The Incubus System Chapter 1272. Childish

The Incubus System Chapter 1272. Childish

“But there’s more,” I added. “We attach trials to the quarter-finals. Not just combat. Simulated leadership problems. Disaster scenarios. Corruption tests. Real shit they’d face as lords. If they fail that, they don’t proceed.”

He tilted his head, like someone reading a stock report and seeing both potential and risk.

“Sounds human,” he said.

“It’s not,” I argued. “It’s practical. Beel was a glutton with zero policy sense. Zatan was a tyrant with trauma issues. I’m not saying we need scholars—but we need more than just murder machines.”

Damon nodded slowly, lips a thin line. “What about corruption?”

“The simulations are designed to catch that,” I said. “You give a candidate the choice—save civilians or secure gold. Let’s see who they pick.”

His eyes narrowed. “They’ll lie.”

“That’s fine,” I shrugged. “We’ll see what kind of lies they pick. That tells you more than the truth.”

He said nothing.

Which meant he was considering it.

Good.

“Syntyche said she’ll send a list,” I continued. “Azrael too. They won’t endorse directly, just give names that might be worth for you. But they warned us—too much political baggage might stir backlash.”

“Of course,” Damon muttered. “Half the demon world still thinks with nostalgia and tribal grudges.”

“Exactly. So the list stays sealed. Quiet. Just for us to evaluate behind the scenes.”

A long pause.

He stared out the window again. Wind brushing his coat. Golden light flickering over the glass.

“You want me to approve this?” he finally asked.

“Yes.”

“You think this’ll stabilize the territories?”

“I think it’s our best shot without pissing off everyone or triggering war.”

He turned to me.

And for the first time in a while, I saw… not just the Demon King. But my father.

The weight in his eyes. The calculation. The pride he wouldn’t voice. But it was there.

“You’re thinking ahead,” he said. “Finally.”

I blinked. “Is that… a compliment?”

“Don’t push it.”

I smirked.

He stepped forward, slowly walking toward the empty throne. “Send me the details. The rules. I want the structure laid out clean. If we do this, it has to be airtight.”

“I will,” I promised. “I’ll draft it myself.”

Before I could take a single step away—

His hand clamped down on my shoulder.

I barely had time to blink.

The world warped—sound vanished, pressure snapped, and space folded.

And then—

We landed.

He, gracefully, elegantly, like the laws of gravity bowed to his ego.

Me?

I stumbled.

Flat on the dais in front of the throne like someone dropped me mid-power pose. My knees buckled. My heel slipped. One hand caught the edge of the step just before I almost faceplanted on royal obsidian.

“I hate when you do that,” I grumbled, shaking my wrist out and brushing off my suit.

Lord Damon, of course, was already seated. Like a fucking drama king.

The throne didn’t creak. Didn’t shift. Didn’t even resist.

It just accepted him.

Like the damn thing had been carved for him and no one else.

His aura spread—not aggressively, not explosively. Just… naturally. Like sunlight flooding a window. You didn’t see it at first. You just noticed everything around it dimming in comparison. The air got heavier. The shadows sharper. Somewhere, a low hum echoed from the walls, like the tower itself was acknowledging his presence.

He sat back, fingers draped on the armrests, head tilted with that cold, unbothered perfection only Pride demons could pull off. And yeah. In that moment?

He didn’t just look like a lord.

He looked like the Lord.

Meanwhile, I was still on the floor, one leg bent awkwardly under me.

“Seriously?” I muttered. “Next time, let me walk.”

“I don’t have time to wait for your dramatic pacing,” he said, completely deadpan.

“My pacing is dignified.”

“It’s slow.”

I glared at him as I stood, straightening my suit again.

“And what was that move?” I asked, gesturing to the dais. “You land on the throne like a king, and I get tossed like a failed delivery?”

He gave a lazy shrug. “You didn’t specify a preference. Next time I’ll aim for the chandelier.”

“Oh good,” I said dryly. “Nothing says respect like being hung from the ceiling like a cursed Christmas ornament.”

He smirked—barely.

Then lifted a finger.

And just like that, a glass of wine materialized in his hand. Deep red. Aged. Probably more expensive than my entire bank account.

He took a sip.

Didn’t offer me one.

Of course.

I stood beside the throne, brushing off the last of the dust and straightening my cuffs.

And despite the mess, despite the stumble, despite the chaos—

A small part of me smiled.

Because here we were.

Father and son.

Both in suits.

Both on the stage of hell’s power structure.

Lord Damon swirled his wine glass again, fingers coiled around the stem with the same precision he used to end wars. He took a slow sip, like he was savoring it for effect.

And of course… he noticed.

“What?” he said without turning his head. “You want it?”

I blinked. “Want what?”

He smirked into the rim of the glass, eyes half-lidded. “The wine. You’ve been staring at it.”

I rolled my eyes. “No.”

“You sure? You came in here reeking of sex. I figured you’d want a drink to rehydrate.”

I cringed. “Can we not go back to that?”

He didn’t reply. Just took another sip. That smug sip.

‘Childish,’ I sneered internally. ‘You’re older than cities and still pulling the ‘smell ya later’ jokes.’

He gave a little sideways glance, lips twitching like he heard my internal monologue.

I straightened my back and crossed my arms. “I don’t want the damn wine. I wanted to ask about the city. The capital. Do you… need my help?”

He arched an elegant silver brow. “With?”

“With anything,” I said, sweeping a hand toward the door behind us. “Restoration. Order. Logistics. PR. Hell, I can charm a few officials into cooperation if you need it.”

He paused. Not long. Just long enough to make sure I’d feel the weight of the answer.

“No,” he said smoothly. “As you can see—” He gestured around the throne room. “All handled well. All good.”