I Died and Became a Noble's Heir

Chapter 618: Inferior Taste

Jack’s expression subtly shifted, conveying a profound sense of self-assurance that bordered on absolute conviction.

He looked completely comfortable, hands returning to his pockets as if this conversation had been a mildly interesting diversion rather than a discussion of his potential death.

"Tell your Clan Leader," Jack continued, his voice maintaining its relaxed tone, "that when the Demon King decides to address my ’insults,’ I’ll be waiting on Floor Twenty-Five. He’s welcome to visit anytime he feels like discussing proper respect for Infernal Nobility."

He turned away from the boy and his mother, his attention already shifting toward the clearing’s northern exit and whatever tasks waited beyond this demonstration.

His boots made quiet sounds against stone as he walked past the one hundred thirty resurrected demons who stood at perfect attention, past the nine thousand survivors who couldn’t process what they’d just witnessed, past Mira, who fell into step three paces behind him without requiring verbal instruction.

The Hydra’s seven heads rose from their resting positions at the clearing’s edge, the massive creature following its master as he departed.

The Voidweaver’s form distorted space around it as it moved, reality bending to accommodate its passage.

Jack didn’t look back to see the shock written across nine thousand demonic faces.

There was no need to acknowledge the boy’s strangled sound of disbelief or his mother’s desperate prayers to entities that probably weren’t listening.

The Soul Warden wasn’t hiding from the demon’s higher authority.

He was waiting for him.

The clearing fell silent except for the sound of dark fluid dripping into swamp water and the quiet sobbing of a mother who’d just watched her son survive speaking words that should have gotten them both killed.

The one hundred thirty resurrected demons remained standing in formation, their eyes tracking their master’s departure with the absolute focus of beings whose entire existence now revolved around serving his will.

Somewhere far below, in a castle that existed beyond the normal floor structure, the Demon King sat on his throne.

He didn’t know yet that someone had just invited him to Floor Twenty-Five.

But he would.

And when that invitation reached his ears, the tower would discover whether Jack Kaiser’s confidence was justified or suicidal arrogance from someone who’d grown too powerful too quickly and forgotten that there were entities in Tartarus Spire whose strength made Infernal Nobles look like children playing at war.

------

The Earl had rehearsed his opening words during the wait, practicing the tone and phrasing that would communicate proper deference without appearing weak, acknowledge the Kaisers’ visit without seeming desperate, and maintain some shred of dignity despite knowing that whatever came next would be worse than anything he’d imagined.

The door swung open.

Celeste entered first, her stride casual as she looked around the drawing room with an expression of genuine delight, as if she’d just discovered something unexpectedly entertaining.

"Oh, how cute," she observed, a laugh bubbling up from her chest that made the word sound even more devastating. "Look at this, S. They’ve gone full ’faded aristocracy’ aesthetic. The candles burning down to stubs, the furniture that’s almost too worn to be respectable..."

She crossed to the mantle, running her finger along its edge and examining the result like an appraiser cataloging items at an estate sale. A small giggle escaped as she noted the dust that shouldn’t exist in a noble household with proper staff.

"I especially love how committed you are to the theme. Most people wait until after bankruptcy to look like this, but you’re already there."

Her eyes tracked to a porcelain figurine on the side table.

It was expensive once, now showing hairline cracks. The only explanation was that it had been moved and handled too many times by servants trying to make the room look fuller.

S entered behind her, his movements precise as he took position three paces inside the door.

His hands remained clasped behind his back, his expression neutral, his eyes tracking the room’s occupants with a clinical assessment that noted every detail without revealing the conclusions he drew.

The Earl stepped forward, his rehearsed greeting emerging with controlled warmth that tried very hard to sound genuine. "Miss Kaiser. S. Welcome to Starfell Manor. I’m honored that you would..."

"Let’s skip the pleasantries," Celeste interrupted, dropping into one of the expensive chairs with complete disregard for the seating arrangements that had been carefully planned to maintain proper social hierarchy.

Her body language communicated absolute ownership of space that technically belonged to the Starfells but, in reality, was already owned by Jack.

"We both know this isn’t a friendly visit. My brother sent us with business to discuss, and pretending otherwise wastes everyone’s time."

The Earl’s prepared speech died in his throat, his mouth closing as he recalculated his approach.

His attention shifted to S, looking for guidance or at least some indication of what was expected from this meeting.

S’s expression didn’t change.

He stood there, hands behind his back, waiting with patience. He was a demon; he could maintain this position indefinitely without discomfort or impatience.

"Of course," the Earl finally managed, his voice emerging with slightly less warmth as he abandoned the hospitable greeting for something more direct. "Business then. Please, allow me to offer you some refreshment while we discuss matters."

He reached for the crystal decanter with hands that trembled slightly despite his attempts at controlled precision.

The Grand Reserve wine had been retrieved from the deepest section of the cellar, one of the last truly valuable bottles remaining in the Starfell collection. The liquid was deep red, so expensive that each glass contained more gold than a laborer earned in a month.

Laborers were one of the few professions in which one could earn decent gold with barely any Magic or Martial Talent.

Theoretically impressive enough to communicate that the Starfells still maintained standards befitting their noble rank.

His hand tilted the decanter, ruby liquid beginning to flow toward the glass in a stream that caught the candlelight.

The pour was perfect. Practiced through decades of formal dinners and important meetings where presentation mattered as much as content.

S’s voice emerged for the first time since entering the room, his tone carrying clinical precision that made each word feel like a surgical incision.

"I appreciate the attempt, Earl Starfell. But my palate is far more refined than anything a house of traitors could offer."

The Earl’s hand froze mid-pour, wine still streaming from the decanter as his mind processed what had just been said and tried to determine whether he’d heard correctly.

The insult was delivered with such professional courtesy that it took his brain an extra second to register the actual content beneath the polite phrasing.

"I’d hate to subject my senses to the taste of..." S paused fractionally, his eyes tracking to the wine bottle with disgust.

He’d just noticed something mildly unpleasant on his shoe. "...failure."

The word dropped into the room’s silence like a stone through ice, shattering whatever pretense of cordial business discussion the Earl had been trying to maintain.

Before the Earl could formulate any response, Celeste was already moving.

She hopped up from her chair with a burst of energy, crossing to the table and plucking the glass from its place beside the decanter.

"Oh, don’t waste it on him," she said with a grin that showed too many teeth. "I’m actually kind of thirsty."

Then she drank, but it wasn’t a sip.

Not a refined taste appropriate for an expensive vintage. She tilted the glass back and chugged the entire contents like someone downing water after a long run, her throat working as she swallowed the Grand Reserve without pause, appreciation, or any indication she was consuming something that cost more than most families’ monthly food budget.

The glass came away from her lips empty within three seconds. She examined it with a puzzled expression, turning it slightly as if checking whether there might be residue she’d missed.

"Wait," she said, her brow furrowing with what looked like genuine confusion. "Is this water? Because it doesn’t even taste like alcohol. Where’s the burn? The complexity? The thing that makes wine actually wine instead of just expensive grape juice?"

She looked at the Earl with an expression that mixed concern and curiosity, as if worried she’d accidentally been served the wrong beverage.

"Did you accidentally pour us the stuff you give servants? Or maybe cooking wine? Because this can’t be your actual reserve. It’s too... nothing. I’ve had stronger table wine at roadside taverns."

The Earl’s face had gone from pale to red in the span of seconds, humiliation and rage warring across his features as he watched this girl.

This child, barely in her twenties, treats his most expensive vintage like disappointing tap water that failed to meet basic standards.