Extra's Life: MILFs Won't Leave the Incubus Alone-Chapter 248: The Duke’s Letter

The letter arrived at dawn, delivered by a single rider in plain livery who vanished into the mist before the gates could be fully raised. No banners. No escort. No seal of the great houses. Only a slim envelope of black-edged parchment, addressed in elegant script to "Sir Aiden, Knight of the leonidus, Merlin."

Aiden stood alone in the small solar adjoining his chambers, the winter light pale through frost-laced windows. The rest of the house still slept, wrapped in the exhausted peace that follows nights of surrender. He broke the seal with a thumb, unfolded the single sheet, and began to read.

At first glance, it was everything a noble letter should be: courteous, deferential, even pious. The Duke of merlin—ruler of the Magic eastern marches—expressed profound grief at the tragic passing of His Imperial Majesty. He praised the Church’s swift guidance in these troubled times. He commended the wisdom of the young knight. And, almost as an afterthought, he extended a personal invitation to Sir Aiden, a knight whose valor had reached even the remote borders, to visit his estate for counsel on matters of mutual concern.

But Aiden had spent years reading between lines drawn in blood.

Every sentence carried a second meaning, coiled like a serpent beneath silk.

The duke wrote of the emperor’s "sudden ascent to the Light," a phrase that implied death without ever stating it—a deliberate ambiguity no loyal subject would use. He spoke of "fragile alliances" and "opportunities for bold men," phrases that hinted at vacuum and ambition. He praised Aiden’s "youthful vigor" and "unfettered ambition," words chosen to flatter a man the duke believed could be tempted or broken.

And woven through it all was false humility: a great lord inviting a minor knight to his table as though it were an honor rather than a summons.

Aiden’s lips curved, not in amusement, but in recognition.

This was not a noble’s letter.

It was a predator testing the waters.

He turned the parchment toward the window, letting pale light fall across the ink. His mana—refined now, sharpened by the mantle he carried—brushed the page like invisible fingers.

The response was immediate.

A faint pulse, sickly and sweet, answered his touch. The ink seemed to writhe for a fraction of a second, as though alive. Aiden felt the residue instantly: the same toxic signature he had sensed on certain archdukes during Lucifer’s audiences—corruption not of flesh, but of contract. Demonic essence woven into the fibers of the parchment itself, subtle enough to evade casual detection, bold enough to declare presence to anyone who could read it.

The duke was not merely influenced.

He was bound.

And the binding was active.

A soft chime sounded in Aiden’s mind—familiar now, though no less jarring. The system interface unfolded in his vision, golden script against black.

[Lilith’s Voice – Priority Alert]

Not her usual playful lilt. Not the seductive whisper that had accompanied earlier missions. This was colder. Serious.

"New Objective: Devour the demon bound to Duke Merlin of the Eastern Marches.

Classification: High-tier entity. Ancient contract lineage. Possible pre-imperial origin.

Caution: Host is fully integrated. Separation will be... messy.

Reward: [Redacted] – Fragment of the First Sin."

The message lingered only long enough for him to read it twice, then vanished.

Aiden exhaled slowly.

The duke—or the thing wearing him—wanted the "weak knight." The mortal upstart. The ambitious young man whispered about in jealous halls.

Because demons hunt prey they believe they can dominate.

Aiden smiled, small and sharp.

This was always the plan.

Not his plan, perhaps, in its entirety—but the plan nonetheless. Lucifer had scattered seeds of rumor carefully: tales of a reckless knight elevated beyond his station, a favorite of the Saintesses, a man hungry for power who might be peeled away from the Church’s shadow if offered the right bait.

Leonidus had been the unwitting fertilizer.

Aiden could almost see it: the old duke, gaunt and hollow-eyed, cornered by his own failures. Perhaps a chance meeting at a border council. Perhaps a carefully arranged "accidental" encounter. Leonidus would not have needed much prompting. A few bitter words about the upstart who had taken his wife, his cousin, his daughters. A few insinuations about Aiden’s mortality, his lack of divine blood, his vulnerability.

Enough to convince a predator that the prey was isolated.

Enough to convince a demon that the hunt would be easy.

Aiden folded the letter and slipped it into his belt pouch.

He would go.

Not as Lucifer.

Not as the Morning Star, cloaked in holy fire and untouchable authority.

He would go as Sir Aiden—lowborn knight, politically disposable, the perfect sacrifice.

Because demons reveal themselves only when they believe they are safe.

Three days later, he rode alone into the eastern marches.

The palace of Duke merlin were too prosperous for a border province so often ravaged by war.

Servants never looked up when he passed. Guards at crossroads stood unnaturally still, eyes forward, unblinking even in the biting wind.

The air itself felt obedient.

Aiden’s senses—honed beyond mortal limits—brushed against invisible threads. Binding sigils buried beneath crossroads and bridges.

Runes carved into foundation stones and disguised as ornamental masonry. An entire domain woven into a vast ritual array, subtle enough that no Church inspector had ever flagged it, powerful enough that the land itself seemed to breathe in rhythm with its master.

By dusk on the evening, he reached the duke’s estate: a fortress of black stone perched on a cliff above a silent river. Torches burned with steady, unnatural flames. The gates opened before he announced himself.

The duke waited in the courtyard, alone.

He was younger than Aiden once saw him—perhaps forty, lean and aristocratic, with pale hair bound at the nape and eyes the color of winter sky. His smile was warm, almost boyish, as he spread his arms in welcome.

"Sir Aiden! You honor my house beyond measure. To think a knight so favored by the Light would ride alone to this forgotten corner—brave, indeed."

The word brave lingered a fraction too long.

Aiden dismounted, handing his reins to a silent groom who appeared from nowhere. "Your invitation was generous, my lord. I could not refuse."

The duke’s eyes lingered on him—assessing, curious, hungry. His mana felt wrong: layered like borrowed cloaks, stitched together from sources that did not quite match. Human at the core, but wrapped in something older. Colder.

"Come," the duke said, gesturing toward the keep. "Wine awaits. And conversation long overdue."

Aiden refused the wine with polite regret.

The duke’s smile widened, as though he had expected nothing less.

They spoke in a high chamber overlooking the river. Tapestries depicted ancient hunts—stags brought down by shadowed riders, boars impaled on spears that seemed to drink blood. A fire burned without smoke. Servants brought platters and withdrew without a sound.

The conversation began innocently enough: the health of the Church, the stability of the succession, the need for strong borders in uncertain times.

Then the cracks appeared.

In a polished silver goblet on the table, the duke’s reflection shifted a heartbeat late.

In the corner of Aiden’s eye, the duke’s shadow bent against the firelight, stretching toward him like seeking fingers.

When the duke laughed at one of his own remarks, a second voice—deeper, older, resonant with distant screams—echoed beneath it for an instant.

Aiden noticed everything.

And the thing inside the duke noticed him noticing.

Curiosity sharpened the air.

"You are... difficult to read," the duke said at last, leaning forward. His pupils had dilated, swallowing the pale irises. "Most men carry their ambitions like banners. Yours are hidden. Tell me, Sir Aiden—what do you truly desire?"

Aiden met his gaze calmly. "To serve the Light."

The duke’s smile twisted. "Pretty words. But we both know the Light elevates strange men these days. Upstarts. Bastards. Whoresons who climb into beds they have no right to."

The insult was veiled, but unmistakable.

Aiden did not react.

The duke pressed harder.

"I knew Leonidus once," he said conversationally. "A proud man. Broken now, they say. His wife... his daughters... all drawn to the new flame. How tragic when old houses fall to such... appetites."

He watched Aiden closely, waiting for anger. For denial. For any crack.

Aiden gave him nothing.

The duke’s voice dropped lower, the second tone bleeding through more clearly now.

"The Church grows bold. Declaring itself arbiter of crowns and marriages. Mocking the bloodlines that built this empire. Even the emperor—may he rest—learned too late that some powers cannot be contained."

Confirmation, at last.

The duke had known the emperor was dead before the Church announced it.

He had known how.

And he had tested the waters with this letter, seeking the weakest link.

Aiden allowed himself a small, almost regretful smile.

"You speak freely, my lord."

The duke rose slowly, mana flooding the room like black water rising. The fire guttered. The tapestries rippled as though wind passed through sealed windows. Outside, guards in the courtyard froze mid-step, eyes glazing over under distant compulsion.

The noble mask fell away.

Skin split along the duke’s cheekbones, revealing glimpses of something darker beneath—scales like obsidian, eyes like burning coal. Horns began to curl from his brow, elegant and cruel. The voice that emerged was no longer human.

"At last," it said, savoring the words. "Tell me... peasant, how did it feel as you fucked my wife...cause that will be your last shred of joy...’

The chamber trembled. Sigils buried in the walls flared to life, chains of crimson light snapping into place across doors and windows.

A perfect trap.

Aiden remained seated, hands resting lightly on his knees.

He looked up at the thing wearing the duke’s skin and thought, calmly:

Good.

You showed yourself.

In the silence, the system hummed to life once more—golden script flaring bright in his vision.

[Devour Protocol: Ready.]

The demon tilted its head, sensing the shift.

Too late.