After a period of travel—
Malgrin pointed toward a distant basin and said, "That's the campsite I picked out. It used to be a lake, but now it barely qualifies as a swamp."
Orsaga twitched his nose slightly and caught a distinct scent of venom in the air.
From the terrain and the marks on the ground, it was indeed likely that a lake had once existed there decades ago. But most of the water had long since been evaporated by some powerful force, leaving only scorched earth and fissures baked into the ground by extreme heat.
At the very center, there was still some moisture—just enough to form a small swamp. However, judging by the color and odor of the liquid, calling it "water" was generous. It was more like concentrated venom.
Pale green mist drifted continuously from the swamp, forming a lingering haze that kept the area shrouded in a toxic fog.
Orsaga shrugged and said nonchalantly, "Bit cramped, but it's enough space for a few dozen demons."
Malgrin replied helplessly, "We'll have to make do for now. Once we break through the frontlines, we can make the local natives build us a proper palace."
He knew it was a bit crude, but there wasn't much he could do about it.
Expecting a bunch of high rank demons to calmly sit down and construct a base? Absolutely unrealistic.
They weren't like Orsaga with his rare artistic temperament—none of them had a single ounce of creative talent. They had viruses and bacteria in abundance, sure, but architecture? Not even close.
Even in the Abyss, most structures were built by other races. Demons, as a race, simply didn't produce architects.
But if you were looking for experts in destroying buildings? They were everywhere. Practically everyone knew at least a thousand ways to demolish a structure.
They were born for demolition.
Which made the durability of the current defensive line all the more impressive—it had held firm against countless demolition experts!
Orsaga casually tossed a stone into the swamp's greenish pus.
"Sssss…"
The rock was instantly corroded, nearly half-dissolved on contact. Whatever that stuff was, it made sulfuric acid look tame.
Seeing the act, Malgrin asked, puzzled, "What's wrong?"
To him, the pus seemed perfectly normal. After all, to demons, water and poison weren't all that different.
Orsaga replied, "Nothing really. I was just wondering if there might be fish in there."
Hearing him raise such a pointless question, Malgrin looked genuinely disappointed. "No idea. Come on—I'll introduce you to the rest of our members."
"Alright," Orsaga replied, unconcerned.
---
Deep within the swamp, in an underground cavern—
Malgrin pointed to a large spider drooling as it hauled around a mass of bones. "This is Kolki, a ground-spider demon."
Next, he gestured at a bloated creature with its mouth on its stomach, blank expression on its face, squatting in a puddle and chugging down poison. "That's Dro, a Plague Ghoul."
Then, he pointed to a towering giant with over a dozen heads, all screaming and cursing at each other, punching itself enthusiastically. "That one is…"
"That one is…" Malgrin continued his introductions.
When he was done, Orsaga looked over the bizarre cast of monstrous demons and nodded in satisfaction.
Muttering to himself, he said with admiration, "These demons really are a talented bunch."
Malgrin accepted the compliment with a wide grin. "Naturally. You don't get to be a high rank demon by being average."
"Guess it's my turn to introduce myself," Orsaga said.
He stepped forward, clapped twice to draw everyone's attention, and said confidently, "Nice to meet all you fine specimens. I'm Orsaga, a mutated Flame Demon. My specialties include arson, murder, and punishing the righteous. Nice to meet you all."
Malgrin immediately chimed in with a loud, "Nice!"
And with a lead to follow, the other demons began clapping and cheering as well.
One particular demon with dozens of arms clapped so vigorously that it sounded like a full-blown symphony—he had rhythm.
After this friendly exchange, everyone began bonding like old comrades—swearing brotherhood and laughing together.
Orsaga smiled warmly.
With this many eccentrics around, he certainly wouldn't be bored.
Just being around them made life feel… bright and sunny.
Though he was a demon and disliked sunlight, that was beside the point.
---
Time flew by.
Three months passed in the blink of an eye as the demons collectively slacked off and wasted time.
Unlike Orsaga—whose multiple innate talents granted him strong resistance to the world's suppressive forces and allowed him to quickly recover to his full strength—the rest of the demons weren't so lucky. With no sacrificial offerings to perform blood rituals, their recovery was painfully slow under the world's rejection. It was like watching turtles crawl.
That was precisely why they banded together. Demons from the same batch stuck close to each other because they were all facing the same restrictions. That shared struggle offered a sense of security.
The demons who had arrived earlier couldn't attack them outright—thanks to binding contract clauses—but that didn't stop them from constantly causing trouble and thinking up ways to get them "accidentally" killed.
Backstabbing teammates was a daily occurrence. That's just how sincere and wholesome demons were.
After observing for three months, Orsaga had already figured out what kind of crowd he was dealing with.
Roughly one-third were outright brain-dead. The remaining two-thirds? Scheming bastards.
Take that bloated demon chugging swamp poison for three months, for example. Judging by his looks and expression, he didn't seem all that bright—and in truth, he wasn't. His intelligence score was probably around 60. Ask him to memorize a multiplication table and it'd take him ten years.
On the other hand, that giant with over ten heads who kept beating himself up day in and day out? Total act. Orsaga's vision could tell—there wasn't a single alternate consciousness in those heads. There had only ever been one soul controlling the whole body.
He didn't know what that demon's endgame was, but he genuinely admired the dedication. Beating yourself up for three straight months, and doing it with increasing enthusiasm? That wasn't something just any demon could do.
Eventually, Orsaga realized that the guy had taken the act too far. He got so into character that he actually developed real dissociative identity disorder. At that point, Orsaga couldn't help but be impressed—this was true commitment. A level of self-abuse even he couldn't pull off.
In just three short months, Orsaga had discovered four or five such "geniuses" among the two or three dozen demons here. It made him feel like this place was some kind of spiritual hotspot, a hidden haven where elite weirdos gathered.
Honestly, he was starting to feel a little guilty about eventually having to kill them.
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