Extremely Successful Reincarnation Failure (Disgaea Queen/Lady Butler TG/TF)
May those destined to rule always rise above those destined to serve. Poll story for May.
—
The ransom note landed on Laharl’s breakfast table with the weight of a declaration of war, an unpaid tax bill, and a very badly folded napkin.
It had been delivered by a Prinny who immediately ran away screaming, which meant the note was either important, cursed, or had been written by Etna. Possibly all three.
Laharl stared at it.
Etna stood beside his chair with her hands behind her back, looking innocent in the way only a demon could look innocent. Which meant she looked like she had already sold the building, framed the buyer, and was waiting to see if anyone noticed the smoke.
“Well?” she asked.
Laharl narrowed his eyes. “It says Sicily and Flonne have been kidnapped.”
Etna gasped. It was a beautiful gasp. Crisp and theatrical.
“No. Those poor, helpless girls. How terrible. How unexpected. How completely unrelated to anything I have been doing all morning.”
Laharl ignored the last sentence because his attention had already slammed into the ransom demand.
“They want a bribe,” he said.
Etna leaned over. “How much?”
Laharl’s cape twitched with offended majesty. “Three hundred thousand HL and a handwritten apology for messing with their turf.”
Etna whistled. “Wow. That is bold.”
“That is insulting!” Laharl snapped, crushing the edge of the note in his fist. “Only three hundred thousand? For two of my vassals? Are they calling me cheap? Are they calling my household cheap? Are they suggesting Flonne and Sicily combined are worth less than one mid-tier demonic chandelier?”
“Technically, Sicily is your sister and Flonne is—”
“My property by annoyance!” Laharl declared. “Nobody kidnaps people from my castle unless I authorize it, profit from it, or forget about them first!”
Etna gave him a bright, supportive smile. “Almost heroic, Prince. You nearly made it twelve whole words before turning it into a tax issue.”
“Heroic?” Laharl slammed a hand on the table hard enough to flip a bowl of cereal into a passing Prinny’s face. “Don’t insult me. I’m going to rescue them through overwhelming violence so they owe me gratitude forever.”
The cereal-covered Prinny fell over and whispered, “Love really is complicated, dood.”
Laharl pointed toward the door. “Etna! We move out at once!”
“Right behind you, Prince.”
Etna followed him out of the dining hall, smiling wider with every step.
Perfect.
The note had worked. The bribe had worked. The dramatically incompetent handwriting had worked. The fleeing Prinny had even improvised the scream at the end, which was good, because Etna had only paid him for light trembling.
...who was she kidding. As if Etna would ever pay a Prinny anything extra, perish the thought.
Sicily and Flonne were not kidnapped. They were currently at the Nethersteam Royal Hot Springs enjoying two free resort coupons Etna had given them that morning.
And now Laharl was storming exactly where she needed him: the resort’s back entrance, just as the note told him to do. The one usually reserved for monster disposal, emergency evacuations, and guests too embarrassing to acknowledge at the front desk.
That was where Etna had installed her masterpiece.
A trap unlike any trap the Netherworld had ever seen.
A spell bomb based on reincarnation principles from the Dark Assembly itself, just much, much more extreme. This wasn't just putting someones soul into a stronger body. Oh no. This was classification magic of the highest degree, stuff that would even be banned down here in the netherworld, capable of molding souls and bodies into entirely new shapes and give them the roles they were always destined to have.
It would read the souls of whoever walked into it.
The one with the greatest ambition, power, and unrealized leading potential would become the perfect demon queen.
The one with the prissiest, most entitled, deserving-to-be-a-servant attitude would become the devoted servant of that queen.
Etna had written that second part while looking directly at Laharl.
She had underlined deserving-to-be-a-servant.
Twice.
Soon, Laharl would be reduced to the most loyal little attendant in the Netherworld, and Etna would rise as the perfect queen she obviously should have been all along.
Sure, Laharl had power. Fine. Whatever. But leadership? Vision? Administrative competence? The ability to plan anything more complicated than “yell and punch”? Please.
Etna had arranged a fake kidnapping, forged a ransom note, bribed demons, reserved a spa, modified a forbidden reincarnation spell, and scheduled it all before lunch.
If that was not queen material, nothing was.
Ahead of her, Laharl kicked open a gate so hard it landed on a demon janitor three corridors away.
“Kidnappers!” he shouted. “Come out and beg for a painless defeat!”
The janitor, now flat beneath the gate, raised one hand. “...I think you might have gotten the wrong department?”
“Then transfer my threat!” Laharl snapped.
Etna stepped through after him. The back entrance corridor was narrow, damp, and decorated with warning signs that read things like DO NOT ENTER, EMPLOYEE ACCESS ONLY. So naturally both of them stepped in without a second thought.
At the center of the corridor sat a small black orb with a cute ribbon around it.
Laharl stopped.
Etna held her breath.
The orb beeped.
Laharl looked down at it. “Is that a bomb?”
The orb chirped.
Etna said, “Maybe. Don’t touch—”
Laharl kicked it.
The corridor exploded into purple light.
Not fire. Not smoke. Light. Dark Assembly sigils spun across the walls like bureaucratic ghosts. Shadowy desks appeared in midair. Tiny demonic stamps slammed down on invisible paperwork. A booming voice declared, “CLASSIFICATION IN PROGRESS. BRIBES ACCEPTED BUT NOT REQUIRED.”
Laharl stood in the center of it with his arms crossed. Etna stood beside him, eyes glittering.
Then KABOOM!!!
The sigils collapsed inward. The orb popped like a cheap party favor. A tiny shower of glitter rained down.
Laharl looked at his shoulder, found one speck of glitter, and flicked it away with disgust.
“That was your trap?” he said to the empty corridor. “My breakfast cereal has more destructive force!”
Etna smiled. Perfect. He suspected nothing.
Soon he would be calling her queen. Soon he would carry her bags. Soon he would kneel and say, “Lady Etna, your throne is ready,” and she would say something cool, like, “Took you long enough,” and then maybe she would kick him a little for old times’ sake.
A door burst open.
Six hired demons charged out, waving weapons and wearing masks that said KIDNAPPER #1 through KIDNAPPER #6.
Etna sighed. She had specifically told them not to label themselves.
“Hand over the bribe!” shouted Kidnapper #1.
“Also the apology!” shouted Kidnapper #2.
“And maybe snacks!” shouted Kidnapper #5.
Laharl grinned.
It was his usual grin, sharp and violent. About three seconds away from becoming property damage.
Then his chin lifted.
His shoulders settled.
Something about his posture refined itself, as if arrogance had discovered etiquette and immediately decided to weaponize it.
“Hah,” Laharl said. “Rabble. You dare appear before me dressed like discount stagehands?”
Etna tilted her head.
Rabble?
That was new.
Kidnapper #3 looked down at his own shirt. “We had a budget.”
“Your budget offends me,” Laharl said, and attacked.
The fight lasted fourteen seconds longer than it needed to, because Laharl enjoyed making enemies understand the full depth of their mistake.
He swept through them with blasts of magic and kicks sharp enough to count as punctuation. Each movement grew a little smoother. Less bratty flailing, more royal execution. His cape curled behind him like it was trying to become a ceremonial mantle. His hair shifted in the blast wind, falling into a slightly more dramatic shape, longer at the back, framing his face with the kind of style that suggested he had never touched a comb and still expected combs to worship him.
He did not notice.
Why would he? Laharl never noticed anything that was not either praising him or failing to praise him.
“Etna,” he said, pointing lazily at Kidnapper #4. “Attend to that one. She is too ugly to be defeated by me directly.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll—”
Etna moved.
The motion surprised even her. She crossed the corridor in a blur and caught the demon’s club in one hand. Her fingers closed around the wood. It cracked.
Kidnapper #4 stared. “Uh.”
Etna smiled.
Her arm felt stronger. Much stronger. Her shoulders felt broader. Her stance felt steady, grounded, powerful. Her boots pressed into the floor like the corridor had personally sworn loyalty to her ankles.
Perfect.
A queen needed strength.
A queen needed presence.
A queen needed the ability to crush a club into splinters, then fold the owner into a decorative apology.
Etna punched the demon through a stack of cursed laundry carts.
A cuff of white fabric flickered around her wrist.
She glanced at it.
A glove?
No. A royal combat glove, obviously. Queens wore gloves. Probably. The fancy ones did. It was a queen thing.
Everything was going according to plan.
Laharl laughed from the other side of the corridor.
“Ohoho—”
He paused for half a second.
Then continued.
“Ohohoho! Is this the best you worms can offer? I have had pillow fights with more strategic depth!”
Etna stared.
That laugh.
That was not Laharl’s normal laugh. It was... more theatrical? You know, the kind of laugh that needed a balcony, a fan, and several peasants below to feel bad about themselves.
Etna’s eyes gleamed.
The transformation was beginning.
Exactly as planned.
Probably.
Kidnapper #6 tried to sneak up behind Laharl.
Etna’s body moved before her thoughts did.
She stepped between them, seized the demon by the face, and lifted him off the floor with one hand.
“You will not approach Her—”
She stopped.
Her what?
Her victim? Her future servant? Her soon-to-be humiliated prince?
“Her royal defeat target,” Etna finished.
The demon whimpered. “That title got worse halfway through.”
Etna slammed him into the floor.
A black vest shimmered over her torso for a moment, sleek and formal, then faded back into her usual outfit as if the spell were testing options.
Etna smirked.
A queen needed excellent tailoring.
This was all going very well.
Soon Laharl would be helplessly devoted to her, and she would be tall, strong, elegant, disciplined, and for some reason very good at ironing. Which was fine. A queen with ironing skills was just dangerously well-rounded.
The last demon fell.
Laharl planted one foot on Kidnapper #1’s back and raised his chin.
“Behold!” he announced. “Another flawless victory by the future ruler of everything worth ruling!”
Etna clapped.
“A magnificent victory, Lord Laharl.”
There was a surprising lack of sarcasm in her voice.
It took her a moment to realize that.
The corridor went quiet except for one defeated demon coughing up a coupon.
Etna’s smile twitched.
Lord?
Magnificent?
No. She had meant loser. Obviously. Her mouth was simply warming up for queenly speeches. A queen needed vocabulary. A queen needed grace. A queen needed to praise others occasionally so the praise she received later would seem even bigger by comparison.
Yes. Excellent. She was becoming politically advanced.
Laharl turned toward her.
His eyes seemed a little sharper now, his expression no less arrogant but somehow more refined in its cruelty. Like he had gone from “small tyrant” to “aristocratic disaster with excellent posture.”
“You may clap louder next time,” he said.
Etna bowed before she could stop herself.
“Of course, my—Prince.”
Her back straightened smoothly. Too smoothly. The bow had been flawless.
Etna rose with a strange warmth in her chest.
What a perfect bow. What perfect discipline. What perfect control.
Yes. Definitely queen traits.
One of the demons lifted a trembling hand. “Miss Etna? About our payment...”
Etna looked down at him.
Her expression softened into something polite enough to be terrifying.
“Submit your invoice to the royal household.”
The demon blinked. “The what?”
Etna blinked too.
The royal household?
When had she gotten one of those?
Well, naturally she would need one. She was becoming a queen. Queens had households. Someone had to manage the towels, treasury, executions, and dramatic curtain openings.
Laharl stepped over the bodies and continued down the corridor. “Etna, come. I tire of this filthy servant hallway.”
“At once.”
Etna followed.
The deeper they walked into the resort, the warmer the air became. Steam drifted through wooden lattice vents. The walls changed from cursed pipes and employee warning signs to polished stone, lanterns, and banners advertising premium lava baths, soul-cleansing mud wraps, and “romantic execution-viewing balconies.”
Laharl glanced around with total confidence.
“This place will do,” he said.
Etna frowned faintly.
Do for what?
They were here to rescue Sicily and Flonne. Obviously.
They were here because of a kidnapping. Obviously.
They were here because Laharl had demanded violence, and Etna had carefully arranged... arranged...
Arranged what?
A pleasant outing?
No, not that. It surely must have been something strategic, evil and queenly.
But the more she tried to think about it...
Something about the thought slid away like soap in a hot spring.
They entered the main lobby through a side door behind a decorative statue of a demon being massaged by three skeletons.
The receptionist looked up.
She was a pale demon woman with tiny horns, a professional smile, and the dead eyes of someone who had processed too many vacation packages for warlords.
“Welcome to the Nethersteam Royal Hot Springs,” she said. Then she looked past them at the side door, the smoke, the unconscious demons visible through the hallway, and one rolling severed mask labeled KIDNAPPER #2.
Her smile did not move.
“Did you two come in through the monster disposal corridor?”
Laharl folded his arms.
No.
Not folded.
She elegantly placed her arms, one hand resting near the opposite elbow, chin raised, body angled like an invisible portrait artist had begged for more drama.
“Etna,” Laharl said. “Explain. A ruler should not waste her voice on reception desk confusion.”
Etna opened her mouth.
There was no way she could caught up the real explanation just because Laharl asked her. Thought something inside of her really wanted to... let see...
Something about kidnapping. Something about a note. Something about her plan.
No, no. she couldnt do that. She had to improvise. Just say something Etna. SOMETHING!
“At once, Your Majesty.”
Etna paused.
The receptionist blinked.
Laharl did not blink. Laharl looked as if being called that was not only normal, but overdue.
Etna cleared her throat.
“Obviously,” she continued, voice growing smoother, richer, and far more formal than she remembered allowing. “This is Queen Laharl, future ruler of all Netherworlds, supreme inheritor of conquest, elegance, and loudly justified superiority.”
Laharl smiled.
It was unbearable.
It was also very fitting.
Etna placed a hand over her chest and bowed.
“And I am Lady Butler Etna, her blade, shield, attendant for all of her administrative nightmare.”
The words settled into the air.
For a second, Etna considered them.
Lady Butler Etna.
That was not what she had meant to say.
Was it?
No, of course it was. A queen needed titles for everyone in her court. Perhaps she was simply establishing hierarchy early. Very clever. Very her. It made sense. It had to make sense.
The receptionist looked from Laharl to Etna, then to the unconscious demons in the corridor.
“So does that mean you want two premium day passes?”
Laharl scoffed. “Premium sounds like what poor people call the best thing they have.”
“It is our highest package.”
“Then rename it royal.”
The receptionist reached for a stamp. “That'll costs extra.”
Etna’s hand moved to the counter.
A stack of HL appeared beneath her palm. Exact amount. Perfectly counted. Organized in ascending denomination.
Etna looked at it.
Had she just paid?
Of course she had. A proper attendant ensured Her Majesty did not dirty her hands with commerce.
Her Majesty.
Yes.
That sounded right now.
Etna smiled with serene certainty. “Her Majesty does not soak in discount water.”
The receptionist stamped two passes.
ROYAL had been written across them in red ink.
Laharl accepted hers between two fingers, inspected it, and sniffed.
“Barely acceptable. Etna, if the towels are weak, execute something.”
“With pleasure, my queen.”
Etna did not pause that time.
The dressing room for royal guests was lined with mirrors, lacquered wood, and small enchanted cabinets that whispered compliments with every opened drawer.
Laharl entered first as if the room had been waiting centuries for permission to exist.
Etna followed one step behind.
The moment the door closed, the spell settled deeper.
Not as a blast. Not as a flash.
As certainty.
Laharl stood before the central mirror and examined her reflection with the calm approval of someone seeing only what had always been obvious.
Her silhouette was elegant and imperious, still unmistakably Laharl in every smug angle, but shaped now into a proud demon queen. Her hair fell in dramatic blue-black layers, longer and finer, tied partly back with a royal ribbon that had absolutely not existed a minute ago and absolutely deserved to be there. Small ornaments like dark jewels rested near her horns. Her cape had become a light spa mantle trimmed with gold, useless for warmth but excellent for superiority.
She did not react to any of this.
She only frowned at the mirror.
“This room is too humble.”
Etna nodded immediately. “I shall remember that for the execution report.”
Her own reflection stood behind Laharl.
Tall.
Much taller than before.
Buff as heck, in the precise way that suggested every muscle had been trained by carrying royal luggage, royal enemies, and royal grudges up several flights of stairs. Her shoulders were broad beneath a sharp black lady-butler jacket. Her waistcoat was immaculate. Her gloves were white, crisp, and somehow already threatening. Her boots shone. Her tie sat perfectly straight. Her wings and tail remained, but they looked more disciplined now, like even they had attended etiquette training and passed by intimidating the teacher.
Etna glanced at herself.
A small thought drifted through her mind.
Had she always looked like this?
Obviously not.
Obviously yes.
The question dissolved.
She was Lady Butler Etna. She had always stood at Queen Laharl’s side. She had always been the loyal blade in the queen’s shadow. She had always been able to crush a watermelon into mist with one hand and prepare tea with the other.
That was simply called range.
Laharl lifted one hand.
“Etna. My royal swimsuit.”
“Immediately, my queen.”
Etna opened a cabinet.
Inside hung a swimsuit ensemble so aggressively regal that it seemed less designed for swimming and more designed for declaring war on casualwear. Dark fabric. Gold accents. A light outer robe. A ribboned sash. A tiny crown-shaped hair ornament that probably cost more than the building.
Etna held it up with reverence.
Laharl looked unimpressed, which for Laharl meant satisfied.
“It will suffice.”
“Your mercy toward inadequate fashion is boundless.”
“Ohohoho! Naturally.”
Etna helped her dress.
There was no awkwardness, no surprise, no question. Only ritual. Queen Laharl lifted an arm; Etna adjusted the robe. Queen Laharl turned; Etna settled the sash. Queen Laharl tilted her head; Etna placed the crown ornament with the solemn precision of a coronation.
Every motion made Etna feel more certain.
This was victory.
Not the victory she had planned. But why think of planning? Planning was what attendants did for queens. And Etna was excellent at planning. Therefore, she was excellent at serving. Therefore, serving Queen Laharl was the highest expression of her own competence.
The logic was airtight if no one looked at it directly.
Laharl admired herself in the mirror.
The mirror, enchanted to flatter guests, whispered, “Radiant.”
Laharl pointed at it. “Correct.”
Another mirror whispered, “Commanding.”
“Also correct.”
A third mirror whispered, “Modest.”
Laharl blasted it off the wall.
“Defective.”
Etna caught the falling mirror before it shattered and tucked it under one arm. “I will have it repaired into something more truthful, my queen.”
“Good.” Laharl turned, finally giving Etna a full assessing look.
Etna straightened. The movement made the seams of her jacket pull across powerful shoulders. She felt ready to lift a castle, carry it across a battlefield, and set it down exactly where Queen Laharl preferred her castles.
Laharl’s eyes narrowed with royal approval.
“You have improved, Etna.”
Etna’s heart warmed.
It was ridiculous.
It was perfect.
“My queen?”
“You are taller. Stronger. Less noisy. Your outfit suggests you might finally understand the importance of standing behind me and making me look even better by comparison.”
Etna bowed deeply.
“Your praise is a treasure beyond measure.”
“It was an observation, not praise.”
“Then your observations are treasures beyond measure.”
Laharl considered this.
“Acceptable.”
Etna sank to one knee.
The gesture felt natural. Noble, even. Because service, real service, was not weakness. It was conquest with better posture. A butler did not merely obey. A butler controlled the room so thoroughly that the queen never had to notice the room had problems.
“My queen,” Etna said, voice clear and proud. “Wherever you go, I shall follow. Into battle. Into exile. Into the deepest pits of the Netherworld. Into budget meetings, should the universe become cruel beyond forgiveness. I will be your shield against inconvenience, your blade against insult, and your hand upon the throat of poor customer service.”
Laharl smiled.
“Ohohoho! Good. Start with towels.”
Etna rose, already holding three.
“Prepared, warmed, and ranked by softness.”
Laharl took the top one. “Excellent. The Netherworld survives another day because I am properly attended.”
“As it should, my queen.”
They swept out of the dressing room like a royal procession that had forgotten to invite the rest of the procession and would punish them later for being absent.
The hot spring waited beyond a set of sliding doors.
Steam curled through the air. Lanterns glowed red and gold. The water shimmered with gentle demonic magic, promising relaxation, minor healing, and a thirty percent chance of making guests confess tax crimes.
Queen Laharl stepped into the water first.
The spring hissed around her as if honored.
She sank down, closed her eyes, and released a sigh so self-important it deserved its own throne.
“Hm. Adequate.”
Etna entered after her, sitting slightly behind and to the side, exactly where a perfect attendant could relax while still being ready to intercept assassins, snacks, or bad towels.
The heat wrapped around her muscles. Her shoulders loosened. Her thoughts softened.
Something about a trap flickered distantly in her mind.
A trap?
Yes, of course.
There had been a trap.
An excellent trap.
It had ensured Queen Laharl reached the hot spring safely, tested her majesty against enemies, secured the royal passes, and clarified Etna’s sacred duty.
Flawless.
Etna smiled and poured Laharl a cup of chilled demon plum tea from a tray she did not remember ordering.
Laharl accepted it without looking.
“Ohohoho. You skills are exceptional as usual.”
“I live to exceed your expectations, my queen.”
“I wouldn't have it any other way.”
“And I will strife to keep surprising you.”
The water beside them bubbled.
Two heads popped up.
“Laharl?” Flonne said.
“Sis?” Sicily said.
Queen Laharl opened one eye.
Flonne and Sicily were both in the spring, perfectly unharmed, with towels on their heads and resort drinks floating nearby in tiny skull-shaped cups. Flonne looked delighted. Sicily looked confused in the careful way of someone whose worldview had just tripped over a chair.
Etna smiled pleasantly.
“Lady Flonne. Princess Sicily. I trust the coupons were satisfactory.”
Sicily stared at her.
Then at Laharl.
Then back at Etna.
“Etna,” Sicily said slowly, “why are you huge?”
Etna looked down at herself, then back at Sicily with mild concern.
“I am exactly as I should be.”
“That does not answer anything.”
“That might be because I do not fully understand the question.”
Flonne clasped her hands. “Oh my! Etna, you look so dependable now. Like a loyal knight, but with customer service!”
“Loyal lady butler,” Etna corrected. "Not knight."
Flonne beamed. “That is even more specific!”
Sicily turned to Laharl.
“And Big Brother...”
Queen Laharl’s eyebrow rose.
The temperature of the spring dropped three degrees out of fear.
Sicily swallowed.
“Why are you Big Sister now?”
Queen Laharl stared at her.
Then she laughed.
“Ohohohoho!”
The steam above the bath curled into the shape of a crown.
“Sicily, really. Your imagination has become alarmingly vivid. To think you can imagine the great me as anything less than a legendary queen is honestly remarkable.”
Sicily’s mouth opened.
No sound came out.
Flonne gasped softly. “Maybe this is a lesson about accepting people as they are!”
Sicily pointed at Laharl. “She was a boy this morning.”
Etna spoke up raising one hand. “I have heard that hungry minds often struggle to comprehend greatness when it changes outfits. Lady Sicily, did you skip breakfast today?”
“Wha...! I did not! And also she had no outfit like that this morning!”
“Silly Sicily. Why would I have worn my bathing suit this morning?”
Etna nodded solemnly. “Her Majesty is correct.”
There was a moment of silience between them, before Sicily leaned toward Flonne and whispered, “Do you know what's going on?”
Flonne whispered back, “No idea. Laharl has become so mature so soon. Do you think this hotspring has a maturing effect on her?”
"Wha... no! I mean... the entire day has been weird. First Etna gifts us hotspring tickets and then this. Surely this must be some plan by an evil force!" Sicily stood up in the water determined. "We should go investigating immidaitly!"
"Whaaaaaaat?" Flonne moaned, sinking back deeper into the water. "But that would mean we would have to leave the hot spring..."
Sicily also lowered herself again into the waters, her serious experssion melting away in an instant again. "You're right. We should enjoy this for as long as we can. Big brother looks like she is enjoying herself too after all. There is no need for stress now..."
Across the bath, Etna was already arranging Laharl’s towel, tea, and future conquest schedule in perfect order.
And Queen Laharl, magnificent, haughty, and utterly certain she had always been exactly this way, smiled like the universe had finally corrected a clerical error.
The trap had worked flawlessly.
Unfortunately for Etna, she will never find out how bad she used to be at evaluating people.