Smoke still coiled in the cavernous east wing hallway. It smelled of ozone, charred demon-hide, and a peculiar, spicy scent that Aris's brain catalogued as incinerated fear. A squad of imps in soot-stained coveralls scurried past, carrying buckets of black water and muttering about hazard pay.
The source of the chaos was a gaping hole in the hallway wall, roughly eight feet in diameter. The edges were vitrified, the stone melted smooth like black glass. Beyond it, what was once a barracks common room was now an abstract sculpture of half-melted iron bunks and solidified lava puddles.
In the center of the hallway, surrounded by a ring of nervously chittering imps, stood Lord Gorn. He wasn't holding his axe. He stood with his massive arms crossed, shoulders hunched, looking for all the world like a gargoyle who had been caught tipping over a cathedral. The molten brass of his eyes flickered with something unfamiliar: embarrassment.
Aris approached, his footsteps echoing. The imps parted for him like a terrified sea.
"Lord Gorn. I heard you practiced the exercise."
Gorn flinched, a minute tremor that nonetheless made the floor shake. "IT… WAS NOT SUCCESSFUL."
"I can see that. What happened?"
"YOU SAID… TO FOCUS ON THE BREATH. TO IMAGE THE FURNACE HAVING A DRAFT. A CONTROL." His voice was several notches quieter than its usual cataclysmic volume. "I FOCUSED. I FELT THE DRAFT. THEN… I THOUGHT OF THE HERO'S SMILE. A SPARK. THE DRAFT BECAME A BELLOWS."
Aris nodded, clinical, non-judgmental. "The spark was an intrusive thought. It's common. The mind rebels when we try to change deep patterns. Instead of containing the furnace, you oxygenated it."
"I OXYGENATED THE BARRACKS," Gorn grumbled, gesturing with a claw at the destruction.
One of the imps, bolder than the rest, piped up. "My cousin Blik was on latrine duty in there! He's now a vaguely imp-shaped soot stain on the far wall!"
Gorn's head drooped lower.
Aris suppressed a sigh. He looked at the hole, then at the demon lord's genuine, bewildered shame. This wasn't resistance. This was a failure of technique. A painful, destructive, but honest attempt.
"The attempt is what matters," Aris said. "You tried. That's progress. Next time, we'll modify the exercise. We'll start with a smaller fire. A candle flame, not a furnace. We'll practice letting the intrusive spark happen without feeding it air."
Gorn looked up, a faint ember of hope in his eyes. "A… CANDLE?"
"Metaphorically. We'll use a memory with less charge. Maybe… a minor annoyance. The time you stubbed your hoof on the throne."
Gorn blinked. "THAT THRONE IS POORLY DESIGNED. THE DAEMONSMITH WAS AN IDIOT."
"Good. We'll start with the idiot daemonsmith. Not the smiling hero." Aris wrote a quick note on a pad he'd pulled from his pocket. "For now, I recommend you assist with the repairs. Manual labor can be a grounding activity."
The demon lord stared at his claws, then at the terrified imps, then at the molten hole. He gave a slow, ponderous nod. He bent down and picked up a giant, half-melted iron bedframe as if it were a toothpick. "WHERE DOES THIS GO?"
The imps screamed and scattered before regrouping to give frantic directions.
Aris turned away, a faint smile on his lips. Progress. Messy, explosive, expensive progress. He felt the lingering hollow ache of Sylene's envy in his stomach, the throb of Gorn's grief in his temple. A symphony of borrowed pain.
His office, when he returned, was… different.
The shattered door was gone. In its place was a new, even more imposing door of dark, polished wood, inlaid with silver filigree that swirled in hypnotic, beautiful patterns. It was objectively superior to the old one. It was also clearly a gift.
On his desk, where his simple clay teapot had been, now sat an exquisite carafe of flawless crystal, filled with a steaming liquid that smelled of jasmine and starlight. Next to it, his cheap pen had been replaced by a fountain pen of engraved silver that hummed with a faint magical energy.
Lady Sylene.
Her envy worked in reverse, too. If she coveted his attention, she might also try to win it by making his environment worthy of her presence. By making him feel pampered, special. It was manipulation, but of a strangely generous kind. She was building him a gilded cage of her own design.
He poured himself a cup of the new tea. It was the best thing he'd ever tasted. He hated how much he liked it.
The speaking tube hissed. "Master Healer," came the voice of Zizzik, his imp secretary. "Your afternoon is… clear. But the Lord Steward, manifestation of Gluttony, has sent a request. He wonders if you would join him for dinner tonight. He says it is 'to discuss digestive metaphysics in a convivial setting.'"
Aris leaned back. Gluttony. Not a session, a dinner invitation. The approach would be different. He could feel the traps already. "Send a reply. I accept. Please convey my thanks."
"Yes, Master Healer! Also… the Castle Librarian, the Shadow of Sloth, has left a tome on your doorstep. It is… very large. And pulsing."
Aris looked toward the new, beautiful door. Sure enough, a massive book bound in what looked like drowsy grey leather sat there. It was indeed pulsing, slowly, like a sleeping heart. He hefted it onto his desk. The title, etched in silver, read: 'On the Oneiropolitics of Subconscious Monarchies: A Treatise.' By Lord Tenebris, the Slothful.
He opened it. The words inside shifted and swam, refusing to be read directly. To absorb the information, he'd have to essentially fall into a semi-trance state. The effort required to gain knowledge was itself a barrier. The ultimate expression of Sloth: Here is everything I know. The effort to learn it is yours.
He closed the book, a wave of profound lethargy washing over him. He fought it, lighting a cigarette. The different pathologies were already affecting the castle's ecosystem, and him by extension. Wrath destroyed. Envy replaced. Sloth presented overwhelming, effortful gifts. Gluttony sought to consume his time and attention in a social feast.
His gaze fell on a large, ornate calendar on the wall, a gift from the castle's chamberlain. Seven names were elegantly inscribed for the week. He'd seen two. Five loomed. Pride, Greed, Lust, Gluttony, Sloth. Each a world of pain, each a potential apocalypse.
And at the center of it all, supposedly, was the Demon King himself. The source. The patient zero. Aris hadn't been summoned to see him yet. That meeting hung over everything, the final, terrifying session.
A knock came at the new door. It was polite, firm.
"Come in."
It was not a Sin Lord. A woman entered, dressed in the severe, efficient garb of the Castle Guard. She was humanoid, with sharp features and eyes the color of flint. A long, pale scar ran from her hairline to her jaw. She moved with a soldier's precision, but her posture was rigid with a different kind of tension.
"Doctor Thorne. I am Captain Varya of the Blackstone Guard. I have a… personal request." Her voice was clipped, taut.
"Captain. Please, sit."
She remained standing, as if at attention. "It is not for me. It is for my unit. The… incidents. The emotional leakage. My soldiers are having nightmares. They jump at shadows that twist with strange colors. Their weapons sometimes feel too heavy, or too light. Morale is… fracturing." She finally met his eyes, and he saw not envy or wrath, but a desperate, practical fear. The fear of a commander watching her tool break. "You are healing the lords. Is there nothing that can be done for the tools they break on the way?"
Aris looked at her. A side character. A living, breathing person in this insane castle, trying to do her job amidst psychic hurricanes. They live even when the MC is not on screen.
He stubbed out his cigarette. "Captain Varya, that is an excellent point. Collective trauma in a closed environment. I can't offer individual therapy to your entire unit, but I can design a group resilience protocol. Basic grounding techniques, shared debriefing structures. It won't stop the leaks, but it might help your people weather them."
The relief in her stern face was minute but profound. Her shoulders dropped a half-inch. "That… would be a tactical advantage, Doctor. Thank you."
"Schedule it with Zizzik. We'll start next week."
After she left, Aris looked out his stained-glass window at the forever-twilight of the demon realm. It wasn't just about the Seven. It was about the cook who burned the meals when Envy's chill seeped into the kitchen. The gardener whose plants writhed with unnatural desire when Lust's power spiked. The soldier like Varya, trying to hold a line against madness.
He was not just a therapist for gods.
He was the chief psychiatrist for an entire, crumbling world.
And tonight, he had to survive dinner with Gluttony.