The Abyss – Demonbone Forest.
The place remained as perilous as ever. Strange and eerie howls echoed without end, while countless demonic beasts lurked within, hunting one another in an endless cycle of carnage.
Atop a craggy stone mountain deep within the forest—
It should have been barren, littered only with jagged rocks.
But recently, crimson flowers had begun to bloom across its surface, and waves of blood-colored mist now drifted over the mountain, giving it an eerie beauty—ethereal and dreamlike.
Yet, not a single living creature could be found here.
Not demons, not beasts, not even the venomous insects that infested every corner of the Demonbone Forest. This mountain was utterly devoid of life.
There was no sound, no battle cries, no movement—just absolute, unnerving silence. In stark contrast to the rest of the forest, this place felt like a tomb. A place that instinctively bred fear.
"Time is almost up."
Amid the sea of flowers, a figure opened his eyes and gazed at the murky skies above.
Orsaga could sense the faint presence of the Gift of Souls. Though still weak, the signs were beginning to manifest.
After estimating the time, he closed his eyes again, adjusting his state of mind.
His emotions were still a little unsettled.
After destroying the royal capital of the Mardain Principality, he had been forcefully expelled from that world and cast back into the Abyss.
The first thing he did upon returning was to find a quiet place to lie down.
And if he couldn't find such a place, he'd simply make it quiet—by eliminating the source of the noise.
Thus, the original inhabitants of this mountain had been dealt with.
No matter what they had once been or what they had once thought—
Now, they had all become part of the beautiful crimson blossoms, incapable of making a sound ever again.
He had been lying there for roughly ten days now, spending the time reflecting, and gradually sorting out his thoughts.
A few more days passed.
Sensing a distant surge of chaotic energy, Orsaga casually brushed his fingers through his hair and rose to his feet, inhaling deeply.
The air was thick with blood—fresh, abundant, intoxicating.
A smile tugged at his lips as he murmured to himself:
"Thinking alone really is pointless after all…"
That was the conclusion he had reached after over ten days of contemplation:
"When you're in a foul mood, thinking won't solve a damn thing. Might as well vent it through battle—that's far more effective!"
His wings spread open.
A blast of wind erupted from behind him, carving a deep crater into the ground. The Deathblossoms that had blanketed the area were blown away in a swirl of dust and petals.
In an instant, he became a crimson blur streaking across the sky.
A blazing flight path trailed in his wake.
Traveling at several times the speed of sound, the sheer friction against the air ignited sparks along his body. It was as if he were flying through a furnace—like a meteor of flame cutting across the sky.
To ordinary creatures, that would have been suicidal. But Orsaga?
He relished it.
Because he wasn't just any demon—he was a Flame Demon.
Ordinary fire and heat were forms of nourishment for him, sources of power—not hazards.
Anything in his path—be it demon or beast—was like fragile kindling, shattered in a split second by the sheer force of his flight. Their blood was vaporized before it could even stain the ground, leaving only traces in the air.
Within minutes—
Orsaga arrived at the battlefield ahead.
High in the sky, across the land, even beneath the soil—millions of demonic creatures were engaged in frenzied combat. Blood was splattered across every surface. This was the Demonbone Forest's twisted festival.
Past, present, or the far-off future—this place always embodied the primal laws of the Abyss:
Kill, or be killed.
His smile widened, his eyes now filled with unrestrained brutality.
Without hesitation, Orsaga beat his wings and accelerated again, crashing straight into the airborne melee. Everything in his path was torn apart with indiscriminate destruction.
He was no longer the same as before.
Last time, he still had things to worry about—reasons to hold back. But now?
Now he no longer needed to hide.
He stood at the very apex of the Demonbone Forest's food chain.
Here, he feared nothing. He had no need to suppress his power.
Whatever he wanted to do—he would simply do it.
No matter what danger arose, he had absolute confidence in handling it. Confidence born of overwhelming power.
Holding the crushed skull of a demon, Orsaga glanced around at the other beasts charging at him without an ounce of fear. He laughed with genuine admiration:
"The creatures of the Abyss sure have spirit. Once they go feral, they know no fear and never retreat. Everyone fights to their heart's content!"
Compared to cowardly humans, the demons of the Abyss were far more savage—and far more ruthless. Once their bloodlust was awakened, they became pure killing machines, devoid of fear, incapable of hesitation. For them, slaughter wasn't just instinct—it was their very purpose.
Whether it was combat prowess or sheer cruelty, these beings—born to destroy—far surpassed any ordinary human.
Their attacks, laced with venom and cruelty, were executed with frightening precision, as if they were performing basic drills.
Even Orsaga had to remain vigilant, fully immersed in the carnage.
Many of the techniques he had only visualized in his mind while in the previous world—due to lack of real opponents—were now being put into practice. He was testing their feasibility firsthand.
With his array of innate abilities, Orsaga's talent for battle had reached terrifying heights. As the slaughter continued, his skill improved at a blazing pace.
What had felt awkward the first time became proficient by the second, and by the third—it was second nature. Things others might spend a lifetime perfecting, he mastered in mere moments.
When he reached out to crush an opponent's skull, his instincts guided him—how to do it better, faster. When the enemy counterattacked, his instincts told him exactly how to intercept them.
It was as though he had been born with these abilities, making any resistance futile.
Amid the chaotic melee, Orsaga steadily adapted to the rhythm of battle.
What had started as a clumsy brawl quickly turned into an elegant dance of death—he could predict incoming attacks, pierce the energy field to detect real threats, and respond with razor-sharp efficiency.
His strikes grew more vicious. A casual blow could perfectly sever escape routes, rendering opponents motionless—ripping through their armor and skulls with surgical precision.
Then, something caught his attention.
Raising an eyebrow, Orsaga sensed something interesting.
His tail lashed out, impaling the chest of a nearby demon. Without sparing it a second glance, he dragged the struggling creature before him—
—just as the air in front of him twisted silently.
The demon he'd used as a shield was torn nearly in half by an invisible force, leaving only scraps dangling from his tail.
Unfazed, Orsaga drained the remaining life essence from the corpse before tossing it aside like trash.
He looked toward a certain spot where a few demons were fighting—but his attention wasn't on them.
With a faintly amused expression, he muttered:
"Spatial-type abilities? Among lower-ranked demons, that's a rare find."
When no response came, Orsaga sneered and casually reached out.
The space around him distorted—and from the folds of reality, he yanked out a strange creature: short, thin-limbed, with a grotesquely large head. He gripped it by the throat, lifting it effortlessly.
As it struggled, Orsaga drove his other hand into its chest, seized its spine, and shattered every bone in its body.
Calmly, he remarked,
"Even by demonic standards, I'd say you're pretty ugly."
With its skeleton pulverized, the demon went limp, hanging like a dead dog in his grasp.
Coughing blood, the spatial demon rasped bitterly:
"How... did you find me?"
His spatial stealth had never once failed him—not in the Demonbone Forest, nor in any of the strange worlds he'd visited.
He could hardly believe it when Orsaga evaded his sneak attack—but to be discovered and dragged out like a dog? He hadn't even realized what had happened.
After ducking under a poison nova and incinerating another attacker with a spit of flame, Orsaga casually replied:
"Seems like you never studied your inherited memories. Besides demons like you who're born with spatial abilities, any demon with sufficiently pure bloodline can awaken some degree of spatial sensing."
"I've awakened a bit of that—just a minor supplementary skill, really. But since I'm way stronger than you, it's more than enough to detect your position. As for pulling you out of the fold—that was just a simple spell."
The demon paused, stunned—then slumped in defeat.
"I see... thanks for the explanation..."
Orsaga shrugged.
"No problem. Small matter."
Then, with a flick of his wrist, he popped the demon's head off.
He examined it for a moment and muttered to himself,
"Spatial-type demons... should be pretty nutritious, right?"
Though spatial abilities weren't exactly rare among demons—given their penchant for dimensional invasion—this was still the first one he had encountered personally.
He was genuinely curious:
"Would this count as a rare drop compared to the usual trash?"
But after draining its essence and watching the evolution points tick up—
Orsaga immediately tossed the remains away in disappointment.
_____
T/N:
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