Chapter : 1283

And then, a third voice joined in. It was a deep, strong, and surprisingly soulful bass. This voice was the solid, steady foundation for the other two soaring voices. It came from one of the butlers, a serious-faced, broad-chested former soldier named Yaved. He was a man who looked like he was made of stone and had never smiled in his life. But his voice—his voice was a thing of deep and very surprising beauty.

And then, a fourth. It was a sharp, clear, and perfectly toned alto. This voice was the clever, complex harmony that wove the other three voices together. It created a single, perfect, and stunning tapestry of sound. It was Annalisa, the stern, scary, and now wonderfully singing Head Maid. Her face, for the first time since Lloyd had met her, was not a mask of cold, professional seriousness. Instead, it showed a quiet, real, and very surprising joy.

Their four voices—the lord, the handmaiden, the soldier, and the head maid—mixed together in a perfect, angelic, and breathtakingly beautiful harmony. The sound filled the Grand Hall and seemed to lift the very roof off the building.

The court nobles were seeing a revolution. The party gave them a look into a magical, impossible, and deeply moving future they had never even imagined. The music of the future had arrived in their old and stuffy world. It was a future of recorded sound, of amplified voices, and of a beauty that was not just for kings to hear, but could be shared by everyone.

And it was beautiful.

The song's final, high note hung in the air. It was a perfect, crystal-clear thing of pure beauty. Then, it faded into a deep and total silence. For a long moment, the entire Grand Hall was frozen. Everyone shared a single moment of pure, simple, human amazement. The spell was broken by a single, sharp, and very loud sound. It was the sound of one person clapping. It was King Liam. He was on his feet, and his face showed pure, honest, and deeply thankful delight. His single clap was the spark that lit the fire. The hall exploded with noise. It was not the polite and slightly bored applause that usually happened after a performance. It was a roar. It was a thunderous, standing, and completely genuine ovation.

Lloyd, the creator of this miracle, simply gave a small, humble, and well-practiced bow. He handed the silver wand back to the butler. The four of them—the lord, the handmaiden, the soldier, and the head maid—left the stage. Their short and amazing performance was over. The hall, however, was now a different place. The stuffy, formal feeling of the event was gone. It had been shattered by Lloyd’s two revolutionary inventions. The Light-Catcher had sparked their greed. The Music-Box had won their hearts. And the two together had changed the whole predictable and boring social event into a legend. It was a night that people would talk about, whisper about, and tell stories about for many years.

Lloyd’s work as a showman was done. He went back to the role he liked best: the quiet, unseen, and watchful commander. He moved to the side of the room and watched the crowd, his mind quietly analyzing everything. The party was a success. The trap was still in place. The enemy had not shown up. From a military point of view, the night was a perfect and very boring success. It was in that moment of quiet, professional pride that a new and very, very interesting person entered the picture.

She did not make a grand entrance. Instead, she appeared with a quiet, sneaky shift in the room's energy that was almost impossible to notice. She was like a different kind of ghost. She was a woman of such deep, subtle, and terrifyingly beautiful grace that she seemed to flow through the crowd instead of walk. She moved like a silent, dark river of pure and very dangerous elegance.

She was a stunningly, almost unnaturally, beautiful woman. Her hair was like a waterfall of shiny, black obsidian. It was so dark it seemed to pull the light out of the magic crystals lighting the hall. Her skin was the color of pale, glowing white stone, which was a sharp, beautiful contrast to her deep, dark red dress. The gown was a simple, elegant piece of silk, the color of old blood and even older wine. It fit her body perfectly, showing a form that was a masterpiece of deadly, predator-like grace.

Chapter : 1284

But her eyes were the real and very terrible miracle. They were the color of melted gold. They held a look of ancient, deep, and almost playful evil intelligence. They were the eyes of a snake, a dragon, or a being that had seen stars be born and die and found it all a little boring.

And her eyes were focused completely on him, with a direct and deeply unsettling attention.

She moved through the sparkling, crowded hall, and the very air seemed to move out of her way. The loud nobles, the plotting politicians, and the powerful lords did not seem to see her. It was as if she existed on a slightly different and far more dangerous level of reality, like a ghost in the social machine of their world.

Lloyd, however, saw her. His own unnatural senses, the senses of a man who has lived two lives and commanded an army of gods, were screaming at him. She was not a noblewoman. She was not a guest.

She was a predator. A magnificent, beautiful, and absolutely terrifyingly high-level predator.

He did not move. He did not show any reaction. His face stayed calm, polite, and a little bored. He just stood there, a quiet, still point in the room, and he waited. He was a rock, and the dark, beautiful, and very dangerous river was flowing straight toward him with a very clear purpose.

She stopped just a foot away from him. Her scent was not the simple, honest smell of flowers. It was something darker and more unusual. It was the smell of jasmine that blooms at night, of old, forgotten spices, and of something else. Something that smelled faintly, and very disturbingly, like sulfur.

"Lord Ferrum," she said. Her voice was a low, smooth, and impossibly beautiful purr. It was a voice that was a song, a promise, and a threat, all mixed into one perfect and completely captivating sound.

And then, she leaned in. Her lips almost touched his ear, and her warm breath was like a ghost on his skin. She whispered a single, quiet, and absolutely world-shaking sentence.

“My name is not important. But my mistress, the great Lady Leviathan of the Seventh Circle, sends her warmest and most personal greetings.”

The name hit him like thunder in the secret war room of his mind. Leviathan. Not a Duke like Belphagor, but a Lady. She was one of the ancient, most powerful, and most monstrous female leaders of the entire Devil Race. Her name was only spoken in the most forbidden books. She was a creature from the deep, dark, and forgotten places of the world.

This was not a court lady. This was not a simple killer.

This was a messenger. An ambassador from a very different, very old, and deeply hostile kingdom.

He was a lord of the North, and he was standing face to face with a direct messenger from one of the first and most terrible devils of Hell.

And she was smiling at him. It was a beautiful, friendly, and absolutely terrifyingly predatory smile.

Lloyd’s mind had been on high alert, but in a passive way. Now, it went into a state of total, quiet, red alert. Every one of his senses, both human and inhuman, was screaming at him. This was not a social meeting. This was a first contact with a hostile and very powerful foreign force.

But he did not move. He did not show any reaction. The mask of the calm, slightly amused, and unreadable lord stayed perfectly in place. His heart rate did not even change. He was a commander who had just seen a new, very large, and very dangerous piece placed on his game board. His only response was to study it.

The woman pulled back. Her melted gold eyes, which held the light of a thousand burning libraries, searched his face. She was looking for a sign of fear, of shock, of anything. She found nothing. She only found a quiet, polite, and almost insultingly curious stillness.

She was the one who was surprised. She had expected a reaction. A gasp. A flinch. A small, barely noticeable widening of his eyes. She had just dropped a bomb on him, and he was looking at her with the mild, scholarly interest of a man who had just been shown a very interesting, but not very hard, new chess problem.

Her beautiful, predatory smile grew wider. A flicker of real and thankful respect appeared in her golden eyes. It seemed the reports she had heard were not accurate enough. This man was… interesting.