"Riser Phenex has gained momentum, strength, and influence far stronger than we initially thought, Lord Sirzechs. He is a threat. Do you want to dispose of him?" the silver-haired maid asked, her voice dripping with a suggestive tone.
Sirzechs may have often been perceived as someone with a pacifist mindset, but that didn't mean he was shy about disposing of anyone who posed a serious threat to the Underworld, should it be necessary.
However, Sirzechs shook his head, rejecting the suggestion. "It would be better for him to remain alive than dead, Grayfia. His death would not benefit us in the slightest. All it would do is prove Riser right and make our actions appear unjust. It would show that we suppressed him only to cowardly kill him when he became inconvenient. That's not the way to handle things."
There was more Sirzechs didn't say to Grayfia. If Riser were to die, Rias would likely follow him, and Sirzechs wasn't prepared to see that happen.
Since that last dinner and Riser's departure to Vienna to pursue his dream of becoming a painter, Rias had grown infatuated with him.
In her mind, Riser had become the perfect partner, someone who understood her. Her thoughts grew more twisted, more deluded, as she convinced herself that Riser was the prince charming she had always imagined.
She barely knew him, and yet, everything about him was a fantasy constructed in her own mind. The man she thought she knew was just an illusion, a projection of her desires.
The last banquet only worsened matters. Riser's final speech about avenging Sona, demanding justice for the devils, and pledging support for Serafall Leviathan sent everything spiraling out of control.
Rias had refused to speak with him again, especially after he nullified their engagement publicly.
What would have happened if Sirzechs had accepted Grayfia's suggestion?
He knew better than anyone that this wasn't the right way.
But that wasn't the only reason. Zekram Baal had also shown support for Riser's rhetoric, and public opinion was shifting in his favor.
If Riser were to die, it would only cause more chaos than it was worth.
"Are you sure, Lord Sirzechs? Apparently, he's already marched into the Capital, bringing all of his henchmen with him. He even defeated Falbium Asmodeus in front of everyone and demanded that all of his policies be fulfilled," Grayfia reported.
"He did?" Sirzechs' eyes widened in disbelief.
Could this truly be the same man—the coward who once ran away from his family and responsibilities, all to chase his dream of becoming an artist?
"I don't think he can defeat Asmodeus," Grayfia remarked, her voice dripping with sarcasm, the cutting tone clearly aimed at Adolf Riser.
"I believe this is nothing more than Asmodeus pretending to be defeated. From the very beginning, he had already surrendered to Adolf Riser. The former house of Glasya-Labolas, which backs him, has long sworn their allegiance to Adolf Riser and become one of his most loyal supporters."
Her words carried weight, laced with suspicion. It wasn't baseless. Falbium's original allegiance wasn't to Asmodeus but to the Glasya-Labolas house.
The ease with which Falbium had been defeated by a mere upstart brat seemed utterly unrealistic to her.
She could only conclude that the man had betrayed them from the start, orchestrating a theatrical defeat in front of Adolf Riser to bolster the brat's reputation and influence.
After all, defeating one of the Four Satans was an extraordinary accomplishment—one that could garner Adolf Riser immense fame and attract a legion of new followers.
"Even Asmodeus too?" Sirzechs roared, slamming his hand on the table with enough force to crack its surface.
His fury was palpable, his crimson aura flaring violently as he processed the betrayal of someone he had considered a friend—someone who had stood by him during the civil war against the Satan Faction.
And now?
Now that very person had turned his back on Sirzechs, aligning himself with this mustachioed brat, Adolf Riser, a radicalist who clung to the outdated ideals of the old Satan faction.
"How about it, Lord Sirzechs? Shall we dispose of him once and for all?" Grayfia's voice shifted, taking on a dangerously seductive lilt as she leaned in slightly.
She knew her husband well—when indecisive, he would take forever to reach a conclusion, but when consumed by anger, his judgment could be swift and brutal.
She sought to push him over the edge, to take advantage of his rage and eliminate this pest named Adolf Riser once and for all.
But unlike her expectations, Sirzechs didn't give the order she had anticipated.
"No, you will not," he commanded firmly, his tone regaining its calm edge, though the fury still simmered in his gaze. "Take him away and throw him into the prison along with his followers. He will be judged according to our laws."
"Yes, Lord Sirzechs," Grayfia replied, bowing with barely concealed disappointment.
Though she would obey her lord's orders without question, she couldn't suppress the desire to teach Adolf Riser a lesson he would never forget.
As she turned to leave, her crimson eyes glinted with cold determination and a faint, cruel edge.
She would carry out the task—but nothing said she couldn't make the process utterly agonizing for the burning chicken who dared oppose her lord.
...
Being thrown into prison and beaten by a girl had never been a pleasant experience for Adolf Riser.
His march had failed, and he was cast into the dungeons, his followers following suit as they were captured.
Now, sitting in the cold, damp cell, he found himself confronted by the silver-haired maid with crimson eyes, who looked down at him with a menacing glare.
His hands were cuffed behind the chair, his demonic power sealed by the chains that bound him.
If anyone unfamiliar with the situation were to witness this scene, they might think it was a twisted game of BDSM being played out in the depths of the dungeon.
"Riser Phenex," the maid began, her voice cold and filled with disdain, "You have been a thorn in Lord Sirzechs's side for far too long. I should have disposed of you, but Lord Sirzechs didn't want any harm to come to you. Be grateful, mongrel."
Riser's eyes narrowed as he looked up at her.
His voice dripped with mockery as he spoke, his tone sharp and sarcastic. "Yes, I am truly grateful to our great Satan for sparing my pitiful life. Indeed, Lady Grayfia."
The words were like venom, a direct challenge to the maid's authority.
Grayfia's eyes narrowed in irritation, and without hesitation, she stuffed a cloth into Riser's mouth.
She knew violence would not help here; it would only turn Riser into a martyr.
If the rumors spread that Riser Phenex had been mistreated in prison, it would only fuel his supporters and make him more dangerous.
So, with a quick motion, she silenced him.
She gave him one last look, a cold, disdainful snort escaping her lips. "Enjoy your time in prison, Riser Phenex. Your day of judgment will come, and when it does, I'll make sure you pay for every crime you've did."
Without another word, she turned and left, the sound of her footsteps fading down the stone corridors.
The prison was silent once more, leaving only the man with blonde hair, chained in the chair, surrounded by the oppressive cold and dampness of the dungeon.
But Riser's eyes—those eyes—remained unchanged. The fire in them burned bright, unwavering, filled with a fierce determination that could not be extinguished.
Failure had not broken him; instead, it had tempered him, made him more resolute, and far stronger than he had been before.
His will was unshaken, and in the depths of that dungeon, he knew that the fight was far from over.