The first tentative clash between that unknown entity and Orsaga had ended abruptly and without resolution.
But the enmity between them was far from over.
The main reason was that Orsaga found the opponent's thods of creating spirits and anomalies deeply fascinating. anwhile, the other party clearly harbored so intent toward Orsaga—wanting to take sothing from him.
To Orsaga, that made things even better.
Only when both sides had their own agendas could a battle beco a prolonged and aningful struggle.
As for the minor issue of their comparable strength? Orsaga didn't care in the slightest. Either he'd kill the other guy, or the other guy would kill him. Not much to worry about.
In fact, it was precisely because the enemy posed so challenge that Orsaga was all the more delighted.
That ant it would be fun.
———
The sun was bright.
A perfect day to cause trouble.
Orsaga had gone out and caught a few fresh ingredients again.
Although they cried miserably, Orsaga was in an excellent mood.
He even felt refined enough to string them from the ceiling and make them spin like a carousel.
To give their cries more rhythm, Orsaga deliberately manipulated the frequency of pain coursing through their bodies—creating a symphonic rise and fall, like an eerie orchestra.
The female spirit assigned to soprano might've been ugly, but her pitch was quite on point.
There were exactly eight of them, so Orsaga dubbed this little invention the "Eight-Tone Disc." Add a lid on top, and it could even pass for an "Eight-Tone Box."
Taking the bowl of chicken soup handed to him by a maid, Orsaga sighed contentedly, "What a beautiful day~~"
The maid had no idea what he was sighing about, but she dutifully agreed, "Yes, the weather is perfect for a stroll too."
In her mind, this guest was soone of high importance—her master's honored visitor. He had to be treated with the utmost care.
Food, clothing, and shelter—all had to be provided at the highest standard.
To ensure he got the best room, even her master, the city mayor, had willingly given up her own quarters to sleep in a guest room.
That alone spoke volus about his power—though she couldn't comprehend it, she knew instinctively that it was beyond imagination.
So she regarded Orsaga with genuine awe.
Once he leisurely finished what amounted to his breakfast, she bowed and asked, "My lord, what would you like for lunch?"
After thinking for a second or two, Orsaga answered, "Lobster. I recall the neighbouring country has a species hailed as the 'jewel of the sea.' Let's have one of those for lunch."
"...Understood."
Though she knew the lobster he ntioned was incredibly rare—even her master could barely get a taste of it—the maid still replied, "I'll have Chef Gordon begin preparations right away."
In fact, Orsaga didn't even have to lift a finger. His daily als alone cost more than a regular person's annual salary.
Take the chicken soup he'd just had—just sourcing the ingredients would make most people weep with heartache.
As for Chef Gordon, he was the best cook in the entire city.
Normally, he only served elite clients—and even then, only by reservation.
But ever since Orsaga arrived, Gordon had beco his personal chef.
On-call 24/7.
Not by choice. The truth was that the entire ruling class of the city, including Gordon, had all been brainwashed by Orsaga with a re thought.
So Gordon had no choice but to serve him.
Whether he wanted to or not.
Maybe there were beings on this planet capable of resisting Orsaga… but clearly, these people weren't among them.
Just a bunch of mortals—not even worthy of forcing him to cast a real spell.
If it weren't so troubleso, Orsaga might've considered conquering the entire planet, just to see what it felt like.
Right then, a strange disturbance in the sky caught his attention.
He looked up, past the rooftops, and saw a crimson beam of light streaking directly toward him.
If it hit, not just this house, but possibly the entire city would be wiped out.
Orsaga didn't flinch. He casually flicked a finger, and before the beam could land, it twisted and compressed into a sphere the size of a fist. He pulled it through the air and caught it in his palm.
Before the maid could even react to this sudden turn of events—
Orsaga muttered to himself, "Every ti I go out to grab a few ingredients, he always includes a side of seasoning. So considerate."
With that, he popped the glowing orb into his mouth.
Like eating a jellybean.
Ever since their first encounter, the other party had stopped pretending to play dead. Now, every ti Orsaga went out for food, his opponent would kindly send along a variety of "gifts."
Sotis it was lightning. Sotis fire. Occasionally, small teorites.
What Orsaga appreciated most, though, was how the opponent had started planting potent, hard-to-detect poisons inside each "ingredient" he delivered.
Which, oddly enough, made them even more flavorful than before.
Almost like they were perfectly marinated.
Who could resist that?
Naturally, Orsaga's trips to "gather ingredients" had skyrocketed.
At this mont, as the sphere detonated inside his stomach, a pleasant warmth spread through him—like sipping a hot drink.
He even exhaled a red smoke ring in contentnt.
The maid beside him was stunned.
"Wh-what...?"
She looked at the satisfied expression on Orsaga's face, then at the fading red smoke ring, and asked in a confused, worried tone, "My lord, are you… alright?"
If sothing happened to him because of this bizarre event, she wouldn't be able to bear the consequences.
Orsaga shifted comfortably in his chair and waved a hand dismissively. "I'm fine. You may leave."
After she was gone, he looked up at the spinning Eight-Tone Disc overhead.
And muttered to himself, "The force behind each attack keeps increasing. Is he getting stronger… or recovering?"
After a mont of thought, Orsaga admitted he didn't have enough intel to deduce the enemy's current state.
So he turned to sothing a little more Arcane.
His masterful divination technique!
He pointed a finger at the spinning disc.
A sandglass appeared in the center of the formation.
As the sand began to fall, the rotation of the disc steadily accelerated, and the pain experienced by the spirits intensified accordingly.
Soon, the carousel-like spinning had reached supersonic speeds.
Their screams began to blur into static.
Three minutes later—
As the final grain of sand fell, Orsaga sat calmly watching. Every spirits on the disc had been driven to death.
Or perhaps more accurately: annihilated from existence by sheer pain.
But he had his answer.
The opponent was recovering strength.
"Looks like he's having a hard ti holding back as he gets stronger," Orsaga mused, a smile creeping across his face.
"Won't be long before this ga of hide-and-seek ends..."
____
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