Strolling down the street, Orsaga casually tossed the object in his hand a couple of times.
He decided to gather some intel first.
There wasn't any set deadline anyway, so taking some time to prepare seemed like the smarter move.
At the very least, he needed a rough idea of the opposing power structure. Whether they were the type to duel with laser swords, or chant spells from grimoires.
With some preliminary information, he could at least make targeted preparations.
Blindly charging in without a clue? Who knew what kind of mess that would lead to.
It'd be no fun at all if he got there only to find orbital battleships leveling the surface with beam cannons.
Still, he hadn't expected the item to be handed over so easily. No vetting process, no registration—heck, he even offered him a meal. His enthusiasm and friendliness were almost excessive.
If he took the thing and didn't show up, wouldn't that count as a loss of a magical artifact on their end?
---
Not long after, in a certain shop.
Standing before a creature whose form was so abstract it defied proper description—it was hard to say whether it was a lump or a puddle—Orsaga spoke politely:
"I'd like to purchase some information."
This was a shop that specialized in selling intelligence.
While he did possess the ability to read memories and could just kill someone and obtain what he wanted, the problem was that he didn't know who had the right information. He had no specific targets.
If he were to rely solely on that method, he'd have to cast a wide net—go full maniac with a pair of machetes and carve his way through the streets. But massacres inside city limits were basically suicide.
An occasional kill might slide, but do it too often and the city would mark him as a public threat. That's why he chose to come to one of these information brokerage outlets instead.
These shops operated somewhat like franchises. The owners were well-connected, though usually not all that strong.
After all, in the Abyss, powerful beings tended to devote themselves to the noble art of robbery—a lucrative, zero-investment enterprise.
Take the guy in front of him, for example. His strength was barely at the High Rank demon. In the Abyss, dying at that Rank was just a matter of time. But every one of these shopkeepers had someone backing them. They paid their protection fees, so as long as they didn't leave the store, no one dared mess with them casually.
At this moment—
Looking at the exceedingly polite Orsaga, the shopkeeper didn't feel honored in the slightest. In fact, his heartbeat instantly quickened.
As an outsider who had survived hundreds of years in the Abyss, he was more than familiar with demon-kind.
After many conversations with fellow merchants, he had come to understand one universal truth:
You don't fear a demon being violent. You fear a demon being polite.
The former was normal—most demons were hot-headed maniacs.
They lived violently every day—either killing others or being killed themselves.
It was all part of the process: die fast or grow stronger fast.
He had plenty of experience dealing with those types of customers.
But the polite ones? That was when things got weird. If a demon was acting courteous, it meant this guy wasn't just abnormal—he was abnormally abnormal. Either mutated, brain-damaged, or just a full-blown lunatic.
And you never knew what a lunatic might do.
They didn't even need an excuse like "what're you looking at?".
They could just stomp your face in out of nowhere because the road was too smooth.
Although the expression on his face didn't change, the shopkeeper's three brains were already working at full throttle.
'The defensive wards inside the store have already been activated. Let's hope they can hold if things go sideways...'
To be fair, he had always had a bit of confidence in his own strength—felt like he could hold his own within his rank.
But the moment he sensed the aura Orsaga exuded just by standing there, he instantly realized they were at very different rungs on the food chain.
It would be idiotic to even think about putting up a fight.
'I'd get all three of my heads smashed in within two moves...'
That was his honest assessment of how a fight with Orsaga would go.
He quietly resolved that if anything happened, he'd smash the alarm button and let the city guards deal with it.
They might ignore incidents involving other people, but he'd paid for protection—he'd better get something out of it.
While those thoughts raced through his mind, he kept his tone as warm and pleasant as possible and asked:
"Of course, sir. What kind of information are you looking to buy?"
Doing his utmost to prevent Orsaga from slipping into arson-and-murder mode.
Although he didn't understand why the demon was being so courteous, Orsaga's attitude got a subconscious thumbs-up from him.
"I'd like intel on the Myling World," Orsaga replied.
The shopkeeper responded smoothly, "Certainly. That'll be 300 black-silver coins."
Unflinching—business as usual.
Red Copper – Black Silver – Blood Gold.
This was the most widely used currency system in the Abyss, aside from souls. It had no unified template, nor any official issuer.
Well… maybe there was one long ago, but whoever it was probably got killed off without a trace.
Nowadays, as long as the material was pure enough, and you cast it into a properly-sized coin, it was considered valid currency.
So, anyone could mint them.
Because of that, many beings carved their own symbols or faces onto the coins, as a way of asserting their influence.
Assuming they didn't get killed for it, it was actually a decent form of advertising!
Hearing the price, Orsaga didn't hesitate and handed over 300 black-silver coins.
It wasn't cheap, but it wasn't exorbitant either.
Converted to a harder currency in the Abyss—souls—this amount could barely buy the soul of a Lesser Rank Demon, so it wasn't a big deal for Orsaga.
Souls like that were about as common as wild chives—just pick them by the roadside.
On a related note, Orsaga had no shortage of money. In fact, he had quite a bit.
Most of it came from various "kind-hearted citizens" and passersby he'd encountered. One notable benefactor, Grigg, had even personally covered two-thirds of the total, helping Orsaga achieve a moderately prosperous lifestyle.
Thanks to this, he no longer needed to worry about basic survival, and could treat things like eating and beating up strangers as leisure activities.
After all, he was still a baby at heart.
A poor, lonely demon—barely over a hundred years old—was entitled to some childhood joy, wasn't he?
Carefully taking the coins, the shopkeeper retrieved a small glowing orb and explained:
"This is an information storage device. Simply relax your mind, and the intel will flow into you. The data within contains detailed intelligence on the Myling World. I hope you'll find it satisfactory."
Orsaga nodded. "Thanks."
Then turned and walked away without a second glance—
No destruction, no sudden attack—none of the worst-case scenarios the shopkeeper had feared.
As soon as he was gone, the shopkeeper let out a long, slow breath.
That had gone way more smoothly than expected.
He felt a rush of relief and silently decided to close shop for the day and celebrate surviving a potential disaster.
___
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