The Lord Just Wants to Have Fun

A dark room.

Viscount Musette lay flat on the floor, drenched in cold sweat.

The Archdemon, who had been looking down at him with icy eyes, finally opened his heavy lips.

“I believe I warned you before—do not let your ambition get the better of you.”

“Y-yes, my lord. You certainly did,” Musette stammered.

“And yet, you did not take my words to heart.”

Musette trembled violently at the reprimand.

If his master so much as lifted a finger, not only would his life be forfeit, but his entire bloodline would be wiped out.

“Because of your actions, everything we had been orchestrating in Arteria is on the verge of collapsing. Killing Lothar III with my own hands may have been for nothing.”

“P-please, grant me just one more—kuhak!”

Musette’s plea was cut short as his body convulsed.

Blades of darkness had emerged from the shadows, piercing through various parts of his body.

There were no visible wounds, nor did any blood spill, yet an excruciating pain spread through him, as if his very flesh and bones were dissolving in a potent toxin.

“Kuhhh! Please… forgive me… just one more ch—Uaaaargh!”

“You dare beg for mercy after making such a mess?”

The dark blades lodged in his chest flicked ever so slightly, tapping at his heart as if they would pierce through at any moment.

As Musette’s consciousness teetered on the edge, the tormenting darkness abruptly dissipated.

“Huugh! Hahh… T-thank you, my lord.”

“If it were up to me, I would dispose of you right now. But eliminating you, the one in charge of handling the Duke of Volzard, would bring more trouble than it’s worth.”

Besides, the situation had not yet reached its conclusion.

The embers of chaos still smoldered. He needed Musette to fan the flames once more.

“You understand what you must do now, don’t you? Do not let your greed blind you again.”

“Yes, I will keep that in mind.”

“Then leave.”

Musette, bowing repeatedly, hastily exited the room.

As the Archdemon stood there, his expression still displeased, eerie gray smoke billowed behind him, gradually coalescing into the faint shape of a human.

“Grueme?”

Hearing his name spoken after so long, the Archdemon Vargas glared at his old rival and reluctant ally, Grueme.

“I spared him because he is still useful.”

Whooosh!

At Grueme’s sneering remark, the darkness filling the room swirled violently like a raging storm.

Vargas, visibly displeased, responded coldly.

“I am not like the pigs wallowing in the so-called land of paradise.”

Grueme remained entirely indifferent to Vargas’ irritation and smoothly changed the topic.

“When I killed Lothar III?”

“That won’t be possible.”

Grueme had been mocking, but Vargas’ next words made him flinch.

“The Celestial Realm has begun watching over the royal capital, Aras.”

“Yes. There was even a brief fluctuation indicating the descent of an Archangel.”

“I cannot say for certain. But caution is necessary.”

If the Celestial Realm began interfering in the affairs of the mortal world, everything the organization had been striving for would amount to nothing.

The current strength of the demon realm—no, their entire organization—was nowhere near enough to oppose the Celestial Realm.

That was why they needed to be careful not to provoke them.

“I plan to observe the Celestial Realm’s movements for now. There’s no harm in being cautious.”

Hearing Grueme’s question, Vargas’ expression twisted into one of utter displeasure.

“They’re utterly useless. Those fat pigs have forgotten who they are—corrupt trash, the lot of them.”

“Hah, do you think they act out of the same cause as we do? What they truly desire is not war, but new land, wealth, and the luxuries and power that come with them.”

The demons who had conquered the land of paradise a thousand years ago were once warriors who had achieved a victory so great that it had marked a turning point for the entire underworld.

Yet their descendants had grown complacent, losing all sense of their original cause.

They called themselves mighty and free demons, but in reality, they were no different from the typical power-hungry human rulers.

“To make matters worse, they even reject their own kin from the demon realm.”

Unlike the surface, which basked in the blessing of the sun, the underworld was harsh and barren.

This had led to frequent conflicts among demons, but at least they had shared a common identity as worshippers of the Demon God Azra.

However, the demons who had indulged in the paradise’s abundance now saw themselves as superior and had forsaken their kin from the underworld.

They had no intention of sharing the prosperity they enjoyed.

“Exactly. Once we take control of the surface, those pigs will be the first to be exterminated.”

Vargas’ voice was filled with deep hostility toward the demons of paradise.

Grueme nodded in agreement and spoke.

With that, Grueme vanished.

“Hmph, he’s always nagging.”

Not that Vargas had any intention of sitting idle.

While he could not touch the young prince, he was already planning to investigate those who had aided the Celestial Realm’s agents and repelled the assassin squad.

‘Not once, but twice they have interfered with our plans… There must be something special about them.’

To avoid the Celestial Realm’s gaze, Vargas intended to use forces outside the Arteria Kingdom.

With that thought, he strode into the mirror standing in the corner of his chamber.

*****

“Oh-ho! So this Zippo lighter was invented by the baron himself?”

A roadside inn in a village near the southern outskirts of the royal capital.

Philip’s group had secured a new lodging, and with them was a new addition—Myron Phel, a mage from the Royal Magic Tower, along with his apprentices.

Unlike his sulking students, who were displeased about traveling to the frontier, Phel was positively brimming with enthusiasm.

He had just learned that the man responsible for the fascinating trinket Lily had purchased earlier was none other than his soon-to-be benefactor, Baron Brandel.

“Oh-ho! You just open and close it, and a cool breeze comes out!”

“This glass was made in the baron’s territory too?!”

“My lord, what is this smooth, fragrant lump? Soap, you say?!”

Overflowing with curiosity, Phel thoroughly examined the various products from the Baron Brandel family’s domain.

[Affinity with Baron Brandel has increased by 20%.]

If this were a game, a notification like this would have popped up, judging by the sheer delight on Phel’s face.

Finally, his gaze landed on a peculiar weapon slung over the soldiers’ backs—the musket.

“What an odd-looking weapon. It’s neither a spear nor a club, yet it reeks of smoke and burning… Does it use fire?”

The knights and soldiers, who had been keeping tight-lipped for security reasons, were startled.

Even Philip was impressed by Phel’s keen observation.

“You are correct, Doctor. However, it is a confidential matter, so I cannot divulge further details at the moment.”

If Phel proved to be trustworthy and was willing to swear loyalty, Philip fully intended to share not only the secret of gunpowder but also advanced firearms.

After all, a skilled mage might even be able to develop more potent explosives—perhaps even something akin to fulminating mercury or smokeless powder.

“That’s fine. I have little interest in weapons anyway,” Phel said, waving a hand dismissively. “However, a fire-based weapon without magic does raise a concern. What happens in rainy or humid weather? Wouldn’t it be useless then?”

“……!”

Philip inwardly flinched at Phel’s sharp insight.

Indeed, black powder weapons suffered serious drawbacks in damp conditions.

‘He’s sharper than I expected… Perhaps more useful than I first thought.’

One of Philip’s main reasons for recruiting a mage skilled in enchantments and alchemy was not just for creating new products but enhancing existing technologies, like gunpowder.

As Philip smirked in satisfaction, Phel spoke up again.

“So, what exactly will I be doing when I reach your domain? I’d like to know in more detail.”

“Just continue your research as usual—and occasionally, create whatever I ask of you.”

“What exactly do you need me to make?” Pell asked.

“Hm… a large bellows that continuously blows air using magic, a giant cauldron that can keep water boiling indefinitely… Ah, and it’d be best if you could finish making those electric lamps as soon as possible.”

“Electric lamps?” Pell raised an eyebrow.

“It’s a shortened term for lights powered by electricity,” Philip explained.

“I see. It’s certainly better than calling them ‘lightning lamps’ or ‘thunder lamps,’” Pell mused.

If Pell could complete a fully functional electric lamp, they wouldn’t have to rely on weak candlelight or oil lamps anymore. Plus, by utilizing the glass produced in Baron Brandel’s territory, they could even manufacture elegant chandeliers.

‘Once those are made, noblewomen will be saying, Oh my, I simply must have one!’ Philip grinned at the thought of his future bestselling product.

Just then, Libertà returned from a stroll with Siria.

But they weren’t alone.

“Huh? Who are those people?” Philip asked, frowning at the ragged group trailing behind them.

“Can’t you tell? They’re refugees. I found them collapsed on the outskirts of the village,” Libertà replied nonchalantly, as if there was nothing unusual about it.

“That’s not what I meant. I’m asking why you brought them here.”

“I treated their injuries, but they were too weak from hunger. There wasn’t much I could do about that. I brought them here so they could at least have some soup.”

Philip sighed, looking at the frightened refugees and Siria, who was shaking her head apologetically.

“I couldn’t stop her, my lord. She said we couldn’t just leave them to starve, and I couldn’t argue against that…”

Siria had attempted to dissuade her, but Libertà’s mysterious authority had overwhelmed any protests.

“Good grief, just when I thought you were staying out of trouble,” Philip muttered.

“What should we do?” Terry asked.

Philip shrugged. “They’re starving. Feed them, then send them on their way.”

Despite his grumbling, he didn’t hesitate to help. The refugees repeatedly bowed, expressing their gratitude.

Libertà smiled at the sight.

‘So she does smile too, huh?’ Philip thought, observing her expression. Then he pulled her aside.

“I get that you want to do good, but next time, ask for my permission first.”

Libertà almost snapped back but stopped herself.

‘Right… Right now, I’m not a goddess. I’m just an exiled prisoner.’

Not long ago, she had even received a warning from the Celestial Realm to stop acting recklessly.

So, she decided to take a different approach. If she couldn’t reprimand humans directly, she would lead by example—teaching them to cast aside selfishness and help one another.

“I’ll ask next time,” she conceded. “But I won’t ignore starving people.”

“How noble of you. But you do realize you’re broke, right?” Philip countered.

He wasn’t planning to keep bailing her out. If he did, this troublemaker might start relying on him too much.

“I know. I’ll earn my own money,” she declared.

“What? No way! You can’t—”

“Why are you making that face? I’m going to sell potions. Unless that’s illegal?”

“Oh… that’s what you meant.”

Philip had momentarily misunderstood, but he quickly recovered.

“If you make potions, sell them to me. I’ll buy them all.”

A potion crafted by a saintess was of the highest quality—capable of curing incurable diseases and even regenerating severed limbs.

Libertà nodded, then shot Philip a warning glance.

“Don’t try to swindle me.”

“Do I look like a conman to you?!”