When I thought of 'modern' or 'medieval', I didn't think of a luxurious gothic mansion in the middle of freaking New York City, USA—of all goddamn places. The skyline alone told me more than any info dump ever could.
Grayfia had opened a gate—a swirling obsidian rift—and walked through like she was returning home from grocery shopping.
And boom.
Welcome to Manhattan. Concrete jungles and sinful skyscrapers.
The mansion stood like an ancient king among businessmen and steel titans, draped in black stone and blood-red ivy. It had gargoyle statues, floating flame braziers, and—because demonic aesthetics are a thing—freaking void runes pulsating on the front gate like they were part of the Wi-Fi password.
Modern tech met demonic absurdity in the weirdest architectural marriage I'd ever seen.
"...So uh," I scratched my head, "I take it demons adapted to human civilization just fine?"
Grayfia gave me a look over her shoulder. "Demons didn't adapt. We simply let mortals catch up to our conveniences."
Fair.
Still, walking through a double-door entrance bigger than my childhood house and stepping onto obsidian-marble floors with floating chandeliers above was not what I expected from a post-apocalyptic thousand-year nap.
"Why New York?"
"It's a Nexus," she answered coolly. "Thin barrier. High foot traffic. Plenty of mana to siphon. And humans ignore what they don't understand."
I peeked through one of the tall cathedral windows and saw a man walk past the mansion, glance once, blink, and then his eyes slid off like it didn't exist.
"Ah. Stealth enchantment. Got it."
Grayfia simply nodded and led me deeper inside.
...
"Master, hot bath water is ready~" Grayfia called out to me from somewhere down the luxurious hallway, her voice as melodic and smooth as ever—if one ignored the subtle demonic undertone that made her sound like she could purr and slit your throat at the same time.
I blinked.
Hot bath?
Wait, no. Back up.
A sexy demon maid just called out to me—Master—in a gothic mansion hidden in Manhattan, where humans casually ignore literal void runes like they're Times Square ads.
And I was standing barefoot on obsidian marble floors, which were somehow warm and polished to the point that my reflection looked like I was about to audition for a vampire boyband.
This was officially too much.
"Do I have clothes? Like, other than these rags?" I called out, glancing down at my still-torn ceremonial robes. They were crusted with dried demon blood and ancient magic residue—not a fashion statement, unless the goal was "post-apocalyptic hobo chic."
Grayfia reappeared a moment later from a different corridor, a folded pile of clothes in her arms.
Black windbreaker with silver lining, dark jeans that looked tailored from some stretch-resistant enchanted fabric, and a high-collared crimson shirt that gave off "vampire rockstar" vibes. Honestly? Kind of badass.
She handed me the clothes with a soft bow, her silver hair cascading down like a waterfall of moonlight.
"I took the liberty of resizing and enchanting them for your physique, Master."
I blinked again, taking the clothes and turning them over in my hands. Smooth, dense material—too soft for synthetic human fabric, too durable for simple cotton.
"What's this made of?"
"Daemonweave and Arkanite-thread. Heat-resistant, bloodproof, tear-resistant up to S-rank attacks."
"…Of course it is."
"And what's with this S-rank term you used?" I raised a brow, holding up the shirt with two fingers like it might bite me. "As far as I remember, the Demon Realm used terms like Abyss-tier, Overlord-grade, or 'Oh-god-oh-shit-run' level."
Grayfia tilted her head slightly, as if amused.
"It seems the world did not pause for your thousand-year nap, Master," she said gently, with a trace of sarcasm.
I grunted.
"No shit."
Grayfia moved like moonlight—graceful, quiet, but with weight. She stepped closer, reached up to disrobe me from the ceremonial rag, and tugged around my form like a tailor sculpting her masterpiece.
I flinched.
"Whoa, hey—I can do this myself."
Her red eyes flicked up, emotionless but glowing faintly, like coals under ice.
"Can you really~" That sweet tone sent
I know if I refused one more time if I refused one more time, she'd disrobe me with a flick of her wrist and zero care for personal space. Not because she was some perverted maid stereotype—but because she was Grayfia Lucifuge, the Silver-Haired Queen of Annihilation, and apparently, my body was her property to take care of, according to the old demonic vow of servitude.
Still, I held my ground, if only out of residual pride from my previous life.
"I can do this myself," I repeated firmly, hugging the enchanted clothes to my chest like some kind of magical security blanket.
She paused. Blinked.
Then gave a smile that wasn't a smile—more like the kind that emperors wear before signing execution orders.
"Very well," she said smoothly, before stepping aside with a graceful motion of her hand. "The bath is through the red door, third on the left. I'll have tea ready by the time you're decent."
I gave her a skeptical side-eye. "You're actually letting me undress in peace? Not gonna, I don't know, burst in with a towel and ancient soap of demonic origin?"
"I could, if that's your preference."
"That would be optimal—"
Ahem!
"…I said that out loud, didn't I?"
I cleared my throat, shifted my weight awkwardly, and avoided eye contact like a sinner dodging judgment.
Grayfia's lips curved—not a smirk, not a smile. A knowing curve. Dangerous. Delicate. Deadly.
"I'll prepare the soap," she purred, before vanishing in a blink.
And with another blink, she reappeared, but only with an extra short towel wrapped around her was the size of my willpower—short, fragile, and hanging on for dear life.
Grayfia.
Silver hair cascading like moonlight on obsidian skin, her figure carved by gods with too much time and a questionable sense of moderation. Her expression? Calm. Serene. And annoyingly professional, as if the whole "stepping out of space wearing barely anything while holding a basket of demonic bathing essentials" thing was part of her daily job description.
"Master forgot his soap," she said, voice like velvet over blades, as she casually walked past me.
No sway. No flirtation. Just deadly confidence.
If this were an anime, my nose would have bled already. Instead, I just stood there, paralyzed in a fusion of fear, awe, and unholy admiration.
"…Right. Soap," I muttered weakly, following her like a good little demon prince who wasn't currently overwhelmed by a beautiful maid in a towel.
The bath chamber was, of course, absurd.
A circular room bigger than most apartments. Carved from onyx stone with glowing runes humming along the walls. The water wasn't water—it shimmered like molten sapphire, emitting steam that smelled like lavender and sin. Floating lotus petals pulsed with soft magical light, and hovering crystals rained down droplets of warm mist like it was a spa for devil kings.
"This looks less like a bath and more like a ritual chamber for sacrificial virgin gods," I deadpanned, eyeing the floating petals and multi-tiered fountains shaped like succubi.
Grayfia set down the soap with the utmost reverence—probably forged from the lard of a fallen archangel or something equally ridiculous—and turned to me with a straight face.
"I assure you, Master. No virgins were harmed in the making of this bath."
I squinted at her.
"That wasn't a denial."
She only smiled.
"Disrobe. Now."
I muttered, "Am I the master or the sacrificial lamb here?"
Grayfia didn't reply. She simply stood there—serene, regal, dangerous—all wrapped in that scandalously short towel that was doing overtime to preserve whatever modesty she still claimed to have. Her arms were crossed under her chest, her crimson eyes half-lidded, and that soft, commanding aura around her didn't waver even once.
I gulped.
"Right, right. Disrobing now."
With a simple tug, that piece of rag flowed downward, pooling around my feet like the discarded skin of my former, post-apocalyptic hobo self.
"Why do I feel like some innocent little girl led by a carnivorous wolf pretending to be a maid?"
I muttered this to myself, standing naked, as I felt Grayfia's gaze heat up a notch as her eyes roam my form with lust and worship mixed with...a sort of restrained reverence that made my skin prickle.
She didn't move. Didn't speak.
She just stared.
And in that gaze, I saw everything.
Ruinous devotion. Smouldering possessiveness. The kind of hunger that didn't stem from lust alone—but from a millennium of solitude, loyalty, and longing sharpened into a blade.
I hurried into the bath before I could be reduced to ashes from embarrassment alone.
The moment my skin touched the sapphire water, a pleasant wave of energy surged through me—like soaking in liquid mana, tingling against every nerve. The tension began to bleed out of my body, and I let myself sink deeper, until only my head rested above the steamy surface.
"...Damn," I muttered under my breath. "I could die here and not complain."
"Please don't," came Grayfia's voice from somewhere just outside the veil of steam. "Not after I've cleaned the damn place for your arrival."
I blinked. "You cleaned the ritual bath?"
"Every day," she answered coolly. "For 1,022 years."
That… shut me up.
The silence that followed wasn't awkward—it was heavy. A silence soaked in memory and things unsaid.
Eventually, she spoke again. Softer this time.
"I didn't know when you'd awaken, Master. But I had to be ready. This home was built for you. In case… you ever returned."
"…Grayfia…come here."