After a long while...
No matter how thoroughly Hank examined himself, he couldn't detect anything wrong. He turned to look at Herto, whose face was deathly pale, as if he'd just suffered a severe illness.
Puzzled by Herto's condition, Hank asked with confusion,
"What just happened to you?"
Everyone knew that a single Knight could easily take on ten strong n, and a Knight captain could crush ten Knights without breaking a sweat. People of that level were the backbone of any nation—on the battlefield, they were equivalent to a hundred n. So how could soone like that end up looking like a half-dead wreck?
Seeing the confusion written all over Hank's face, Herto took a deep breath. After a mont of hesitation, he said,
"Since I was a child, I've had a unique talent—I can sense whether the creatures around pose a threat. The greater the threat, the faster my heart beats. When I saw that man just now, my heart almost leapt out of my chest. I felt dizzy and couldn't breathe properly. I nearly fainted. I've never experienced a feeling that intense before…"
After thinking for a mont, he added,
"I don't know exactly how strong he is, but I'm sure of one thing—we can't possibly resist him. It's not even a contest. Not even when I was a child facing down a pack of wolves did I feel such a strong sense of danger. It was as if he could snap in half at any mont, and no matter how much I resisted, it would make no difference."
By the ti he finished, his tone had beco completely dejected, the initial resolve in his voice completely gone.
After listening, Hank clenched his jaw and asked,
"Are you feeling anything unusual in your body right now? Do you know what kind of thod he used on us?"
"I don't feel anything strange," Herto replied, "but what he used is likely one of those weird techniques that the warlock employ. They're infamous for using strange, incomprehensible abilities. That's why the Church relentlessly hunts them down."
Herto had interacted with many of those self-proclaid warlocks before. In his opinion, they were a group of eccentric lunatics who spent their days lurking in the shadows, muttering strange things, and having sudden ntal outbursts.
They looked at everyone else as if they were fools—and, truthfully, most people saw them the sa way.
Hank rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
Although it wasn't just the two of them—others exposed to that strange gray-black mist didn't show any unusual symptoms either—he still had a gut feeling that it wasn't so simple. Especially since he clearly rembered Orsaga saying, "I hope you all last a few more days." That comnt made it clear that the mist wasn't anything benign.
Thinking of the Church's hatred for warlocks, and how that place reeked of evil, Hank began to wonder if he could find outside help…
---
Orsaga, on the other hand, didn't bother paying attention to what the prisoners were doing. After releasing the disease on them, he no longer intervened. He simply observed their condition through the [Plague Origin], continually fine-tuning the plague's strength and properties.
The incubation period couldn't be too long, the symptoms couldn't be too obvious, and the initial pain couldn't be too severe. He had to find the right balance.
And those people in the cage—they were the test subjects to help him find that balance. Their status, thoughts, and beliefs were irrelevant. The outco had already been decided from the very beginning.
After all, expecting to walk away unhard from a demon's grasp was nothing short of delusional.
Though Orsaga wasn't like other demons obsessed with human souls—he saw all lifeforms as equal stepping stones—his demonic nature ensured he would never pass up an opportunity for personal gain.
The prey was already at his doorstep. How could he possibly let it escape?
After spending ti observing this world, cross-referencing his mories, and making firsthand assessnts, Orsaga finally understood why demons from the Abyss were so obsessed with invading other realms—even though the Abyss itself was overflowing with potential targets.
In the Abyss, the creatures were bizarre, twisted, and many of them were dangerous in unexpected ways. While there might be so unjustly labeled as such, most residents were either lunatics or homicidal maniacs—many of whom sought world-ending destruction without even sparing themselves.
Trying to ss with those kinds of individuals was tricky. It was nearly impossible to go about plundering and slaughtering in peace.
Other worlds, however, were different.
Compared to the Abyss, the inhabitants of foreign realms were simpler in thought, weaker in constitution—fragile like bean sprouts. Even forces as common as air in the Abyss could prove lethal to them. They were the perfect targets for harvesting.
Naturally, these realms beca the soft fruit that abyssal creatures loved to crush.
And if the tables were turned and the demon got crushed instead?
Well, in the Abyss, that's just daily life.
To most abyssal beings, existence itself was about killing or being killed.
Back when Orsaga was in the Demonbone Forest, he'd even tried to start a wildfire. But unfortunately, abyssal flora wasn't so easily flammable. It was impossible to start a real blaze.
But in this world? Things were much easier.
Ordinary plants couldn't stop his bloodfla from spreading. Even stone and soil couldn't resist it.
If it weren't for the risk of being forcibly ejected by the world's consciousness, Orsaga could have easily incinerated the entire Mardain Principality.
So, instead, he chose a subtler thod—sothing that wouldn't draw so much attention so soon.
After weighing the options, he decided on plague and disease as his tools.
In any world, illness was a natural phenonon. And yet, it could cause widespread destruction, death, and fear. With control over its spread and lethality, disease could be one of the most effective large-scale weapons.
After careful thought, Orsaga used the evolution system to develop a special ability: [Plague Origin].
In his view, this would be the primary tool for reaping "crops" in the future.
Bloodfla was too flashy and aggressive—better suited for head-on conflict. Magic, on the other hand, offered versatility. No matter the situation, it could always produce results.
Hank and the others were his first batch of test subjects. By recording their physical responses, he could make real-ti adjustnts to the plague's characteristics, eventually reaching the perfect balance.
It couldn't spread too slowly—or there'd be no impact.
It couldn't act too fast—or it'd burn out before it spread.
Symptoms couldn't be too intense at first—they needed to appear normal and healthy to maximize transmission.
He needed accurate data for all these factors—and that ant experints. Lots of them.
Not to ntion the fact that different species had different biological traits. The sa plague wouldn't work equally on all of them. It all had to be fine-tuned.
All of this gave Orsaga the distinct feeling he was doing scientific research—which honestly gave him a bit of a headache.
Thankfully, he had [Overclocked Brain]. Without it, he wouldn't have been able to keep up with all this complexity.
Scientific research required either a team or solid communication networks for collaborative work. Trying to climb the viral technology tree alone was nearly impossible.
Once again, it was thanks to his evolutionary system that he had such a huge advantage. Without it, he'd never even have considered going down this path.
---
Strolling along the garden's pond, Orsaga walked while practicing subtle control over his muscles using the training thods of martial artists. He was improving his command over every part of his body.
During these idle monts, he thought to himself:
'I can't waste the ti spent observing the virus. I should also study the basic models of low-tier spells and how to manipulate energy. My control over energy is still far too crude.'
---
Two months later.
Midnight. The moonlight was dim. Inside the estate.
A faint candlelight lit up the room.
Orsaga stroked his chin as he looked at the man kneeling before him—Jaemar—and asked calmly,
"You want to help the Mardain Principality defeat the Yharnis Principality and win the war?"
"Yes, my lord," Jaemar answered respectfully, bowing his head even lower.
Nodding, Orsaga continued,
"And what price are you prepared to pay?"
Though he wasn't currently interested in going on a killing spree, helping a bunch of mortals win an war was still laughably easy for him. With just a flick of his fingers, he could make it happen.
Jaey didn't hesitate. He'd long prepared his answer:
"If we win the war, we'll exile all the prisoners to a distant, deserted island by the sea. It will be your sacrificial ground. You may deal with them however you wish."
After months of observation, he had more or less figured out so of this demon's habits: cruel, cunning—just like the records described, or perhaps even more so. And yet, surprisingly, he had a decent temper. he didn't lash out like a madman. He also maintained a strange form of self-discipline, as if his days were ticulously scheduled.
Jaemar was sure of one thing—Orsaga loved killing and soul harvesting.
But then why had he been so well-behaved in the capital? Jaemar couldn't understand it. He had fully expected chaos. Even the servants he'd sent in as bait hadn't co to any harm. It was completely out of line with a demon's typical behavior.
'It's like sothing is restraining him…' Jaemar mused.
Orsaga didn't imdiately respond to the proposal. He simply continued sipping his tea in silence, as though lost in thought.
The sound of tea being sipped echoed in the quiet room, and Jaemar's heart began to race uncontrollably. Keeping his head down, he started counting specks of dust on the floor to calm himself.
Ti passed slowly.
Just as Jaemar was about to give up hope, Orsaga finally spoke:
"I accept your request."
______
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