she could already feel the flames rising. “I’ve never kissed anyone, never had a night of pleasure, and I’m going to end my existence as charcoal because Ingrid can’t keep her ass out of the Abyss for a week!”
A long-horned demon, the oldest accountant in the room, cleared his throat.
“Director, h-how should we prepare?”
Aveline turned slowly, her gaze sparkling like embers.
“‘How should we prepare’?” “Oh,” she repeated with a nervous laugh. “My dear, this is Amon we’re talking about. There’s no preparation. There’s just praying he’s in a good mood when he sets foot here.”
She began pacing, biting her fingernail.
“Shit, shit, shit… I need a plan… I need something… I need…”
Suddenly, she stopped. Everyone stopped and looked at Aveline… A hand grabbed her head…
A cold, ringed hand closed over Aveline’s head. Long, black-painted nails lightly scratched the skin of her forehead as the touch pressed with a mixture of affection and dominance.
Aveline froze, her eyes wide. She recognized that touch even before she heard the voice.
“I think it’s cute how you treat me when I’m not here…” The whisper was hoarse, filled with malice, like smoke rising from a brazier.
The entire room fell silent. The sound of inkwells rolling across the floor seemed to fade. The scribes and accountants looked back and forth, trying to understand where the voice had come from.
Aveline slowly turned her face upward—and saw her.
There stood Ingrid Asmoday, the Countess of Last Night. She hadn’t entered through the door, nor had she been announced. She simply stood there, leaning over her assistant, like a shadow materializing.
Her body, arched in a feline posture, seemed ready to attack or seduce at the same time. Her long black locks fell like tendrils of smoke over her bare shoulders; the tight leather of her outfit rustled softly as she moved. On her hips, silver chains and crimson runes clinked, and on her back rested a black katana with a crimson edge, tied with red ribbons and small talismans.
Her eyes, a deep red bordering on neon, were hidden behind crimson-tinted glasses, reflecting the room’s light in demonic glints. The smile she wore, the slight curve of her lips, was a mixture of amusement and menace.
She tilted her head even further, her nose almost touching Aveline’s. Her breath smelled of iron and poisonous flowers.
“Aveline, Aveline, Aveline…” the Countess said, dragging the name out like music. “Always so dramatic. You talk about me like I’m a naughty child, but look: I left you in charge and the city is still standing. Isn’t it beautiful?”
Aveline struggled for words, but her tongue felt stuck to the roof of her mouth. She just blinked in confusion as Ingrid released her head and, with a slow gesture, ran her fingers over her own glasses.
“Are you nervous?” Ingrid asked, tilting her face. “Sweating like that… you don’t sound like my relentless chief assistant.”
Behind them, no one was breathing. The scribes and accountants, who lived in the Countess’s shadow, shrank even further. It was like watching a storm brew inside the room.
Ingrid finally straightened. The leather of her clothes creaked softly. With one hand, she rested the katana on her shoulder, leaving it there as if it were a mere ornament.
“I heard we have a visitor,” she said casually, as if commenting on the weather. “Dear Amon decided to leave his throne and stop by.”
Her smile widened, revealing her dagger-white fangs.
“Perfect. I missed playing.”