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{Chapter: 246: What A Misfortune}
The Very Next Day — Augustus
In a dim corner of the bustling city of Augustus, Dex stood still, his eyes calmly surveying the crowded street ahead. People flowed like a living river—merchants shouting their prices, children laughing, carriages clattering across cobblestones. Life here pulsed with a vibrant energy that felt strangely distant to him.
He tilted his head slightly, gazing at the noonday sun hanging proudly in the sky. The sunlight, though warm and brilliant, held no sway over him. He let out a lazy yawn, as if indifferent to the world around him, then turned his gaze toward the shadows beside the alley.
There, nestled against the wall, stood a young boy—no older than seven or eight—watching him with a peculiar intensity.
Without changing his posture, Dex asked calmly, "Why are you staring at me?"
At first glance, the child appeared to be a perfectly ordinary human—a little scruffy, but nothing unusual. But Dex wasn't fooled by appearances. His heightened senses detected the unmistakable stench of the Bottomless Abyss clinging to the boy's soul like a shadowy parasite. No mere human could wear that scent.
The boy grinned, baring long, needle-thin fangs that gleamed in the darkness. "We're on the same team, aren't we?" he said in a low, raspy voice. "Shouldn't we talk strategy before the show begins? There are four of us targeting this place, after all."
By "four," he meant the demons who had selected the Central Library as their primary objective.
The Central Library wasn't just a building—it was the city's greatest storehouse of knowledge, arcane tomes, sacred texts, magical scrolls, and forbidden histories. Though most demons were obsessed only with destruction and mayhem, a select few had deeper ambitions. A dozen or so had taken interest in the library, but only four had been fast and cunning enough to claim it as their battlefield.
The rest were too slow, too clumsy, or simply too cautious.
Had the demons been allowed to act freely, a battle might have broken out over the right to attack the building—but time and circumstance had forced them into uneasy cooperation. At least for now.
Dex gave a faint nod, his eyes returning to the street. "Sure. We can talk. But let's wait until the others arrive."
He knew better than to take the word "team" at face value. Among demons, there was no such thing as true cooperation. Alliances were temporary at best—shallow bonds formed for convenience, easily discarded the moment they lost their usefulness.
Teammates? No. They were shields at most. Distractions. Pawns at best.
The boy chuckled, a twisted little sound that grated like broken glass. Then, without another word, he sank back into the shadows, his body melting into the alley's darkness like spilled ink. The sunlight was not kind to his kind, and he wanted no part of it.
Originally, he had hoped to speak further with Dex—perhaps to strike a secret pact, to plot against the others. But one look at Dex's cold, indifferent expression was enough. This one wasn't the type you could manipulate. He was either too strong or too detached. Either way, not worth provoking.
Though annoyed, the boy suppressed his irritation. He didn't know much about Dex—his origins, his strength. That mystery made Dex dangerous.
And it was rare to find a demon as composed and quiet as this one.
Dex noticed the retreat but made no move to stop him. Instead, he let his lips curl ever so slightly in disdain.
Negotiation? With demons?
In the Abyss, words meant nothing without power. Any "agreement" not backed by blood or contract was just hot air, easily broken and conveniently forgotten.
Talk of splitting the spoils was laughable.
There is no fairness among demons. There is only power—and who is left standing to claim what remains.
---
Later, as the sun dipped toward the horizon.
The golden light had dimmed to a soft amber glow, and the hustle of the streets began to fade. Long shadows stretched across the cobbles, signaling the end of another day.
At the designated meeting point, two more figures emerged from the gathering dusk.
With their arrival, all four demons were now present—two [Mid-tier Demons], including the young shadowy boy, and two [Upper-tier Demons], one of whom was Dex.
Unlike Dex, who stood under the fading sunlight without flinching, the other three appeared uncomfortable. The remaining daylight didn't harm them, not physically—but it pressed against their nature like holy oil on cursed flesh. Unpleasant. Irritating. A reminder that this world rejected them.
This realm's laws weakened their strength. And while the sunlight didn't burn, it certainly didn't welcome them.
One of the new arrivals, a demon with the appearance of a middle-aged orc warrior, stood silently for a few moments, eyes fixed on the still-busy street. The humans continued their meaningless routines, unaware of the storm brewing at their doorstep.
"We'll need to wait a little longer," the orc-like demon muttered. "The contract is clear—we strike only at the appointed time."
Impatience flickered in his eyes. For demons like him, bound by compulsion and hunger, waiting was its own form of torture.
He turned to the others, casting a sharp glance across each face before speaking again.
"When the time comes, we go in. No coordination, no babysitting. Whoever gets what, keeps it. Fair?"
"Works for me," the shadow-child said with a snicker.
"Agreed," said the fourth, a towering figure cloaked in dark crimson robes.
No elaborate battle plan. No rehearsed tactics.
It was a declaration of mutual selfishness. Every demon for themselves.
That was their truth.
If you survive, you earn. If you die, too bad.
Dex remained silent but nodded in agreement. The simplicity of it suited him.
And elsewhere across the city, other demons moved in shadows. One by one, they passed through weakened wards and tampered barriers—courtesy of a traitor within—slipping unnoticed into the heart of what was once thought an impregnable fortress of civilization.
Each had their own destination. Their own mission. Their own madness.
As the final rays of sunlight sank below the horizon, Dex looked up one last time at the crimson-streaked sky.
His lips curled into a faint smile.
"The last afterglow is always the most beautiful… right before the darkness swallows everything."
"The final light begins to weep,
Its glow a curse it cannot keep.
A bleeding sun, a dying flame,
That whispers low the night's dark name.
Its beauty lies in doomed descent—
A lullaby for the imminent."
---
After striking the large ceremonial drum beside the city gate, the gatekeeper cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted to the people nearby, his voice echoing across the plaza, "If you're planning to leave, now's the time! The gates will be closing shortly!"
Though there was no official curfew in this bustling city, tradition dictated that the gates be shut at a fixed time every evening and would not be reopened until the first light of dawn.
During this nightly intermission, all forms of passage were strictly forbidden. Even teleportation magic—normally a way around such mundane restrictions—was rendered useless by the powerful protective barriers woven into the city's foundations. These barriers were designed to shield the city from external threats and night-time ambushes, ensuring peace within its walls.
But, as fate would have it, such defenses—so diligently designed to protect—could just as easily serve as a prison when the threat came from within.
Unaware of the impending danger, the city's residents continued about their routines with cheerful indifference. Laughter and idle conversation filled the air as people strolled in and out of the city, exchanging greetings, finishing errands, or simply enjoying the cooling breeze of the evening.
"Buzz… Bang!"
Time crept forward, and eventually, the moment to seal the gates arrived.
With a deep groan and a shudder that echoed through the surrounding stone, the massive city gates began to close. The slow, ominous creaking of their hinges marked the end of the day's passage, and the beginning of the city's nightly lockdown.
As the gate fully shut with a final resonant thud, the gate sergeant leaned against his spear and turned to the soldiers nearby, beginning a casual conversation about where to grab a hot meal after their shift.
"Lucky or unlucky," he muttered, referencing a local saying about the whims of fate.
It was then—at that exact moment—that an unfamiliar voice slipped into the air around him, strange and unsettling.
"It's lucky… and it's unlucky…"
The first half of the sentence was spoken with the delicate innocence of a child, but the second half twisted into a withered rasp, like the whisper of an ancient crone on the verge of death.
A sudden chill pierced through the sergeant's spine.
His instincts screamed.
Startled, he snapped his head in the direction of the sound—and immediately spotted a young girl, no older than six or seven, standing silently beside him. He hadn't noticed her before. She was just there, as if the shadows had coughed her into existence.
Years of military service took hold, and the sergeant's hand flew to the hilt of his weapon, poised and ready to draw in the blink of an eye.
Keeping his eyes fixed on the girl, he asked sharply, "Who are you?"
The other soldiers, sensing the change in atmosphere, quickly abandoned their casual chatter and focused their attention on the strange child. Tension filled the air like a drawn bowstring.
The little girl did not move.
Her lips curved into an unnatural smile, and in that same hoarse voice—eerily mismatched with her cherubic appearance—she repeated her earlier words.