After the verdict, Donovan sat sulking in the waiting hall, his head buried in his hands.
He looked like a miserable heap of regret.
A very muscular heap, mind you.
The G.O.L.D. guards standing by the door kept sneaking glances at him.
One of them wore a short jacket with the golden emblem stitched over her protective vest.
"Look at that…"
His slicked-back hair gleamed under the light – and the judgmental look in his dark eyes made it clear he knew no mercy.
"Hm?"
The other stood more casually beside him –
in his field uniform: tactical pants, a dark shirt with a chest harness.
His fingers drummed playfully against the holster.
Both were black-haired, both had green eyes – like nearly all guardian vampires.
"He really looks like someone dragged him out of a dumpster…" one guard muttered quietly.
"Dumpster?" the other snorted, trying not to laugh out loud.
"More like a pile of dirt that tried to disguise itself."
Donovan's ears twitched at the words.
He ground his teeth.
"Can't you idiots hear me sitting right here?!"
His voice was far too quiet for them to actually hear –
His expression, grim – even if what he said made no sense at all:
Because he could be seen, but not heard.
But Don – was just Don.
And as much as he wanted to throw a comeback at them,
he instead picked at the hole in his worn-out shoe and muttered under his breath:
"When I catch you two alone next time, we'll see who looks like a damn pile of dirt."
His gaze lingered on the machine gun.
On the G.O.L.D. emblem.
And the fine print beneath it:
Geheime Ordnung der Letzten Division.
[Secret Order of the Last Division.]
But Donovan…
Donovan couldn't read.
Only a few letters made sense to him.
"Geim… Od… de letz… udo…" he mumbled, trying to piece it together.
Whatever.
Boring.
His wavy white hair – dulled to an unhealthy gray from dust and dirt – fell messily across his face.
He brushed it back with an irritated sigh.
"It's always my fault, huh? Like there aren't plenty of other demons out there besides me…"
Self-awareness? A foreign concept.
And that outfit…
His torn shirt had held up for years – and yet, the Tyrant demon saw no reason to change it.
It was comfortable.
Well, the moth holes were a bit annoying.
But who needed new clothes anyway?
His thoughts raced – relentless, tangled, endless.
Bodyguard, the king said?
Why?
He scrunched his mouth into a defiant little pout.
Was I supposed to guard someone?
Or does someone end up guarding me?
And why two years?
Why not three days?
His eyes narrowed.
Or… not at all?!
Before he could sink any deeper into the swamp of his own thoughts,
a thunderous voice boomed through the room:
"Donovan!"
He jolted upright like a rabbit caught under a hawk's shadow.
"WHAT? I didn't do anything!" he shouted –pure reflex, already bracing for his own defense.
Then he saw Kioto standing in the doorway.
His white uniform, as flawless as ever,
and that strict – though not unkind – look aimed straight at the demon.
A theatrical, resigned sigh followed.
Then – cold as ice:
"Take him to the bath."
Kioto turned to the guards.
"The boy…" he emphasized the word in such a way that even the dimmest soul in the room understood no one actually believed it,
"…smells worse than a four-day-old corpse."
"What?!"
Don shot to his feet as if someone had pressed a hot iron against his back.
"B–bath? Me? Why? I smell totally fine! Right?"
He turned to the guards for help – but they only stared back at him with wide, mocking grins.
"Sure," one of them said sarcastically.
"You smell… impressive. Bet we could use you as a weapon."
"I don't smell that bad!" Don snapped back,
though his voice came out more like a nervous croak than an actual protest.
Kioto stepped closer, arms crossed over his chest as he studied the boy.
"Donovan, be honest. When was the last time you took a bath?"
"Uh…"
Don froze – desperately searching for an answer.
"That was… uh… sometime. Probably?"
"Sometime," Kioto repeated dryly, then gave a curt nod to the guards.
"Take him."
His gaze cut back to Don – sharp, absolute, leaving no room for argument.
"And trust me, if he doesn't go willingly, I'll carry him to the tub myself."
"Carry?!"
Don's hands shot up defensively.
"No, no, no carrying! I'll— I'll go! Damn it…"
He kept muttering under his breath as he followed the guards with his head hanging low.
"I'm going to take a bath. Willingly. Great. Fantastic. Just my thing…"
Kioto watched him go.
For a brief moment, the stern expression on his face softened.
"Maybe he'll turn into a half-decent guy after all."
Time passed…
It didn't take long before the entire hallway outside the bath hall echoed with Donovan's relentless yelling.
Servants froze in shock; a few exchanged amused glances as the shrill screaming behind the glass door grew louder and louder.
Then, suddenly – the door burst open, and a completely soaked woman stormed out.
"ENOUGH!"
She trembled with fury, her wet apron clinging to her body as her voice thundered through the corridor.
"I have NEVER met anyone who makes such a spectacle out of taking a bath! I quit!"
She threw her apron to the floor, spun around one last time, and huffed:
"I QUIT!"
Inside, Donovan sat in the massive, steaming tub – chest soaked, face red, hair plastered to his forehead.
His chest heaved with every breath.
"Damn it, I hate bathing! You always have to scream so damn loud!" he panted, flushed and exhausted – then let his arms flop into the water with a splash.
Droplets flew everywhere.
"What kind of torture is this?! First hot water, then cold water, then that crazy woman nearly rips my scalp off… Man, I'm not gonna survive this!"
With an annoyed flick, he pushed the dripping curls out of his face and took a closer look around:
Tiles.
Everywhere those damn tiles.
Shiny marble, spotless.
Thick carpets that must've cost a fortune.
"What kind of joint is this?" he muttered, his gray eyes sweeping critically through the room.
Looks like a damn museum…
He frowned.
Who the hell puts carpets in a wet room?
"They couldn't have used a little wood instead? Bunch of decadent freaks…"
A short smirk crossed his face – then he straightened his shoulders with sudden determination.
"Whatever. As long as I get out of here soon."
He grabbed the edge of the tub, ready to pull himself up.
But then — the glass door opened again.
"So, you don't like bathing?"
His muscles stiffened.
"Huh?"
His head turned slowly toward the door,
his heart practically stopping in his chest.
There she was:
Ayumi.
The queen herself.
Her brown hair was braided into a flawless, intricate plait that framed the graceful line of her neck.
"Donovan, isn't it?"
Her sky-blue eyes looked at him with a mix of kindness and quiet amusement.
Her red lips curved into a faint, elegant smile.
Donovan froze.
Holy hell… she looks like an angel…
Inside, a wild battle raged – fascination clashing with sheer panic.
No — more than an angel.
His eyes widened; he couldn't stop staring.
She's… divine…
Shut up, Don.
Don't think about it.
"The king told me you're going to be the new bodyguard…" Ayumi said softly.
She lifted her chin slightly – that familiar gesture she always used to carry discomfort with grace.
He noticed it – a loose strand slipping free from her intricate braid, which she casually blew out of her face.
Too sexy.
Donovan's pout tightened; his fingers clenched against the rim of the tub with a faint grind.
"However he came to the conclusion that serving as a bodyguard counts as punishment—" Ayumi gave a quiet, elegant sigh,"—and for our son, of all people."
With a towel in her hands, she stepped closer.
Her presence filled the room like warm sunlight – yet in her eyes lingered a shadow Donovan couldn't quite understand.
"B–Bodyguard?" he stammered, his voice trembling like a dripping glass.
Don't freak out, you idiot! Stop staring…
She leaned forward – reaching for the shampoo bottle.
Oh man… they're right in front of my face. Focus, Don! Think of… bread?
Ayumi gave a faint smile, kneeling beside the tub as she began—
—washing his hair!
The Queen of Vynesalic…
was washing HIS hair.
If she only knew… I'd rather bury myself in this foam and never come out again.
The scent surrounded him – sweet, warm, intoxicating.
His gaze flicked briefly toward her collarbone – then darted away at once.
But before he could sink completely into panic, her voice came – soft and low:
"I don't think this is a good idea."
"W–what?" Don shot upright, splashing water everywhere.
"That the king gave you this role as punishment."
A quiet sigh escaped her as she continued to massage his hair.
"My son already has it hard enough.
If someone is forced to spend time with him…"
Her fingers paused for a moment.
"…then it only means more pain for him."
Her eyes held not just beauty, but a deep, quiet sorrow.
"Huh?"
Donovan blinked – and suddenly, the noise in his head fell silent.
She thinks no one wants to be around her son…
His heart pounded – this time, not from panic.
He slowly lifted his head, meeting her gaze directly.
"I'll do it," he blurted out.
Far too loud — far too fast.
Ayumi looked up in surprise. "Really?"
"Yeah, I swear! Totally!" He nodded so hard that foam splattered onto the floor.
Ayumi's serious expression melted into a touched, gentle smile.
A moment – just to see, just to feel.
Then she placed her hands on his shoulders — and pulled him into an embrace.
"Thank you, Donovan."
Donovan sat frozen stiff.
Inside him, a wild mix of emotions raged:
Pride. Panic.
And… a bit of excitement – which he'd never admit out loud.
Oh man… if she only knew I'm not really a kid anymore!
What— a demon…
But the thought kept hammering inside his head—
until he finallyleft the bath himself…
Water dripped from his hair as his heartbeat echoed unevenly – half shame, half pride.
The Queen, huh…
Yet the moment he stepped into the hallway,
reality slammed right back into him.
Kioto.
As strict as ever, already waiting – his expression so serious, you'd think he was about to command a demon war:
"Follow me."
Still a little dazed, the curly-haired demon wandered down the royal corridor with a blissfully spaced-out smile.
The images in his head shamelessly lingered on the queen's… generous figure – so much so that he nearly tripped over his own feet. "Huh?!"
"Watch it."
The king's adviser walked beside him, a digital clipboard in hand, making notes with surgical precision. Control embodied.
Oh, by all demons… she smelled so damn good…
The thought echoed so loud and clear in his mind, that Don almost feared someone else might hear it.
He tugged nervously at the green wool sweater with the open collar – the one they'd given him to wear.
Kioto's lecture on rules and etiquette droned on beside him – and Don followed it only halfway, with one distracted ear.
"…and those tits—" he muttered under his breath, so quietly that even he jumped at the sound of his own voice.
"What did you just say?"
Kioto stopped dead in his tracks, one eyebrow arching sharply.
"I— uh— I meant manners! I said manners! Are there… special manners or something?" Don stammered, mentally slapping a hand over his mouth.
Heat rushed to his face as he avoided Kioto's stern gaze – pure panic.
Kioto stared at him for a long moment – then sighed.
"Yes. There are. And you'd better learn them fast."
Kioto gave a small shake of his head and turned back to his clipboard.
"So… in the north wing, there are fine rune corridors, and one must always—"
He began listing the key etiquette rules in painful detail.
Too detailed. Too boring.
"Manners, right…" Don muttered under his breath — as his thoughts once again drifted dangerously off course.
Ayumi. The way she leaned forward…
Damn it!
He blinked hard, panicking, trying to refocus on Kioto's words – but the monotonous explanations washed over him like a distant waterfall.
No matter how hard he tried,
Kioto's voice was nothing more – than the persistent buzz of a mosquito.
At the end of the long corridor, the king's adviser stopped – before a heavy door with golden fittings.
Don only snapped back to reality when Kioto placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
"That's why you need to burn all of this into your thick skull, Donovan.
Such offenses are not tolerated here."
Kioto's serious tone cut through Don's fogged thoughts like a blade.
The demon swallowed hard – though he had absolutely no idea what they were talking about.
Kioto sighed.
He pulled out a slim, digital device, tapping in a few quick commands.
A faint hum followed as a small metallic card slid from the slot — smooth, black, and etched with a shimmering emblem.
"Here."
He held it right in front of Donovan's face.
"Your profile card. It grants you access to the areas you're cleared for — nothing more, nothing less."
"Profile card?" Donovan's eyes widened in awe, as if he were being handed a weapon.
"Can I use it to get into the kitchen?"
"Limited access," Kioto replied dryly, pushing the card into his hand.
"You're now officially a bodyguard — but with restricted clearance."
A short pause. Then, quieter, more dangerous:
"Under observation. Don't get proud — it's more of a leash than a privilege."
Don stared at the card as if he'd just received buried treasure.
"A leash, huh? Still looks pretty cool though…"
"Use it responsibly, Donovan," Kioto warned before turning away.
"And trust me — if you try to open the wrong door, it won't just beep."
He gave Donovan one last, assessing glance – an unspoken warning.
"Good luck. Try not to anger the royal family."
"Huh?"
Don scratched the back of his head, lips puckered in confusion.
He watched Kioto walk down the corridor until the adviser disappeared from sight.
Left alone in front of the door, he took a deep breath:
Straightened his back.
"Okay, alright. Stay calm. No problem. Brother Don's got this. He can do anything…"
With a mix of nervousness and defiance, he raised the card to the narrow control panel beside the door.
A soft beep sounded.
Green light blinked.
With a hiss, the heavy door – trimmed in gold – slid open, as if tearing through the air itself.
A rush of cool air swept toward him.
Donovan's stomach tightened.
He stepped forward cautiously, heart pounding in his throat.
But what he saw beyond —
made the blood in his veins run cold.