THE DEMON LORD'S ACCIDENTAL TENTH WIFE

Inside the vast Royal Hall, the council had gathered, their expressions unreadable, yet heavy with silent judgment. Sunlight streamed through the towering windows, casting long shadows across the polished stone floor.

At the heart of it all, the accused knelt—his fate hanging by a thread. The murmurs of nobles and officials rippled through the hall, like vultures circling a dying beast. A single word could mean life or death.

And in the end, it was the Demon King's will that would decide all.

"Speak now," the General commanded, stepping aside to grant the trembling farmer and his family a chance to plead their case.

"M-My Lord…" The farmer's voice wavered. "Please, have mercy on us. The harvest this year—it has failed. It's as if we've been cursed!"

The council erupted in murmurs, some voices rising in irritation. Why should the Demon King concern himself with failing crops?

The General sneered. "And? Surely you didn't come here just to tell the Demon Lord about a bad harvest."

"N-No, my lord," the farmer stammered, eyes darting to his wife and children. "A man… Vladimir. He has taken our lands, enslaved our people, and forced our women and children into cruel labor!"

The council chamber stirred with impatience, murmurs rippling through the gathered nobles like a restless tide.

"And?" One of the councilmen scoffed. "That is none of our concern. If Lord Vladimir demands your labor, then serve him. Do not waste our time with petty complaints!"

The farmer clenched his fists, desperation tightening his face. "No, my lord, it is more than that! He starves us—our strength is failing. The fields suffer, and with them, the harvest. If this continues, the markets will wither, trade will falter… and famine will come." He dropped to his knees, forehead pressed to the cold stone. "We are not merely laborers; we are your people. If we perish, your land suffers. Please, I beg you, grant us your mercy—even if it means claiming us as your own. You are the King, and I am but a mere farmer… but it has taken me a year just to stand before you. Do not send me away empty-handed."

The chamber fell silent for a moment before the General let out a low, disdainful chuckle. "Mercy?" he scoffed. "The strong take what they want. The weak serve. That is the order of the world." His gaze hardened as he looked down at the kneeling man. "You expect the King to trouble himself over the woes of peasants? Know your place."

The council murmured among themselves, unimpressed. It was the same tale they had heard before. A weak man begging to be saved.

But then—

A soft thud echoed through the hall.

A single fruit rolled across the polished stone floor. Small, golden, ripe. It stopped just before the grand throne.

The room fell into silence.

The council turned their heads, eyes narrowing as they followed the path of the fallen fruit.

There—standing frozen near a grand fruit display, was a little girl. No older than six or seven. Her tiny hands clutched the edge of the table, her eyes wide with fear.

She had only wanted a taste. She had only reached out. But her touch had disturbed the entire tray, sending the fruit tumbling to the ground.

She swallowed hard, her breath shallow, knowing she had done something terribly wrong.

And then—for the first time that day—the Demon Lord moved.

The entire court tensed as a shift came from the throne.

The Demon King's eyes, once closed in disinterest, now opened.

His gaze, sharp and inhuman, fell upon the child.

The shift was subtle—a flick of his fingers, the slow rise of his head. But it was enough to send a ripple of unease through the hall.

"Come."

His voice was deep, commanding, yet strangely calm.

The girl flinched.

Her father let out a choked sound, eyes wide with horror. The council members stiffened, exchanging wary glances. No one—no one—was ever directly summoned before the throne.

But the little girl, drawn by something beyond fear, moved.

Her tiny feet stepped forward, hesitant at first, but then more certain.

One step. Two steps. Three.

The grand throne was raised above them all, resting atop a flight of dark stone steps. And as she climbed, the only sound in the vast chamber was the soft patter of her footsteps.

She reached him.

For a moment, she hesitated—until she touched his boot.

The guards tensed. The council held their breath.

But the Demon King simply reached down, lifted her with ease, and placed her on his lap.

The entire hall was stunned.

No one moved. No one dared to speak.

The child stared up at him—this figure of legend, this monster of untold power. His face was sharp, his eyes inhuman, his presence suffocating. And yet…he did nothing but study her.

"You wanted a taste?"

His voice was quieter this time. Not soft, but not cruel.

The girl nodded hesitantly. "Yes…" she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. "I was hungry."

The king's gaze flicked down, taking in the state of her clothes—tattered but clean, the fabric old yet carefully mended. She was poor, but she was not filthy. Her family had done their best to preserve their dignity, despite their suffering.

Slowly, he reached for the nearest fruit—a golden peach.

Without another word, he pressed it to her lips.

The child hesitated… then took a bite.

Juice dribbled down her chin, and for the first time since stepping into the hall, her face lit up with quiet delight.

The Demon King's expression remained unreadable.

He took another fruit. Fed her again.

And then—his gaze shifted.

From the girl.

To her father.

The air grew heavier. The warmth in his presence vanished.

The farmer, still on his knees, could feel the weight of the Demon King's attention pressing down on him like an unseen force. His body screamed to bow lower, to submit, to beg.

The Demon King spoke.

"You starve." His tone was no longer calm, but edged with something unreadable. "Tell me. Why?"

The hall was silent, the weight of judgment hanging thick in the air. The farmer, worn and desperate, knelt before the Demon King, his voice shaking but resolute.

"A man called Vladimir," he began, his hands gripping the rough fabric of his tattered clothes. "He has deprived us of food and water. He starves us, making it impossible to work the land. Our harvest is failing, my Lord. Please… have mercy."

The Demon King leaned forward slightly, his gaze shifting to the small girl at the farmer's side. He reached out, ruffling her unkempt hair with an almost absentminded touch. "Starving? A poor harvest? And what do you suppose I do about it, hmm?"

The farmer swallowed hard. "I… I am in no place to say what you should do. You are the king, the great immortal Lord. I am just a mortal—weak, powerless. My Lord… I am in no position to make demands."

The Demon King's lips curled into the ghost of a smirk. "Wise." He turned his head slightly. "General. What do you suppose I do? Buy them? Free them from Vladimir's grasp? There is always bondage among men. There is no peace among mortals."

The general scoffed. "My Lord, I suppose we buy them. For the palace. They will work the fields and produce for the court, alongside five thousand other farmers."

The Demon King exhaled slowly, as if considering. Then, his crimson eyes locked onto the farmer. "Fair enough." His voice was quiet but final. "Name your price."

The farmer lowered his head further, his voice barely above a whisper.

"My Lord… I have no price. You could end my life with a mere gesture, so what value does gold hold in the face of your will? We are but dust before you." He bowed lower, his voice shaking. "If you grant us food and shelter, there is no need for payment. Let us serve in your vineyards, in your fields—we will work until our bones break if it means earning a place under your rule."

The Demon Lord leaned back on his throne, his expression unreadable. He glanced at the small girl still sitting on his lap, her wide eyes staring up at him. With a slow movement, he plucked another fruit from the silver tray beside him and placed it in her tiny hands.

"Eat," he commanded, his voice low yet absolute.

The girl hesitated, looking at her father, who quickly nodded. She bit into the fruit, juice dribbling down her chin. The hall was silent, save for the faint sound of her chewing.

Then, without warning, the Demon Lord lifted her by the back of her tunic and set her lightly on the ground. His piercing gaze returned to the kneeling farmer.

"Fifty thousand," he stated.

The man's breath hitched. "M-My Lord?"

The Demon Lord raised a hand, and instantly, a servant stepped forward, carrying an impossibly heavy chest. When it hit the floor, the sound echoed through the hall—an undeniable weight, the sheer force of wealth enough to make the council shift uncomfortably.

"Fifty thousand gold," he repeated, his voice steady, unwavering. "For you. For your family. For your suffering."

The farmer trembled, his knees nearly giving out. "My Lord, that is too much. We are not worth—"

The Demon Lord tilted his head, amusement flickering in his crimson eyes. "Are you questioning my generosity?"

"N-No, never!" The man lowered his forehead to the ground, his voice breaking.

The King scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "Then take it. Or throw it into the river—I do not care. But from this moment on, you are mine." His gaze darkened, the weight of his words suffocating. "You, your children, your wives—you belong to me now."

He rose from his throne, his robes sweeping behind him as he descended the steps. The General followed closely, sparing the farmer only a glance of disinterest before speaking over his shoulder.

"The King has spoken. See that you don't waste his generosity."

The heavy doors groaned open, and the Demon Lord stepped out, leaving behind a hall so silent that even the sound of the child's soft chewing seemed deafening. 

"My Lord… My Lord!!"

The frantic voice cut through the open air, footsteps pounding against the dirt. A man sprinted toward them, his breaths ragged, but as soon as he was close, he dropped to his knees, bowing low.

The General scowled. "What nonsense! You run like a beast—speak!"

The messenger's throat bobbed as he swallowed. "My Lord… Lady Vespera and Queen Selena… They are fighting."

The reins in the Demon King's hand stilled. A shadow passed over his face, unreadable, but the weight of his gaze was killing.

For a moment, he said nothing.

"Where?" His

voice was quiet. Too quiet.

The messenger flinched. "The courtyard, my Lord."

The King exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair before turning to the General.

"Shall we?"