After a round of polite pleasantries—
The old man didn't linger with Orsaga and his companion for long. After a few courteous words, he excused himself and moved on to greet other guests.
Most people attending such banquets had one primary goal: to network with as many powerful individuals as possible.
After all, if you cast your net wide enough, you're bound to catch a few fish.
That's precisely why the upper class constantly throws parties and extends invitations left and right.
When it comes down to it, it's all about real, tangible interests driving them forward.
Otherwise, aside from drunkards and playboys, who really has the time to drink and socialize every day?
Putting on a smile and exchanging pleasantries with a crowd day after day isn't exactly anyone's idea of fun.
It takes time, it takes money, and frankly, it kills brain cells.
Say the wrong thing at the wrong time, and trouble's bound to follow.
Only those at the bottom of the social ladder would think these gatherings are actually glamorous. In truth, most attendees are here with very clear intentions.
As a demon—
Orsaga only needed to sniff the air to catch the faint stench of filth and desire clinging to many of the guests.
Greed, resentment, envy, hatred...
Even the lingering resentment of countless innocent souls—no doubt the handiwork of some twisted lunatic.
Faced with this situation, he couldn't help but acknowledge that the upper class really did produce more "talent" than the common folk.
A casual glance around—
And Orsaga already spotted several promising candidates—perfect vessels for corruption.
One in particular stood out. Even without any demonic aura on him, Orsaga could already sense the faint traces of Abyssal power. This meant the man was researching the Abyss on his own, without any guidance—an independent operator. Summoning demons or performing blood sacrifices was probably already penciled into his weekly schedule.
Naturally, Orsaga appreciated this kind of "self-sufficient" pawn.
Honestly, if Orsaga weren't trying to keep a low profile and avoid making a big splash, he was confident he could turn several people at this party into demon worshippers. It would've been another solid contribution to the Abyss's invasion of the Myling World.
But the thought of all that effort—only to be a grunt working under Ignarok for his interplanar war—killed his enthusiasm.
Frankly, running something like Plague Inc. behind the scenes seemed a lot more fun.
Noticing the way Orsaga was eyeing the young man in the distance with approval, Golarial couldn't help but ask in confusion, "What's up? That guy really that special?"
In her eyes, the man was only a Level 7 class-holder. Decent by age standards, sure—but far from impressive. Nowhere near worthy of Orsaga's attention.
With a smirk and a touch of mischief, she leaned in and whispered, "Wait, don't tell me—you're into guys now?"
Orsaga rolled his eyes and replied casually, "I just think that kid's got no future, that's all. Got a little sentimental about it."
"No future?" she echoed, puzzled.
Since he was speaking in the Myling tongue—where there were no near-homophones—there was no mistaking what he said. She could tell his comment was brimming with malicious sarcasm.
Orsaga only gave her a faint smile and didn't explain further.
In earlier times, when the Abyss hadn't launched its full-scale invasion and the gods' surveillance wasn't as tight, a guy like that might've been able to dabble in Abyssal research without raising alarms.
But now?
Anyone walking that path—especially without formal guidance—would inevitably get flagged by the omnipresent world barriers. And once that happened, a trip to the stake was all but guaranteed.
Even in the best-case scenario, if he somehow avoided detection by the world's defenses, the moment he tried to reach out to the Abyss, he'd be greeted not with answers, but by billions of starving demons.
And those creatures? They wouldn't take the time to tempt or negotiate with a clueless native who didn't even bear a demon's mark. They'd just devour him on the spot.
In the current climate, unless you were an actual worshipper of Ignarok—the Demon Lord—trying to contact the outside demons was nothing short of suicidal.
That man clearly had no idea. Most likely, he was working off some outdated scraps of magical lore.
Thinking he could reach out to the Abyss to offer loyalty or trade something of value?
He had no clue that sort of tactic only worked before the full-scale invasion began.
Once the army arrives?
The Abyss doesn't bother making deals.
Unless he gave up his research entirely, that poor soul was doomed. No guidance, no protection—no hope.
That's why Orsaga said he had "no future."
Whether the gods found him first or the Abyss did, either way he was going to die a terrible death.
Orsaga ran the odds in his head and figured the man's chances of surviving were about the same as someone choking to death on a glass of water.
Sensing Orsaga's barely-concealed schadenfreude, Golarial gave a small pout, still clueless as to what he found so amusing. But she didn't press him further.
She turned away and started showing off the jewelry Orsaga had bought for her, flaunting it to every passing noblewoman and heiress—basking in their barely-concealed envy and forced compliments.
After all, to a woman, a handsome male companion and expensive jewelry were the ultimate tools of status and happiness at an event like this.
Simple and effective.
Some time later, Orsaga's ears caught a conversation nearby that piqued his interest.
A small group of guests were speaking in hushed, worried tones—discussing the fall of a certain region.
From what they were saying, Orsaga quickly realized they were talking about the temporary defensive structure located just behind the front line he'd recently sabotaged.
With its collapse, dozens of nearby nations were now engaging in guerrilla warfare against the invading Abyssal forces. In desperation, they were requesting aid from surrounding countries.
The situation sounded... less than ideal.
"Lord Zarda the Demigod has already departed with the holy relic Sword of Radiance..."
"I'm planning to build an emergency shelter in the Duchy of Geling..."
"I believe the gods will surely punish those bast—"
Orsaga listened for a while to their increasingly heated debate, then chuckled to himself and lost interest.
In wars of this scale—wars between entire planes of existence—the weak were always just swept along by the tide. All their discussion was, in the end, meaningless.
If the gods—those who represented the world's peak power—won, then this world would survive.
If they lost, the entire world—people and land alike—would be erased.
That was the harsh, simple truth.
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T/N:
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