Chapter 1239 - 557: Shouldn’t There Be Any Accidents?

Chapter 1239: Chapter 557: Shouldn’t There Be Any Accidents?

"Should I respond to this summon..."

In a cramped, cluttered little room, the floor was covered with bottles of all sizes.

Some were rough earthen jars, with edges stained by congealed, lava-like dark red residue.

Others were transparent glass bottles, with their liquids long dried up, leaving behind a strange layer of crystals at the bottom.

Most common, though, were the stone barrels from Hell, the cheapest kind, haphazardly rolling around on the floor, making the already narrow space even more cramped.

The whole room was filled with a dense aroma, a mix of alcohol, sulfur, and a hint of what smelled like rust.

Sammi, holding a bottle in one hand, hugging her knees with the other, curled up in the darkest corner of the somewhat rundown room, the old sofa she was on barely qualifying as such, its stuffing had burst out from multiple tears in the leather, sprawling open in fluffy disarray.

She took big gulps of Magma Blood Wine, her face flushed as if slightly tipsy.

The liquor was a dark red, thick as blood, but as it slid down the throat, it erupted with a burning heat, favored by the demons of Hell.

Her petite frame, like that of a small girl, curled up tightly like a wounded animal trying to occupy as little space as possible.

Yet even in such a curled position, she couldn’t completely conceal her disproportionately lush bust compared to her slight frame.

Those abundant fruits weighed heavily on her knees, forcing her to adjust her position slightly, just to wrap her arms around them, making her look all the more pitiable, and... awkward.

For many barren lands, such fertile hills were an enviable gift.

But, unfortunately, for an assassin, this sort of "gift" was an unfortunate burden, restricting her movements in many situations.

It affected her balance, hindered the fluidity of stalking, and was a despairing obstacle when needing to squeeze through narrow passages... Even her current curling position seemed somewhat awkward.

The edges of the somewhat worn leather armor strained brightly, presenting a tension as she swallowed while drinking.

"Gulp... Ha!"

Every time she tilted her head back to swallow, the slight "gulp" from her throat momentarily relaxed the utter despair on her face, as if only alcohol could pull her back from eternal bad luck for that brief moment.

But the relaxation was fleeting, often followed by a deeper fatigue and bewilderment, as if the burning alcohol was searing not her esophagus but her dwindling hopes.

Her hair, likely a dark purple, resembled a tousled clump of dried seaweed under the dim light, inexplicably messy and disheveled.

And below that messy hair, her face bore heavy dark circles as dense as the night sky.

More than just the marks of sleeplessness, they seemed like imprints, an indelible curse etched by her tragic, unlucky destiny, rendering her already pale skin even more sickly fragile.

She slumped into the sofa, emanating a sense of "having nothing left to live for," as if she might melt into the shadows at any moment.

A faint... no, a heavy scent of death lingered around her.

The prolonged life on the run had frayed her nerves to the breaking point, potentially ready to faint on the spot at any time.

A leather strap, stained with some unknown grime, hung loosely over her shoulder, and her assassin bodysuit was extensively worn, exuding a sense of defeat at every turn.

Anyone witnessing this scene would realize this was a terribly failed demon.

In Hell’s society, where power, cunning, and ambition are revered, someone like her undoubtedly stood at the bottom rung, a marginal figure scorned and ignored by her kind.

Yet amidst this blatant desolation, there was a minor difference.

Sammi possessed eyes unique to demons, and to assassins.

Long-term sleep deprivation had left her eye whites bloodshot, but deep within her pupils, there burned a forever undying, watchful flicker.

Any slight movement, be it the soft rustle of a page or the mild crack of logs in the fire—would make her eyes dart in an instant, her gaze swooping over the source of the sound like a startled sparrow.

That gaze held no aggression, only a deeply ingrained, animal-like vigilance, always ready to grab her wine jug, bash through the window, and flee without a second glance should real danger arrive.

This was Sammi.

An assassin demon entangled with misfortune, subsisting on alcohol, a bundle of contradictions—exhausted yet watchful, despairing yet tenaciously breathing.

"Hmm..."

Sammi pondered for a long while, murmuring somewhat uncertainly: "How come it feels unexpectedly, lucky... hic."

After losing the last Epic collaborator who approached her with self-assured capabilities, Sammi indeed needed to find the next gullible benefactor in the Mortal Realm.

Someone who could provide her with the needed resources and wouldn’t immediately consider dissecting her for study or use her as cannon fodder, a relatively "safe" partner.

Even though a summon from the Mortal Realm hadn’t occurred in many years, it wasn’t entirely impossible for her.

Perhaps some mortal setting up a ritual for the first time, without specifying a particular demon to summon, randomly summoned her.