Demon Lord: Erotic Adventure in Another World-Chapter 528: The Warmth of Morning, the Chill of Dread

The sunlight crept through the blinds like a shy lover, allowing golden threads to shine across the dark sheets. A thick scent of sweat, honey and sex still lingered in the air. Three people slept quietly, two plump, alluring women hugging either side of a muscular male.

Asmodeus opened his eyes slowly, one arm wrapped around Sariel's soft breasts, the other cushioning Riel's plump buttocks. Sariel's face pressed against him, brushing her lips against his chest as she snored.

Meanwhile, Riel buried her face in his arm.

Her caramel skin was glossy while shimmering in the light, a faint blush painted across her cheeks.

But her hair was a tousled blue mess as she groaned with eyes barely open.

Trapped between the two succubi, he felt drained.

And yet, not empty.

This pain wasn't the exhaustion that made you want to sleep, but the good kind. The quiet that came after satisfaction brought only peace.

Riel stirred first, letting out a soft sigh before biting her lip.

"You're still warm," she murmured.

"You're still clingy," he teased.

Her only answer was to squeeze him tighter.

Sariel's fingers brushed his stomach. "You managed to make us both faint. I'm a little disappointed."

"Riel came ten times," he said casually.

"That's because she's a virgin," Sariel smirked. "That's training."

Riel blushed against his chest, refusing to lift her head. Her nails scratched gently down his ribs, but she didn't argue.

A bowl of sliced fruit sat on the nightstand.

At some point, Sariel reached for a skewer and brought it to his lips.

"Say 'aah~'"

Asmodeus opened his mouth reluctantly and bit the piece of honeyed melon off the stick.

"...You're enjoying this too much."

"I plan to enjoy it more."

Riel finally sat up, letting the sheet fall just enough to show the soft curve of her breast and her glowing golden eyes, half-lidded.

"I wanted to keep him to myself today."

"You got him first. Share."

Their playful bickering washed over him like rain on warm stone.

There was no tension. No jealousy. Just comfort.

Asmodeus moved his head back with a muffled sigh.

"I've been thinking."

Sariel blinked. "That's dangerous."

"I'm serious."

Riel brushed her fingers through his hair. "About what?"

"The city. The kingdom. The people coming in from the western border. I just wondered if things will go well with the humans... even if Grigor knows me, can they accept demons?"

"Mm... always working," Riel whispered. "Even in bed."

"You'd be worried too," he said. "We've built too much to have it taken by some overfed noble or scared human."

Sariel leaned forward, resting her chin on his chest. "Then go talk to Alan."

"I will."

The bed shifted as he sat up slightly, pulling the sheet over Riel as she yelped and grabbed it in panic.

"I'm not dressed, idiot."

"You weren't dressed last night either," he said.

She tried to glare. Failed. Smiled instead.

They leaned into him again, warm and soft and grounding.

His eyes flicked to the far wall, where his armour sat untouched. He damaged his demon axe in the battle with Mephisto. So it remained in the greatsword form and rested against the frame.

"I'll deal with the future," he murmured, more to himself than to them.

"For now…" He glanced down.

They were already asleep again, nestled into his sides.

"…This is enough."

Baltimore was still.

The once-prosperous trade hub now bore the stale air of neutrality. Its streets, while clean, felt abandoned of warmth—stone walls and iron-banded gates reminding every visitor of the city's true role: a place where enemies met under watchful silence.

Alan adjusted the strap of his cloak, his white mantle crisp, edged in the silver of Grigor's duke. Behind him, two knights followed at a distance.

They wore their swords open but not drawn, out of protocol.

They were camping outside.

That was the rule.

The human lords from the mainland—smug bastards—had demanded it. They wouldn't enter any city where demon-kin might "taint the soil."

All because Alan's troops fought in the north, many stories and lies spread through the land, likely propaganda spread by the mainland's spies.

'As if my men are demons!?'

But he didn't have a choice...

Alan didn't argue. He had no time for fragile egos and bluster. This meeting was all to delay yet another war, even if the scent of it already clung to the wind.

With the demon queen gone, the mainland, with its lack of minerals, would likely try to push into this continent now.

The beastkin and elves in Baltimore couldn't leave their homes because of the nobles...

'All other races are inferior...' That was their filthy creed.

He paused at the alley beside the old bell tower.

Something… pulled and churned inside him.

The shadows didn't shift, but the pressure did. Alan's fingers twitched against the hilt of his sword. The side of his skull throbbed like it had been split open, and for a heartbeat, his vision turned—

Green.

His reflection in the tower's dark glass blinked back at him, alien and cold. Pale green eyes. A faint whisper. No words, just emotion.

Hate. Power. Hunger.

He stumbled.

Alan crashed against the wall, bracing himself with one palm. His knees threatened to give. Heat spiked through his chest, replaced with a biting ice, as if two forces warred inside him.

"Sir?!"

The voice was muffled.

"Get the commander inside—now!"

Rough hands grabbed his arms, and the sensation vanished, just like that.

Gone.

He blinked.

The whole thing became blurred and dark—Alan looked at the destroyed room and then his knights, who knelt, panting.

"W-What happened?"

Alan blinked the fog from his eyes, his vision swimming as he took in the wreckage around him.

The room looked like a storm had torn it apart. A destroyed table, shattered glass and chair legs splintered underfoot. Cracks spread along the stone wall like veins.

And yet, the only sign he'd moved was the aching pressure in his chest and the stiffness in his clenched fists.

His knights were there.

Venn stood in front of the door, sword half-drawn, his expression twisted with concern.

Caro knelt by his side, one hand glowing faintly with healing magic.

"You were screaming," she whispered. "Then everything just... exploded."

Alan groaned and leaned back against the half-collapsed frame of the cot. "How long?"

"Ten minutes. We tried to restrain you," Venn added. " It didn't work."

"I see."

His voice came out low, but the words were clear.

Caro looked at him carefully. "Do you remember it?"

Alan didn't answer at first.

He stared at his palms.

There was no blood. No sign of injury. But something lingered. A foreign heat. A presence that felt like it had never really left.

"Just fragments," he lied. "Anger. Noise."

His reflection in the window revealed green eyes for a moment.

Mephisto's green.

For a moment, it had been like he wasn't just remembering death. He was death.

A creeping rage curled behind his ribs again, faint now, like smoke after a fire.

"I'm fine... I will handle it."

Caro stood. "The meeting's in thirty minutes."

Alan nodded, rising. His cloak was torn, but he didn't care. He grabbed it anyway and fastened the pin.

Outside, Baltimore waited, full of arrogant nobles who thought themselves above war. Who thought peace was a game to be played with threats and treaties?

Let them come.

If they were here, to provoke another dark shadow...

He would show them just how close to the abyss they were standing.

——

The room was cold despite the midmorning sun. The long table in the centre was polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the sharp creases in every noble's robe and the golden rings weighing down their fingers.

Alan stood at the far end, posture loose but eyes sharp. His cloak hung from his shoulders, still rumpled from earlier. He hadn't changed it. He wanted them to see it—that he hadn't come to be liked.

Across the table sat four mainland nobles. Two older men, one woman in a stiff violet dress, and a younger lord with a face like someone had carved it out of smug stone.

None of them stood when Alan entered.

"Duke Alan of Grigor," the woman began without pleasantry. "You're late."

Alan stepped forward, letting his boots echo against the stone floor. "I wasn't aware we were on your schedule, Lady Geruth."

She narrowed her eyes. "You are on the continent's schedule. This meeting concerns all realms, not just your little border state."

A beat passed.

Then Alan smiled, thin and dangerous.

"Then perhaps you should've brought someone with a map."

The younger noble scoffed. "You come here with demon stench on your armour and dare insult us?"

Alan didn't flinch. "I came here with demon blood on my blade. If you'd like to test how fresh it is, draw yours."

Silence.

Even the guards at the door stiffened.

The older man at the centre coughed lightly, breaking the tension. "Let's not waste time. We're here because the mainland is concerned."

"Concerned?" Alan asked.

"The new kingdom rising in the south—your so-called alliance with those filthy beasts. It threatens the balance."

Alan tilted his head. "You mean it threatens your trade routes. Your slave markets. Your ability to claim forests and call them holy."

"It threatens order."

"No," Alan said. "It threatens monopoly."

He let that sink in.

Then added, "Grigor has no plans to stand down. We have no intention of submitting to nobles who send farmers to war and the continent is NOT the mainlands territory."

The woman's voice hardened. "Then you leave us no choice."

"Don't be foolish, Geruth!"

The older man spoke with a sharper tone before closing his eyes.

Alan's smile returned, colder this time. "That's fine."

Because he could feel it again.

A whisper in his spine. A pulse in his fingertips.

The hunger hadn't left.

And if these fools pushed him too far…

They'd learn exactly what was now buried inside him.