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{Chapter: 78: The Abyss Never Sleeps}
He opened his eyes slowly, golden embers flickering within his pupils as if remnants of some fire still burned behind them. Then he stretched his arms lazily, cracking his joints one by one with a slow, unhurried rhythm.
"A new day has begun," he murmured, his voice a low growl that resonated slightly within the empty stone chamber. "Although it has never truly been dark."
This layer of Abyss knew no dawn and no dusk. It was a land without sun, without moon, without even the comfort of consistent shadows. Light sources flickered with unnatural auras, some cold and ghostly, others like molten gold, bleeding into their surroundings. To say day and night existed here would be to lie—but Dex still liked the illusion of morning.
He walked to the mouth of the cave with his usual calm gait, the kind that comes from being both hunter and hunted. From his vantage point atop the craggy cliffside, he had a sweeping view of the countless other holes and dark crevices that pocked the vertical wall. It was like staring at a beehive constructed by lunatics—irregular, dangerous, filled with buzzing malice.
Dex let out a yawn, not because he needed to, but because it felt good to pretend. The truth was, he didn't need sleep at all. Like many high-ranking abyssal beings, his body was fueled by internal mana and ambient chaos. But unlike some of his brethren, Dex sometimes chose to hibernate. Not for survival, not even for energy conservation. Simply because it helped him think. Helped him dream. Helped him feel.
The cave he currently occupied had once belonged to a bat-faced ogre with a club made of stitched femurs. Dex had cracked the ogre's skull open like a ripe melon and moved in with minimal fuss. That was the rule of the free zone—find a hole, kill whoever's inside, and it's yours.
These steep cliffs were one of the infamous "three-no" areas in this quadrant of the Abyss: no laws, no taxes, and no help if you screamed. It was the kind of place even devils whispered about. But it was free, and Dex, for all his monstrous elegance, hated paying for things when he had none to pay with.
There were safer places, of course—enclaves run like proper cities with economy, currency, and official housing. But those required registration, rules, and most importantly, coin. Dex would rather drink lava than live among bureaucrats.
Reaching back into the darkness of the cave, Dex grabbed the shriveled head of the ogre who'd once occupied this space. Its horns were cracked, and one eye dangled loosely by a strand of dried nerve.
He held it up, examined it like a palm reader might a hand, and grinned.
"Head, head, so old and wise,
Tell me where my journey lies." he said mockingly.
Then, without warning, he casually cast a prophecy spell at the head.
Smack!
Dex slapped the decaying head with an open palm, sending it spinning across the dusty stone floor like a grotesque top. Dust flared around it as it twirled, faster and faster, until it finally wobbled and came to a stop.
Dex observed the final position of the skull, noting the direction it pointed. He gave a satisfied nod, tucked his wings slightly to his sides, and launched himself from the cliff.
The wind tore past him in howling gusts as he descended, his wings snapping open at the last second to soften the landing. He touched down on the jagged basalt street with practiced ease, the soles of his feet sizzling lightly on the warm stone.
He began walking. For a while, the route was quiet. The occasional two-headed merchant dragged a cart of screaming bones past him. A few slavering imp-packs scattered upon noticing who he was. Nothing unusual.
Then, like a whisper against his demonic instincts, a premonition tingled at the edge of his awareness. Not quite danger—more like a ripple in the usual chaos.
He halted and slowly turned his head, eyes scanning the crowdless street.
And then he saw him.
The young man who had entered the city alongside Dex's caravan. A mortal. One of the dimension-hoppers, perhaps twenty years old in human time, bright-eyed when they had first arrived.
Now, he looked hollowed out, his clothes torn, one shoe missing, hands trembling. He wandered like a ghost, stumbling occasionally as though he'd forgotten how to walk.
No companions. No caravan. No one was at his side.
Dex watched him quietly for a moment, then sighed. "Ah, kids... always thinking they can handle the Abyss just because they made it past the gate."
Dex sighed with regret and walked towards the other party.
Although he didn't know what happened, he could still guess according to the tradition of the Abyss: 'Alas, young people can't stand the storm, and they express their thoughts as soon as they have them, even though I am only two years old.'
He approached, his footsteps soundless despite his bulk. When the young man finally noticed Dex, his mouth twitched into something that might have been a plea or a warning—but he was too slow.
A flicker of movement.
---
Not Long After
Dex let the lifeless body slide from his clawed hand.
Blood stained his palms. He wiped them on the corpse's own tattered tunic.
After wiping the blood off his hands and having a friendly exchange between the two sides, Dex figured out the whole story through his demonic talents.
Bright halls, a team of four, conversations about profit margins and portal stability. The team had been from a relatively wealthy plane, one where dimensional travel was tightly controlled but extremely lucrative.
They'd come for trade. Not conquest. Not war. Just business.
Their mission was straightforward: find a trusted dwarven supplier and finalize a long-term deal in the Abyss. The item? Obsidian blood-ink used in void scrolls, incredibly rare and in high demand.
Their plan had been solid. They avoided unnecessary battles, paid off the right watchers, and even hired a few mercenaries as an escort.
The transaction had gone perfectly.
No betrayal. No double-cross.
But they forgot the simplest rule of all: in the Abyss, it's not about the trade. It's about who sees you making it.
The team celebrated too loudly. Flashed too much gold. Drew too many eyes.
However, before even those get a chance hold them accountable!
In the very next moment, the sky cracked with a deafening roar—a thunderous, world-splitting sound that froze the blood of everyone who heard it.
He had just finished bartering with a grumpy dwarven trader—one of the few who tolerated humans in this cursed corner of the Abyss—when the noise tore through the atmosphere. His eyes instinctively darted to the dwarf's leader, a hulking figure with a beard like molten metal. The man's expression contorted in horror, as if he'd just watched his own mother get devoured alive.
Before he could even piece together what was happening, the sky itself seemed to unravel.
A colossal beam of white light—pure, blinding, and divine in its merciless intensity—crashed down from the skies. It pierced through the defensive barrier of the underground black market as if it were no more than parchment. The explosion that followed did not merely sound—it consumed the air, drowning every sense in light, pain, and absolute silence.
His vision went white.
Then black.
A moment later, he was no longer conscious.
When he awoke, it felt as if every bone in his body had shattered and his skin had been kissed by fire. The world around him was silent—eerily, impossibly silent. He coughed, tasted blood, and realized he was buried beneath rubble and smoking stone. A part of him wondered if this was death.
No. The searing pain said otherwise.
His fingers fumbled across the charred earth, eventually finding the small talisman his parents had gifted him—a rare defense artifact, their final parting gift before sending him to this lawless world of trade and blood. It had activated on its own, saving him from the direct blast.
But no one else had been as lucky.
As he dragged himself out of the debris, he realized he was the only living creature left.
The dwarf who had sneered at him moments ago had been turned into ash. The black market's structures were obliterated—reduced to skeletal frames of melted metal and scorched earth. And the other merchants? Unrecognizable. Their remains were half-cooked, scattered like meat in a dragon's feast.
He drank the last of his high-grade healing potion, its cool liquid burning down his throat as it sealed his wounds one agonizing inch at a time. The pain lessened, but the trauma lingered.
Eventually, he made it to the edge of the destruction—and froze.
Before him stretched a massive crater, easily tens of kilometers wide, like a Titan had slammed its fist down in a tantrum. The center was a charred void, and smoke coiled from its edges like dying whispers. That blinding white light... it hadn't even been the attack. It had merely been the aftershock.
He stared at the crater for a long time, his mind unable to grasp what kind of creature or force could leave such a mark. Whatever it was, it had casually swatted them aside, like a child stepping on ants mid-play.
They had died for nothing. No honor. No war. No reason. Just… collateral.
Clenching his fists, he began to salvage what little he could from the wreckage—crates of rare minerals, enchanted trinkets, sealed pouches with magical reagents—and hid them in a concealed stone crevice nearby, a trick he'd learned from his father long ago.
Then he walked—alone—back toward the city, limping and broken, hoping someone from the Chamber of Commerce would notice his absence and investigate. Maybe, just maybe, they'd care.
That was when he met him.
Dex.
And everything changed.
---
After seeing to the survivor's tale and confirming the valuables' hiding place, Dex chuckled, a dark gleam in his eyes. His grin was wide, wolfish.
"Tragic," he said, voice laced with amusement. "But I must say… I'm rather pleased with this mobile gift pack. You were useful—like a chest that walks and talks."
Then, with deliberate nonchalance, Dex leaned forward—and spat.
It wasn't just saliva. The droplet was molten flame, laced with infernal energy, and the moment it touched the man's body, he ignited. There was no time for screaming—his entire form turned to cinders, and then powder, carried away by a cruel breeze.
Dex stretched with feline ease, ignoring the ashes at his feet.
He didn't care that dozens of other creatures had watched the encounter from the shadows. In fact, he wanted them to see. He wanted them to feel the message burning in their chests: prey has no future.
*****
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