Chapter 597: The Mink Race

Damian sat back down and gently rubbed his forehead, a deep frown settling across his face. He had thought he was being too harsh on Elsa when he accused her of trying to use him to fulfill Lazarus’s ambitions. Now, after hearing Astaroth’s explanation of Adam and the Tree of Life, he was beginning to suspect that he had not acted harshly enough.

Whether Elsa had deliberately withheld the information or simply considered it an unnecessary detail was another matter, but the consequences were the same. She had pointed him toward a path that had consumed thousands of years of Lazarus’s life without warning him about the most significant obstacle standing in his way.

Damian massaged his temples and muttered, "That fucking bitch."

The thought of walking blindly into another person’s unfinished war irritated him more than he cared to admit.

"Don’t think too much about it. You just need to be careful when dealing with someone who was married to the Sin of Greed even before he gained the inheritance. It’s only natural she shares his traits. Rather than resenting her, just learn how to use that to your advantage. It’s not every day you come across a God tier ally," Astaroth advised with a laugh, seemingly amused by Damian’s predicament.

Damian’s expression gradually relaxed as he considered the advice. As irritating as Elsa’s conduct might be, there was no denying the benefits of keeping her close. She was a True God, the former queen of Gildreach Vault. Turning her into an enemy over a single event would be a waste of resources and influence. Besides, Damian had never expected political alliances to be free of ulterior motives. He simply disliked discovering that someone had been playing a game with him.

In the end, he stood to gain more by keeping Elsa as an ally than by fighting her, provided he remained cautious. He picked up his wine cup and took a slow sip before releasing a bitter sigh.

"Careful now. History has never been favorable to a heartbroken Prince of Lust. Stop expecting loyalty from these women," Astaroth warned, his tone light but his words pointed.

Damian’s fingers tightened around the cup for an instant before he loosened his grip. This was the second time someone had warned him about allowing his attachments to cloud his judgment. Abel had delivered a similar message, although in his case, the warning had been considerably more personal.

Damian understood the reasoning behind it, but he had no intention of treating every woman in his life as a potential traitor simply because love had once brought ruin to someone who carried the same inheritance. He had already sacrificed enough of his humanity to reach this point. If becoming stronger meant abandoning every connection that made his existence worthwhile, then he would decide for himself whether the price was worth paying.

"I hear you," he replied, nodding slowly. He offered no further explanation, and Astaroth seemed wise enough not to press him.

"Anyways, I have a new ally I wish to introduce to you personally, and I would love you to put it as the High Censor of Gildreach Vault," Astaroth said, his expression turning serious.

The melancholy disappeared from Damian’s face almost immediately. He lowered his cup and fixed Astaroth with a sharp gaze, trying to determine what sort of arrangement his ally was proposing.

"That’s a very... specific demand," Damian remarked.

Astaroth raised both hands in surrender, wearing a placating smile. "Relax and hear me out first."

Damian regarded him for another moment before reluctantly nodding. He emptied his wine cup in one gulp, set it down, and leaned back in his chair. "Hit me."

"The Mink Race are one of the high tier blood races of the Underworld. They are a powerful race that has stayed neutral since the time of Lucifer because they have found no one worthy to serve until now," Astaroth began.

Damian raised an eyebrow. The name was unfamiliar, but the description immediately caught his attention. A race powerful enough to remain neutral through the upheavals that had followed Lucifer’s era was not something he could afford to dismiss.

"What do you mean, until now?" he asked.

"They believe you will be the next man capable of achieving what Lucifer achieved, and they are willing to place their bet on you. It’s a rare opportunity to gain the support of a Duke family that is far stronger than that of Duke Darbin, but also fiercely loyal and immensely resourceful," Astaroth explained. His voice carried a degree of confidence that suggested he understood the value of the offer far better than he had initially let on.

Damian’s eyes narrowed slightly as he studied Astaroth. He could sense the faith of his devotees, and he had recently discovered that Astaroth himself had become one after the battle with Lazarus.

The change had not escaped him. For a being of Astaroth’s stature to place his faith in him was no small matter, and it gave Damian reason to take his recommendations seriously. Through his perception of desire, he could also discern that Astaroth genuinely wanted to help him. There was no obvious attempt to manipulate him into accepting the offer, nor did Astaroth appear to be seeking a personal reward in return. That did not mean Damian would blindly trust the Mink Race, but it was enough to warrant a meeting.

"All right. I’ll meet with them and see what they are capable of for myself," Damian agreed.

Astaroth laughed and shook his head. "But, sire, Duke Paimon has been standing beside you for a while now."

Damian’s eyes widened with genuine shock as he slowly turned his attention to the right. A man stood beside his chair, close enough that Damian could have reached out and touched him without moving from his seat.

The stranger possessed a handsome, distinctly humanoid face that appeared to belong to a man in his early fifties. A thick mustache rested above his mouth, while a short snout replaced what should have been a human nose.

Fine whiskers extended from his cheeks, and a pair of fluffy, striped ears emerged from his head. His appearance was unusual, but not so monstrous that Damian would have immediately identified him as a demon. If anything, the stranger looked more human than many of the nobles Damian had encountered throughout the Underworld.

For a moment, Damian simply stared at him. Had he encountered this individual on an ordinary road, he might have walked straight past without realizing that the man possessed even a trace of demonic energy. Yet this was Duke Paimon, the patriarch of a high tier blood race, and he had somehow approached Damian without triggering his divine perception.

"Interesting... What an interesting man indeed. Even with a damaged soul, your body is bustling with vitality. I suspect it’s vitality drained from your women that keeps you going. If not, you would be coughing blood by now," Duke Paimon remarked, his eyes moving over Damian with the detached curiosity of someone examining an unusual specimen.

Damian remained outwardly composed. He did not jerk away or reach for a weapon, unwilling to reveal how thoroughly the Duke had caught him off guard. Instead, he slowly shifted his attention toward the man’s face, keeping his movements measured.

Inwardly, however, he was screaming at the top of his lungs. How had this man slipped past his divine perception and approached him so casually?

Damian had no intention of admitting that he had been startled, but the fact remained that Duke Paimon had accomplished something no one else had managed to do in quite this manner.

Before Damian could question him, Duke Paimon stepped away and lowered himself onto one knee, bowing his head in a formal gesture of respect. "It’s an honor to finally meet your majesty," he said.

The Duke remained kneeling, waiting for Damian’s response. When none came, he slowly raised his head, only to feel a massive hand gently pat the top of his hair. His body stiffened, and his eyes widened as he turned around.

Crouched beside him was a seven foot tall mountain of a man, his enormous frame casting a shadow over the smaller Duke. Pitch black eyes stared down at him, their depths devoid of any visible warmth. The pressure radiating from the figure was so overwhelming that the surrounding room seemed to tremble beneath his presence.

"I don’t know how you managed to hide your presence, but I will admit it’s quite impressive..." Damian’s voice rumbled through the room, carrying a weight that made the wine in the remaining jug quiver.

His true form towered over the seated figure he had left behind, and the difference between the two bodies was startling. The Damian who had been conversing with Astaroth looked almost insignificant beside this towering beast of a man. His true physique possessed a density and vitality that made it difficult to believe he was still a demigod, particularly given the damage his soul had suffered.

Duke Paimon’s pupils contracted as he took in Damian’s immense frame. The hand resting on his head was large enough to make the gesture feel less like a greeting and more like a reminder of the gulf in physical presence between them.

Yet rather than recoiling, the Duke’s expression gradually shifted from surprise to genuine fascination.

"So this is your majesty’s true form... And you are still a demigod... It finally makes sense why Lazarus lost to you," Duke Paimon gasped, unable to conceal his astonishment.