After leaving that shop, Orsaga casually pulled out a map and began studying it as he walked.
The moment he opened it, his eyes scanned the various texts and markings describing each region's local specialties. It almost felt like he was flipping through a geography magazine. He chuckled and remarked, "They even included pictures and descriptions?"
His inner thoughts echoed: 'This might be the deluxe edition.'
And indeed, that was the case.
Though the money he'd paid far exceeded the map's actual worth.
By now, unlike the quiet scene when the city gates had just opened, the streets were bustling with activity. People of all kinds came and went, and a chorus of chaotic shouting and haggling filled the air.
His two side-facing eyes remained focused on the map in his hands, while the one on his forehead began to dart about, soaking in all the information the surroundings had to offer.
Truth be told, thanks to the inherent optimization brought by supernatural powers, the range of appearance in this world's various races was far greater than in low-tier worlds. The beautiful ones were stunning, and the ugly ones were outright grotesque. It was just like the Abyss, where you could run into both hunks and hideous monsters in the same street.
There was only one tiny gripe he had—the armor worn by female combatants wasn't exactly... traditional. Orsaga had spent quite some time looking, but couldn't find even a single example of the classic "three-piece bikini armor." He couldn't help but feel a little disappointed by the apparent lack of decency.
To express his discontent, he selectively adjusted his vision, activating partial x-ray mode. He also set an automatic filter to blur out any males or unattractive figures. Just like that, he found himself once again in the right mood.
That's when he sensed a young brat trying to court death.
Without looking up, he calmly addressed the boy sneaking up to pickpocket him:
"My advice? Slap yourself a few times and get lost."
The kid, who looked to be about ten years old, visibly flinched at his words. He tried to feign innocence with a wide-eyed look and asked, "Mister, what are you talking about?"
Orsaga didn't bother engaging with the act. His gaze remained cold as he replied,
"I hate repeating myself. Do you understand?"
Though he didn't emit any killing intent, the boy—who was no stranger to the streets—instinctively felt a chilling dread.
It was the look one gave to livestock.
He knew then: he had kicked an iron wall.
If he kept pretending, he might actually die!
Slaughtered like a pig without a second thought.
The boy's façade crumbled instantly. Panic took over.
Under the confused gazes of passersby, his legs gave out and he dropped to his knees, trembling. Without hesitation, he slapped himself across the face a dozen times—hard enough to make his mouth bleed.
"Good."
Satisfied, Orsaga nodded and walked off without another glance.
The onlookers, though unaware of the full story, quickly pieced together what had happened. When a few local residents identified the boy's "profession," the crowd quickly caught on.
People began discussing it aloud, some even chuckling.
It was a public humiliation—and the boy felt it acutely. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and disappear.
A young man among the crowd frowned at the scene. He stepped forward and called out to Orsaga,
"Hey man, wasn't that a bit much? It's not like you really lost anything, right?"
Hearing someone speak up for him, the little thief felt a spark of hope and turned to look gratefully at the man.
Sure, he had been in the wrong—but as the weaker party, he still longed for someone to stand up and speak out for "justice" on his behalf.
But Orsaga didn't stop. He didn't even turn his head.
"And who the hell do you think you are, to lecture me about generosity?"
His words left no room for face-saving.
He absolutely despised when people acted generous with his things.
To be honest, the only reason he was holding back at all was because he was deep in enemy territory and didn't want to draw unnecessary attention.
Otherwise, with his temper, he wouldn't have even wasted time talking—he'd have struck first without hesitation.
The young man's face twitched at Orsaga's blatant contempt. No one had ever spoken to him like that before. His anger boiled over, and he instinctively reached for his weapon.
But his companions, sensing things were about to go south, quickly stepped in to restrain him. None of them wanted to escalate a matter that didn't concern them in the first place.
After all, even though they couldn't tell how strong Orsaga really was, just his aura, outfit, and bearing were enough to make these rough men think twice. He clearly wasn't someone to be trifled with.
Though the young man was still fuming, he had to reconsider. Unlike Orsaga—who didn't even give a damn about the heavens and acted purely on whim—most people had to face reality.
As the dust settled, the little thief felt nothing but disappointment. The onlookers, having realized there'd be no fight, voiced their dismay as well.
Some even began jeering, hoping to stir up more trouble for the sake of entertainment—your typical crowd that just wanted to watch the world burn.
What they didn't realize, though, was that if Orsaga did choose to fight, he wouldn't bother holding back. He'd slaughter everyone nearby—including the so-called spectators.
To him, a passing bystander was just another potential kill—a free bonus, really.
No demon would ever turn down such an opportunity.
That's why the Abyss rarely had "bystanders." If there was a fight, you either joined in or got the hell out. Staying behind just meant you were fair game—no such thing as innocent casualties.
In the Abyss, no one is innocent. Everyone can be killed.
Orsaga had applied that same logic to every world he visited. To this day, he had yet to meet anyone that made him hesitate.
In that sense, he was a model demon—rational yet utterly deranged. The remnants of his past humanity made him even more dangerous. He was neither merciful nor bound by limits.
After the crowd dispersed, the young man who'd tried to intervene had cooled down. He looked at the red-faced, swollen-cheeked boy and sighed.
"Watch yourself from now on. Don't go messing with people you obviously can't handle. Someday you'll push too far and won't be able to take it back."
With that, he turned and left with his team.
He and the kid came from similar backgrounds—there was only so much he could do. As for offering more help... he didn't have the power, even if he had the heart.
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