Chapter 723: An Unexpected Encounter

Inside the "Withered Rose" Tavern, the air was heavy with the scent of alcohol. Smoke from tobacco hung in the air, blurring everything like a dream. Under the dim yellow light, the people of the Empire drank heartily.

With the satyr band performing their hearts out, the drow dancers swayed in the moonlight, entrancing the crowd.

"Yeah!"

"More! Take off another one!"

"No wonder she’s an elf. Her skin’s a bit dark, sure, but I’d die happy just spending a night with her."

"Tch—what you earn isn’t even enough to buy her a bottle of Witch’s Kiss!"

What began as lighthearted revelry soon escalated. People danced and sang, voices growing louder, and bumps and clashes became inevitable.

Until a drunken tiefling stumbled into a large ogre, vomiting filth all over him—the tavern’s first brawl had begun.

"Bastard! You looking to die?!"

The furious ogre grabbed half a table leg, wiped the food off his clothes, and roared.

But instead of panic, the crowd grew even more excited. Their eyes gleamed with exhilaration under the lantern light.

"Place your bets! Place your bets!"

"I’m betting on the ogre! He ripped a hill giant in half just last week!"

"I’m with the tiefling! There’s more of them!"

The citizens of the Empire crowded together, shouting nonstop. By day, they might be numb, overworked laborers, weary soldiers, or busy merchants.

But in the tavern, they could unleash their wild side. With alcohol numbing their minds, they could forget the frustrations of the day.

Humans, tieflings, hobgoblins, half-dragons, even ogres—all sorts of people gathered here, drunk out of their minds, reveling in this chaotic, lust-filled frenzy.

In a corner of the tavern, some were discussing the war front. They spoke passionately, as if they were on the battlefield themselves.

"You hear the news from the front?"

"Hahaha, of course! Our army’s taken Sunrise City! The Kingdom of Thrace will soon be part of the Empire!"

A red-faced man slammed his mug onto the table and shouted, "Damn satisfying! Those arrogant southerners need to be shown who’s boss. They’re only fit to be the Empire’s slaves!"

"We’ll raise the Empire’s banner over the Abyss itself!"

Getting worked up, he started singing the famous "Song of the South," slurring the lyrics.

"So what if the Empire conquers Thrace?"

A quiet, mocking voice cut in, jarring against the rowdy atmosphere.

Then it continued, "Sounds nice and all, but the ones enjoying luxury are those noble bastards. Us commoners... we’re still stuck pulling overtime."

"What the hell did you say?"

Everyone turned to glare at the speaker—a skinny young man in ragged work clothes, slumped over the table in a drunken daze.

His name was Martin, an ordinary worker in charge of packing military rations. Due to the war, he had worked overtime for over ten days straight and was supposed to get a hefty bonus.

But just this afternoon, exhaustion overtook him and he dozed off at his station. A strict half-dragon supervisor caught him, berated him harshly, and docked his entire month’s bonus—making all his effort meaningless.

When he returned to his cramped, dark room, the landlord was already demanding last month’s rent. Martin had delayed payment too long. If he didn’t cough up soon, he’d be evicted.

He felt suffocated. The dream of owning a home in Blackstone Fortress and becoming a proud citizen seemed further away than ever.

Overwhelmed by despair, Martin clenched his teeth, took out his last savings, and came to the famous "Withered Rose" Tavern to drown his sorrows.

Under the influence of alcohol, he vented all the frustration buried in his heart.

Martin smashed his bottle on the floor, his face red as he cursed, "Damn it! What’s a war victory got to do with us?! Pulling all-nighters every day and we don’t see a damn coin!"

"That’s because you’re not working hard enough!"

"His Majesty Cassius personally enacted laws! Work hard for the Empire, and you’ll be handsomely rewarded!"

"Bums like you are just lazy. You’re always boozing in taverns instead of working. No wonder you can’t afford decent clothes!"

The drunkards jeered and hurled insults.

Martin’s blood boiled. Fueled by alcohol, he forgot all fear. He downed another gulp and slammed the table. "BANG!"

"Shut the fuck up! So what if the Empire takes over all of Feanso?!

We’re still flipping our day and night, working overtime like machines, living miserable lives!"

Just then, a voice came from the tavern’s shadows: "Everyone, think carefully about what this guy’s really saying.

He doesn’t want the Empire to win? What kind of criminal would spout that bullshit?!"

The voice was hoarse and low, with no clear origin—but it had incredible persuasive power.

The drunks were immediately riled up. They clenched their fists and glared at Martin like they were ready to tear him limb from limb.

"Unbelievable! Questioning the Empire’s glorious vision?! Insulting our frontline soldiers?!"

"By Cassius above, without the Empire, how would we have such good lives?!"

"Back in the Northwind days, lazy scum like him would’ve starved to death! He dares speak against His Majesty’s kindness? Ungrateful bastard!"

"He must be a spy from Fadlan!"

"Yeah! Sent by those damned southerners! Or maybe a remnant of the Northern nobles! Why else would he speak such treason?!"

"Maybe... we should just kill the traitor right here."

"Yeah! No way we let him stay in the city! He’s definitely a spy!"

The mob grew more furious. Their eyes turned from hostile to full of rage and hatred.

They pulled out daggers and clubs, shouting madly as they surrounded the poor worker. The tavern fell into a terrifying frenzy.

Martin sobered instantly. His legs gave out and he collapsed, face pale, lips trembling: "W-what are you doing?! This is the city! Killing is against the law! Someone help me!"

But strangely, the bartender and other patrons ignored him—as if they hadn’t noticed anything unusual.

The drunkards crowded closer, their faces twisted and mad, chanting in unison: "Kill him, kill him, kill him..."

"Demons! You’re all fucking demons!"

Martin shook in terror on the floor, drenched in cold sweat.

He saw it clearly—their heads had grown goat horns, their features twisted. Even their shadows on the wall had become monstrous.

CRACK.

The whole world froze. Everyone held their pose, like a scene from a painting.

Clap, clap. With crisp applause, Cassius stepped into the "Withered Rose" in human form.

"Wonderful. As expected from the Lord of the Nine Hells himself—turning mortals into devils without anyone noticing. Even I must admit, I’m impressed."

Cassius spoke sincerely, then turned toward a shadowed corner the light couldn’t reach. Cold gleamed in his golden eyes.

"Still... entering someone’s home without permission, damaging their property—isn’t that a bit rude, Lord Guest?"

Before his words even faded, an overwhelming pressure surged toward that corner, containing terrifying force.

A normal mortal would’ve exploded on the spot under that pressure.

But the goateed man in the corner casually looked up, calmly sipped from his glass of Witch’s Kiss.

"Mmm, this is the most interesting drink I’ve had in two hundred years. Seems to be laced with nightmare dust and hallucinogenic herb powder—gives mortals the sweetest dreams, numbing their minds.

Tsk tsk... Poor Imperial folk. Must be too repressed in real life and can only vent in fantasies."

The man wore a neat goatee and a slightly worn black suit. He looked no different from any mortal—except for the depth in his black eyes.

Cassius said flatly, "If you just wanted fine wine, I have plenty to offer. You didn’t need to hurt my people, did you?

Should I call you ’Honored Guest’... or Lord Asmodeus?"

The man didn’t deny it. Instead, he pointed at the Imperial citizens now transforming into devils and smiled. "You’re mistaken. I never hurt them.

I merely used words to awaken their desires—let them return to what they were meant to be."

Asmodeus raised an eyebrow. "But you—getting literal slaves to be grateful and even defend you—now that’s something all of Hell could learn from."

Cassius smiled politely: "You’re joking. They are my citizens, working hard for the Empire’s grand blueprint and their bright future. Calling them ’slaves’—that’s a misunderstanding. An insult to both me and the Empire."

Asmodeus said nothing—just gave a mocking smile.

Cassius looked at the transforming humans. Strangely, they bore no signs of spell-like abilities—only traces of greed, wrath, pride.

In other words, they chose to become devils.

A terrifying method!

Cassius was stunned. Even though this was just an avatar, he strengthened his mental defenses—he couldn’t afford to be swayed by the Lord of the Nine Hells.

Sensing Cassius’s concern, Asmodeus swirled his wine and said softly, "No need to worry. We devils aren’t mindless brutes like demons."

Cassius replied bluntly, "But devils always brew greater schemes, don’t they?"

Asmodeus didn’t deny it. He just stroked his goatee and leisurely sipped his drink.

Cassius had already guessed Asmodeus’s true motive.

Maintaining a polite smile, he asked, "Then... Lord Asmodeus, what brings you all the way from Hell to see me?"

Asmodeus drained his cup, then looked at Cassius with a faint smile. "Naturally—someone killed my subordinate and stole something of mine."

Their eyes met. Cassius felt like his entire being was laid bare.

Hell’s oppressive aura descended, shaking his soul. The Hell Core hidden in his body even began to heat up.

Damn old monster—who knows how many years he’s lived!

Cassius cursed inwardly and countered the pressure with his Empire Domain power, saying nonchalantly, "Zariel was indeed slain by me. If you want to blame someone, blame her arrogance for standing in my way."

Asmodeus shook his head and sighed, "What a pity. Zariel was a good subordinate. Stubborn, yes—but always dutiful."

His voice held genuine sorrow—maybe even regret—but Cassius didn’t believe it. Someone like him mourning a subordinate? Ridiculous.

Cassius reminded him, "Duke Bael, who succeeded Zariel, is pretty capable too. He should handle your tasks just fine."

Asmodeus shook his head again. "Bael’s smart and strong enough to be a Hell Lord—but he has one fatal flaw: disloyalty."

Cassius smirked. "You’re asking a devil to be loyal?"

"In the face of overwhelming power, order and loyalty are virtues all devils should uphold."

Asmodeus chuckled lightly. "Centuries ago, when Bael first rose to power, he focused on building his own influence and ignored my orders—disrupting the balance of the Blood War. That’s why I reinstated Zariel as Lord of Avernus.

And now, centuries later, Bael hasn’t learned. He conspired with beings outside Hell, assassinated Zariel without my permission. How humiliating for me. And besides—"

Asmodeus looked at Cassius again, a strange light flashing in his deep eyes. "Bael can no longer be called a complete Hell Lord."