The day passed without disruption.
No alarms. No fire. No blood.
Everything moved exactly as planned — because Domiscus Vantasio had already arranged it that way.
The old devil in a human suit was deep into his "retirement plan." He was indulging in life like a man who knew he wouldn’t live long enough to regret it. And Dirga? He didn’t have to lift a finger.
Because in just one more night, Domiscus Vantasio would die.
A quiet, natural heart attack in his sleep.
The final 20% of the empire would fall into Dirga’s hands without a whisper of suspicion. No one would question a death like that — not after the high-stress career, not after the indulgence.
Everything was lined up.
Each day, Dirga reported to Vantasio’s office. He sat through meetings, said little, listened closely. He read every document Lilith passed him, analyzed every financial stream, every power connection. On the surface, he was calm — quiet, even.
His karma points sharpened his senses. His memory improved. His instincts evolved. He saw weaknesses in the business like cracks in concrete. And the more he worked, the more Lilith began to realize—
Dirga wasn’t just a lucky gambler.
One afternoon, Lilith handed him another stack of internal reports. Her expression, usually sharp and guarded, had softened.
"You’re amazing," she admitted, a little reluctantly.
"Honestly? I wish you talked more during meetings."
Dirga didn’t even look up.
"Meetings are exhausting," he muttered. "That’s your job. Keep them entertained. Keep them chill."
Lilith rolled her eyes, but she smiled. "Okay, okay. Boss."
Then her expression shifted — curiosity tugging at her voice.
"So... tomorrow night?"
She lowered her voice slightly.
"That’s when Vantasio dies?"
Dirga finally looked at her.
"Yes. Exactly at 12:00 a.m."
"Quiet. Peaceful. In his sleep."
Lilith leaned back, crossing her arms.
Her eyes narrowed, glinting with interest.
"Can you do that to others too? Are you some kind of devil yourself?"
Dirga’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.
"Stop playing games."
His voice dropped an octave.
"I need the report on Vantasio’s subordinates. Not everyone’s going to play nice when he’s gone."
Her flirtation fell away immediately.
"Right. There’s one you should know about."
She flipped through her folder and pulled a thin dossier.
"This guy runs all the... off-record assets — clubs, gambling dens, underground connections. Real backchannel stuff. Old loyalty to Vantasio. Could be a problem."
Dirga skimmed the file.
"After Vantasio dies, I’ll pay him a visit."
Lilith tilted her head.
"Should I be scared for him?"
Her lips curled into a teasing smile again. She leaned in, arms pressing against the table, voice low and sweet.
"Boss, you’ve been working so hard. Maybe you want me to help you... unwind tonight?"
The seduction was obvious — too obvious.
Dirga looked up at her slowly.
And in that silence, something in Lilith withered.
She straightened quickly.
And just like that, she left.
Dirga stood in the heart of the empire now — a palace made of glass and steel.
The old king was about to fall.
The devils were watching.
And tomorrow, the first soul would fall without a fight.
Dirga stood in the heart of the empire now — a palace of glass and steel, cold and gleaming, humming with quiet power.
The air was sharp with the scent of polished metal and recirculated ambition.
Below him, the city sprawled like a beast waiting to be chained.
The old king was breathing his last behind velvet curtains, too drunk on indulgence to notice the knife wasn’t coming.
There would be no blood. Only stillness.
And above it all — the devils watched.
In the cracks of the ceiling. In the flicker of screen reflections. In the weight of silence that clung to Dirga’s shoulders like a second skin.
The pieces were moving.
And Hell was closer than anyone dared to imagine.
The day came like a whisper through dry summer wind — warm, ordinary, deceptively calm.
Dirga woke to pale sunlight bleeding through the curtains.
A soft glow kissed the edges of the ceiling.
For a moment, it almost felt like a normal morning.
Until his phone buzzed.
"Domiscus Vantasio, one of the wealthiest men on Earth, has passed away in his sleep. His named successor: Dirgantara."
Every news app screamed the same headline.
His name was everywhere — and yet no one knew his face.
Not even a silhouette.
The device vibrated hard against the nightstand.
"Hello, boss," came her voice, brisk and businesslike. "Vantasio is dead. There’s an emergency board meeting at 9:00 a.m. Expect the press. You’ll be introduced to the public."
He hung up, tossed the blanket off, and sat at the edge of the bed.
He wore nothing but a pair of dark boxers — enough to see the shape of his body. Years of physical labor had forged it hard and lean, but karma had sculpted it further — like something from myth. Not unnaturally large, but defined, coiled, ready.
A body meant to survive hell.
Dirga walked to the sink and splashed water over his face.
He looked up at the mirror.
The scar above his left eye caught the light.
His eyes, once tired and distant, now looked sharp.
The face that stared back was no longer just human.
It was the face of a man who had killed, risen, and bartered with devils.
Dirga stood in silence for a moment longer.
Then stepped into the shower.
Water struck his skin like heat on steel.
Today wasn’t just a reveal.
It was the first true performance.
By the time he stepped out, the world had already shifted again.
Lilith, of course, had arranged everything — including a designer suit tailored by one of the top houses in Europe. It hung neatly from a rack near the window. Midnight black. Subtle red stitching along the lapels. A symbol of status, wealth... and silent threat.
Dirga dressed methodically. He adjusted the cuffs, the collar, the tie. He didn’t kind of attention — hated crowds, hated cameras, hated the way people stared like they understood a single thing about power.
But he knew the rules.
If you want to rule the board...
You play the part they fear.