CH: 19: A Demon's Mercy

{Chapter: 19: A Demon's Mercy}

Footsteps.

Slow. Measured. Unhurried.

A figure emerged from the darkness.

The first thing Hank noticed was the color—deep, fiery red.

A young man stepped into view, his hair like strands of molten copper, a stark contrast against the black-and-gold attire draped over his slender frame. His clothes were luxurious, woven from fabric that shimmered subtly in the dim light, adorned with intricate gold-plated patterns.

His features were near perfection—sharp yet refined, carrying an air of effortless grace. But it wasn't just his appearance that seized their attention.

It was something deeper.

A presence.

An unnatural, almost ethereal aura surrounded him, a force that seemed to distort reality itself.

Hank had encountered royalty before—spoiled nobles who carried themselves with arrogance, thinking the world revolved around them. This man was different.

He didn't act like the center of the world.

He was the center of the world.

Everything around him seemed lesser, reduced to mere background noise. The flickering candlelight dimmed in his presence, and even the dust in the air seemed to settle, as if unwilling to taint his passage.

Then there was the cold.

Hank barely noticed it at first, but the moment the red-haired man stepped forward, the temperature in the room plummeted.

It wasn't the biting chill of winter or the damp cold of a stone dungeon.

It was something else—something unnatural.

The flies and mosquitoes that had been buzzing around earlier had disappeared. The air had gone still.

The feeling that crawled up Hank's spine wasn't just fear.

It was dread.

He shifted his gaze slightly, his instincts screaming at him to assess the reactions of those around him.

And that's when he saw Heto.

The seasoned warrior was trembling.

Heto Yasar—the Grand Knight, the man who had seen countless battlefields, who had faced warlords, beasts, and horrors most men couldn't imagine—was paralyzed.

Sweat glistened on his bald head, sliding down the twisted scar on his cheek. His lips were slightly parted, as if he wanted to say something, but no words came out.

He was afraid.

More than afraid. Terrified.

Hank didn't know why.

But he didn't need to.

Danger was here.

His instincts screamed at him to move—to hide, to make himself as small and insignificant as possible. He obeyed without hesitation, lowering his gaze and shifting his body behind one of the other prisoners, using them as cover.

This was no ordinary man.

This was something else entirely.

---

The red-haired man, Dex, tilted his head slightly, his sharp gaze sweeping over the prisoners.

If he noticed their fear, he gave no indication.

His lips curved into a satisfied smirk as he observed the variety of warriors, killers, and survivors caged before him.

"The quality is quite good." His voice was smooth, refined, carrying an almost amused tone. "It seems that Salt has been diligent in his work."

A murmur rippled through the prisoners at the mention of that name.

Salt.

The infamous sorcerer. The monster who experimented on living humans, treating them as mere components in his grotesque magic.

If he was involved, then whatever was happening here…

It was far worse than they had imagined.

Dex, however, seemed utterly unconcerned.

He exhaled softly, his golden eyes gleaming with quiet amusement.

Of course, he knew that the real mastermind behind this contribution was Crown Prince James. The arrogant fool had gone to great lengths to ensure this event took place, likely thinking himself clever.

Dex didn't care.

So long as they fulfilled their roles, he had no interest in their petty schemes.

As long as they could complete the tasks he gave them, he didn't care what tricks the two of them played. Anyway, according to the concentration of magic power and the development process of civilization in this world, he didn't need to care about all threads except for some old things that he didn't know whether they existed or not.

His goals lay elsewhere.

The foundations of civilization were weak, fragile.

Were it not for the risk of drawing too much attention and cutting his time in this world short, he would have long since abandoned his current methods. Subtlety was never his style.

If wanton killing had not caused the world to overreact and severely shortened his stay in this world, he would never have been able to use his current gentle approach to be a hidden boss behind the scenes. He would have jumped to the front stage and done whatever he wanted long ago.

But patience was a virtue—even for a demon.

However, since his goal has not yet been achieved, he does not want to make any big news in the short term, which would attract a large group of messy heroes to form a team and come all the way to fight the demon king.

At least until his objectives were met.

Until then, he would play the role of the hidden hand, the shadow behind the throne.

His golden eyes flickered toward the prisoners once more.

Soon.

They would serve their purpose soon.

Dex's golden eyes swept across the room, his gaze as sharp as a butcher's knife examining livestock before slaughter.

A man in a tattered prison uniform stiffened under that piercing stare. He wasn't particularly striking—short and stocky, his face lined with years of hardship. A deep scar ran diagonally across his right eye, the remnants of a beast's claws.

Yet, despite the overwhelming pressure emanating from Dex, he took a deep breath and forced himself to stand.

His voice was steady, serious.

"Let me go," he declared, his eyes locking onto Dex's. "I know where the treasure that Prince Lilya reserved for himself is hidden. The one he stashed away before his rebellion in the Kingdom of Madon… 275 years ago."

Silence followed his words.

The other prisoners, who had been frozen in place by Dex's presence, exchanged glances. Treasure? A hidden fortune lost to time? Even in their dire situation, the mention of wealth stirred something primal in them.

Dex, however, remained unimpressed.

These past few days, he had skimmed through several books—A Brief History of the Kingdom of Marton, A Detailed Record of the History of the Continent, Myths of the Various Nationalities on the Continent.

He knew what the man was talking about.

And yet, he couldn't bring himself to care.

The gold, silver, and trinkets so desperately coveted by humanity were meaningless in the Abyss. Compared to the tangible, visceral worth of fresh blood and souls, human treasure was nothing more than hollow vanity.

He exhaled slowly, his voice hoarse yet eerily calm.

"Prince Lilya?" His lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "I have no interest in his so-called treasure. Those things are worthless."

The middle-aged man's expression didn't change. He hadn't expected an immediate agreement. Instead, he studied Dex carefully before leaning in slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"The leader of the Gale Bandits is my biological brother," he revealed. "He commands hundreds of battle-hardened men. If you let me go, not only will we retrieve Prince Lilya's treasure, but we'll also serve you. For free. Killing, robbing, raiding—you name it, we'll do it."

Dex's fingers idly traced his jawline.

"The Wind Bandits… that name sounds familiar." His tone was thoughtful.

Seeing this reaction, the man's confidence surged.

He pressed on eagerly. "We, the Wind Bandits, are the largest group of horse thieves on the border of the Principality of Marton. No one dares to oppose us—except the regular army!"

For the first time, Dex gave a small nod, as if acknowledging the information.

Then he shook his head.

"But it still doesn't matter to me," he said, his voice tinged with amusement. "After all, you lot are the most valuable people in this kingdom. Everything else? It's irrelevant."

The man's expression darkened. His lips pressed into a tight line, fists clenching at his sides.

But Dex was already looking past him.

He inhaled deeply, his sharp features shifting into an expression of mild intoxication.

"The familiar scent of sin," he murmured, as if savoring a fine wine. "It reminds me of the Abyss." His golden eyes flickered with something almost nostalgic. "Not all of you carry the purest essence of evil… but by human standards, most of you are irredeemable villains." His smile widened. "To play a role in my hands should be considered an honor."

A shiver ran through the crowd.

Then—

It began.

Without any grand gestures, without so much as lifting a finger, a thin mist unfurled from Dex's body.

It was neither thick nor suffocating. A mere wisp of gray-black fog, curling like ink dissolving in water.

But the moment it touched them, the prisoners' eyes widened in horror.

They tried to resist. Some staggered backward, others clutched their chests as though they could physically push the presence away.

It was futile.

The mist weaved through the air, slipping into their bodies as effortlessly as breath.

Then it was over.

The room remained silent for several seconds.

The prisoners stared at their own hands, their own bodies, their fear tangible. Something had changed. They couldn't feel it.

Dex chuckled softly.

"Try to last a few days," he mused. "I'd rather not replace you too soon."

He turned on his heel, walking away without another word.

As he reached the iron gate, something clicked in his mind.

The Wind Bandits.

Ah.

Now he remembered.

More than ten days ago, when he had been wandering near the border forest, casually setting it ablaze, he had encountered them.

And, of course…

So he converted them...

His laughter was quiet at first, then grew louder, the sound dripping with amusement.

"Amen," he murmured, shaking his head. "Truly, I am a merciful demon."

Perhaps next time, he should find a Queen of England to issue him a certificate for saving sentient beings. And then maybe have some fun with her.

After all, working without a license was simply irresponsible.

*****

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