Medouco found herself in a terrible crisis—at least, terrible by her standards. The black tea she usually served Lord Satanick had finally run out.

Of course she had backups… two of them. One was a refined blend gifted by Reley Lo. The other was a humble store-bought box she kept until Satanick’s preferred tea arrived.

“Oh dear… which black tea should I serve him today…?” she murmured, hands wringing softly. The white snakes atop her head shifted with anxious little hisses, mirroring her panic.

“What if… what if Lord Satanick hates both…? Oh no…”

Realistically, she knew he probably wouldn’t care. It was just tea—Satanick wasn’t picky. But Medouco cared. She cared about every little detail. She once spent ten whole minutes choosing a teacup, only to spend ten more choosing the matching pot.

To her, this was no simple task. This was a crisis requiring full concentration, emotional endurance, and possibly divine intervention.