In the end, faced with two options—either get ruthlessly butchered or spend the rest of his life as a useless good-for-nothing waiting for death—
Hart had no choice but to reluctantly stick out his neck and take the knife.
And in matters like these, Orsaga certainly didn't believe in going easy.
He naturally drew on his infernal expertise, laying out a soul-crushing list of predatory clauses that would make any lawyer weep, eventually producing an abyssal contract so terrifying that even the bravest would shy away.
When Hart picked up that hundred-thousand-word-long abyssal contract with trembling hands, a wave of sorrow washed over him. It felt like even the sun in the sky dimd slightly, and the wind seed to carry the sound of his weeping. The grief of losing his own mother couldn't compare to even a fraction of what he felt now.
Watching the poor fool sign the soul-selling contract he had crafted, Orsaga didn't bother saying anything more. With an indifferent snap of his fingers, the contract vanished into his body.
"The contract is sealed. The transaction begins."
"AAAHHHH!!!"
In the next instant, just as Hart was still wondering in morbid curiosity how Orsaga would grant his wish, he was suddenly struck by a searing pain in his chest—as though his internal organs were being twisted and flipped inside out.
He scread in agony and collapsed to the ground, writhing like a dying worm.
Had he been able to see what was happening inside his own body, he would've discovered that his organs were being rearranged on a massive scale, while new organs were erging from his flesh. Even his bloodstream was undergoing dramatic changes, with the energy content of his blood increasing, and large amounts of redundant DNA being edited or deleted. It was as if an invisible hand was reconstructing him from the inside out.
Leaning lazily against a flower blossom, listening to Hart's dying-animal whimpers, Orsaga didn't feel the slightest bit of sympathy. In fact, he even had the urge to plug his ears.
Because honestly, the screaming was downright unbearable. Like a pig being slaughtered.
From the mont this brat entered his domain, Orsaga's plague energies had already begun seeping into his body. Ordinarily, due to the contract Orsaga had signed with Hawthorne long ago, these plagues wouldn't trigger. At worst, Hart would get sick for a bit, then bounce back.
But now that he'd signed a contract of his own, it was ti for different rules.
At this mont, the plague energy within Hart's body acted like a hyper-efficient elixir, serving as a conduit for Orsaga's power, allowing him to reshape the boy's body at will.
'Latent genes activated. Base bio-energy furnace under construction…'
From Orsaga's perspective, Hart's internal structure unfolded like a three-dinsional blueprint before his eyes. All those supposedly complex, high-level biological systems were as simple to him as basic arithtic.
So, naturally, he went to work with no hesitation. As for how it felt for Hart? Orsaga didn't care in the slightest.
After all, he held final interpretive rights.
After what felt like a lifeti of tornt—sowhere between minutes and eternity—Orsaga finally completed the transformation. A flood of relief washed over Hart, like being reborn.
He swore to the heavens he'd live a good life from now on—and never, ever set foot in this place again.
Lying there like a dead dog, tears silently streaming into a pool of blood, Hart looked pitiful. Orsaga yawned and waved him off with a frown.
"What are you still lying there for? Get lost. Your request has been fulfilled."
Hearing those words, Hart flinched as if the pain might return just from being reminded of it. He didn't dare rest another second. Ignoring the soreness in his limbs, he scrambled up from the ground.
Only then did he realize that sothing was different. His height and weight had changed—his limbs felt more powerful, and the flow of energy through his body was smoother than ever before.
A spark of joy blood in his chest, as if the gloom hanging over the world had lifted. For a mont, he felt like the sun was shining again.
But the second he caught Orsaga's indifferent gaze, the illusion shattered completely.
The truth was, the sky had never been clear. The sun had never shone.
The soul contract still weighed heavily on his being, making each breath feel like a burden.
Perhaps… this was what people called life.
At just eight years old, Hart tasted the bitter weight of reality, pressing on him so hard he could barely breathe.
Orsaga hadn't even realized he'd just helped soone learn a valuable life lesson. But even if he had, he would've felt a sense of accomplishnt.
After all, everyone has to be beaten down by society at so point. He was rely doing his part to help.
Watching Hart's hollow, broken figure as he staggered away, Orsaga nodded with satisfaction.
According to the abyssal contract, for the next fifty years, Hart was required to offer up sacrificial items equal in value to three hundred Tier-2 magical beast souls. If he defaulted, his soul would be forfeit to Orsaga.
The total value of these offerings was roughly 1,750 tis the energy Orsaga had spent modifying Hart's body.
And even if Hart couldn't et the full quota, as long as he could scrounge up a few souls here and there, Orsaga still made a profit.
Worst case scenario? He could always claim the kid's soul as collateral.
With Hart's new potential, as long as he didn't die an early death, he was practically guaranteed to reach at least Tier-1 wizard status within fifty years. Tier-2 wasn't out of the question either.
So Orsaga wasn't the least bit worried.
At the end of the day, this was just business—a high-interest loan with a guaranteed return.
He'd been doing this kind of soul-trading for over twenty years and had the whole process down to an art.
Hart's profits were uncertain. But his?
Never in doubt.
Low investnt, high reward—an absolutely rock-solid deal.
In essence, Orsaga had just extended a high-interest abyssal loan. He gave Hart the startup capital, and when the ti ca, he'd bleed him dry, piece by piece.
And best of all—it was contractually binding through the Abyss.
Once the contract was signed, not even the gods could intervene. Reincarnated divinities would get steamrolled just the sa.
Unlike modern legal contracts, which still offered hope through lawsuits and court appeals, abyssal contracts offered no such rcy. Fairness and justice didn't exist here. Once you signed, even the most outrageous clause beca truth incarnate.
To the weak, this was a death sentence in legal form. One wrong move, and you were dood forever.
But to a new-generation demon like Orsaga, this was a perfect tool—efficient, stable, and foolproof.
anwhile, Hart, still unaware that he'd been tagged as "Pending Reclamation," was a swirling ss of emotions. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
The only small comfort he had was that Orsaga hadn't shortchanged him—his wish had been granted in full, and his talent was now more impressive than he could've ever imagined.
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