Harem Startup : The Demon Billionaire is on Vacation

Watching all this from the alley's shadow, the real Lux stood utterly still, the InfernalNet stream still overlayed across his vision.

He was quiet.

Not smiling.

Not angry.

Just…

Focused.

The kind of focused that made mortals sign contracts in blood just to get out of his way.

[System: Target Location Marked.]

"Good."

His legs moved again.

One step out of the alley.

Then another.

And another.

Each click of his boots against the pavement sounded sharper, heavier, like it carried its own gravity.

The city lights flickered against his silhouette—twisting gold and red shadows against the glass walls and marble steps—etching his outline like fire carving his name into the skyline.

People passed him.

Some turned.

Some stared.

Some blushed and didn't know why.

They didn't understand what they were looking at.

They saw the man—half-ruined designer suit, tousled black hair, bleeding swagger—and felt the echo of something ancient tug at their instincts.

Predator.

Temptation.

Storm.

But Lux?

Wasn't paying attention anymore.

His clone had bought time.

Now he'd finish the job.

And if that meant stomping across the front porch of the Infernal Realm without an invitation?

So be it.

"Prepare to open the gate," he said under his breath, voice low. "I'm going in."

[Confirmed. Do you wish to return to Department of Infernal Finance, Sir?]

Lux's jaw twitched.

"No. Hell, no. Not yet."

He gritted his teeth. "Somewhere near that bastard's HQ. But not directly inside."

A pause.

Then—

[Are you sure, Sir? You'll be trespassing another Lord's territory without written permission.]

"Emergency clause 8A," Lux replied coldly. "Threat to the balance of assigned infernal asset. Temporary sovereignty override authorized under field clause."

Another beat of silence.

Then the system chimed with the dry voice of reluctant approval:

[Clause 8A recognized. Proceeding with emergency override.]

"Thank you," Lux muttered. "Finally."

The city glimmered around him as he turned a corner, stepping into the golden-lit entryway of a luxury fashion store—Florenzia Vale Haute Couture.

Velvet walls. Crystal chandeliers. Mannequins in dresses no mortal could afford.

He stepped through the glass doors like any other customer.

But the second the doors closed behind him—

He was no longer in a boutique.

-Ding!

Elevator.

The lights shifted.

Gone was the polished boutique glamour.

In its place—smooth obsidian walls lined with gold script. A narrow space, dimly lit by hellflame sconces. The floor beneath his boots hissed faintly with pressure runes. The air felt dense. Warm. Metallic, like blood just before it clots.

No buttons.

Just one direction.

Down.

[Infernal Elevator Protocol: Confirmed.]

Only high-ranking demons and royalty could use this passage.

Only those who had authority over territories, armies, or assets.

Only those who knew what was below.

Lux exhaled once.

A long, tired breath.

He didn't want to be here.

Not this soon.

But if they were playing power games in the Pride Ring and using his face to climb social ladders?

They deserved to see what it felt like to fall.

He stood still for a heartbeat, then murmured:

"Battle form."

The system didn't hesitate.

[Battle Form Engaged.]

His clothes shimmered—tailored cotton and silk peeling away like scorched paper—replaced by sleek, angular black armor, inked in crimson lines that pulsed with demonic currency seals and lust-thorn runes.

A cape of shifting shadow fell across his shoulders, and his arms glowed with the activation sigils etched into his skin.

In each hand, a blade appeared.

Lux rolled his shoulders as the elevator began to descend.

No motion.

No sound.

Just weight.

The pressure of going deeper.

Down.

Down into the infernal understructure—the part of Hell that bled secrets instead of fire.

Lux exhaled slowly as he checked the edge of his left dagger.

He rotated his wrists, letting the metal kiss the air like snakes about to strike.

[Estimated Arrival in 00:43 seconds.]

"Remind me again which Lord governs this zone?" he asked quietly, eyes watching his own reflection in the obsidian walls.

[Lord Vyrak of Pride, Secondary Domain. Oversees Sector Azhalyn, including illegal merc hubs and bounty collection vaults.]

Lux scoffed.

"Vyrak," he muttered. "Of course it's him. The self-proclaimed Archduke of Smug."

He turned his head slightly, voice colder.

"If he let this happen in his backyard, he's either involved—or about to regret breathing."

The elevator trembled.

Once.

Twice.

Then slowed.

[Preparing interface seal. Caution: You are not officially recognized as an emissary. Resistance level high.]

"Good," Lux said, voice like sharpened honey. "Let them resist. I'm in the mood."

The elevator hissed. A sound like a beast inhaling before a kill.

Lux took one last breath.

Then the doors opened.

The scent hit first—sulfur, mana residue, dried blood, and perfume. Too sweet. Masking something foul underneath.

He stepped into a long corridor—arched stone ceiling, torches crackling with cold fire, walls whispering with runes that slithered like living script.

This wasn't the front gate of Hell.

This wasn't for tourists.

This was the back door—the kind of place you used to bury things.

Lux narrowed his eyes.

Let's see how they liked their live feed when the real thing walked in.

The elevator came to a soft, almost elegant stop. No ding. No fanfare. Just a gentle shudder, like the underworld itself was holding its breath.

The doors hissed open.

And Lux stepped out— not into some demon-infested war bunker or twisted flame corridor, but into a luxury hotel lobby.

Of course.

Because this was the Pride Ring.

And in the Pride Ring, even your mercenary base came with silk rugs, imported wine, and complimentary soul massages.

Black marble floors gleamed under his boots, reflecting the crimson runes glowing along the seams of his armor. Crystal chandeliers dangled above from a cathedral-high ceiling, and baroque portraits of various vain-looking demons hung in expensive gold frames.

A harpist played in the corner.

Live.

Of course.

The scent in the air wasn't brimstone—it was oud, lavender, and that expensive kind of sin you could only smell in rooms where people signed contracts in blood and wore capes ironically.

Lux's arrival didn't go unnoticed.

A bellhop demon—a thin, four-eyed creature with peacock feathers instead of hair—stumbled mid-step and nearly dropped a tray of gemstone keys.

A pair of tall, golden-skinned succubi at the bar turned slowly, one lowering her sunglasses just enough to stare.

And a tall demon noble—horns curled like black marble spirals, wearing a silk suit stitched with golden thread—arched a perfect brow.