It was still the same desert shimmering like gold, still the same tavern sitting amidst the desolate wastes.
Yet when Anbaixiu arrived wearing his suit of magitech armor, the tavern was packed to the brim, as usual.
Watching the Poet bustling merrily behind the counter, Anbaixiu wondered if he had kidnapped these patrons. Otherwise, with not even a single road leading out there, where did all these desert locals come from to drink?
Clad in heavy plate, Anbaixiu drew considerable attention the moment he appeared at the tavern door.
After all, dressing like this in the Golden Desert was practically suicide.
During the day, the scorching sun would turn the armor into a steamer, cooking the flesh inside alive—not even a lizardman could endure that sweltering bake. Come nightfall, the metal offered no insulation, draining body heat all the faster and freezing the wearer stiff in no time.
Even with an outer cloak, the gaps in the plate would quickly fill with blowing sand, causing severe wear and tear. Within days, the finely maintained joints would seize up with grit, the lubricant turning into abrasive paste.
Yet someone who could walk into this tavern in full heavy plate was clearly no ordinary being.
None of those who had coin left to drink in this brutal desert were fools. Laying eyes on such an oddity, they mostly scrutinized him; unless he showed some glaring vulnerability, nobody was about to pick a fight with him.
Anbaixiu was used to such wary, unfriendly stares. He casually found a corner table, sat down, and waited for Jergal to arrive.
Though he had no idea why an entity of Jergal's stature would choose this rundown dive, Anbaixiu had no choice but to follow the rules of the meeting.
Before long, the Poet brought over a steaming, bubbling cup, though it looked nothing like alcohol.
"Senior, what is this?" Anbaixiu asked, puzzled.
The Poet said excitedly, "My own creation—a magic brew! Give it a try."
Anbaixiu eyed the contents of the cup skeptically. It was a pitch-black sludge, thick and viscous as asphalt, frothing with iridescent bubbles.
No matter how you looked at it, it resembled a concoction of engine grease and lethal venom.
Anbaixiu had long known that the Poet had peculiar tastes, but this stuff... Still, he picked up the cup and downed it in one go.
*Heh, it's just a mech suit with no taste buds anyway. I can drink anything. Might as well do him a favor.*
The thick liquid poured through the gaps in the armor and soon slid into the chest cavity. There was originally an incinerator chamber here, designed to safely dispose of debris and convert it into fuel.
Yet the moment the fluid entered, an immense surge of power erupted, wriggling like a living thing straight into the mech's magical reactor core.
A burst of scalding steam vented from the armor. The barely depleted power reserves were instantly maxed out, threatening to overflow.
Anbaixiu had to activate the compression function to rein in the rampant magic before the suit blew itself to pieces.
He couldn't help but say, "That packs a punch. But no living person could ever drink this, right?"
"Of course. It's specially brewed for the undead... Oh, right, I forgot. You're not undead anymore," the Poet said awkwardly.
Anbaixiu replied, "No worries. Give me some more; I'll take it back for Rose to try."
The undead had no sense of taste; generally speaking, only things harmful to the soul could elicit any sensation from them.
Yet this cup of magic brew seemed to act directly upon internal magical power, which might offer a novel sensation. Anbaixiu rather envied the Poet's mindset. Despite having lived far longer than him, the Poet always managed to stay so carefree and cheerful.
Seeing Anbaixiu appreciate it so much, the Poet simply pulled up a chair at his table, clinked cups with him, and asked, "So, what did you come to chat with the old man about today?"
Anbaixiu chuckled and said, "My Necrotic Codex vanished. I had to ask the President whether I've been kicked out of the Elegy Poetry Society."
"Tch, still playing coy with me? If you really cared about that, you wouldn't have waited until now to ask. I know you've been resurrected for quite a while. These days, Hell is ringing with your name. The authority of the First Layer of Hell is about to fall into your hands, isn't it?"
Anbaixiu said, confused, "I have no idea what you're talking about. Zariel is alive and kicking. Since when does the First Layer answer to me?"
The Poet countered, "Hell belongs to no one, nor to any deity. Even Asmodeus only holds authority over Hell temporarily—he doesn't own the Nine Hells. It is a place of exile for sinners, and it naturally selects suitable administrators. I know what you did down there. Right now, the entire soul coin system of the Nine Hells has taken a severe beating.
"Especially Mammon's Third Layer of Hell. Excessive war loans have bankrupted countless devil lords, and the fighting in the Third Layer has become more chaotic than the River of Blood. Mammon thinks he's making a killing on the spoils of war, but if you ask me, the Third Layer is headed for a massive catastrophe."
Anbaixiu frowned and said, "I warned Mammon not to push things too hard all at once. We're printing counterfeit money to disrupt the market. Going too far too fast will crash the entire economic system. Once bad debts pile up, the debtors will collectively default, and the bank's credibility will collapse."
The Poet scoffed. "You told a devil not to be greedy? The most notoriously covetous fiend in all of Hell, no less? How could Mammon ever resist exploiting such an opportunity?"
Anbaixiu fell silent. That had indeed been a miscalculation on his part.
Mammon was the greediest lord in Hell, which was precisely why he had been seduced by Anbaixiu's scheme and became his first partner.
Now, that greed had cut both ways. At this rate, Mammon would run Hell Bank into the ground before long.
Still, Anbaixiu didn't lose much sleep over it.
He was just a counterfeiter. Whether Hell fell into chaos had little to do with him; what did it matter how many devils died?
Soul coins possessed tangible utility rather than being pure fiat currency. So no matter how badly Mammon ruined the Third Layer's economy, the counterfeit coins retained baseline value. Anbaixiu could ditch Mammon and switch to another partner at any time.
It was merely a matter of time, and time was something Anbaixiu had in abundance. What truly caught his interest was what the Poet had said about Zariel.
"Mammon is the one stirring up trouble. What does that have to do with the First Layer?" Anbaixiu asked. "Zariel hasn't done anything, has she?"
The Poet explained, "You're viewing the Nine Hells as separate planes, but that's not the reality. Hell is a single whole. It was Asmodeus who divided its authority and bestowed it upon different devils, giving rise to the Nine Hells as they exist today. In truth, Hell is a cosmic dumping ground connected to all the realms—a place meant solely for disposing of trash.
"You were a piece of garbage in that dump yourself, meant to rot into compost. But now you've turned yourself into an employee of the landfill, and you've drastically shortened the composting cycle."
It took Anbaixiu a moment to grasp what "shortened the composting cycle" meant.
If sinners cast into Hell were meant to suffer punishment, then the chaos Anbaixiu orchestrated through Mammon had drastically intensified the "torment" of the devils themselves.
Originally, reaching the rank of devil lord meant living quite comfortably. Like Anbaixiu, they were garbage that had also become landfill employees. The trouble was that most of these employees simply coasted through their days, obsessing over how to corrupt mortal souls in the material plane to feed more trash into the dump, rather than figuring out how to torment the sinners already suffering below.
As a result, more and more fresh garbage piled up, while the sinner-tier trash became their underlings. Many sinners condemned to Hell were entrusted with responsibilities without enduring much suffering at all, swiftly rising into Hell's aristocratic class.
What kind of sense did that make?
Did Hell exist so that trash like them could live like kings?
Yet there was no helping it; devils loved indulgence. Everything was a calculation of personal gain, schemes to exploit one another and climb the hierarchy.
This led to the various layers gradually turning into retirement resorts for devil nobility. It wasn't that there was no fighting, but the intensity was far too low; only the Blood River battlefield on the First Layer served as a genuine meat grinder. But Anbaixiu's appearance had driven Mammon mad with greed, throwing the Third Layer into complete disarray and forcing even the lords who had enjoyed leisure for eons into cutthroat competition.
And once the rat race began, torments of every kind inevitably followed.
One could say that while Mammon's actions were eroding the very foundation of his own rule, they conformed impeccably to the laws of Hell.
Punish the sinners!
Were devil lords not sinners, too?!
And the root of it all was Anbaixiu. He was like the kingpin at the top of a pyramid scheme: the more miserable those beneath him became, the greater the rewards funneled into his hands.
The laws of Hell credited all this merit to Anbaixiu.
The greater the merit, the more hellish authority one was entitled to command by rule.
However, with a colossal figure like Asmodeus in the picture, Hell's authority had long been carved up and apportioned by Him. When Hell instinctively sought to reward Anbaixiu, it found it had nothing left to give, resulting in a delayed payout—which was why Anbaixiu had felt nothing special up until now.
"Because when you fell into Hell, you landed in the First Layer—that was Hell's own choice. According to Hell's laws, as more devils suffer from your counterfeit scheme, the plane will favor you more and more. Where does that power come from? From the closest source, of course: the First Layer.
"Zariel must have a terrible headache right now, desperately trying to keep a grip on her power. Otherwise, you'd already be the ruler of the First Layer of Hell."
Hearing this explanation, Anbaixiu was stunned.
This was utterly ridiculous. He had only been in Hell for a few months, and he was already on the verge of becoming the boss of the First Layer?
Even undercover cops had to spend "three years, then three years, and three years more"!
Though it sounded absurd, Anbaixiu doubted the Poet would joke about such matters.
"So if I push a little harder right now, can I make Zariel kneel down and lick my toes?" Anbaixiu asked.
"Do you even have toes right now?" the Poet countered.
"It was a metaphor! A figure of speech!"
"It's not that simple anyway. Those devils have held Hell's authority for far too long; who knows what tricks they have to safeguard their power? If it were that easy, you wouldn't be sitting here without sensing a thing. Clearly, Zariel can still hold firmly onto her power without letting a shred leak. As for how to pry it loose, I wouldn't know. But you could always test the waters. After all, you can't really die right now, can you?"
The Poet's words tempted Anbaixiu, but another concern quickly crossed his mind. "I know quite a bit about Zariel, but next to nothing about Asmodeus. If I really make a move on Zariel, wouldn't Asmodeus wake immediately? The importance of the First Layer goes without saying."
Yet the Poet shook his head. "You youngsters only ever fixate on the Lord of the Nine Hells. But if something truly goes wrong with the First Layer, the first to react definitely won't be Asmodeus."
"Then who would it be?" Anbaixiu asked in confusion.
Could anyone be more anxious than the Lord of Hell Himself?
"Haven't you heard the name Dispater?"
Anbaixiu answered off the top of his head, "The ruler of the Second Layer of Hell. I know about him, but all I know is that the Iron Archduke hates going outside, let alone showing his face."
"Correct. But did you know that while the archdukes of the Nine Hells are frequently replaced due to death or betrayal, only two ancient devils have remained since the very dawn of Hell without ever being replaced: Asmodeus and Dispater."
Anbaixiu shook his head. "I honestly didn't know that."
He had never imagined the Iron Archduke held such an exalted standing—an ancient devil who had existed since Hell's inception, ruling the Second Layer through endless upheavals, a being as ancient as Asmodeus.
Truly, never mess with the shut-in of the story.
"Zariel is merely cannon fodder. You should know well enough that she was an angel who fell from Mount Celestia into Hell, a sinner cast into the First Layer to suffer. The Blood War battlefield is her execution ground. So who truly guards the River of Blood? Bel, who isn't even Zariel's equal?"
Anbaixiu immediately grasped the Poet's point.
The Blood River Fortress wasn't an impregnable stronghold; it was merely an outpost. The River of Blood was just the front line of engagement, and the entire First Layer of Hell was the "strategic depth" of the Blood War battlefield. The real line of defense was the Second Layer of Hell, guarded by the Iron Archduke.
In a dire crisis, the First Layer could even be abandoned to become a mire slowing down demonic invasion, while the Second Layer, guarded by the Iron Archduke, would serve as the pivotal bulwark against the demons.
*Good grief. If I interfere with the Blood War, the first one to step in won't be Zariel, but this Iron Archduke who has been lurking in the shadows all along!*
"If not for your warning, Senior, I wouldn't have even known who my real enemy was." Anbaixiu was genuinely grateful. Devils were devils indeed; even the most unassuming archduke kept hidden cards up his sleeve. A single misstep could have walked him straight into a trap.
Secrets of Hell like these were beyond the grasp of ordinary folk; only an equally ancient entity like the Poet could see through them clearly.
"Thank you. Your advice is immensely important to me," Anbaixiu said.
The Poet gave a chuckle, clinked cups with Anbaixiu once more, and said, "Then for my sake, give old Jergal some face. Of all the members in the Society, I've always found you to be the most amusing. Don't go making things awkward when everyone meets in the future."
Anbaixiu said helplessly, "Why does everyone assume I came here looking for trouble?"
"Whether you are or not, that's up to you." The Poet patted Anbaixiu on the shoulder and returned to the counter to resume his bartending.
Not long after the Poet left, a skeleton draped in tattered robes walked into the tavern and came before Anbaixiu.
The long-unseen President of the Elegy Poetry Society—Jergal, Scribe of the Doomed. The elderly figure sat calmly across from Anbaixiu and asked in a low voice, "I hear you wished to see me?"
Anbaixiu nodded, cutting straight to the chase: "President, am I still a member of the Elegy Poetry Society?"
Jergal examined Anbaixiu closely before giving a surprising answer:
"Of course you are. The Elegy Poetry Society only has members who perish; none have ever quit."
Anbaixiu asked, puzzled, "Then why did my Necrotic Codex disappear?"
"A minor oversight. When the Necrotic Codex was originally created, it was bound to your dark magic. Now that you are no longer undead and the nature of your magic has changed, the codex naturally vanished. After all, you are the first in the Society to descend to Hell."
Anbaixiu gave a wry smile. It turned out he had simply overthought things.
Yet none of that was the crux of the matter. Anbaixiu paused for a beat, then asked:
"Then, President... do I still qualify to run for God of Death?"
Chapter 596