The Lord Demon King is Unfathomable!

Roland City, the only firefighting company's entrance in the entire city, a staggering drunk leaned against several kerosene street lamps before finally finding his company's door.

This once sought-after firefighting tycoon of Roland City felt like his brain was stuffed with a sponge soaked in water.

The hangover was like a rusty knife, tirelessly pulling back and forth across his scalp.

The young lads of the Royal Guard could really drink.

Not until nearly dawn did those guys take the tavern girls upstairs, allowing Newcastle to finally rest his head on a table stained with wine for a short nap.

Yet he uttered no complaints.

Thanks to those capable lads, his business could run so smoothly.

Recently, someone also wanted to get into the firefighting pump business, trying to take over the market he had opened with an investment of ten thousand gold coins. Thanks to those brave lads' batons, they shattered his fellow Thunder City townsfolk's unrealistic dreams, driving away that cheap "counterfeit."

Saint Sith above, though he himself was a devout believer, opposed to professions as sacrilegious as prostitutes, he justified these lads' occasional indulgences.

Pressure always needs to be released.

Seeing the esteemed Mr. Newcastle, the security at the door quickly helped his boss inside and handed him a cup of hot water.

With a gulp of hot water down his throat, Newcastle finally sobered up a bit, then brusquely pushed aside the meddling security guard.

"I don't need your help; I'm not drunk; I can walk myself!"

"Yes, Boss." Watching the tipsy boss, the security executed a salute, looking worriedly as Newcastle wobbled up the stairs alone.

The Campbell people truly deserve their reputation for fighting with the Demon King; this sack of wine and rice indeed made it upstairs without tumbling down.

Newcastle pushed open the office door, not even hanging his heavy coat on the rack yet, when his always tardy young secretary excitedly approached him.

"Boss! You're finally here! There's an urgent letter for you that was just personally delivered by a court attendant!"

His secretary held the letter in both hands, with a reverent gesture as if holding the Holy Word Book.

Newcastle rubbed his aching brow, initially wanting to tell this blabbermouth to go away and sober up.

But as soon as his gaze fell upon the letter, the rebuke on the tip of his tongue was forcefully swallowed back, and he instantly sobered up.

It was a meticulously crafted envelope, its seal stamped with a scarlet fire wax bearing the Ryan Royal Family's supreme Lion emblem.

In that very moment, Newcastle finally understood why his typically slow secretary was looking at him with such respect today.

"...Alright, place it on my desk. And also, without my instructions, no one is allowed to come in."

"Yes! Boss!" The secretary executed a salute, much like the security downstairs, then respectfully retreated outside the door.

Newcastle rushed forward, locked the door, then hurried to the desk, carefully prying open the fire wax representing glory and trouble with a paper knife.

He drew out the letter, and as he had anticipated, it wasn't any commendation written in courtly script but a formal edict—

[Hereby appoint Mr. Newcastle, General Manager of Roland Fire Company, as Roland City's Third Level Citizen Representative, to immediately proceed to the Royal Palace for the Third Level Conference.]

Newcastle grasped his forehead, dropping heavily onto the oak chair, his still wine-tinged face gradually turning serious.

...Parliament?

As a citizen from Thunder City, he wasn't unfamiliar with the word.

A long time ago, Thunder City had a parliament, mainly for fundraising for the Duke, so why did Roland City suddenly have one?

What Newcastle couldn't comprehend was how he, a Campbell man, became a council member of Ryan Kingdom's Roland City, and why he represented Roland City's citizens at a King's conference.

Could it be—

Your Majesty is short on money?!

As soon as the thought arose, Newcastle broke into a cold sweat.

Gods have mercy, outsiders thought he was rolling in wealth, having monopolized the city's firefighting business, but only he knew the struggles within.

This money-making venture couldn't possibly be his sole earning.

His initial massive investment had just started yielding returns, and he still hadn't repaid the commercial loan from Thunder City's bank.

Currently, his pockets were cleaner than his face, otherwise, he wouldn't personally take Royal Guard lads for some fun.

If this so-called conference was an asset sequestration disguised as glory...

Newcastle shivered; the hangover headache instantly vanished. He sprang up from the chair, grabbed the coat he had just hung and donned it.

No way!

He couldn't let himself be destroyed!

The only one who could help him now was the honorable Baron Wickton.

In this fog and trap-laden Roland City, only the patron who had raised him, could untangle these affairs for him!

This wasn't just about his money; it concerned whether he could survive and return to Campbell.

Under the adored gazes of the employees, Newcastle, clad in his coat, turned and charged into the early spring chill, resembling a businessman striving through ability and fortitude to prosper.

Only Newcastle himself could hear his heart's moan.

"Saint Sis above..."

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