Two months later, in the royal capital of Mardain.
Inside a luxurious estate.
In the garden pavilion, Orsaga—now in human form—sat quietly on a chair, dressed in opulent attire fitting the culture of this world.
A variety of fresh fruits, delivered urgently from across the country, were laid out on the table before him. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the overhead foliage, casting specks of light across his handsome face.
Though he showed no expression and remained perfectly still, his presence radiated an uncanny and unnatural menace. It felt as though an invisible blade hovered at one's throat. The very air around the pavilion seemed to chill by several degrees, and even the warm sunlight couldn't dispel the cold.
Orsaga calmly studied the misty mass floating in his hand.
It was semi-transparent and gray-black in color, like swirling particles of fine dust in constant motion—yet it had no weight or solid form, almost like an illusion or a wisp of air.
Just then, Tharion walked into the courtyard.
He was no longer wearing the standard cultist's hooded black robe. Instead, he now wore the formal attire of a nobleman. Stopping respectfully a short distance from Orsaga, he said with deference, "My lord, all the items you requested have been gathered."
"Mm. You may go."
Without even looking at him, Orsaga gave a faint nod and replied with indifference.
Tharion didn't dare say a word more. In truth, he had no desire to face Orsaga at all. Just standing in his presence made Tharion feel as though he was repeatedly brushing past death itself.
This being—though currently wearing a human form—was, in essence, a pure Demon.
On quiet nights, whenever Tharion recalled what had happened on the night of the summoning ritual—the looks of disbelief in the eyes of the cultists as they died before him—he would involuntarily shudder.
Though he had always treated those cultists as expendable tools that could be replaced at any time, witnessing their brutal deaths up close stirred an unexpected sense of guilt within him. After spending so much time with them, he couldn't help but feel a pang of remorse.
It was a strange and unfamiliar emotion for Tharion—who had long believed himself utterly ruthless, a man without conscience. In the past, he had willingly sacrificed subordinates without batting an eye. If they died, he'd simply call them useless trash.
But this time felt different.
Perhaps it was because he could finally empathize, having now experienced real fear and helplessness himself. After all, some people only learn to see from another's perspective once they've stood at the edge of despair.
If the blade had never pierced your own flesh, you'd never know how much it hurts.
Before Orsaga shattered his arrogance, Tharion would never have imagined feeling this way.
He had always thought himself a genius, above the common rabble. Why should he care about the feelings of the weak? Wasn't it their honor to serve the strong?
That simple belief was crushed the moment Orsaga appeared.
There had been no battle, no struggle—just a single look from those golden, slit-pupiled eyes. That cold, domineering gaze—like a predator regarding its prey—obliterated all of Tharion's pride and confidence. It left him stripped of his dignity as a dark Warlock.
It was only when he realized how easily Orsaga could crush him—like a bug underfoot—that he was finally forced to see the world from a weaker perspective. Only then did he understand how his followers might have felt under his own command.
Orsaga hadn't read Tharion's mind, but from his behavior these past few weeks, he had a good idea of what was going through the man's head.
Still, understanding didn't mean caring.
To Orsaga, it was mildly amusing at best.
If Tharion were truly a good person, would he have summoned a demon like Orsaga?
Were the corpses used in the summoning ritual just handed to him as a gift?
And his identity as a dark warlock—was that someone else's doing?
Even without using any powers, Orsaga could sense the heavy burden of resentment clinging to Tharion. It came from the countless innocent victims he had sacrificed for his experiments in dark magic.
And now he wanted to become a better man?
Orsaga figured Tharion would be better off sleeping. At least in dreams, there was a sliver of hope.
Still, he didn't bother saying any of this aloud. In fact, he was genuinely curious to see whether a butcher of the innocent and a deranged cult leader could truly repent and walk the path of righteousness.
It might even add a little entertainment to his stay in this world.
A bit of drama never hurt.
In fact, Orsaga had Tharion to thank—if not for his summoning, who knows who would've snagged the opportunity?
He honestly hadn't expected to get this lucky.
He had landed himself a novice who had been completely duped by his predecessor.
The real trap was the summoning circle Tharion had used.
After casually flipping through Tharion's spellbook, Orsaga immediately recognized that some of the information it contained was dangerously misleading—almost as if it had been deliberately tampered with.
The summoning circle supposedly called forth a creature known as a "Wrath Ape," a relatively low-tier magical beast. But in truth, it was designed to summon a demon of the Abyss.
A proper summoning circle is made up of five key components:
Search, Communicate, Summon, Bind, and Dismiss—that is, identifying a suitable target, establishing contact, bringing it forth, controlling it, and having the means to send it back if things go wrong.
Tharion's summoning circle had only the first three components. The last two—Binding and Dismissal—were replaced by meaningless gibberish. In other words, he had no way to control or banish whatever he summoned.
Worse, the Communication glyphs in the circle were filled with deceptive information—exaggerating the offerings by a factor of hundreds. A textbook scam.
A ritual that should've summoned an Minor demon had instead lured in a Lesser Demon.
Normally, due to the deceit, demons summoned under such false pretenses would refuse the contract and return to the Abyss—essentially a wasted trip.
But Tharion's magic circle didn't include a Dismissal function. It was more like a one-way gate—an invitation to an all-you-can-eat buffet with no way out.
If any other lesser demon had been summoned, they would've noticed the scam immediately—and with no safeguards in place, they would've torn Tharion and his followers apart on the spot, before unleashing chaos upon the rest of the world."
In that sense, Orsaga was, arguably, a savior.
Not that he'd say it out loud.
He didn't want to risk being worshipped by some fanatics.
The root of all this mess was the spellbook itself. Orsaga suspected it was the dying gift of a disgruntled dark warlock—one last act of vengeance. By leaving behind false information, he had hoped to mislead future readers into summoning chaos upon the world.
A final "if I die, I'm taking others with me" gesture.
This wasn't the first time something like this had happened. Usually the demon got a free meal and left. Occasionally, things got out of hand.
Honestly, if given the chance, Orsaga wouldn't mind every summoning being this convenient.
But he also knew it was a once-in-a-lifetime stroke of luck.
Based on his innate Abyssal chronosense, Orsaga had already determined that time in this world moved at one-third the speed of the Abyss—three hours here for every one hour there.
Perfect for his purposes.
If only the ambient mana levels were higher.
The magical energy in this world was pitiful. Even the dense forests of the Abyss—a literal demon rookie zone—had twenty times more ambient mana.
And that was after billions of monsters drained it constantly.
Still, this world did have spellcasters. According to the Mardain's archives, their magic was primitive and underdeveloped—probably still in its infancy.
There might be a few rare prodigies, but the overall environment stifled growth. Their future was cut short by circumstance.
When Orsaga was first summoned, his strength had been suppressed by nearly half. After two months of recuperation, he had nearly recovered.
That was thanks in part to his Rune—Crimson, which reduced the effects of world suppression. Demons like him were on every world's lifetime blacklist—permanently marked as VIP threats. Being weakened upon arrival was normal.
Losing 70–80% of one's strength wasn't unheard of.
Which was exactly why demons often launched massacres immediately after arriving in a new world.
Only through mass slaughter and soul harvesting could they recover their strength quickly.
Even now, Orsaga could feel the world rejecting him—constantly trying to expel him. Drawing in mana from the atmosphere required brute force. And that resistance was only growing stronger.
One day, it would forcibly eject him back to the Abyss.
Even the Crimson Rune could only delay the inevitable.
But Orsaga didn't mind. He never planned to stay forever.
He only needed enough time to accomplish his goals.
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T/N:
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