Inside the Withered Rose Tavern, the air was thick with the rich aroma of alcohol. A hazy fog of pipe smoke drifted through the room, lending the surroundings a dreamlike blur, and under the dim amber lanterns, subjects of the Empire raised their tankards and drank to their hearts' content.
Accompanied by the spirited performance of a satyr troupe, a drow dancer twirled beneath the moonlight, leaving onlookers utterly entranced.
"Encore!"
"More! Take another piece off!"
"Elves truly are something else! Her skin might be on the darker side, but spending a night of bliss with her would be worth dying for..."
"Tch—with what little coin you earn, you couldn't even afford a bottle of Witch's Kiss for her!"
What had begun as a boisterous tavern hummed with singing, dancing, and raucous cheers, but as the hours wore on, the din grew louder, making friction and collisions inevitable.
It was only when a drunken tiefling stumbled into an enormous ogre and vomited all over him that the tavern's first brawl erupted.
"Bastard! You're looking to die!"
The furious ogre grabbed a broken table leg, wiped away the vomit, and let out an ear-splitting roar.
Yet the tavern patrons, far from panicking, grew even more excited. Eyes reflected the lamplight, alight with thrilling anticipation and delight.
"Place your bets! Bets are open!"
"Put me down for the ogre! He tore a hill giant apart with his bare hands just last week!"
"I'm betting on the tiefling! They've got the numbers!"
The Imperial citizens crowded together, shouting and hollering. By day, they might have been laborers numbed by endless toil, soldiers worn out by brutal drills, or peddlers rushing about to scrape together a living.
Here in the tavern, however, they could cast off their restraints, dulling their senses with liquor and granting themselves a fleeting escape from the day's misery.
Humans, tieflings, hobgoblins, half-dragons, and even ogres... Imperial citizens of varied races and stations gathered together, dead drunk, giving themselves over completely to a chaotic revelry soaked in raw desire.
In a secluded corner of the tavern, a few patrons were fiercely debating the war on the front lines. Their voices were heated, their expressions impassioned, as though they were standing on the battlefield themselves.
"Have you heard the news from the front?"
"Hahaha! Of course! Our army took the City of Sunrise, and the Kingdom of Thrace will soon be folded into the Empire's map!"
A ruddy-faced man slammed his mug onto the table and bellowed, "Gods, that feels good! It's high time those arrogant southerners learned what we're made of! They aren't fit to be anything more than slaves to the Empire!"
"We'll plant the imperial flag over the Abyss itself..."
Swept up in his fervor, he shook his fist and slurred his way into that famous southern song.
"Even if the Empire conquers Thrace, so what?"
Just then, a crestfallen, mocking voice cut in from the side, starkly out of place amid the festive mood.
The voice went on, "Sounds great when you say it, but the ones enjoying all the wealth and glory will still be the high and mighty lords. Common trash like us... still—still have to work overtime on the assembly line."
"What did you say?"
The patrons snapped their heads toward him, glaring fiercely. The speaker was a scrawny young man in tattered work clothes, slumping drunkenly over his table with despair written all over his face.
His name was Martin. He was just an ordinary worker assigned to military rations, forced to work overtime for more than ten straight days due to the recent warfare. He was supposed to have earned a handsome bonus for it.
Yet just this afternoon, overwhelmed by exhaustion, Martin had nodded off at his workstation, only to be caught red-handed by a harsh half-dragon overseer. Not only had he been brutally cursed out, but his entire monthly bonus had been stripped away, wiping out all his grueling labor in an instant.
When he returned to his dark, cramped quarters, his landlord had been waiting at the door, demanding last month's rent. The payment was already long overdue, and if he didn't pay up, he would be thrown out onto the street.
Martin felt as though he were suffocating. His dream of buying a home in Blackstone Keep and becoming a proud citizen seemed to be drifting further and further out of reach.
Drowned in frustration, heartbreak, and despair, Martin had gritted his teeth, dug out the very last of his savings, and come to the renowned Withered Rose Tavern to drown his sorrows in drink.
Under the influence of alcohol, he cast caution to the wind and poured out his heart.
Martin smashed his bottle onto the floor and cursed, his face flushed scarlet, "Damn it all! What the hell does winning a war have to do with us?! We work late into the night every damn day, and in the end, we don't see a single copper!"
"That's because you didn't work hard enough!"
"His Majesty Cassius laid down the laws himself! As long as you work diligently for the Empire, you're guaranteed a rich reward!"
"Bums like you are just lazy! You spend all day soaking in taverns instead of working—no wonder you can't even afford decent clothes!"
The surrounding drunks hurled sneers and verbal abuse.
Blood rushed to Martin's head. Bolstered by alcohol, his fear vanished. He threw back another gulp of liquor and slammed his open palm onto the table with a loud crack.
"Shut your fucking mouths! Even if the Empire conquers all of Feanso, what good does it do us?
"We'll still be living backwards lives, pulling all-nighters, working overtime, living like joyless machines!"
Right then, a man's voice drifted out from the tavern's gloomy shadows: "Everyone, think carefully about what this fellow is actually saying.
"He doesn't want the Empire to triumph? What kind of thug would dare utter such words?"
The voice was low and raspy, its source impossible to pinpoint, yet it carried an irresistible power to incite.
Upon hearing those words, fury swept through the drunks. Shaking their fists, they glared savagely at Martin as though ready to tear his frail frame to shreds.
"What sheer insolence! How dare you question the Empire's grand design? How dare you insult the sacrifices of the soldiers on the front lines?!"
"By Cassius above, if not for the Empire, how could we be living such good lives?"
"Back in the days of the Northlands, a lazy scoundrel like him would've starved to death long ago! Instead of being grateful for His Majesty Cassius's grace, he dares spout defiance! Ungrateful wretch!"
"If you ask me, he's clearly a spy sent by Fadlan!"
"Right! He has to be an agent sent by those damned southerners! Or maybe he's a leftover remnant of the old Northland nobility—why else would he utter such treason?!"
"Why don't we... butcher this traitor right here!"
"Kill him! We can't let scum like this run free in the city! He's definitely a spy from Fadlan!"
The drunken mob's words grew increasingly venomous, and the looks they directed at Martin shifted from hostility to boiling rage, then to sheer hatred.
They drew daggers, clubs, and other weapons, shouting feverishly as they surrounded the wretched worker. An eerie, unnatural tension settled over the tavern.
Martin was jolted sober on the spot. His legs trembled violently, and he slumped to the floor, his face drained of color as his lips quivered. "W-What are you doing?! This is inside the city! Murder is illegal! Someone help me!"
Oddly enough, the barkeep and the other patrons acted as if they heard nothing, completely blind to the anomaly unfolding before them.
The drunks closed in, their faces contorting and their expressions growing increasingly manic. A chilling, synchronized chant rose from their throats: "Kill him, kill him, kill him..."
"Devils... You're all a bunch of devils!"
Martin cowered on the floor in terror, shaking his head frantically as cold sweat streamed down his forehead.
He could clearly see goat-like horns sprouting from their heads, their features warping into grotesque shapes. Even their shadows cast upon the wall by the lanterns had twisted into monstrous, horrifying silhouettes.
*Snap.*
The entire world fell dead silent. Everyone froze in place, like figures captured in an oil painting.
*Clap, clap.* Accompanied by crisp clapping, Cassius, clad in humanoid guise, stepped across the tavern threshold.
"Truly magnificent. As expected of the legendary Lord of the Nine Hells, transforming mortals into devils right under my nose without a trace. Even I find myself thoroughly impressed by such mastery."
Cassius offered his sincere praise, then turned toward the shadowed corner where the light failed to reach. A chill crept into his pale golden eyes.
"Still... barging into another's home without the host's consent and damaging his property—isn't that just a bit rude?"
Before his voice had fully faded, an immense, overwhelming pressure surged toward that shadowy corner, carrying terrifying might.
Had an ordinary mortal been subjected to such pressure, their body would have ruptured and burst on the spot.
Yet in that corner, a middle-aged man sporting a goatee merely looked up as though nothing had happened, gave Cassius a casual once-over, and took a leisurely sip of the Witch's Kiss in his glass.
"Mm... In two hundred years, this is the first time I have tasted such an intriguing brew. It seems to be mixed with a pinch of nightmare dust and the powder of hallucinogenic herbs, capable of granting mortals the sweetest of dreams to numb their minds.
"Tsk, tsk. The poor Imperial populace. Reality must weigh so heavily upon them that they can only vent their desires in a world of illusions."
The man possessed a neatly trimmed goatee and wore a somewhat worn black suit. His aura was indistinguishable from that of an ordinary mortal, save for his pitch-black eyes, which were impossibly deep.
Cassius spoke evenly, "If you wished to sample fine wine, I have plenty to share. There was no need to harm my subjects, was there?
"Should I address you as an honored guest, or rather... Lord Asmodeus?"
The middle-aged man did not deny his identity. He simply pointed at the Imperial citizens gradually mutating into devils and smiled faintly. "You are mistaken. I have always been a benevolent figure; why would I ever deliberately harm them?
"I merely used words to awaken the desires in their hearts, restoring them to their true nature."
Asmodeus raised a brow. "You, on the other hand—to think you could have a flock of de facto slaves singing your praises and leaping to your defense with such fervor. That is something all of Hell could stand to learn from you."
Cassius offered a polite smile. "You jest. They are my subjects, laboring hard for the Empire's grand design and their own bright futures. How could they be called slaves?
"Lord Asmodeus, if you'll forgive my bluntness, that is a misunderstanding of me, and an insult to the Empire."
Asmodeus said nothing more, merely curling his lips into a disdainful smile, leaving everything unspoken.
Cassius glanced at the humans currently transforming into devils. Remarkably, there was not the slightest trace of spell-like abilities upon them—only the raw aura of original sins such as greed, wrath, and pride.
In other words, they had chosen to become devils of their own free will.
*What terrifying methods!* Cassius marveled inwardly. Even though he had arrived via avatar, he still reinforced his mental barriers a few degrees further, wary of having his mind influenced by the Lord of the Nine Hells.
Seeming to sense Cassius's wariness, Asmodeus swirled his wineglass and said softly, "There is no need to worry. We devils are not like those demonic brutes who do nothing but burn, pillage, and slaughter."
Cassius retorted mercilessly, "Yet devils are always brewing far grander conspiracies, aren't they?"
Asmodeus did not deny that either. He merely stroked his goatee, taking unhurried sips of his wine.
As for the Lord of the Nine Hells' true purpose, Cassius already had a general idea in mind.
Maintaining a polite smile, he asked, "In that case... Lord Asmodeus, having journeyed all the way from Hell, what business brings you to me?"
Asmodeus drained the wine in his glass, then looked up, fixing Cassius with a knowing smile. "Naturally, it is because someone slew one of my subordinates and took something of mine without permission."
As their gazes met, Cassius felt as if every layer of his being were laid bare.
A crushing pressure from the depths of Hell descended upon him, sending a tremor through his very soul. The Infernal Core concealed within his true body seemed to warm faintly in response.
*An old monster who's lived for gods know how many millennia!* Cassius cursed internally. Drawing upon the power of his Imperial Domain to push back against the pressure, he remarked casually, "Zariel was indeed slain by my hand. If you wish to place blame, blame her own foolish arrogance for standing in my way."
Asmodeus shook his head gently and let out a soft sigh. "A pity, truly. Zariel was a good subordinate. Stubborn as she was, she always carried out her duties with utmost devotion."
Regret and even a wisp of sorrow tinged his words, but Cassius would never believe that such a sinister, ruthless creature could ever mourn a subordinate.
Cassius reminded him, "Duke Bel, who succeeded Zariel, is no less capable. He should be more than equipped to carry out your tasks."
Asmodeus shook his head. "Bel has brains, and he possesses the strength required of an Archduke of Hell. Yet he has one fatal flaw—he lacks loyalty."
Cassius offered a mocking smirk. "You expect loyalty from a devil?"
"In the face of an insurmountable gulf in power, upholding order and remaining loyal is the virtue a devil ought to have."
Asmodeus smiled nonchalantly. "Centuries ago, the moment Bel took power, he became obsessed with expanding his own faction, neglecting my commands and disrupting the balance of the Blood War. That was why I restored Zariel as the ruler of Avernus.
"Yet centuries later, Bel still has not learned his lesson. He colluded with forces beyond Hell to plot Zariel's downfall without my consent. It puts me in quite an awkward position. What's more..."
Asmodeus looked back at Cassius, a faint glimmer rising in his bottomless eyes. "The Bel of today can hardly be considered a complete Lord of Hell."
Chapter 719