Chapter 104: The Right Way to Kill the Demon King

Question: How does one kill the Demon King?
Answer: Of course, by blowing up the Demon King along with his castle.

Such an exchange flickered through Dick’s mind, and a rare smile curved his lips, his emerald eyes sparkling like precious gems.

Indeed, he had detonated the Demon King together with the Demon King’s castle, banishing them into the endless void between worlds.

Well… perhaps that description was somewhat inaccurate.

For the original owner of the Demon King’s castle was not the Demon King, but Ignatius—though it was somewhat improper for him to say so, he had to thank Amy Ulysses. If Amy had not slain that dark traveler who once ventured into the deepest night and glimpsed some truths of the world, the supreme authority over Obadiah would never have shifted to him, and he would never have been able to execute his final plan: to detonate Obadiah.

Although controlling such a bizarre power that could transfer space at will would be quite beneficial to the Dice House, compared to the decree issued by the witch Jasu, it was utterly insignificant.

Perhaps those who spent a full century establishing the Dice House truly regarded it as their child, the fruit of their labor, but… witch Jasu, the supreme being who pulled them from their respective abysses named Despair, was not only their elder sister and mother but also the deity to whom they entrusted their very souls.

If it was her command, they would sacrifice everything without hesitation.

Fortunately, this mission did not require the sacrifice of life—before ordering Obadiah’s self-destruction, he first initiated a transfer. Unfortunately… there was a slight mishap at the last moment.

A minor error, really, inconsequential.

Yet when the orange flames appeared, a swordsman from the nearby cult seemed to perceive something and struck with a single slash without hesitation. The loud noise naturally alerted Wilson, the information broker who knew Obadiah intimately, who launched an attack without any hesitation—in such a crisis, there was no way to operate the strange entity birthed in the gap between worlds with finesse. The orange flames rapidly expanded, engulfing the two nearby men.

Then, in deep silence, all things vanished.

After a brilliant explosion akin to a collapsing star, Obadiah met its unique end.

Though the transfer had been initiated early, the incomprehensible shockwave—beyond mortal understanding or imagination—interfered with the teleportation, scattering the three who should have arrived in the same spot throughout the lower district. Even he did not know where he was now.

Somewhere in the corners of the lower district, anyway.

After scanning the surroundings, the apostle of the Dice House reflected:

Although Emperor Michelangelo had indeed accomplished many practical deeds, none could fundamentally alter the impoverished and desolate state of the lower district. At its root, Hemtica’s political and economic structures had long since been twisted under the erosion of the deepest night, becoming a monstrous entity wholly reliant on the lower district and the Mist District for sustenance—yet the most tragic and despairing truth was that this grotesque, tumor-like social system was the very guarantee of Hemtica’s survival.

As he had said when accompanying Amy to the Ildan Mines:

This world had been rotten to its core long ago.

It was beyond saving.

Perhaps many noble and great souls like Ignatius still strove for the survival of the world and civilization, but this was merely the last desperate counterattack before annihilation. Millennia ago, when the first generation of ancestors had not yet fully disappeared, the music of the demise of order and civilization had already been composed, and the fate of all was inscribed in stone—just as the aphorism on the frontispiece of Hammurabi’s code stated:

In the third millennium, the world lost its light.

The world had long lost hope.

Even an apostle like him, dimly transcending the world, felt a heavy weight in his heart when contemplating that cruel near future. How much more so for the mortals struggling and sinking at the bottom of the earthly realm? What awaited them… was probably nothing but despair.

Thinking this, Dick suddenly halted his steps and looked up at the youths before him.

“This scene… is so very, very familiar.” Gazing at these children who appeared only slightly older than himself, a smile—pure and without malice—appeared on his face. “Thanks to you, so many memories come flooding back.”

This was the slums—the impoverished district visible to the lower district’s attendants.

A hotbed of crime.

Countless children, orphaned and unprotected, were sold here; some taken by sewer rats to be trained as skillful little thieves, others adopted by dark organizations lurking like leeches in the shadows, molded into killers who knew only obedience. Some, blessed with striking beauty, were prized by certain “big shots,” kept like canaries—pitiful playthings.

Here, everyone’s future was already sealed.

Some would be killed for resisting, but most succumbed to fate and became the very people they once despised.

Perhaps they could no longer be called human; he preferred to describe them as beasts.

If he had not grasped the hand extended to him at that time, his fate would likely have been the same—utterly becoming a sewer rat or a toy for rich men and women, living as a walking corpse in a world gradually devoured by darkness, numb to life until death.

Thus, to be favored by Jasu was an incredible miracle he could never forget in his lifetime.

“Be sensible, kid!” The sallow, emaciated youth, bearing bruises and wounds from beatings, spoke first. “If you don’t want to die, come with us.”

A threat utterly lacking menace, with slurred words.

“Sorry, I usually don’t mind playing with you,” the blond, blue-eyed beauty shook his head, the refined smile never fading, utterly devoid of intimidation, “but today, I can’t.”

“Enough nonsense!”

Naturally, these youths—cruel as carrion vultures—would not miss this opportunity to “strike it rich.” Such a fine specimen would fetch several silver thalers from their master!

So they surged forward.

And unsurprisingly, were beaten to the ground.

“Truly… not a single bit of change.” Lightly clapping his hands, his gaze swept over the fallen youths as a faint sigh escaped him. “I told you I didn’t want to play, so don’t crowd me. You really don’t listen.”

He did not kill them.

Not out of pity born from shared suffering, but simply because it was meaningless.

Yes, utterly meaningless.

This world had been rotten to its core. Driving out the parasites atop was futile—after surviving the Dice House’s most difficult early days, he had thought about clearing out those parasites that nearly dragged him into the abyss, and he had even tried.

But the outcome… proved him wrong, spectacularly so.

For the lower district, they were necessary—the necessary evil for order’s existence.

Though the order under the Dark Guild’s rule… well, was practically nonexistent, in the unstable environment of the lower district, humanity was inherently fragile on an individual level. Their social structures lacked resilience; even relatively well-off families, if the head of the household died unexpectedly, left the young wife unable to withstand external violence, and the undeveloped children became unbearable burdens.

Abandonment or sale was not uncommon.

This improved greatly after Michelangelo’s reign, but due to limited living space and productivity constraints, the problem was never fully solved. Such gray, filthy, and dark zones instead took on the roles of daycares and orphanages, though their deeds had nothing to do with justice or righteousness and bred much evil.

But as said before, they were necessary.

Otherwise, death awaited those children.

Whether it was better to live numb and humiliated or to die with dignity, he could not choose for them. But amid beatings and endless abuse, they would eventually make their own choice—either to gamble their lives resisting the chains fate imposed, or to assimilate into that deep, murky darkness and become the very kind of person they once loathed.

Yet either way was better than dying without hope.

The blond, blue-eyed youth turned and left the alley without so much as a glance at the fallen boys.

Because he hated them—hated what they were becoming or already were.

From beginning to end, he had never changed; he was always Dick, the apostle who glimpsed that sliver of light in the darkness, struggling to survive in the cracks of the lower district, the apostle of witch Jasu.

To him, that small yet noble girl, like a deity in the heavens, was the light.

The light the world lost in the third millennium.

At this thought, a gentle and profound smile graced the youth’s face. But the moment he caught sight of the gray mist spreading from not far away, everything abruptly halted.

“This is impossible.”

Until the nameless mist from the Mist District completely engulfed him, he did not move a step.

“Ignatius—”

“There’s no way he’s still alive.”

He stubbornly refused to accept the truth, yet the mist drifting in from the Mist District was cold, undeniable fact.

He… had failed.

Ignatius’s plan had ultimately succeeded.

The barrier between the lower district and the Mist District was broken, and countless fiends would, like sharks scenting blood,

—swarm forth!