How to survive in the Romance Fantasy Game-Chapter 406: A Short Night

Night.

A velvet darkness blanketed the Academy, its towering spires and elegant structures casting long shadows under the pale silver light of the moon.

But in the quieter, less-patrolled corners of the sprawling commercial district, nestled between vibrant taverns and foreign merchant stalls, stood a peculiar building—a ten-story high, unusually pristine structure that contrasted with the rustic charm of its surroundings.

It was sleek.

And almost too perfect.

The building bore the polished look of high-end hospitality.

On the surface, it was simply a boutique hotel, advertised heavily to visitors from beyond the Academy—merchants, nobles, or envoys who came for business or diplomacy.

Polished marble floors greeted newcomers at the lobby, while the scent of imported perfume lingered faintly in the air.

People came and went at all hours, disappearing into the neon-lit streets or slipping into the comfort of their suites.

But few knew that the upper half of the building offered something different—units for purchase. Private, permanent residences.

A place where secrets could be hidden behind locked doors and soundproof walls.

And at the very top floor, far above the soft buzz of nightlife and diplomatic smiles, chaos reigned.

A man stood in the middle of a ravaged penthouse suite, his chest heaving, red mana rippling violently around his body like a blood-soaked storm.

His slicked-back black hair clung to his forehead in sweaty strands, and his breathing was shallow and furious.

All around him, furniture had been shredded into kindling, walls were cracked and splintered, and the once-luxurious glass windows were webbed with fractures.

"FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!!!"

His roar tore through the room, guttural and unhinged, like a wounded beast backed into a corner.

A burst of mana erupted from his hand, flinging a coffee table across the room where it slammed into a marble pillar and exploded into splinters.

His crimson energy surged again, swallowing the light, twisting the very air around him with its oppressive weight.

"Fucking useless golden dogs—who do they think they are?!" he spat, his voice laced with venom, each word sharper than the last.

His glasses cracked under the pressure, shards of lens falling to the floor as the whites of his eyes darkened unnaturally.

His pupils—once merely red—now shimmered like glowing embers, pulsing with hatred, fury, and something else. Something far more dangerous.

Power. The kind that slipped through control when emotion took over.

His once-refined black-and-gold suit—custom tailored, regal, a symbol of status—was now tattered, torn apart by his own power, threads smoking and singed.

He looked like a man who had been at war, but the war was entirely his own rage.

And he wasn't done yet.

Breathing heavily, he turned to the far wall—where a single framed portrait remained untouched, its frame shimmering faintly with protective enchantment. He stared at it, unblinking.

"...This wasn't supposed to happen,"

Three hooded figures stood silently near him; shadows cast long by the flickering red glow of demonic mana still swirling in the air.

The air was thick—heavy with the scent of burning fabric, splintered wood, and raw energy.

They didn't speak.

They didn't move.

They merely watched… waiting.

Waiting for the storm of their master's wrath to pass.

—FIZZSSHHHH!!!!!

The torrent of mana continued to rage across the ruined space like a storm with no eye, crashing into walls, lifting debris off the ground, and keeping the temperature unnaturally hot.

The tremors underfoot came in pulses, in sync with their master's breathing.

The three knew better than to interfere.

Still, the longer he let his anger spiral, the more dangerous their situation became.

The demonic energy leaking from the suite was already far past safe thresholds—any mage worth their salt stationed at the Academy's border wards would sense it if it went on much longer.

Even worse, the Holy See's spies had grown more active lately. A single misstep now, and their entire network could be compromised.

One of the hooded figures, trembling slightly, hesitated… then stepped forward.

He took a breath. Just enough to steady himself.

"M-Master…"

The storm stopped—briefly.

"HUHH???"

The voice snapped like a whip through the room, furious and razor-sharp.

The air went still, suffocating.

"H-Hiek…!"

The hooded man flinched, visibly shrinking under the sheer pressure of his master's murderous intent. Mana flared toward him like coiled snakes—hungry, hissing.

Still, he forced himself to speak.

"R-Releasing too much demonic energy might—"

"You think I don't know that!?"

The reply came not just as words but as force.

A pulse of invisible pressure, a shriek of telekinetic might.

In the blink of an eye, the man was lifted into the air and crushed—his bones snapping like twigs, blood exploding in all directions as his body was turned into a gory mist mid-sentence.

His hooded robes fell to the ground in a heap.

Lifeless.

The other two dropped to their knees instantly, foreheads pressed against the blood-slick floor.

Not out of reverence.

Out of survival.

"Forgive us… Master…"

For a moment, silence.

The man at the center of the storm—still trembling with rage—clicked his tongue, the sound sharp against the tension in the room.

"Tsk…"

The flickering red aura that had devoured the space slowly began to retract, slithering back toward him like retreating fire.

His golden cufflinks were cracked, his torn suit hung from his frame like discarded skin, and his breath still came in shallow, furious bursts.

But he was thinking now.

His eyes swept over the bloodied mess.

A subordinate lost.

Unnecessary.

There were already so few of them left.

Their cult had been steadily dwindling—too many losses, too many eyes watching.

He couldn't afford to bleed more pawns, not now.

Especially not the ones within the Academy.

He rubbed his temple, rage slowly giving way to grim calculation.

"…This will complicate things."

The two kneeling cultists said nothing. They didn't dare breathe too loudly.

His voice came again, low and cold.

"Clean it up. Burn the robes. Remove the traces."

"Yes, Master," they replied in unison, voices quivering.

Then, turning to the cracked window, the man stared out into the night beyond.

Their plan had been perfect.

Flawless, even.

Every move executed with precision.

Every pawn placed in just the right shadow.

Their presence within the Academy had been masked by layers of secrecy, cloaked in enchantments and false identities.

Their infiltration was subtle, surgical—no ripples, no traces.

There should have been no way for the Academy to detect them.

The Holy Church's paladins, so self-righteous and blind, shouldn't have had the slightest idea.

The cult had accounted for everything—internal audits, magical sensors, divine detection arrays, informants, even the ever-watchful eyes of suspicious faculty.

And yet—

Everything had failed.

No matter how discreet, no matter how hidden or brilliant their schemes were, every single plan had been unraveled.

Discovered.

Dismantled.

Crushed to dust before it even had a chance to take root.

They had braced themselves for anomalies, planned for resistance.

They knew the risk of chaos in a place filled with prodigies and arcane prodigals.

But they had never expected this.

They hadn't expected the Saintess.

Nor her friend who always lingered just behind her.

Time and again, they had brought ruin upon their plans.

The cult had tried to plant seeds—subtle influence, slow corruption, demonic artifacts buried beneath the soil, cursed ideas whispered into vulnerable ears.

Every. Single. Seed.

Burned by that cursed white light.

Their roots scorched clean by holy radiance before they could even sprout.

The frustration in the air was palpable, rising once again in a surge of dark red energy.

The curtains near the broken window caught fire from the sheer heat of his mana as the cult leader's eyes narrowed with seething hatred.

"That wench…!"

His words spat like venom through clenched teeth.

For a moment, his mana lashed out again, causing the glass beneath his feet to crack further.

But then—

He stopped himself.

He breathed in.

Controlled, suppressing his raging emotions...

Letting emotion cloud judgment was what led to mistakes.

And mistakes had cost them far too much already.

He sat down slowly onto a shattered piece of his former desk, resting one arm across his knee as his eyes glossed over—lost in calculation.

This content is taken from freёnovelkiss.com.

Their last guaranteed plan… the ceremony beneath the Academy, the summoning of a lesser Archdemon, had been their great fallback.

And it had failed just a few days ago.

All of their grand ambitions—months of preparation, years of grooming agents—set back with one single disruption.

The creature they prayed to, that great being who had promised power, dominance, transcendence—it had been slain.

Incinerated by divine light by the dammed holy sword wielding brat...

Still…

That failure did not come without value.

Even loss had its price.

The Demonic Duke they had managed to summon, even in his brief, pitiful existence before being torn down by the Saintess and her party, had released enough concentrated miasma to taint the surrounding ley lines and subtly nourish the demonic energy within their remaining members.

It was a small boon… but a vital one.

That lingering corruption would serve as a catalyst, accelerating the growth of their remaining operatives.

Those who had survived the last wave of purging still lingered—some in hiding, others walking freely under false faces within the Academy walls.

Their grand plan… it still breathed.