The Incubus System Chapter 1242. A Good Host

The Incubus System Chapter 1242. A Good Host

I walked him to the door, handed him a sandwich from the fridge—because I am a good host—and gave him a pat on the back like a parent sending their weird adult child to school.

“Tell your mom I said hi,” I said.

He grunted. “Tell your spider girlfriend to chill.”

“She’s not chill,” I said. “She has a throne made of bones.”

“…You know what? I don’t want to know.”

Then he left. Finally. Like a reluctant stray cat accepting his fate.

I leaned against the door for a second after it shut, exhaling slowly.

Red padded over and stared up at me like he could smell the hell journey coming.

“Alright,” I said softly. “Let’s get this over with.”

Time to bathe.

Time to gear up.

Time to call on a favor I was definitely going to pay for in more ways than one.

Bloodrender wasn’t going to retrieve itself.

I stepped into the bathroom with all the drama of a man preparing for war, which—technically—I was. Just… demon war, not human politics war. Which somehow made it worse.

The light flicked on with a hum. Tiles cold under my feet. The mirror fogged slightly from the steam already swirling in the air, and the silence felt heavier than usual. Like the bathroom knew I had to look good for reasons that involved both survival and seduction. Nothing like high-stakes diplomacy through morally questionable intimacy.

I peeled off my clothes like regrets—shirt and pants. The dried pizza cheese crusted around the collar crackled softly as it flaked. My hair stuck up in stubborn chaos. I looked like a warlock who’d partied too hard with eldritch horrors and slept in a graveyard.

I stepped under the spray.

Hot water hit my back and I let out a quiet groan—not the sexy kind, more like a tired sigh from the depths of my soul.

Steam rose instantly, curling around me as the pressure soothed tense muscles. I tilted my head back and just stood there, letting it run down my spine. The pizza crumbs. The sweat. The mistakes. All rinsed off and spiraling into the drain.

The scent of the soap cut through the steam. Sharp, clean, just a little bit floral. I lathered up, rubbing the aches out of my shoulders, scrubbing behind my ears like my life depended on it.

Honestly, it might’ve.

Syntyche didn’t exactly do “grunge chic.”

By the time I stepped out, the mirror was fogged completely. I wiped it with the side of my arm and stared at my reflection.

Hair still damp and curling around my face. Skin clear. No cracks. No visible trauma, at least on the outside.

Still naked.

Still a mess under the surface.

But hey.

“Good enough,” I muttered to my own reflection.

I stepped back, cracked my neck, and snapped my fingers.

A tear in reality opened with a low hum—not flashy, just efficient. A portal to my city.

Licheri.

Warm light spilled through the edges, and I stepped into it barefoot.

The moment my foot touched the obsidian floor of my private dimension, the atmosphere changed. Not hot. Not cold. Just sharp. Like the city recognized me instantly. Because of course it did.

This was mine.

My territory.

My throne.

I activated my Nephilim form mid-step.

A pulse of magic. Quick. Familiar.

My form shimmered and shifted—my muscles filled out and my presence sharpened like a blade pulled from shadow. Black horns curled from my head, subtle yet vicious. A pair of angelic wings unfurled behind me, feathers silver-white with fading golden tips. Opposite them, devilish wings—black, sleek, membranous—spread wide. Balanced. Contradictory. Me.

My incubus tail flicked once, then wrapped lazily around my thigh like it had a mind of its own.

And just like that, I was Damian again.

The version of me built for rule, charm, and manipulation in equal measure.

Demon’s Clothes activated like a whisper through silk—my body wrapped itself in fabric and leather. Nice shirts, ornate coat, dark slacks fitted for movement, and gloves with the sigil of Lust branded across the back. Elegant. Dangerous. Sharp enough to make Syntyche purr. Yeah, I decided to suit up extra today. A monarch of dusk and dawn, made flesh.

I stepped into my office.

Curtis didn’t even flinch.

He was scribbling notes onto a pad, his usual black-rimmed glasses slightly askew, blazer already wrinkled. Half a dozen papers floated in the air around him like obedient butterflies, flipping every few seconds with glowing glyphs. He didn’t even look up.

“Welcome back, Your Highness,” Curtis said without looking up. “You have three urgent memos.”

“What memos?” I asked, dragging a hand through my half-dried hair as I walked barefoot across the marble floor.

Curtis adjusted his glasses, tone flat as ever. “One from the Department of Underworld Trade demanding clarification on the 'lava-infused slime wine' export taxes. One from the Succubus Culture Committee requesting your personal endorsement for their upcoming lingerie-themed poetry night. And one from a unholy church in the Upper Lust Ring wanting to know if you could attend their events.”

I paused mid-step. Blinked.

“Put it on the maybe pile,” I said, moving past him like that was a normal amount of chaos to walk into post-battle.

Leon was already at the side, standing near the window with a report in hand. His armor was clean but scratched. He’d probably been out doing damage control all morning. He nodded once.

“You look like hell,” I said casually.

He gave me a dry huff, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You should see the other side.”

“Report,” I said, more tired than sharp, though my tone still carried the weight of a command.

“We tracked down the remnants of Zatan and Beel’s forces through Sector Nine, the Outer Spire Ridge, and the abandoned quarry outside the southern mana vein. Most scattered after your last... performance.”

“Performance,” I repeated, eyebrow raised. “Nice phrasing.”

Leon didn’t look up. “We wiped out three of their underground hideouts. Small units. Beel’s followers were more fanatical—two self-detonated rather than surrender. The rest were either captured or fled west toward neutral zones.”