CH: 20: The Demon's Work

{Chapter: 20: The Demon's Work}

Time seemed to stretch infinitely.

Hank, his broad frame tense with unease, instinctively flexed his fingers. He clenched and unclenched his fists, feeling for anything—pain, weakness, some kind of anomaly—but found nothing. His body felt the same. Strong. Intact. Yet an unsettling dread lingered in his chest, like a whisper of something unseen brushing against his very essence.

Slowly, he turned his head.

Heto stood beside him, his face as pale as a corpse under the flickering torchlight. His breathing was shallow, his shoulders trembling. It was as if he had just survived a brutal fever, the kind that wracked the body with cold sweats and delirium.

Hank's brows furrowed.

"What happened to you just now?"

His voice, though firm, carried an edge of concern.

Heto swallowed hard, taking a moment to steady himself. He hesitated, as if weighing whether to speak, then exhaled through his nose.

"I have a special ability," he admitted, voice low. "Since I was a child, I've been able to sense the level of danger around me. The stronger the threat, the faster my heartbeat."

Hank remained silent, listening intently.

"When I saw that man—no, that thing—my heart nearly exploded in my chest," Heto continued. "It was like… it was like something inside me recognized him as an absolute predator. My vision blurred, my head spun, and I felt like I was suffocating. I nearly passed out just from being near him."

His hands clenched at his sides.

"This has never happened before. Not even when I was a child facing wild wolves alone. No matter how strong the enemy was, I always felt there was a way to resist, a way to fight back." His voice wavered, the resolute confidence of a seasoned warrior cracking. "But this time… I knew. No matter what I did, no matter how I struggled, it wouldn't have made a difference. He could have crushed me like an insect."

Silence hung heavy in the air.

Hank's jaw tightened.

A [Knight] could fight ten men and emerge victorious. A [Great Knight] could dominate ten [Knights] with ease. These were the backbone of any nation's military power, the warriors upon which kingdoms relied. For Heto, a veteran of countless battles, to speak like this…

It chilled Hank to his core.

"You're saying… we never had a chance?"

Heto nodded grimly. "Not even for a second."

Hank gritted his teeth. "Then do you feel anything strange now? Any lingering effects from whatever he did to us?"

Heto frowned, his eyes flickering with thought. "I… I don't know. Physically, I feel fine now. But whatever that mist was… it wasn't just an illusion. That man used something unnatural, something from those—" He hesitated, then spat the words, "Those damned spellcasters."

A shadow crossed Hank's face.

Everyone knew about them. The so-called wielders of arcane power—mysterious, reclusive, feared. The church had hunted them relentlessly for centuries, branding them heretics, demons in human skin. Most were nothing more than madmen, hiding in the shadows, whispering to things they should never have touched.

And yet…

Hank had never feared them.

Superstitions and old wives' tales—that was all their 'magic' amounted to. But this… this was different.

His mind raced back to man's words.

"I hope you can hold on for a few more days."

A cold weight settled in Hank's stomach.

That gray-black mist—whatever it was—wasn't harmless. He had released it into them for a reason. It was festering, waiting, biding its time.

And Hank had no idea what would happen when it finally took hold.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

"We can't just sit here," he muttered. "If that mist is something from those spellcasters, then the church might be our only hope."

Heto glanced at him, startled. "You want to reach out to them?"

Hank's gaze darkened. "Do we have another choice?"

"Then how?!"

---

Beyond the confines of the iron cage, Dex paid them no further attention.

His golden eyes flickered with a detached curiosity as he studied the ever-shifting data displayed in his mind. He could feel it—every heartbeat, every breath, every minute fluctuation in the bodies of his test subjects.

Through the [Source of Death Plague], he monitored their conditions, adjusting variables with the precision of a master craftsman.

The incubation period couldn't be too long.

The symptoms couldn't be too obvious—at least, not at first.

The initial pain couldn't be too severe, lest they collapse before their true purpose could be fulfilled.

It was a delicate balance.

The caged prisoners before him were nothing more than raw material, vessels for his experiment. Their pasts, their struggles, their loyalties—none of it mattered.

Because the outcome had already been decided.

Dex's lips curled into a faint smirk.

It was always the same with humans.

They clung to the illusion of control, of agency, never realizing that from the moment they crossed paths with beings like him, their fates were sealed.

Their desperation, their fleeting hope of escape—it was almost endearing.

Almost.

His gaze drifted to the vermin scurrying in the corner.

Rats.

A fitting metaphor.

They too had been subjected to his experiments, their tiny bodies warping and twisting under his touch. Some had perished within minutes, their flesh decaying into putrid masses. Others had lasted longer, their bones growing brittle, their organs liquefying from the inside.

A few had adapted.

That, of course, was the true purpose of all this.

To find the perfect balance.

To craft something that could slip unseen into the veins of a kingdom, festering in silence until it was far too late.

Humans always feared the wrath of demons, the burning landscapes of hellfire, the crushing weight of infernal armies.

But true power?

True power was far more insidious.

Dex exhaled, his smirk widening.

"It's right at my fingertips. Why would I ever let you escape?"

His laughter was quiet, a soft exhale of amusement.

If they truly thought they could resist, that they could turn to the church for salvation…

He almost pitied them.

Almost.

After a long period of careful observation, Dex had finally begun to understand something fundamental about the way this world operated.

By merging his own memories with his personal experiences, he gained clarity on a question that had long puzzled many: Why were demons so obsessed with invading other planes when the Abyss itself was teeming with countless creatures ripe for slaughter?

At first glance, one might assume that the Abyss, being a realm of endless chaos, would provide ample opportunities for destruction. After all, it was filled with an unimaginable variety of creatures, each more twisted and dangerous than the last. Yet therein lay the problem.

If one were to say that all beings in the Abyss were "strange," they wouldn't be wrong. However, "strange" was an understatement. The denizens of that accursed realm were more than just bizarre—they were completely unhinged. Some were mindless monsters driven by nothing but hunger, others were sadistic murderers reveling in madness, and a select few were ambitious elites who sought nothing less than the complete annihilation of existence—including themselves.

It was a realm where killing for sport was the natural order, where schemes of domination and betrayal unfolded endlessly. But therein lay the frustration for those who simply wanted to burn, plunder, and slaughter without resistance. In the Abyss, there were no easy victims. Every creature fought tooth and claw for survival. Even the weakest might hide a horrifying mutation or a deadly curse, turning the hunter into prey in an instant.

This made other dimensions far more appealing.

Unlike the Abyss, these worlds were populated by fragile, ignorant beings—weaklings with no inherent magical defenses, no mutations, no demonic heritage to bolster their resilience. They were soft, sickly, and as easy to crush as sprouting bean shoots.

What's more, even the most common environmental hazards of the Abyss—airborne toxins, mutagenic spores, or corrupting energies—could easily annihilate entire villages in these planes.

It was almost too easy.

And so, inevitably, these weaker worlds became prime targets.

The question remained, though: What if, by some cruel twist of fate, the would-be conqueror became the conquered? What if a demon seeking to harvest these lesser beings ended up being overwhelmed instead?

The answer was simple.

In the Abyss, failure wasn't acknowledged. No one wept for the weak. No one remembered the fallen. There was only the endless cycle of slaughter. Either you killed, or you died. There was no third option.

Dex had learned this truth early on.

In the Wailing Forest—a cursed expanse of twisted, nightmarish vegetation—he had once attempted to burn everything to the ground. A cleansing fire, a perfect display of destruction.

But to his irritation, the plants in the Abyss were not so easily consumed. Some were resistant to flames, others fed on them, and a few even regenerated faster than they could burn. Blood Flame, which should have been the ultimate tool of destruction, was met with stubborn resistance at every turn.

This world, however, was different.