When Orsaga stepped down from the carriage, the rest of the convoy instinctively moved aside to avoid him.
Most of them were commoners, with only a few being minor nobles.
In this world, true elites rarely traveled by carriage—unless they were on some sort of "experiential excursion." For long-distance journeys, they typically rode magical beasts or used teleportation spells.
Even when carriages were used, they were part of private convoys accompanied by guards. To mingle with a bunch of commoners in a public convoy? That was seen as low-class behavior. So the few so-called nobles in this group were clearly the struggling kind.
Most likely, they were either impoverished petty nobles who couldn't afford their own convoy or fallen aristocrats whose family fortunes had declined.
While technically still above the average person, their actual status was more or less on par with a wealthy merchant.
Here's a rough breakdown of this world's social hierarchy:
Divine Beings → Major Churches, Demigod-Class Transcendents, Apex Aristocracy
→ High Nobility, Lesser Churches, Powerful Transcendents, Super-Rich Merchants
→ Common Nobility, Rich Merchants, Ordinary Transcendents
→ Average Merchants, Commoners, Peasants
There used to be a lower class—Slaves—which acted as a cushion below even the poorest commoner. At least commoners still had personal freedom, no matter how miserable they were. But ever since the Abyssal Invasion began, that layer vanished.
All slaves were forcibly drafted to the front lines to "contribute to society."
You could say the slave-owners suffered a major loss.
They were forced to change professions on the spot.
Today, those massive gladiator arenas and slave markets have mostly been repurposed into large inns or similar venues. Only faint traces of their former glory remain.
---
Finding a quiet spot, Orsaga didn't bother with appearances. He simply picked a patch of grass and sat down.
To an outsider, it looked like he was just taking a break. No one noticed the faint, invisible mist slowly evaporating from his body.
If one were to examine it under a high-powered microscope, they'd find that this "mist" was made up of bacteria-like particles.
These particles rode the air currents, drifting off to who-knows-where.
According to Orsaga's design, they could survive in the air for about two days. Where they ended up depended purely on chance. He didn't try to micromanage that part.
The bacteria caused symptoms similar to colds and fevers—things like coughing, body aches, and respiratory difficulty.
The effects were mild.
Most healthy individuals would be immune, and even those who weren't could recover easily with some basic medication.
In short, it wasn't some deadly plague.
But that's exactly what Orsaga wanted.
He had deliberately weakened the lethality of the disease to achieve this effect.
Otherwise, if he released a full-strength plague, it wouldn't just wipe out people—even rocks might not survive.
What he cared about was scale and stealth.
Even if the death rate was low, there'd always be unlucky victims. Once the infected base grew large enough, the death toll would still become significant.
After all, even in a modern world, plenty of people die from high fevers every year. In a world like this, where medicine lagged far behind, the toll would only be higher.
And this was just one of many. Orsaga had dozens more diseases lined up for release in the near future.
According to his calculations, if these pathogens could spread across just one-tenth of the world, then—based on population and his carefully tuned fatality rates—he'd be able to harvest millions of souls annually.
If he were a native of this world, he'd already be halfway to godhood by now.
And the best part? It was a steady, long-term source of income. Far more practical than some vague "faith-based apotheosis."
Preaching couldn't hold a candle to biowarfare.
Put in the effort upfront, then sit back and let the rewards roll in. Beautiful.
If his long-term plan succeeded—embedding his disease system into the very rules of the multiverse, turning it into something as natural and universal as colds, fevers, diarrhea, or organ failure—then Orsaga's power would leap dramatically.
He would effectively become the master of Sickness in the cycle of birth, aging, illness, and death—a true Demon Prince.
Though, to be fair, such a ubiquitous force would surely attract hatred. He'd probably be mobbed and killed halfway through his ascension.
But as a proper demon with ambitions of empire, Orsaga had no intention of backing down from the challenge.
Because what if it actually worked?
---
Currently, Orsaga had two major paths ahead of him:
Pain and Deathplague. Both were viable express elevators to the top of the food chain.
In theory, either could get him there safely—if he played it smart.
But that was just theory. If caution alone guaranteed success, the road to power wouldn't be littered with so many corpses.
Unlike those ancients who sat still for millions of years, refusing to take risks, Orsaga knew he wasn't the "cautious" type.
So these two paths were more like signposts than guarantees. Whether he made it or not would ultimately depend on luck.
He wasn't ignoring other avenues either.
Bloodflame, Spellcraft, Close Combat—all of them were directions he intended to pursue. They each offered advantages in raw power and versatility, even if their endgame wasn't as clearly defined as Deathplague or Pain.
But that was just a minor inconvenience.
After all, he had cheats.
With enough resources, all he had to do was close his eyes and spend his points.
Sometimes he had to admit—having a system really made life easier.
He still didn't know what the system's upper limit was, but so far it had more than met his needs.
What the future held was anyone's guess.
After all, he wasn't the only one with cheats in this world.
Someone else out there might have an even more broken system.
To be blunt, the only people who could stand at the top of the multiverse were either:
Born privileged and divine,
Or walking cheat codes.
No one got there through sheer effort alone.
There would always be someone working harder—and probably with more talent too.
You could grind 24 hours a day, but someone with time manipulation might be grinding 240 hours a day instead.
Examples like that were everywhere.
If you wanted to win with hard work alone, good luck even getting in line.
Orsaga's inherited memories were crystal clear about one thing: those who played by the rules would never reach the top.
To get there, you either bet everything on the line or exploited the system to its limit.
And since he had the means, he preferred to go the easy route.
Because gambling your life every step of the way… well, that just sounded like bad odds.
---
"I hope everything goes smoothly…"
Watching the bacteria drift away into the distance, Orsaga murmured to himself.
His understanding of this world's systems and institutions was still limited.
All he could do was patch up vulnerabilities within his reach and hope for the best.
Whether his plan would truly slip past this world's surveillance mechanisms was still an open question.
If someone managed to see through him, it wouldn't be a complete failure…
…but it would certainly make things a lot harder moving forward.
__
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