The private lounge on the penthouse floor of the Grand Sovereign Tower of Coleus was bathed in warm, golden light. It was a space designed for absolute, uncompromising comfort. The floor was covered in thick, plush velvet carpets imported from the finest looms of the Western Nations, and the air was perfectly climate-controlled to a soothing twenty-two degrees Celsius.
In the center of this paradise of relaxation lay Demon Lord Loki.
He was currently sprawled face-down on a custom-made, giant memory-foam beanbag. Yet another modern marvel he had ordered the to be construct based on his past-life memories. His sleek black duster had been tossed carelessly over a nearby lounge chair. He was wearing nothing but a pair of loose, comfortable cotton sweatpants and a white t-shirt.
In his right hand, he held a freshly printed volume of a manga series he had gotten from Rimuru. In his left hand, he casually reached into a large bowl of hyper-savory, sour-cream-and-onion-flavored potato chips. A highly classified culinary experiment he had forced his personal chefs to perfect.
Crunch.
"Ah... this is the life," Loki muttered to himself, lazily flipping the page of his manga with his thumb. "No paperwork. No diplomatic meetings. No screaming humans. Just pure, unadulterated slacking. I could honestly stay like this for the next three hundred years."
Sitting on a luxurious chaise lounge just a few feet away was Velzard, the White Ice Dragon. She was elegantly draped in her favorite white fur coat, holding a crystal bowl filled with gourmet condensed-milk shaved ice. She took a delicate bite, her bright blue eyes shifting toward the lump of laziness on the beanbag.
"You know, Lord Loki," Velzard said, her tone carrying a playful, teasing lilt. "Your little duel with Guy is scheduled in exactly three days. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you look less like a supreme Demon Lord preparing to face the strongest mediator in the world, and more like a discarded pile of dirty laundry."
"Hey, laundry has a purpose. It gets clean eventually. I have no such ambitions today," Loki replied without even looking up from his page. He popped another chip into his mouth. "Besides, training is a scam. At our level, what am I going to do? Lift some weights? Swing a sword ten thousand times? If I don't already know how to beat him by now, three days of sweating isn't going to magically teach me."
Velzard let out a soft, melodious giggle, thoroughly amused by his complete lack of shame. "My, such confidence. I wonder if Guy would be flattered or incredibly insulted if he saw you right now."
"He'd probably ask for a bag of these chips," Loki grunted, turning the page.
Directly outside the heavy, magically sealed double doors of Loki's private lounge, a completely different kind of atmosphere was brewing. The grand hallway had become a psychological war zone, divided cleanly down the middle by a comical yet intensely suffocating wave of contrasting energies.
On the left side of the hallway stood the Worried Court.
Moss, currently maintaining his miniature, child-sized form to conserve energy, was sitting cross-legged on top of a decorative marble pedestal. His tiny forehead was creased with deep, permanent lines of distress as he frantically unrolled and scanned dozens of high-tier combat simulation scrolls.
"This is madness... absolute, statistical madness," Moss whispered, his monocle practically fogging up from his rapid breathing. "We have analyzed over forty-seven thousand different combat trajectories for the upcoming battle. In seventy-two percent of them, Guy Crimson initiates with a condensed spatial collapse. And what is our master doing? He is eating fried sliced tubers! He hasn't even run a single magical circuit test in forty-eight hours!"
Beside the pedestal, Zonda was pacing back and forth so rapidly that he was practically leaving physical friction burns on the polished stone floor. In his hands, he held a silver tray containing a freshly brewed pot of calming herbal tea, which had already gone completely cold for the fourth time today.
"I don't understand!" Zonda cried out, his hands trembling as the teacups rattled against the silver tray. "Is Lord Loki's calm a psychological strategy? Is he meditating in a state of absolute Zen that our mortal minds cannot comprehend? Or has he simply given up on life?! If he perishes, who will sign the seasonal budget sheets for the agricultural sector?!"
"Calm yourself, Zonda," Agera said, though his own voice was noticeably tight. The master swordsman stood leaning against the wall, his arms tightly crossed over his chest. His hand was gripping the hilt of his katana so hard that the leather wrapping was creaking. "A true warrior prepares his mind in silence. And yet... even I must admit, a simple physical warm-up would be reassuring. I offered to spar with him this morning, and he threw a plush pillow at my face and told me to go play in traffic."
Esprit, leaning against the opposite wall, was aggressively chewing on her fingernails. Her casual, energetic demeanor had been completely replaced by a twitching, nervous energy. "I tried to sneak in to slip some high-grade mana-potions into his snack drawer, and Velzard-sama glared at me so hard I felt my soul flash-freeze. Why is everyone so relaxed?! We are talking about Guy Crimson! The guy who literally fights True Dragons for fun!"
On the right side of the hallway stood the Unfazed Elites.
Testarossa was sitting elegantly in an imported velvet armchair that she had casually summoned into the corridor. She was sipping a perfectly hot cup of black tea, her posture flawless, her expression radiating a serene, almost divine tranquility.
"You are all making a terribly embarrassing scene," Testarossa spoke, her voice carrying the smooth, chilling melody of absolute confidence. "To suggest that Lord Loki requires physical preparation to deal with a mere red-haired brute is a direct insult to his supreme intellect. Our master has already calculated the absolute end of this conflict before it has even begun. Your panicked squawking only exposes your own lack of faith."
"Exactly!" Carrera boomed, leaning against the wall with her arms behind her head, her wild golden ponytail swaying. She let out a loud, boisterous laugh that echoed down the hallway, completely ignoring the tense atmosphere. "You guys are totally pathetic! Lord Loki doesn't need to train. If that red-haired guy tries anything funny, Lord Loki will just flatten him into a pancake! Honestly, I'm more worried about whether Guy can even survive three rounds with the boss. I've already placed a bet with Ultima that the fight ends in less than ten minutes."
"Oh? Only ten minutes, Carrera?" Ultima giggled sweetly from her position, where she was casually sitting on the floor, using a small, dark-magic flame to roast a marshmallow on a stick. "I think you're being far too generous to Guy. I give him five minutes before he's crying on his knees, begging Lord Loki for mercy. Master is probably just resting his eyes so he doesn't accidentally kill him too quickly. It's called mercy, you know?"
"A-Are you all insane?!" Zonda gasped, clutching his tea tray like a shield. "We are talking about the Lord of Darkness! The oldest Demon Lord!"
"And we are talking about Lord Loki," Testarossa replied, her crimson eyes flashing with an incredibly dense, terrifying burst of Primordial pressure that instantly silenced the entire hallway. Her smile remained perfectly sweet, yet her voice was as cold as the deepest abyss. "There is no higher existence. There is no greater mind. If Lord Loki wishes to spend the eve of battle reading colorful picture books, then reading colorful picture books is the absolute, most optimal path to victory. To doubt his routine is to doubt his very divinity. Do I make myself clear?"
Moss, Zonda, Agera, and Esprit all stiffened, a collective shiver running down their spines as they quickly nodded in unison. Under the terrifying weight of the White Primordial's absolute adoration, they realized that arguing was a quick way to get themselves sent to the underworld.
---
Thousands of miles away, past the towering mountain ranges and deep within the eternal snowstorms of the Northern Continent, sat the majestic White Ice Palace.
The grand throne room was a breathtaking monument to absolute cold. Massive pillars of pure, blue-tinted glacial ice rose toward a vaulted ceiling, reflecting the pale, shimmering aurora light that drifted through the high crystalline windows. It was a place of silent, majestic terror.
And in the middle of this legendary hall of power, the absolute peak of the demonic world was currently imitating a human sloth.
Guy Crimson, the Lord of Darkness, was draped sideways across his massive throne of solid ice. He was wearing nothing but a loose, highly revealing crimson silk robe that hung open at his chest. One of his long, shapely legs was slung lazily over the armrest of the throne, swinging back and forth in a slow, rhythmic motion.
In his right hand, he held a massive, jewel-encrusted golden goblet filled to the brim with a deep red, centuries-old vintage wine. He was currently using his free hand to lazily toss small, magically conjured ice spheres into the air, catching them in his mouth one by one like a bored child eating grapes.
Toss. Catch. Crunch.
"Hmm... Rain," Guy called out, his voice a deep, velvety purr that resonated through the freezing hall.
"Yes, Guy-sama," Rain replied instantly. She was standing a few paces away, her blue hair styled in her usual neat braids, her expression completely blank.
"This wine is a bit too warm. Go fetch some of that deep-glacial ice from the southern rift. And make it quick. I'm incredibly bored," Guy complained, letting out a dramatic, heavy sigh as he let his head fall back against the frozen armrest.
"Understood, Guy-sama," Rain said, her voice entirely flat. She turned and began to walk away, her face remaining a perfect, emotionless mask.
However, internally, Rain's mind was a raging tempest of pure, unadulterated existential dread.
'Are you freaking kidding me?!' Rain's inner voice screamed in absolute, frantic terror. 'The fight of the century is in three days! The entire world's balance of power is on the line! The Western Nations are literally shaking in their boots! The other Demon Lords are probably hiding under their beds! And what is this absolute idiot doing?! He's complaining about the temperature of his alcohol! He hasn't swung his sword in a week! He hasn't even looked at a map of the battlefield! We are all going to die! The Northern Continent is going to get colonized by that weird, snack-eating freak of a little brother of mine, and I'm going to end up having to do taxes for the rest of eternity!'
Beside the grand entrance of the hall, Misery, the Maid, was currently cleaning the exact same spot on an ice pillar for the forty-seventh time today. Her cloth was moving in tight, rapid, aggressive circles, and her left eye was twitching with a rhythmic, violent intensity that completely betrayed her usual calm, stoic demeanor.
Misery walked over to Rain as she exited the main chamber, her voice dropping into a barely audible, trembling whisper. "Rain... has he... has he done any combat simulations?"
"None," Rain replied, her flat voice sounding incredibly hollow. "He spent the entire morning trying to see how many grapes he could balance on his forehead while lying upside down. Yesterday, he fell asleep in the bath for six hours. I had to manually check his pulse to make sure he hadn't drowned."
Misery's grip on her cleaning cloth tightened so hard that the fabric ripped in half. "This is... highly concerning. Demon Lord Loki is not an opponent to be taken lightly. He commands three Primordials. He has successfully befriended a True Dragon. His strategic calculations have completely manipulated the Western Nations without a single drop of blood being spilled. And yet, Guy-sama behaves as if he is preparing for a casual picnic in the park."
"I think he's lost his mind," Rain whispered back, her empty eyes staring into the dark corridor. "Maybe the boredom finally rotted his brain. If we lose, do you think Loki's faction will let us keep our maid uniforms, or will we have to wear those weird, tight business suits they use in Coleus? I heard their administrative department has a very strict dress code. I don't want to do manual labor, Misery. I really don't."
"Focus, Rain!" Misery hissed, trying to maintain her composure despite the cold sweat pouring down her spine. "We must have faith in Guy-sama. He is the absolute mediator. He is the pinnacle of this world."
Back in the throne room, Guy let out another loud yawn, stretching his arms high above his head as his silk robe slipped further off his shoulders. He took a long, slow gulp of his wine, a brilliant, wild smirk suddenly spreading across his face as he stared out the window toward the distant southern horizon.
"Loki, you bastard..." Guy muttered to himself, his crimson eyes gleaming with a sudden, intensely sharp burst of anticipation. "I know exactly what you're doing right now. You're slacking off, aren't you? You're probably eating some weird, delicious food and reading those stupid books."
Guy let out a low, rumbling laugh that shook the very foundations of the ice palace.
"Well, enjoy your rest while you can," Guy whispered, his magical aura flaring for a split second, causing the entire Northern Continent's snowstorms to instantly freeze in place. "Because the second we step onto that battlefield, I'm going to make you work harder than you ever have in your entire, lazy life."
---
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