Chapter 222 – I Don’t Play Gas
He adjusted his grip on Devorare, knelt slightly toward the cara, and let his voice drop into that quiet, deliberate register he used when closing a deal.
"Just wanted to give a bit of... suggestion," he said, gaze locked straight through the lens. "I don’t play gas."
His head tilted, a fraction sharper.
"And don’t make mad."
He paused.
Let it sit.
Then flicked a glance sideways toward Clone #5, who was currently wiping blood off his hands like this was an after-dinner cleanup.
"Bring him," Lux said.
The clone didn’t ask who. He just stepped over Miraxa’s sprawled corpse, grabbed Tarrek’s headless-but-still-heavy body by the ankle, and dragged it over the bloodstained floor with a aty scrape.
Lux rolled his wrist and the air warped for half a second—Clone #5 vanishing instantly with a muted snap of displaced mana, leaving just the dead gargoyle in Lux’s grasp.
Lux turned back to the phone, lifted Tarrek by the collar so the limp body filled half the fra, and let the blood drip down onto the already ruined carpet.
"I—" he began.
But his words cut off.
A cold ripple ran through the air. Not the creeping chill of fear—this was heavier. Denser. Like pride itself had condensed into a weight that pressed against the lungs.
Even before the system spoke, he felt it.
[Strong energy signature approaching. Threat Level—High.]
Then it hit—fast.
A flash of movent. Mana like a thrown spear.
Lux teleported instinctively, reappearing two ters to the left in a flicker of black-and-gold light, Devorare already raised. The blast of force cracked the wall where he’d just been standing, splintering it into a web of glowing fractures.
Lux’s gaze snapped toward the attacker.
Tall. Broad. Wearing gold-stitched black armor polished to an almost obscene shine, the kind of gleam that said ’I don’t fight in this, I pose in it.’ A mane of jet hair pulled back into a perfect knot, eyes burning bright with a self-importance that could choke a room. And... feathers. Yeah. Like a peacock.
He carried no visible weapon. He didn’t need to. His aura was a weapon in itself—structured, showy, and too damn pleased with itself.
Lord Vyrak of Pride.
He wasn’t the highest lord of the Pride Ring—he didn’t own the whole territory. But he ruled two of its juiciest districts: Azhalyn and Viremont. And in his own mind? He was the face of the Pride Syndicate. The self-branded Archduke of Smugness.
No, really. That was what he called himself.
Vyrak’s gaze swept the wreckage in the room—burnt furniture, mangled corpses, smoking craters—and then landed on Tarrek’s body.
His entire expression shifted.
"...Tarrek?" His voice cracked.
Then louder. "TARREK!!! My guy!!"
He charged forward—yes, the lord of two districts actually ran—and dropped to his knees beside the gargoyle’s body like this was so infernal soap opera death scene. He lifted Tarrek’s headless torso into his arms, blood soaking into his pristine armor without him even caring.
"Tarrek, buddy, you’re gonna be fine—" He froze mid-sentence, realizing there was no head. "Oh—oh no. No no no no—NOT MY WINGMAN—" His voice broke into sothing between an actual sob and a very loud, very theatrical wail. "WHO DID THIS?! WHO DID THIS TO MY BOY?!"
Lux... stayed very, very still.
Mostly so he wouldn’t laugh out loud.
It was so dramatic.
Instead, he murmured, "Detect."
[System: Scanning target—]
[Target: Lord Vyrak of Pride. District Authority Level: 2/10. Specialization: Territorial Enforcent, Political Leverage.]
[Search complete.]
[Confird: This entity contributed directly to your current bounty total. 200 Millions Soul Credits.]
Lux’s eyes narrowed. "Oh... so those 200 million Soul Credits ca from him, huh?" he muttered.
The corner of Lux’s mouth curved.
Not a smile.
Sothing thinner. aner.
So this was one of the petty little rich boys who thought raising the Greed Heir’s bounty was a clever political move.
Vyrak was still rocking Tarrek’s corpse like it was prom night and the afterparty had just been cancelled.
"You were supposed to be the face of my channel!" Vyrak shouted at the body. "You were supposed to boost my engagent—WE WERE GONNA HIT TWO MILLION SUBS—"
Lux let him talk.
Because every second Vyrak wasted mourning was a second Lux could use to morize every seam in his armor, every flicker of his aura, every tiny tell in his movents.
When Vyrak finally looked up—eyes still bright with whatever mix of rage and narcissism powered him—Lux was ready.
"You’re paying for that, aren’t you?" Lux said mildly. "The bounty."
Vyrak stiffened.
"I... don’t know what you an."
Lux stepped forward, boots clicking against the wet marble.
"Oh, you know exactly what I an." His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t have to. "Two hundred million. Just to push my number higher. So the little rats in your territory would trip over themselves to get my attention."
Vyrak’s jaw clenched, but his eyes... flicked sideways.
Lux caught it.
And smiled—this ti, actually smiled.
"Good," he murmured. "That ans you wanted to notice," he added.
He took another step forward, raising Devorare so the blade caught the ergency light and shimred like a threat wrapped in temptation.
Vyrak finally set Tarrek’s corpse down, slowly, like he was lowering a trophy back onto the shelf.
"You think you can just walk into my district and—"
Lux interrupted. "I didn’t walk." He tilted his head. "I burned my way in."
The phone was still streaming. The chat was howling.
"OH SHIT THIS IS LIVE??"
"Bro just called out the Archduke to his face??"
"VYRAK ABOUT TO GET HUMILIATED LMAOO"
Lux didn’t take his eyes off Vyrak.
"You wanted my attention?" he asked softly. "Congratulations. You’ve got it."
And for the first ti since he’d arrived, he let the blade hum with mana—Greed and Lust both curling together into sothing sharp enough to cut through the air between them.
"Now tell ," Lux said, every word a sharpened coin, "how much your life is worth to you."
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