Beelzebub's voice shifted, then, not the vast, hall-shaking weight of the throne room, but something that still carried, still commanded attention, cutting cleanly through the platform's cheerful noise as he turned to face the gathered crowd.
"To everyone here."
The chatter died down almost immediately, workers and crew leads and curious onlookers alike turning toward him, the same instinctive quiet that had once fallen over an entire throne room the moment his voice first hit the air.
"We made the first steps."
He let that sit for a moment, gaze sweeping across the platform, tunnel crews who'd spent six months underground, dwarven smiths who'd forged thousands of rail spikes without ever knowing exactly how far their work would travel, Petrov with his lists, Nettle with her merch table, Gorthruk standing quietly proud near the edge of the crowd, Bram looking, for once, genuinely pleased rather than merely resigned.
"Your quest rewards will now be distributed, based on contribution."
[RACE QUEST COMPLETE: The Great Underground Works][Distributing rewards to 6,214+ participants...]
A ripple of notifications went off across the entire crowd simultaneously, gasps and delighted murmurs breaking out as titles, fame, and rewards scaled by hours logged, sections dug, components forged, all landed at once, the six-month deadline met not with a scramble at the wire, but with the quiet satisfaction of a project genuinely, properly finished.
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"Thank you."
Beelzebub's voice softened, just slightly, something unmistakably sincere threading through the ceremonial weight of it.
"Now, let us feast."
The platform erupted.
Tables seemed to appear from nowhere, demon caterers who'd clearly been preparing for exactly this moment for days, spreads of food that ranged from familiar Human Kingdom fare to dishes Arista genuinely couldn't identify but smelled incredible regardless. Someone produced music from somewhere. The conductor's carefully composed dignity finally cracked into something like genuine, unguarded joy as he accepted a drink from a fellow demon and toasted, loudly, to "the worst nickname that ever got me promoted."
Arista stood at the edge of it all for a moment, notebook still tucked under one arm out of pure habit, watching six thousand-some demons and a scattering of dwarves and humans celebrate something that had started, all those months ago, as a single question in an empty forge room: can I get the recipe for a pickaxe?
Nettle appeared at her side, already holding two drinks, pressing one into her hand without asking. "You look like you're thinking too hard for a party."
"I'm always thinking too hard. It's basically my whole personality."
"Fair." Nettle clinked her cup against Arista's, grinning. "To the tunnel that started it."
"To the tunnel," Arista agreed, and drank.
Somewhere nearby, Beelzebub, still in his smaller, human-passing form, still faintly, delightedly indignant about the keychain now apparently sitting in his pocket: accepted a plate of food from a demon server with the same genuine, unguarded warmth he'd shown the entire platform, ruler and spokesperson and six thousand contributors all celebrating together on ground that had once belonged to nobody, meant nothing, and led nowhere at all.
Arista raised her cup one more time, quietly, just to herself, toward the tunnel entrance still glowing faintly warm in the distance.
"...Okay," she murmured. "What's next."
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