Name: Asmodeus
Mortal Name: Miles Tudor
Sin: Lust
Level: 3 [3 Unused Points]
Strength: 1
Endurance: 1
Agility: 1
Intelligence: 30
Health Points: 5/5
Energy Points: 5/5
Stamina: 10
Experience Points: 0/700
Talent Points: 2 unused
Fleshcraft: 0%
Primal Soul: 0.1% (Recovery in progress)
Elder Arts/Arcana: 40%
Skill:
Fox Fire (Active)
Mission Status:
Gather Information on This World (10% complete)
Time Limit: Nil
Side Quest:
Help the Tudor family win the election.
Time Limit: 6 months
—
Miles leveled up twice but chose to save the talent points for later and focus on the quest at hand.
To fix a problem, one must identify it first. Miles pondered for an hour and ultimately concluded there were three factors setting the Martin family apart from the Tudors.
The first was the presence of a talent wielder among them. This was a world ruled by those who possessed talents, not science.
The second was innovation. The Tudor family's most outstanding invention, the Gno-static rifle, was nothing compared to the exoskeleton suit Martin had created. Even in science, the Tudors were falling behind.
The final reason was the Preacher. The Martin family wasn't just smart and talented; they were also devotees of the Seer and could relate to the religious citizens, who far outnumbered the atheists.
Instantly, Miles had the answer to two of the three problems. He pushed aside the heap of newspapers on his desk and began scribbling down his solution on a white sheet.
The sooner he resolved this problem, the better for him.
— Next Day —
The next day, Miles stood before his father's study room and banged on the door with his weak arms. It annoyed him that his body was this frail, but he was too lazy to exercise.
The sin of Lust had never been one for direct combat. His strength lay in his cunning approach to conflict and the brutal execution of his plans.
Precision over brute strength.
The latter should be reserved for Pride and Wrath. Miles simply planned to accumulate more stat points and upgrade himself according to the situation and need.
Clank!
The door yanked open, revealing a worn-out Robert standing in the doorway with dark circles under his eyes. Clearly, the man hadn't slept last night.
Miles's early morning visit left him stunned, and the sheet of paper in his tiny hands piqued his curiosity.
"Do you have time to talk?" Miles asked in a leveled tone that should have been impossible for a child his age—but Robert was already used to it.
He always considered his son a blessing from heaven. The kid had shown incredible restraint, intelligence, and wisdom far beyond his years. So he always took what Miles had to say seriously. Still, he couldn't help but find his son's serious face amusing.
Without hesitation, Robert stepped aside and gestured for Miles to enter. He could only watch as the four-year-old confidently strode into his office and climbed into a seat.
Chuckling inwardly, Robert took in the amusing sight and headed back to his chair while Miles had to stand on it just to look over the table.
"What do you want to talk about?" Robert asked with a smile etched on his face.
Bam!
Miles slammed the folded paper on the desk, a sleek smile spreading across his tiny lips.
"I spent last night going through all the newspapers you provided, and I couldn't help but notice your… predicament." Miles picked his words carefully as Robert's face tightened.
"I have solutions," Miles continued as he pushed the sheet toward him. "However, for this to work, you must make me your campaign manager—with full salary and benefits."
Robert didn't rush to brush off Miles's outrageous demands. He gave his son a deep look before picking up the paper and unfolding it. Almost immediately, his calm, amused expression shifted to one of shock as he realized the sheet carried a blueprint for an invention.
"This is…"
"A grenade that uses the power of Gnosis as its core. As long as my instructions are followed, it should be twice or even three times as powerful as what you have now," Miles interrupted.
"I'll leave the naming to you," he added.
As a prince of the underworld, Miles had seen countless advanced human civilizations. They all took different approaches to science, but a common pattern existed in their inventions. Contrary to popular belief, Miles believed his greatest weapon in this world was his vast knowledge, not strength.
"Grenade…" Robert muttered, lost in thought as his inner scientist emerged at the sight of a new invention.
The man was always slow to react but decisive in his actions. His eyes ran through the blueprint several times before lowering it and staring into Miles's eyes. He knew his son was smart, but he hadn't imagined he would draw up his first invention just a day after his fourth birthday.
"Where did you—" Robert froze mid-sentence, realizing how foolish the question sounded.
Clearly, this was his son's handwriting, and the ink was still fresh. This was done recently, so there was no way he got it from somewhere else.
He struggled to process the idea that this child had created it on his own. No matter how he thought about it, it seemed impossible.
Had he underestimated his own son?
"To beat Mr. Muller, you need an invention to show the world that the Tudor family still has a lot to offer," Miles said, ignoring Robert's visible confusion as he climbed onto the table.
Robert could only blink repeatedly, torn between shock and disbelief, as his four-year-old son began pacing back and forth, dishing out campaign advice.
"More than ever, we need the Tudor family to unite and put you back in the spotlight. But before we go into details, let's finalize our agreement and draft a contract first."
Silence…
Miles frowned at Robert's blank expression and silently acknowledged that the old man needed time to process everything that had happened. So he decided to wait—and sure enough, Robert reacted five minutes later. He blinked one last time, shook his head, and folded the grenade blueprint.
Robert's gaze returned to Miles as he pondered silently. His four-year-old son was seriously asking to work as his campaign manager.
"You're not dreaming. It is 22nd September, 1818, and yes—your son is demanding you hire and pay him as your campaign manager. Only then will he share his brilliant ideas with you," Miles said flatly.
Robert nodded slowly, lips parting as he blurted out the first question that came to mind.
"Why does Daddy have to pay for your help?"
Miles chuckled and approached Robert, placing his tiny hands on the old man's cheeks.
"Because humans only value things that come at a cost. By the way, I'm not trying to build the image of a virtuous son you can count on for advice. I'm trying to build the image of a capable human who has the qualities of a leader—even at a tender age."
"Now, are we signing the damned contract or not?"