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"Poison…"
"Correct," the raspy voice said. "If we had met outside, or if you had kept your auras active, the aerosolized poison would have had no effect. The only one it might not have worked on was your hidden friend, which is why I killed him first. Now, you have two options."
Crowley managed a weak, crooked smile. "And I die in both of them?"
"Think what you will. Option one: you refuse to tell me the location of the warehouse. I torture the information out of you, and what's left is sent to young master Inflis's alchemy table. He's taken a keen interest in anatomy lately."
"Option two: you tell me the location. If the cargo is there, you and your men receive the antidote, your payment, and the possibility of future collaboration."
"Guarantees?"
"There are none. But I can offer you five minutes of… demonstration, so you can fully appreciate the prospects of option one."
"I believe I'll decline that honor and proceed directly to option two."
Half an hour later, Crowley Alistez stared at the vial of white pills in his hand. On the current market, they were worth more than his entire mercenary group had earned in the last ten years.
"Leader," one of his men asked, his voice shaky, "what do we do with Kevin's body?"
"Burn it," Crowley said, his voice flat. He stared at the surprised expression frozen on his subordinate's face, the man's blood pooling on the floor.
"Tell the others he was killed by a monster on our way back from a successful meeting with the client. A client who wishes to work with us again in the future. I'll deliver his last will to his family myself."
"Yes, sir."
….
Dozens of crates filled with the corpses of angels, fallen angels, and various holy artifacts created by the Church were teleported to one of my hidden caches in the Underworld's desolate wastes.
Storing such things in my workshop within the Lucifuge estate would be foolish. Spies from other factions could use them as a pretext to restart the war, and I certainly didn't want my "father" to know about my research into the nature of angels and holy power.
The incident with the mercenaries was a nostalgic annoyance.
In my early years, after leaving the Black Heart clan to carry out my mother's will, I had been cheated and robbed countless times, until my reputation grew fearsome enough to deter such treachery.
Now, I had neither the reputation nor the connections. Killing useful tools like these mercenaries would have been a waste.
I erased the spatial distortions left by the teleportation, then began to create a new magic circle, this one with an exit point in the wastelands.
The spatial magic of this world was proving to be almost as useful as my own bloodline trait.
The sheer accessibility of instantaneous travel, a feat reserved for the wealthiest sects and the most powerful cultivators in my old world, still amazed me.
Here, any mid-rank demon with a bit of talent could learn to teleport. It was, however, a clumsy and cumbersome art compared to the elegant spatial manipulation of a true cultivator.
It was the difference between a massive club and a fine sword. Both can kill, but one requires far more effort.
These demons had yet to invent spatial rings or create personal pocket dimensions.
Only the Lucifuges, with their unique bloodline, could weave spatial distortions into their attacks. Still, my criticism felt hollow, given how often I now used their magic myself.
With a flash of light, I appeared in the middle of the plains. I unfurled my wings and launched myself into the air, flying away from the civilized lands of the Underworld.
Let the hunt begin.
….
Rofocale Lucifuge was not the first head of his House. The Six Great Houses, known as the "Hounds of Lucifer," had faced annihilation many times over the millennia.
The House of Lucifuge, as the unofficial leaders of the Six and the Right Hand of Lucifer, had always been a prime target.
As a result, their bloodline had remained pure, with few of the side branches that other noble houses used to ensure their survival.
Born and raised during the Great War, Rofocale had grown accustomed to death. He had seen countless "immortal" demons, friends, and subordinates fall.
Even his own father's death at the hands of the archangel Michael and his subsequent ascension to head of the House, he had accepted with a stoic and impartial calm.
It was all for the sake of their race, for Lucifer, who had promised them eternal prosperity after their victory.
At least, that's how it was until the one who had seemed as unshakable as the world itself had fallen. After that, everything had seemed so meaningless.
A knock on his study door. The silver-haired man looked up from a report on recent border skirmishes with the Grigori.
"Enter."
A servant with an unremarkable face bowed, then closed the door behind him. Rofocale returned his attention to his documents. "Speak," he said curtly.
"The latest batch of medicines created by young master Inflis was sold out five hours ago. The total revenue for this month is one hundred and fifty-three thousand excels. Lord Vidvlad Vasharn Beelzebub has sent an offer for a direct supply of the new medicines for his legions, at double the price."
"Similar offers have arrived from the descendants of Asmodeus and Leviathan. And the head of House Nebiros has expressed a desire to meet with young master Inflis."
"Have our designated demons been able to reproduce the healing pills from Inflis's instructions?"
"The first batch was produced a few days ago, but the failure rate was extremely high, and the quality was inferior to those produced by young master Inflis himself. However, the team leader, Linkil, assures me that production volume will exceed the current limit within a few months."
"And the quality?"
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