A new morning trend had boomed in the village of Rabbi—visiting the Lighthouse, which stood as if to split the expansive sea. Bizarre as this new custom might have seemed, everyone who participated looked as solemn as monks on a pilgrimage.
The trendsetter stood staring at the Lighthouse now: the Madam. Since the Demon Lord had erected this tower of light, the Madam had come to gaze upon it each morning. Sometimes, she came at night, swirling wine in one hand and picking from a tray of charcuterie she’d placed on one of the beach’s permanent tables...all because of what the Fallen Angel had said.
“I shall prepare a jewel worthy of your dedication.”
Yes, the enormous tower—the mystical beacon of the sea—had been constructed for her, as most of the gathered masses knew. The Madam still drifted in the twilight dream that was the miracle of the Lighthouse’s creation, filled with elation and indescribable reverence. At the very least, she had been shaken to the core like she never had before.
One snap of the fingers—that was all it took for the mythical being to split the sea and raise this tower of brilliant white. That scene alone had been worthy of songs and legends, but the creation also emitted beams of radiance that gently warmed the hearts of onlookers like a glittering jewel. Perhaps it was only natural for the Madam to make visiting the tower a part of her daily routine. Others, too, gazed at its protective light and prayed. Many of them were laborers wishing for safety and health during their grueling work: construction, mining, tea roasting...
After offering their faith, the Lighthouse pilgrims praised the Madam as the butterfly blessed by the Fallen Angel. Even those common folk, who barely knew the Madam, revered her that much. The nobles who had actually known the old Madam had taken the news—that such incredible miracles befell those chosen by the Fallen Angel—like someone had thrown a wasp’s nest into their bed.
It all started with the great regime change when the central nobles disappeared overnight. Every socialite flocked to the Madam in search of accurate news...only to find a butterfly who’d emerged from her cocoon, utterly transformed. No news reached their brains—in fact, their minds were blown.
The ladies, who’d been a sort of fan club for the Madam, lost their minds—rushing to buy up the stock of moisturizers Yu had created from hot springs water. What’s worse, the moisturizer immediately produced results, leading to the ladies placing bulk orders and driving up the price to the point that one could have made a fortune day-trading it. In scorching Holylight, the effect of a moisturizer was particularly noticeable. It was priced to rip off nobles like them from the get-go at an outrageous five silver coins per jar. The entire stock sold out in the blink of an eye, and there were still countless inquiries—domestic and international—constantly flooding Rabbi’s distribution center.
Regardless of the chaos she caused in her wake, the Madam’s routine didn’t change. Each morning began with a walk to the Lighthouse where she renewed her resolve. “You are telling me to strive for beauty like that tower’s...” the Madam breathed. Her obsessive desire for beauty knew no bounds. To her, the Lighthouse was not a reward for what she had accomplished, but encouragement to continue her quest. “I shall never waver again,” she said to herself. After all, a lighthouse was meant to guide wayward ships to their destination. With a hand on her wide-brimmed hat that fluttered in the wind, the Madam strode toward the Hot Springs Resort.
The other pilgrims took their cue from her and set out to begin the day’s work, exchanging words of encouragement. From the balcony of the penthouse, two figures watched over this bizarre ritual—a sort of morning meeting for the workforce of Rabbi.
“The Madam’s pretty... Shimmering like always,” said Tron the Firebrand.
“Like always...” the Fallen Angel repeated. Tron’s unique vision allowed her to identify others by the color and brightness of their souls. To the Firebrand, the Madam had always been proud and noble, her soul unchanged despite her physical transformation. “It’s too much... No one’s going to recognize her anymore...” With a hand covering his face, he gazed up at the sky. Although he recalled every minute detail he’d designed for the Hot Springs Resort, the Madam’s extreme makeover had made him consider that he’d pushed those features too far.
“Demon Lord okay?” Tron asked. “Drink virgin blood?”
“Drop it, already! If anyone hears, they’re going to think I have some kind of kink!”
“Zero like virgins?”
“Listen...” the Fallen Angel sighed. “He’s a bosozoku. He’d rather go to a rumble than talk to a girl.”
“I can make him rumble,” Tron said, holding the edges of her skirt and twirling in place. As precious as she looked, if Zero—especially in his bosozoku getup—were to walk hand in hand with her, no one would believe that he wasn’t a kidnapper.
The silver Dragonborn, huh? The Demon Lord considered Zero—a persona of his own creation. If he could survive on fistfights and attention alone, he wouldn’t eat or sleep. At the same time, he was the embodiment of small town heroism—someone who couldn’t turn a blind eye to anyone who couldn’t help themselves. If a kitten was standing on the streets in the rain, he wouldn’t have thought twice about shielding the kitten with his own body. In every way, he was the polar opposite of what a Demon Lord was supposed to be.
“Maybe I’ll live on my own for a while, once the dust settles...free and carefree.” When he lived in Hakuto Kunai’s body, Akira Ono felt comfortable, like he was where he belonged. Hakuto Kunai was the first character he’d created—someone he’d played longer than anyone else. On the other hand, there was no freedom when staying in one’s comfort zone. As Zero, he could act freely, and go wherever the wind blew. After everything he’d accomplished since coming to this world, Akira Ono craved some liberation for once.
The Demon Lord was scanning each area of the village with the binoculars attached to the balcony...and spotted something irritating. “He’s still sleeping in the Longhouses?!” He had repeatedly told Weeb to take a suite in the casino, only to be rejected every time. The Paladin insisted on living meagerly with the refugees...as if to rub it in the Demon Lord’s face. “Damn that hero... He’s silently challenging me—demanding how long I’m going to keep those refugees crammed in shacks and hovels! Dammit!”
“Demon Lord... Overthinking,” Tron offered, but it fell on deaf ears.
The Demon Lord wanted to shout into the binoculars—his world could be so much better. When it came to the world of his creation—one he had poured years of blood, sweat, and tears into—he couldn’t keep his calm. At times, he acted like a child whose treasured possession had been insulted.
Presently, he writhed on his balcony. “Damn! Damn! Damn! How am I going to unlock the Luxury Resort area?! If I keep them in those crappy houses, my world’s going to be a laughingstock!”
“Demon Lord. Calm down. Weeb likes it,” Tron said.
In truth, Weeb had grown attached to the Longhouses. Every part of its detailed design spoke to him. In his original description, Akira had written that the Longhouses were where the working class lived a frugal life, helping each other survive their hardships. Quiet simplicity met the cheerful disposition of the common man; time flowed slowly there. Despite the Demon Lord’s paranoia, the hero—who’d always lived a life free of extravagance—had practically dreamed of this place. If the Demon Lord had shown him the Luxury Resort—decked out in its money-hungry regalia—Weeb would have solidified his suspicions about him. Once again, Lady Luck seemed to be on the Demon Lord’s side.
“He likes the Longhouses. Don’t worry,” Tron repeated.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Who wouldn’t want to stay in a suite over some shack? The suite has an all-marble master bath and a bed that costs five million,” the Demon Lord continued, feverishly.
When designing that ridiculous bed, Akira Ono had taken inspiration from one that existed in real life—a wasteful monstrosity made with 107 kilograms of 24-carat gold. Of course, Weeb would have sooner slept on the floor.
“Gates open now,” Tron said, gazing toward the village’s entrance.
“Hmm...” the Demon Lord grumbled, still stewing about Weeb, but followed her gaze to see nobles from all over Holylight flocking outside Rabbi.
Eyze and the rookie flanked the gates, casually assessing everyone who passed through. After the nobles, business partners and day laborers that resided beyond the village came flooding in, followed by customers of the village’s facilities. Just as one of the customers passed Eyze, he snatched him by the arm—the guard must have detected malintent.
Confused, he whirled toward Eyze. “What the hell do you want— Whoa!” An arrow pierced the ground between his feet, causing the customer to fall on his ass. That was a warning shot fired by Kondo’s military drones that patrolled the village—a fruit of his desperate labor to stay in his room at all cost. “Wh-What is that magical item?!” the visitor stammered. “I haven’t done anything! I’m just here to buy—”
“Now, now. You can tell me your side of the story over there,” the rookie said placatingly while tying the visitor’s hands behind his back.
Technically speaking, he hadn’t yet committed any crimes...but it wouldn’t take long for him to spill his guts in the interrogation room—where Ren awaited with a glare that could freeze anyone’s heart on the spot. Not even a high-rank devil could lie with a straight face before her.