Gasper's fear of being sold off wasn't some wild exaggeration—it was muscle memory. Tenra had sold him off more times than he cared to count.
Back when Tenra, Gasper, and Tosca were traveling together, money was always tight. Whenever funds ran dry, Tenra would "temporarily" hand Gasper over to wealthy nobles, eccentric millionaires, or, on the worst days, outright human traffickers—just to scrape together enough cash to keep moving.
Sure, Tenra would always sneak back and rescue him later. But for Gasper, those dark hours—locked away, eyed by greedy, twisted aristocrats—had left scars. Even now, just remembering the way those men looked at him made his skin crawl.
He'd tried to fight it, of course. But resistance was pointless. Whenever money ran out, Tenra-sama would sell him off again.
Eventually, Gasper just started wailing about the injustice. Why was it always him? Why not someone else for once?
It almost made sense—so Tenra tried putting both Gasper and Tosca up for "sale", letting the nobles choose. But every single time, they picked Gasper.
He'd never understood it. Tosca was cute, sweet, and innocent—yet somehow, he was always the one chosen. Even now, Gasper couldn't wrap his head around it.
After so many rounds of being sold off, Gasper's trauma was deeply rooted. So when Tenra joked about selling him again, Gasper's tears came instantly—fast, loud, and uncontrollable.
"Waaah, waaah… I don't want to be sold! Tenra-sama, please don't sell me!"
He clung to Tenra's leg, sobbing into his pants, snot and tears soaking through the fabric.
He never wanted to go back to those dark corners, trembling while fat old men closed in. Never again!
"Hey, kid—what exactly did you do to Gasper?" Azazel blurted, startled by the outburst.
"Ten…ra!!" Rias, Sona, and the rest shot Tenra looks that could have peeled paint.
Tenra winced. I only said it as a joke—does this idiot have to go nuclear every time?
He patted Gasper's head, trying to sound stern. "Alright, alright. I'm not selling you this time. We've got company—don't embarrass yourself."
"R-really?" Gasper sniffled, eyes wide with hope.
"Really. When have I ever lied to you?" Tenra replied, forcing a smile.
Gasper's face fell. "But Tenra-sama, you always say that… and then you sell me anyway."
The room fell silent. Tenra could feel the waves of silent judgment rolling in from every direction.
He forced a laugh, mouth twitching. Why does this brat remember every detail? You spent that money, didn't you? And those nobles—well, they just liked your type. How's that my fault?
"This time, I mean it. We're not short on cash anymore." Tenra said, then, to drive the point home, he slapped the vampire peace agreement onto the table.
"Miss Elmen, we reject your offer."
Elmenhilde, who'd been enjoying the spectacle, suddenly looked like she'd bitten into a lemon.
"Lord Tenra, are you saying our Carmilla peace agreement isn't even worth one measly Gasper?!"
Her glare could have frozen fire.
Tenra shrugged. "He's cowardly, useless, always slowing everyone down. To you, he's nothing but a disposable tool."
He leaned forward, voice rising. "But he's ours. He's family. You don't want him? We do. Now you want his power and expect us to just hand him over? Not happening."
His words echoed through the room, cold and clear.
Gasper's sobs turned to sniffles of gratitude. "Tenra-sama…" he whimpered, overwhelmed.
Azazel and the girls exchanged small, satisfied smiles. Even clay has its breaking point—after all the arrogance from the vampires, this felt good.
Elmenhilde's voice was icy. "So you really don't need peace with vampires?"
She pressed on, "Wasn't it your factions—the angels, fallen angels, and devils—who called for peace? Now you're rejecting our goodwill. I wonder how you'll explain this to the others."
Tenra's reply was almost lazy. "To borrow your own words, Miss Elmen—this is our business. No need for your concern."
"You—!" Elmenhilde nearly exploded.
He was using her own rhetoric against her.
Tenra shook his head, a mocking smile on his lips. "Honestly, I'm curious—where do you vampires get your confidence?"
He looked her straight in the eye. "The ones who need peace aren't us. It's you."
Elmenhilde sneered. "Vampires fear no enemy."
Tenra grinned. "That's impressive. You're fighting the Tepes, the Church, devils, fallen angels, and every other allied force all at once."
He leaned back, voice casual but cutting. "If the Carmilla vampires are so strong, why do I feel like I could wipe you all out myself?"
The arrogance landed like a slap. For several seconds, the room was silent—then Elmenhilde and her servants erupted.
"Insolent!" her two attendants shouted, their auras flaring. The male was wreathed in blazing crimson, the female in icy blue—both at the very peak of ultimate-class, just shy of Maou-level.
Impressive. But—
A pressure a hundred, a thousand times greater rolled off Tenra, drowning the room in power.
He stared at the two vampires with cold indifference. His eyes flashed—a warning, a threat.
The two servants staggered back, blood trickling from the corners of their mouths and eyes, faces twisted in terror. They looked at Tenra as if he were something inhuman, something monstrous.
Elmenhilde froze the instant Tenra's aura hit. She'd never felt anything like it—vast, suffocating, absolute. Her whole body trembled, her mind blank.
She was a genius among vampires, the next head of House Karnstein, trusted by Queen Carmilla herself. She'd faced Maou's sisters and the former Governor of the Fallen Angels without flinching.
But now, all she felt was her own insignificance.
She couldn't look at him. Couldn't fight. Couldn't even run.
Utterly, hopelessly insignificant.
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