The alliance naming meeting had officially devolved into a three-way shouting match between Stan, Monny, and Belphy.
“No, yours sounds like a toy line—”
“At least it doesn’t sound like tax evasion—”
“You literally named it after a road—”
“Because roads are important—”
The argument spiraled in perfect, self-sustaining chaos.
Meanwhile, Mo had emotionally resigned from the meeting ten minutes ago.
He stood by the tall window with a cup of coffee, staring out at the front of the Black House, his expression that of a man who had accepted that this meeting would outlive him.
“Sigh…”
He checked the time on his watch. Still too early. Always too early.
Just as he was about to take another sip, something on the road across the Black House caught his eye.
Four vehicles were approaching together. Slowly. Deliberately. Side by side.
Not in a convoy.
Not in formation.
In a way that suggested nobody involved respected traffic laws, social norms, or other people’s time.
Mo narrowed his eyes.
- A red Ford F-350 Super Duty, vibrating with unnecessary masculinity
- A black Harley Davidson Fat Boy, clean and aggressive like it was born angry
- A faded beige ice cream truck, clearly repainted by someone who gave up halfway
- A faded white Winnebago RV, perfect to be hidden in some desert far from the eyes of the law
They moved together, perfectly aligned, completely blocking the entire two-way road.
Cars from the opposite lane were forced to slow, swerve, and honk angrily as the four vehicles advanced like an invading ideology.
Mo blinked.
“…What.”
Before he could process that, his attention was dragged away again by movement on another road leading toward the Black House.
This one looked like a train.
Not because it was long.
Because it was producing an unreasonable amount of smoke and absolutely refusing to care about it.
A thick black trail stretched behind it like a warning.
Mo leaned closer to the glass.
“Hm…” he muttered, already sensing today was about to get more absurd.
---
The Black House, Front Gate
The uniformed Secret Service guard raised a hand, stopping the four peculiar vehicles at the front gate.
They all halted at once, engines idling.
The guard approached cautiously, clipboard in hand, eyes scanning the lineup of questionable choice of vehicles.
“Names?” he asked.
The window of the red Ford F-350 rolled down.
“War,” said the huge wild haired demon behind the wheel, smiling like he had been waiting centuries for this moment.
The rider on the black Harley lifted her visor.
“Death.”
The beige ice cream truck’s side window slid open with a tired squeak.
“Famine,” said the fat, clown-like driver, wiping his hands on a stained apron.
The door of the faded white Winnebago creaked open, and a skinny bald demon with glasses leaned out.
“Pestilence.”
The guard paused.
“…Uhh. Is that first name or last name?”
“Usually it’s the last name people hear,” War replied, grinning wider. “Kukuku.”
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
The guard stared at him for a full second.
“…Right.”
Before he could say anything else, his earpiece crackled.
“Let them in,” another guard’s voice said through the comm. “They’re Madam Lilith’s guests.”
“Copy that,” the guard replied, pressing the comm.
He stepped back and waved them through.
“Alright. You may pass.”
The four vehicles rolled forward, engines growling in mild disappointment that nobody had screamed.
As they entered the Black House grounds, War leaned out his window and frowned.
“Weird,” he muttered. “People usually tremble when they hear our names.”
“We’re old, War,” Pestilence said flatly from the RV. “People barely remember the Four Horsemen.”
“We’re not even riding horses anymore,” Famine added, glancing down at his ice cream truck’s cracked dashboard.
“You guys are old,” Death said, revving her Harley. “I’m not.”
Their vehicles disappeared into the Black House lawn, still bickering like retirees arguing about .
The guard watched them go, then slowly turned back to his post.
“…That’s some weird visitors,” he muttered to himself.
Then—
TRING TRING TRING TRING CHOO CHOO
A jolly mix of bells and a train whistle grew louder.
The guard stiffened. “Huh? What?”
He turned toward the sound, eyes widening.
“Since when is there a train track near here?”
TRING TRING TRING
Then, without explanation or apology, a red sledge-like vehicle rolled into view and stopped right in front of the gate.
It had a smoking chimney, ringing bells, and absolutely no business being on a road.
The vehicle was packed with dwarves, a massive red sack tied to the back, and a demon wearing goggles at the wheel, laughing like this was perfectly normal.
The same guard approached again, slower this time.
“Uhh…” he said, looking at the vehicle, then at the sack, then at the chimney. “Names?”
“Cinderclaws.”
“Vixen.”
“Cupid.”
“Dancer.”
“Comet.”
The guard nodded slowly, writing nothing.
“…O..K…”
He swallowed. “Reason of visit?”
“Hohoho!” Cinderclaws boomed cheerfully. “I’m here to give a present to a kid!”
“It’s not born yet, so you can’t call it a kid,” Vixen corrected calmly.
Before the guard could process that sentence, the demon driver flipped up his goggles.
It was Levi, Murica’s Foreign Minister, grinning like a man who had committed several traffic violations and enjoyed all of them.
“Hahaha, they’re my guests,” Levi said.
“M–Mr. Minister!?” The guard yelped. “Well… alright then.”
He quickly opened the gate, surrendering completely.
The red sledge rolled forward.
TRING TRING TRING CHOO CHOO
“You’re actually a pretty good driver, Mr. Minister,” Dancer said, impressed.
“I always wanted to drive a dwargonian car ever since I visited Hearthguard Cairn, hahaha!” Levi replied joyfully.
“You can have this car if you want, demon,” Cinderclaws offered generously.
“Ambassador, no,” Vixen said instantly.
The sledge and their bickering disappeared into the Black House lawn, bells still ringing like a curse.
The guard stood there for a long moment, scratching his head with his pen.
“…It can’t go any weirder than this, right?” he muttered to himself.
And then—
VROOOOOMMMM—SCREEEEECH
A blue monster truck screamed into existence, skidding sideways and stopping inches from the front gate.
The guard didn’t flinch.
He just stared at it.
“…Nope,” the guard said flatly.
He walked toward the driver’s door with the tired confidence of a man who had already emotionally clocked out.
“Name?!” the guard shouted.
“Samael!” a male voice shouted back from inside as the window wound down. “But—”
The window fully lowered.
A bearded demon in a blue coat leaned out, wearing a blue pentagram-patterned top hat, smiling with dangerous enthusiasm.
“I want you!” the demon said, pointing at the guard in the exact pose of America’s Uncle Sam.
“To call me Uncle Sam!”
“…right,” the guard replied, his face completely unmoved by the sheer amount of effort this costume represented.
Then—
“DADDYYYYY!!!”
A voice echoed from above.
Lilith came flying in from the sky, cheerful, fast, and very clearly exiting through the master bedroom window instead of using any door like a normal leader of a nation.
“EMBERPIE!!!” Samael shouted back with equal enthusiasm.
He burst out of the monster truck and launched into the air.
“DADDYYY!”
“EMBERPIE!”
They collided mid-air.
Samael caught Lilith and swung her in full circles, laughing uncontrollably.
“HAHAHAHA!”
“Daddy, what are you wearing?” Lilith laughed. “You look so silly!”
“This?” Samael said proudly. “Just a costume to entertain my grandchild!”
“You’re silly,” Lilith said. “It’s not even born yet. It’s still in my tummy.”
“What?!” Samael froze mid-swing, horror flooding his face. “Oh no! The baby! I shouldn’t have swung you like this?!”
Below them, the guard watched silently.
He checked his watch.
“Sigh… three more hours until my shift ends,” he muttered.
---
The Black House, Lawn
Moments later, Solo’s entourage finally arrived.
Inside the car, Solo was vibrating with perverted confidence and extremely bad intentions.
Muhahaha…
Get ready to get wild tonight, Demon Queen, he thought. Prepare yourself for my Plan A: Alpha Male mode!.
And if that fails—Plan B: Beta Male. Muhahahaha
He stepped out of the car and immediately froze.
The Black House’s perfectly mowed lawn—once a sacred symbol of order, dignity, and world leadership—had been completely squatted.
Bonfires blazed.
Weird vehicles were parked in aggressive circles.
Demons and dwarves were drinking beer, grilling meat, and blasting loud country music like the whole village have moved here.
The Black House looked less like a Murica’s leader residence and more like a redneck family reunion.
“…What the hell is happening here?” Solo muttered.
“HONEEEEY!!”
Lilith came sprinting out of the chaos and slammed into him with a hug that almost knocked the breath out of his lungs.
“Honey,” Solo said weakly, still trying to process, “what’s happening? Are we having a party?”
“My dad and his siblings are visiting!” Lilith said cheerfully.
“…What?” Solo blinked. “Really? Why I didn’t know?”
“I didn’t know either!” she replied happily. “They just suddenly came!”
That explained nothing and everything at the same time.
Lilith grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the crowd.
“Come on, everyone’s waiting to meet you!” she said brightly. “Oh—and remember, no dirty minds. My dad’s can hear negative thoughts at close range.”
Solo’s soul left his body.
Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck.
PLAN C! his mind screamed.
CLEAR CONSCIENCE MALE! CLEAR CONSCIENCE MALE!
The Black House
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bonus chapter on Saturday.