Charles was taken aback. "Eilinel? Who's that?"
"Oh, that's the name of this sword!" Nymeria answered cheerfully. "Specifically, it's the name of the demon sealed inside it, but don't worry—my ancestors have totally subdued her."
"She knows a ton about fiends and all sorts of Outer Planes lore, so in situations like this, she's really handy."
Charles's eyes fixed on her greatsword. "Huh… But is she reliable?"
"Of course! Super reliable!" Nymeria nodded. "Even when I was escaping, there were a few times I ran into real danger, and Eilinel got me through every one. We have a pretty unique bond now—trust me, you can count on her!"
Charles gave her a long look, voice trailing. "Oh… Uh-huh, I see. So that's how it is…"
He glanced at his own twin-bladed polearm and took a deep breath, sticking to his plan.
"Well then, Sir Eilinel, can you help us find the altar?"
Nymeria flashed her sword forward. The huge, nearly five-foot-long blade seemed light as a wand in her hands. "No problem! Eilinel, cast Hunter's Mark!"
As she spoke, the serpentine greatsword shimmered with golden arcane light, stretching forward to form a glowing arrow, pointing the way.
"Let's go!" Nymeria sang out, bounding ahead. "Follow me!"
Charles and Theresa exchanged glances—trusting a demon wasn't usually the smartest idea, but if Nymeria vouched for her, he'd go along. And with that, they trailed after Nymeria at a fast clip.
The three of them looped through the sprawling backstage, following the twisting corridors, until they stopped before a nondescript, slightly grimy side room.
A thick iron door blocked the way, secured by a big rusty padlock. Dust caked the lock, spiderwebs hung in the corners, and orange-brown rust streaked the edges. It looked like no one had touched it in years.
Charles glanced at his twin-bladed polearm, puffed out a breath, and pressed forward with his plan.
"Nymeria," he said, "Does Eilinel say anything?"
"Hmm…" Nymeria paused, listening for a second—clearly deep in mental conversation with her demon. "She says…open the door first. Whatever we want is inside."
With a swipe, Charles slammed his polearm into the metal door, cutting a clean hole with one blow. A single kick later, the door burst open with a crash, leaving an opening big enough to duck through.
The three of them ducked inside. Theresa conjured a ball of light. Despite the room looking filthy outside, the interior was surprisingly spotless.
But the window was nailed shut, and several hefty wooden crates crowded one corner—massive and solid, tough to move by hand.
"Whoa, this place is definitely suspicious!" Charles exclaimed, laying it on thick. "Eilinel was right on target, Nymeria. Now what?"
Nymeria frowned in concentration, then pointed at the leftmost crate. "Move that one!"
Charles gave Xanathar, his mini-beholder, a pat. Without any extra magic infusion, Xanathar lasered a careful Telekinetic Ray from an eyestalk, wrapping the crate and effortlessly dragging it aside—revealing a jet-black passage leading downward.
"Found it!" Charles crowed, deliberately laying on the praise. "Way to go, Nymeria—your demon's a real asset!"
Nymeria giggled. "It's all Eilinel!"
Theresa shone her light down the passage. One after the other, the trio descended and soon found themselves in a musty basement—at the center, a crude but massive demonic altar.
"Nymeria!" Charles said brightly, addressing the moon elf. "Does Sir Eilinel have any suggestions? Anything critical she can detect?"
Just then, a scornful voice rang out in Charles's mind—it was Montport: "Hmph, you're going to ask a nameless little demon about the Lower Planes when you have a Great Abyssal Lord right here? What a waste!"
Hearing that, Charles couldn't help but smirk in satisfaction.
Got him. Finally, Montport was showing a sense of crisis.
Just as Charles predicted, in their time together, Montport had realized that Charles's threats to "purify" him were mostly lip service. Charles lacked deep info on the Lower Planes' fiends, their cultures, and habits, so he still had to rely on Montport's knowledge.
Stuff like proto-demon traits, Abyssal evolutionary quirks, and combat traditions—Charles didn't know that stuff. The turn-based tactics of games had little in common with real life, after all.
Montport, an Abyssal Lord famed for cunning and intel, sensed all this keenly, growing ever bolder—testing Charles, trying to leverage his information for more privileges…
He'd nearly succeeded—until now.
Wait, what?! That elvish kid's sword has a demon in it too?
Worse, they've clearly forged a close bond—the demon is openly sharing all her master's info with Nymeria, trusting her absolutely?
I'm not Charles's only source of Lower Planes secrets anymore?!
No—that can't be!
If Charles ever decides I've outlived my usefulness, he really might go through with purifying me!
That would be oblivion—existential doom!
He had no choice. Montport had to win Charles's attention back, fast.
He needed Charles to remember: Only by listening to multiple sources could he hope to see through deception. Relying on just one demon would leave him blind.
So, Charles played along, keeping his smirk hidden as he answered Montport in his mind, "Didn't you say you couldn't scan the area? Were you lying all along?"
Montport seethed, but he put on a fawning tone. "That was before—you saw all the defenses here! I couldn't sense past the wards. But now…"
"Oh…" Charles cut him off abruptly. "So your detection isn't as sharp as Eilinel's? In that case, Montport, you'd better take a break. We probably won't need you tonight."
He leaned into Montport's anxiety, then asked aloud, "Nymeria, does Eilinel detect anything new?"
Nymeria nodded. "Yup—Eilinel says she found traces of magical pacts."
"It looks like someone used this altar to channel power and sign contracts with certain people in the theater, granting them strength."
"And it seems those pact-bound girls killed someone—as Eilinel spotted devil claw-marks here, which are usually used for keeping a quick tally of how many victims a pacted mortal has. Luckily, the number isn't huge…"
Charles's heart sank. His suspicions were confirmed—Regolas really had tried to trick the furious dancers into signing pacts with his master, trading souls for the power to kill the nobles attending tonight.
Then, with this altar in place, the souls of the murdered nobles would go to his master. And when the dancers were inevitably executed in revenge, their souls would also be harvested as a result of the contract.
Despicable—absolutely vile.
He exhaled. There wasn't much point cursing a dead enemy; he pressed on: "Is there any way to trace who actually signed a contract with the devil?"
Nymeria hesitated. "Hmm, I'll check…"
And just then, Montport's voice echoed in Charles's mind, "I can do that for you! No need to ask her—I've got a much easier way!"
~~~
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