CH: 192: Poisoning Plan of All Worlds?!

{Chapter: 192: Poisoning Plan of All Worlds?!}

His more composed companion kept a steady grip on his weapon, eyes scanning the surroundings. After a minute of quiet, he finally muttered, "…Seems it passed. No one's screaming. No bodies on the floor. No crater outside the window."

The bald man let out a breath, but his expression didn't ease. "Still, that kind of malice doesn't belong in a city. Not unless something big's brewing."

It was unnatural. Dangerous.

"Maybe someone just ticked off a powerhouse," his friend offered, shrugging with a grimace. "You know how these elites are. One wrong word and suddenly you're a smear on the cobblestones."

The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. That kind of killing intent wasn't casual—it was a pressure that carried experience, history, and weight. A predator used to slaughter. Someone who didn't just think about killing—they'd done it, countless times.

The incident left many others restless as well.

Several city guards reported the anomaly to their superiors. The magic barriers protecting the city were checked for tampering, and patrols were doubled around key intersections. They expected to find at least one corpse, maybe dozens, given the murderous pulse that had rolled over the square.

Yet there were none.

No bodies. No signs of conflict. No blood on the stones.

They couldn't possibly know that the brief ripple they felt wasn't the aftermath of a fight—it was the faintest leak of a demon's disappointment.

Had the guards said the wrong word, or drawn a weapon, or even looked a little too sternly at Dex… things might have gone very differently.

He wasn't the type to leave witnesses. His philosophy, born from years of survival and more than a few RPG grinds, was simple:

If you're going to kill, kill everyone. Leave no quest-giver behind.

And so, by sheer fortune—or perhaps divine oversight—the city survived that day. Peace continued, shallow and blind, unaware of how close it had come to catastrophe.

Dex, meanwhile, simply adjusted his collar, squinted up at the sky, and muttered to himself.

"Hmph. Guess I'll go to the auction after all."

---

Night Falls.

As darkness quietly blanketed the world, the city's chaos finally simmered down to a dull hum. After roaming through the streets for the entire day, Dex relied on his innate perception and acute senses to map out the city's basic layout, infrastructure, and general atmosphere. He wasn't just aimlessly wandering—he was gathering valuable information. Every alleyway, every corner market, every checkpoint manned by city guards was etched into his mind.

Along the way, he sampled almost all the local street food. After all, as a refined demon with a sense of self-worth, he firmly believed in not mistreating himself—especially when it came to food and women.

To his mild surprise, most of the snacks turned out to be decent. Some were even enjoyable.

Thanks to the influence of extraordinary powers in this world, the range and depth of seasonings surpassed anything Earth could offer. Flavor profiles ranged from spicy infernos to icy tangs that numbed the tongue. Some ingredients even induced brief hallucinogenic or euphoric effects, reminiscent of psychotropic substances. But that was considered normal around here. The diverse races of this realm possessed physical constitutions far beyond that of ordinary Earthlings. Were this Earth, people would be twitching on the sidewalks like half-dead, skeletal zombies from a horror movie.

After a hearty yawn, Dex stretched his limbs and began reviewing his future plans in earnest.

Just as he had decided earlier, he wasn't interested in making grand headlines. Being hunted by zealots, holy warriors, and do-gooders was tiresome and inefficient. He had no desire to become the latest villain featured in bardic ballads—"The Demon Who Burned the Sky" or something equally melodramatic. No thanks. But on the other hand, he still needed income. Influence. Comfort.

Subtle manipulation and small-scale schemes were more his style.

That meant flashy abilities like Bloodfire—which reduced entire neighborhoods to cinders—were absolutely out of the question. Sure, it had theatrical value, but Dex didn't want to draw attention. Not yet.

So, he turned instead to his old, dependable tool: plague.

Biochemical warfare was Dex's bread and butter. And not just in the "T-Virus turns you into a zombie" way. He was a true master of the microbial craft. If you could name it, he could create it—cold viruses, influenza strains, bubonic plague, smallpox, cholera, HIV, Ebola, coronaviruses, malaria, tuberculosis, dengue fever. He could even engineer infectious cancer cells comparable to Deadpool if he really put in the effort.

But for now, his plan wasn't to cause instant chaos or public terror. That would bring too much heat. His strategy was slow, calculated, and deviously effective.

He called it the [Poisoning Plan of All Worlds, Where I Eat Snacks and Wait for People to Die].

The concept was elegant in its simplicity. He would discreetly introduce dozens of seemingly mundane diseases—ailments that mirrored the common cold or seasonal flu. Nothing too severe. Nothing too suspicious.

Each would have an intentionally low transmission rate and mortality threshold—just under the radar of what would trigger concern among this world's powerful figures and magical authorities.

Initially, people might barely notice. Nine out of ten infected would recover without even needing medicine. To anyone observing, it would just look like another seasonal illness making its rounds.

But over time, as the population gradually normalized these diseases as common occurrences, Dex would reap his harvest. With such an enormous global population base, even a tiny sliver of consistent casualties—mostly the old, the weak, and the frail—would accumulate. Death by a thousand colds.

And the best part? He wouldn't have to lift a finger after the initial phase.

While other demons wasted their energy summoning eldritch beasts, conducting extravagant blood sacrifices, and risking their lives attacking fortified holy grounds, Dex could recline in comfort. He could eat, drink, and watch the death toll rise—like a proper demon who'd earned early retirement.

All he had to do now was examine the average physiology of the world's major races—dwarves, elves, humans, beastkin, and others—and assess the general standard of medicine and healing magic. Once that data was collected, he could begin engineering disease strains tailored to each species, designed to be just annoying enough to spread, but not fatal enough to warrant panic.

It was safe. Sustainable. Scalable.

He could spread the initial infections through unwitting passersby. A sneeze here, a cough there, and the cycle would begin.

"Work hard for three to five days, then rest for three to five centuries," Dex muttered contentedly to himself as he vanished into the night. "Now that is what I call a long-term investment."

According to Dex's estimation, it would take him roughly a month to gather all the relevant data he needed. The task ahead wasn't exactly simple—it was time-consuming and required a methodical approach. Each race had different biological traits, different immunities, and different levels of resistance. Cataloguing this information one by one would be a pain, especially since many of the rarer species were elusive or lived in isolated enclaves that were difficult to access.

Fortunately, he didn't need to go that far. His true targets weren't the reclusive or rare populations scattered throughout the world. They were too few in number, too insignificant to be worth the effort. There was no point in wasting his time grinding down such minorities when the common, densely populated races offered far greater returns.

As far as Dex was concerned, this wasn't just a ploy to survive—it was a silent, calculated dismantling of civilization's foundations. A corruption blooming quietly under the surface, invisible to those living their ordinary lives.

If the powerful native factions of this world ever caught wind of what he was truly planning, they wouldn't hesitate. They would immediately band together, organize a world-level crusade, and hunt him down like the apocalyptic threat he was. There would be no negotiations, no warnings. He would be marked for destruction, an enemy to all life.

Because someone like him, someone who quietly poisoned the world with every breath, could never be allowed to live.

The only reason he had slipped through the cracks of fate and managed to sneak into this world was perhaps due to the accumulated karmic blessings of his long-forgotten ancestors. They must have done something incredibly noble at some point, because the world itself had clearly let down its guard.

And now… it would pay the price.

Blissfully unaware of the disaster nestled in its heart, the world continued to turn. Meanwhile, Dex, outwardly carefree and lighthearted, remained focused on his own goals—survival, indulgence, and living without responsibilities or consequences.

From the very beginning, he had never planned to stop.

Standing on the outskirts of a massive open plaza, Dex was momentarily stunned. The place was packed wall to wall with life. Crowds streamed in endlessly from every direction. Street vendors hawked their wares with enthusiastic shouts, magical fireworks popped in the sky to attract customers, and even performers danced, juggled, or sang to the rhythm of lutes and flutes.

The whole place felt less like an auction and more like a wild carnival.

Dex narrowed his eyes and scanned the crowd. With just a rough count, he estimated there had to be at least several hundred thousand people gathered. It was pure madness.

He turned his gaze toward the structure at the center of the plaza—the so-called auction house.

It was large, certainly, but nowhere near large enough to contain this many attendees.

"How in the world is all of this supposed to fit in there?" he muttered, tilting his head in disbelief.

His brain immediately began spinning through possibilities. Was there some kind of external bidding system? Maybe people could place their bids outside via messenger golems or enchanted slips?

Or maybe—just maybe—they were using spatial magic to expand the internal dimensions?