Strongest Incubus System-Chapter 166: Leaving through the front door

...The guards advanced through the hall with the poor man hanging between them, and this only worsened Damon’s internal state.

Each step those three soldiers took, stumbling over each other as if they were carrying a drunken boar instead of a human being, was a new blow to his self-control.

And the worst part?

One of the guards spoke too loudly, clearly trying to impress the nobles around him:

"He tried to escape by jumping out the window! But I saw it first! Aha! I reacted immediately!"

The other added excitedly:

"He must be playing dead. Typical of cowards."

The third just dragged the poor fellow along with a "I want to go home" look on his face.

The waiter, completely passed out, swayed like an old rag.

Damon felt laughter rise in his throat like a murderous spasm.

Windows? He didn’t even get near the windows, you imbecile. He only ran so he wouldn’t vomit on someone important’s boots. He had to discreetly press his fingers against his own thigh to catch his breath.

Morgana, in contrast, wasn’t finding anything funny at all.

She looked ready to incinerate the guards with pure contempt.

"This is a charade," she said, her voice low, sharp as a blade. "They’re desperate to appear useful."

Damon swallowed hard, still trembling inside.

She continued, taking a step forward like an angry lioness:

"That man doesn’t have the bearing of a thief. Look at him! He’s passed out, filthy... he’s an employee, for heaven’s sake!"

The nearest guard tried to retort:

"Madam, he was in the east corridor. And he disobeyed a direct order—"

"He disobeyed because he must have been terrified," retorted Morgana, crossing her arms. "He probably thought the duke was going to cut him in half for soiling the carpet with vomit."

The guard opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

Because, honestly, that explanation made more sense than anything they’d said so far.

Damon coughed—muffled, short.

A guard looked at him.

Morgana did too.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"I choked," he lied, his eyes still glistening with suppressed laughter.

She narrowed her eyes, suspicious... but didn’t press the issue.

The guards continued to cross the hall, carrying the unconscious waiter, while several nobles commented:

"He looks like a criminal."

"It’s always the servants."

"Finally something being done!"

And Damon... that almost made him burst out laughing.

If they think "look" defines criminal, then I could cross this entire hall naked with the safe on my back and they still wouldn’t suspect me.

Morgana snorted, utterly indignant at the collective stupidity around her.

Then she turned to Damon, irritated:

"You’re strangely calm about all this."

He took a deep breath, controlling the last wave of internal laughter.

"I’m just... observing," he said, his voice smooth as silk.

Morgana narrowed her eyes.

"Observing what, exactly?"

Damon tilted his head, as if admitting only a fraction of the truth:

"Their incompetence."

This elicited a short laugh from her—not a light laugh, but a mocking, incredulous laugh, the kind of laugh one gives when completely losing patience.

"Finally something we agree on," she said.

The guards disappeared through a side door with the poor, unconscious waiter.

The messenger on stage raised his hands:

"Gentlemen! The investigation continues! There’s no reason to panic! Please remain calm!" No one held back.

The hall became a whirlwind of voices, nerves, and confusion.

And Damon took a deep breath.

His inner tension slowly dissolved.

Not only because he had escaped...

But because now he had something even more valuable:

Time.

The guards were distracted.

The nobles were hysterical.

The duchess probably believed the thief was in her hands.

Morgana looked around with disgust.

"Ridiculous," she repeated.

Damon looked away for only a moment, observing each entrance, each exit route, each guard being redeployed.

His mind was working.

Calculating.

Aligning itself.

Very well... while they celebrate the poor fellow’s arrest, I can plan the rest. The safe was only the first part. I still need to get out of this mansion... and get what’s missing.

Morgana touched his arm, drawing his attention.

Her expression was more serious than before.

"Damon... do you think this is over?"

He looked back at her.

A soft—almost dangerous—smile appeared on his lips.

"No," he said sincerely. "I think it’s only just beginning."

Morgana frowned, intrigued.

Before she could ask anything else, another group of guards crisscrossed the hall desperately, shouting contradictory orders.

And Damon knew, from the glint in their eyes, from the desperation in their gait...

They had no idea that the real thief was less than a meter away from them.

And that he was smiling.

Morgana was still leaning on Damon’s arm when one of the guards approached, firm, rigid posture, tense expression—they had already heard the commotion from the upper floor, and now the movement of the two descending together was drawing attention.

"Miss Morgana," said the older guard, partially blocking their path. "The Duchess-Regent has ordered that no one leave the hall until further notice. The incident a moment ago..."

Morgana sighed deeply. Not from irritation, but from sheer exhaustion. The kind of exhaustion only someone accustomed to dealing with that family could bear.

She raised her chin.

"Get out of the way."

The guard swallowed hard.

"But, miss, the orders are clear..."

"Whose orders, exactly?" she interrupted, her voice firm, laden with aristocratic iciness. "From a provisional regent who shouldn’t even be in charge? Or from the Arven family, of which I am a legitimate member and direct heir?"

Silence fell like a blade.

The other guards exchanged glances.

Demon remained motionless beside her, his posture calm, as if he were merely going with the flow—when in truth, deep down, he knew perfectly well that every second was precious so that they wouldn’t discover that the duke’s safe was already empty.

The first guard swallowed again. It was almost comical.

"Miss, I cannot allow him..." he discreetly pointed at Demon, "...to leave the event without a report. The young man is not a member of the family."

Morgana took a step forward, placing herself between the guard and Demon as if he were a shadow cast behind her.

"He’s with me," she said slowly, syllable by syllable. "And anyone who dares to block my passage will, technically, be obstructing an Arven heir at an official Capitol event. That could lead to... complications."

The guard hesitated—and stepped back.

Two steps.

A third.

The passage opened almost instantly.

Morgana took Demon’s arm again—not theatrically, but like someone who had decided he was coming with her, and that was that.

"Let’s go," she said, without looking back.

And the guards, faced with the name Arven, could only watch as the pair crossed the main hall, blending into the golden lights, the musicians tuning their instruments, and the guests murmuring rumors that grew like weeds.

The women who had previously looked at Demon with interest now observed the scene with a different expression:

A mixture of astonishment... and a venomous hint of envy.

Finally, Morgana Arven—the cold, distant, unattainable heiress—was leaving the event with an anonymous freshman from the Academy. A boy no one knew until a few hours ago. A boy who was too handsome, now that they looked closer. And who walked beside her with an unsettling, dangerous... alluring confidence.

*

As soon as they crossed the outer doors of the hall, the music faded, the sound of conversations disappeared, and the night air fell upon them—fresh, clean, a stark contrast to the suffocating atmosphere inside.

Morgana let go of his arm.

But she didn’t move away.

She took a deep breath, straightening her dress, as if trying to reorganize her thoughts. Still, her voice came out low.

"They won’t question you later. I guarantee it."—a pause.—"And... thank you. For what you did upstairs."

Demon shrugged, that half-smile of his appearing like a shadow.

"I only stopped a slap," he said lightly. "I’ve seen worse."

Morgana rolled her eyes—but the gesture was almost... gentle.

"You have a talent for meddling where you shouldn’t, you know?"

"Me?" Demon tilted his head. "You’re the one who decided to drag me out the front door. In the most conspicuous way possible."

She stared at him.

For a second, Demon almost believed he saw a playful glint in her eyes.

Almost.

"If I were to do it secretly," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, "it would be suspicious. But to walk out the front door, like someone who knows exactly what they’re doing? That’s the most natural thing in the world. Nobody questions it."

Demon absorbed that. Interesting... she was more cunning than many people gave her credit for.

"So it was all an act?" he teased.

Morgana took two steps forward, approaching the mansion’s outer gate. The moon illuminated her contours, creating an elegant and sharp silhouette.

"No," she replied, without turning her face. "I only told the truth. They don’t dare stop me."

Demon walked until he was beside her again. Now, far enough away from the doors and guards, he noticed the subtlety of her hands: they were trembling slightly.

"Morgana?" he called softly.

She hesitated.

But she didn’t turn.

"The duchess... she shouldn’t speak to you like that," Demon continued. "You know that."

A short, tense silence.

Then, she let out a low laugh. Humorless.

"That?" she murmured. "That wasn’t even close to the worst."

And then, finally, she looked at him.

Her expression wasn’t one of fragility. It was that of someone who had carried too much weight for too long.

"The Arven family is a precious castle on the outside," she said, her voice softer than before, "but inside... it’s a labyrinth full of loose ends, cracks, and desperate people trying to plug holes with whatever they can find. Even with other people. Even with me."

Demon felt a pang in his chest.

"You don’t deserve this," he said simply.

She looked away, as if she didn’t know how to receive kindness.

But then...

"And you?" she asked. — What did you really come here for, Demon?

He froze inside for a single instant.

But on the outside...

He smiled.

Smoothly, calm, impeccably convincing.

"Nothing much" he replied, leaning slightly toward her. "Just... enjoying the ball."

Her eyes lingered on his for long seconds.

The suspicion was there.

But there was also something different.

Something he hadn’t expected.

Something that, for a moment, almost made him forget that, at that very moment, the Arven family vault was open — and empty — thanks to him.

Morgana then took a deep breath and began to walk, descending the last flight of outside stairs.

"Come" she said, without looking back. "I’ll walk you to the gate. If anyone asks why you left early, I’ll say it was at my request."

Demon followed her.

And as they walked side by side under the cold night, a silent certainty grew within him:

He had escaped.

No one would suspect him.

No one would imagine.

And no one would suspect that the boy who left protected by the heiress Arven...

Was the same one who had just stolen the greatest secret of that mansion.