"But Ashiya, it's this hot—if we don't get an air‑conditioner we're going to die!"

"Just picture it: the mighty Demon Lord Satan, out conquering worlds, not defeated by some fearsome foe but laid low by heat‑stroke in a tiny rental apartment…"

"If word of that reached Ente Isla, where would it leave the Demon Army's reputation?!"

He tried to hide his embarrassment behind an exaggerated tone.

Ashiya Shirō pushed his glasses up with an expressionless face.

"Your Majesty, in my opinion, instead of fretting over abstract notions of 'saving face,' our top priority should be figuring out how to survive here and accumulate the capital we need to conquer this world—specifically, to land full‑time jobs, earn promotions, and get raises."

"Heat is an objective hardship, yes, but it's not insurmountable."

"Frequent showers, plenty of water, keep calm and the heat will feel—"

"Aaah! Stop, stop, stop!"

Sadao Maou clutched his ears in despair.

"You're the only one who could say 'keep calm and you'll feel cool'! I'm insanely sensitive to heat!"

He wailed and collapsed face‑first onto the tatami.

"Why… why does the Hero get to live in comfort while I, the Demon Lord, have to gnaw pickled vegetables, breathe second‑hand air‑conditioning, and still make rent payments? It's not fair!"

Ashiya's mouth twitched almost imperceptibly as he watched his lord roll around without a shred of dignity.

He, too, missed the days back in the Demon Realm when they commanded the winds and lived in luxury. But reality was cruel.

Drawing a deep breath, he straightened his back and adopted a lecturing tone. "Your Majesty! Please pull yourself together!"

"A temporary setback is not a permanent defeat!"

"Remember how we first arrived in this world? Penniless, not a word of the language—and yet we survived, didn't we?"

"Now we have steady jobs—your part‑time shift at MgRonald and my convenience‑store gig—and a roof over our heads, shabby though it is. That's huge progress!"

"As long as we work hard, boost our performance, promotions and raises are within reach!"

"Then, never mind an air‑conditioner—world domination itself…"

"All right, all right, I get it!"

Sadao shot upright, cutting off Ashiya's rousing "re‑conquer the world" speech. (That was something they really couldn't say out loud; that lady from MgRonald was terrifying.)

He raked a hand through his messy hair, rekindling his fighting spirit—if somewhat reluctantly.

"You're right, Ashiya! Complaining won't solve anything. Today we work hard—for the air‑conditioner! For… uh… for being able to eat meat‑buns every day!"

He clenched a fist as though psyching himself up.

"Yes, my lord!"

"For meat‑buns—no, for the glory of the Demon Army!"

Ashiya straightened, nodding gravely. The lofty vow lost some gravity, given that the immediate goal was meat‑buns.

They looked at one another.

At their cramped, dilapidated, nearly empty "Demon King's Castle."

At the meager breakfast on the table.

"Sigh…"

A single, heroic sigh escaped them both.

The wretched part‑time life of the Demon King had to go on a little longer.

…

Meanwhile,

Deep in the shadows of an abandoned factory,

A plot was unfolding that had nothing of warmth—or wretched comedy—about it.

Two figures faced each other.

The light was dim; their faces were obscured.

One wore a voluminous white robe.

The hood hung so low it hid his entire face, radiating an air of mystery and menace.

The other was far more flamboyant:

Short of stature, clad in a tailored purple trench coat whose open front showed a darker‑purple shirt beneath, and crowned with striking, non‑mainstream lavender hair that spilled loosely past his shoulders—an almost devil‑may‑care wickedness.

His features were a shade delicate, his eyes extraordinarily cold.

Tap, tap—

The robed man took two steps forward.

The footsteps echoed sharply in the empty factory.

He stopped, slowly raised a hand, and pushed back the hood.

A perfectly bald head gleamed beneath it.

The face was that of a man around fifty, steady, even kindly, yet the deep eyes held vast experience. The refined aura of power coiling around him belied any notion that he was an ordinary elder.

He was Olba Meyer,

One of the Six Archbishops of Ente Isla,

Former comrade of the Hero Emilia, head of Diplomacy and Evangelism, direct superior of the Doctrine Review Council—a high priest of the Church.

Though past his prime in stamina and holy force, his strength remained unfathomable.

"Lucifer…"

Olba's voice was low and even, like still water in a deep well.

"The appointed hour has come. Are your preparations complete?"

The handsome youth addressed as Lucifer let his playful smile spread. His slit pupils narrowed, appraising Olba.

"Archbishop Olba—heh—my preparations are flawless, as always."

"The question is, old man, can you guarantee your side won't slip up? Are those nuisances Emerada and Albert still sitting obediently in the Sanctum?"

Olba's gaze stayed flat, his reply calm.

"They're quiet enough. Not your concern."

"What concerns me is whether you can fulfill our pact—eliminate the threats to our world: the Demon Lord Satan, and… the wayward Hero."

"Threats?"

Lucifer gave a contemptuous laugh that echoed through the empty factory.

"Olba, spare me the sanctimonious lines."

"What you fear isn't some 'threat.' What you fear is Emilia—afraid she'll return to Ente Isla wrapped in a savior's halo, afraid she'll shake the power you and those decrepit Church fossils cling to."

"That's why you let her stray into this world, even went so far as to imprison her companions, just to stop her from going back!"

"Am I right, 'esteemed' Archbishop?"

~~~

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