Chapter 5
Chapter 5
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 5
Chapter Title: Descent of the Hell King
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As he headed toward the source of the commotion, the servants of the detached palace were milling about in confusion, stamping their feet helplessly.
“…….”
Anna sat slumped on the ground, caressing her swollen cheek, while the boy continued to huff and puff, unable to contain his rage.
Damian’s expression twisted at the sight before him.
“How dare you, how dare you, how dare you! Who gave you permission to open that filthy mouth of yours?”
It was Arkin von Edbalt, Damian’s half-brother, the Fourth Prince.
“Say one more word, and I’ll rip that tongue out right now.”
He had always been notorious for his thuggish behavior, but the imperial palace had enjoyed some peace over the past two years while he was away on magical training.
He shared a deep enmity with Damian.
Before leaving for his training, he had insulted Damian’s abandoned mother, leading to a duel between them.
And now, this scum had laid hands on Anna. No doubt over some trivial reason.
How would the Damian of before have reacted? He would have either ignored it and walked away or charged in blindly.
But not this time.
“Felix. Take Anna back to her room for now.”
“Y-Yes, Young Master.”
Felix seemed flustered at first but quickly pulled himself together and helped Anna to her feet, leading her inside.
Arkin didn’t stop them. Instead, he shot Damian a contemptuous look.
“She’s my maid. If you have a problem, take it up with me.”
“Hah. You’ve grown taller while we were apart, but your manners have gotten shorter.”
Damian and Arkin had been born in the same year. By imperial law, even a bastard’s sibling relationship remained valid.
There was no need for formal speech between them. Yet Damian had always shown deference to Arkin.
It was a defense mechanism. By lowering himself, he preempted any reason for the other to attack.
No longer.
“So, what’s your excuse for striking my maid? If it’s not justified, I’ll take it as an insult to me.”
“Insult? Pfft, hahaha. What are you going to do about it, you who couldn’t even avenge your whore of a mother?”
Damian clenched his teeth, glaring at Arkin.
“That wretched bitch asked, ‘Where’s your worm of a master?’ So I just taught her some manners.”
Arkin shrugged as if it were nothing.
“She’s an insolent maid. Glaring at Lord Arkin like that.”
“Well, her tits were big enough to make it worth overlooking. Heh heh heh.”
“Shut your mouths. This isn’t your place to speak.”
At Damian’s sharp command, Arkin’s attendants snapped to attention. The aura emanating from the imperial bastard was subtly different from the one they remembered from two years ago.
“Ahem. It seems you’ve failed to properly train your maid. As compensation for this incident, I’ll be taking her with me.”
The bastard had been eyeing Anna for a while. He wanted her as his plaything. If things continued like this, he’d attempt to kidnap her, just as he had in the previous timeline.
The sense of superiority that let him toy with those beneath him. That was the vile ideology at the core of his being.
It had shown itself plainly during the civil war as well. He had massacred entire regions simply because they were linked to the reformists.
Though someone else had ultimately taken his life, Damian would have executed him himself if given the chance.
He was a weed that needed to be uprooted now. Crushing him decisively would be beneficial.
Moreover, there was something he needed to claim from Arkin.
“Cut the nonsense and get lost. If you really want Anna, challenge me to a duel.”
Making an official issue of Anna’s treatment would complicate things. But Arkin’s pride was too fragile; he’d take the bait from such provocation.
“You’ve gone mad in these two years. I heard you trained under some stablehand. Did the horse shit rot your brain?”
The Arkin in his memory was the Damian from two years ago—the powerless bastard who had been beaten into submission without resistance.
“Your tongue’s gotten long. Just say if you’ll do it or not.”
“Fine, fine. If you want to get beaten like a dog again, who am I to deny your wish? What do I get out of it?”
“You drop the matter with Anna. And…”
“Like master, like maid—greedy beyond your station.”
“An invitation to the Arnesian Fleet Ball. Hand it over.”
“I don’t know what a worm like you plans to do there, but… fine. You’ve got no chance of winning anyway.”
The duel was set for noon the next day, at the palace training grounds.
Damian headed straight for the abandoned tower without checking on Anna or Felix.
They wouldn’t say anything pleasant anyway.
Anna would insist on going to Arkin herself, and Felix would throw a fit, claiming he’d handle it somehow.
In the current situation, the outcome wouldn’t differ much from two years ago. If anything, defeat might be even more humiliating.
While Damian had spent two years learning strength and technique from Derek, Arkin had immersed himself in magic training in a mana-rich region.
As Derek had said, once aura or magic reached a certain level, Damian’s physical prowess and skills meant little.
But that was the story until today.
The Book of Hell in the abandoned tower. The black magic to be learned from it was too valuable to waste on the likes of Arkin.
“It looks smaller.”
Standing before the stone door after two years, it felt different somehow—perhaps due to his own growth. Nothing about the door had changed.
Rumble. Applying force as if pushing a boulder, the stone door parted easily.
There was less thrill than expected. It was merely a process, after all.
Guided by his lantern, he passed through the dark corridor. Soon, the ceiling rose, opening into a vast chamber.
In its center, upon a small pedestal, lay the Book of Hell.
Damian set the lantern on the floor and brushed the dust from the book.
‘Book of Hell—Mem’. At a glance, it resembled any ordinary ancient tome.
But the script on its cover and pages consisted of characters unpronounceable in any modern tongue.
Damian possessed no special talent for black magic beyond his ability to read these bizarre letters.
“□□□□□ □□□□.”
Rustle. As Damian uttered the title on the cover, the book floated into the air, its pages flipping rapidly.
A strange sensation, as if the contents bypassed his eyes and imprinted directly into his brain. Less like reading and more like ingestion or absorption. He already knew the contents from his previous reading, but the feeling remained unpleasant.
“□□□. □□. □□□□. □□. □□□□□□. □□. □….”
Damian pronounced aloud the words now etched in his mind.
To contract with a demon, one first had to attract its attention.
The demon worshippers hiding in the empire’s shadows offered victims’ hearts or precious treasures before the Book of Hell and bowed their heads, but demons paid little heed to such gestures.
What truly drew their interest was the use of the demons’ own language.
Wouldn’t an ant speaking human words naturally pique curiosity?
With that, Damian finished reciting the final page, and the book descended once more.
Whoosh. Green flames erupted around him, forming a circle.
What was written in this Book of Hell concerned demons called Infernals.
Infernals were demons of hellfire itself; contracting with them granted control over hellfire.
In his previous life, Damian had contracted with twenty Infernals. Countless orthodox mages had perished to the hellfire they birthed.
The contract conditions after summoning were simple: pass the Infernal’s trial.
Even in his wretched state back then, he had succeeded. In his current condition, it would be effortless.
‘It’s taking a bit longer.’
The Infernal hadn’t appeared yet. The green flames merely burned in their ring.
‘No, the shape is different!’
Upon closer inspection, it wasn’t a single ring but two.
Two lines twisting into a spiral as they rotated. Clearly different from his previous summoning of an Infernal.
Yet the Book of Hell—Mem could summon no demons other than Infernals.
‘Does that mean…!’
Fwoosh!! Suddenly, green flames surged wildly from the book.
The hellfire lunged toward Damian, forcing him to leap back.
The chamber filled with hellfire; sweat poured from his body, and his throat burned.
[Kekeke.]
From beyond the roaring inferno came a grotesque voice.
It vaguely resembled a human form, but closer inspection revealed a skeleton.
Not a typical one—human bones for the body, but the head of an ox.
Where the pedestal had stood was now a stone throne.
The skeleton, slouched upon it, raised its head and regarded Damian.
Though its face bore no expression, unmistakable curiosity emanated from the burning skull.
[The little one who called me. You possess a strange gift.]
The skeleton’s jaw clacked as a deep tone pierced through the flames.
Damian’s hands trembled. Not just from the overwhelming pressure, but because he knew exactly who—or what—this was.
Molech.
King of all Infernals.
The one who led twenty-four legions from the western reaches of Hell.
A lord of Hell had descended upon this land.
‘Why?’
It hadn’t been Molech in his regression, but he had summoned and contracted with other Hell lords.
Yet Hell lords didn’t respond to mere demon tongue. Only after contracting with their subordinates and reaching a certain level did they answer the call.
Damian had desired a contract with Molech. Despite bonding with numerous Infernals, Molech had never heeded him.
Yet now, the incarnation of hellfire stood before him—before he had contracted even a single Infernal.
[My children stirred, so I made a rare visit, only to witness such a curious sight.]
Drool. Blood erupted from Damian’s mouth. Merely an apparition for the contract, yet the pressure was indescribable.
‘Is it because of the regression?’
Or perhaps Ishtar had pulled some trick.
But now wasn’t the time to ponder causes. A demon had been summoned; a contract must be forged.
Since all Infernals stemmed from him, the conditions would be the same.
“King of all Infernals, Molech. I desire a contract with you.”
Suppressing his tremors as he spoke, Molech’s jaw clacked once more.
[You even know my name. Kekeke. Worth the wait.]
With each word from Molech, the pressure intensified. The Damian of before would have fled or fainted.
[Very well. Since you seek a contract, it’s only right to oblige.]
“What are the conditions?”
[Simple, young human.]
Molech snapped a bony finger. A tiny ember flew from it toward Damian.
[Endure it.]
Thud. The ember struck his body.
Hellfire’s trial consumed Damian’s left arm.
Hellfire differed from ordinary flame magic not just in color.
It demanded the caster’s mana, stamina, and pain. To unleash it, part of the caster’s body had to burn.
It didn’t actually burn. But it inflicted equivalent agony.
In some ways, worse than actual flames.
Molech’s hellfire was no different—no burns, but searing pain that threatened his sanity.
Stab. He drew his waist sword and pricked his thigh. It didn’t hurt; it felt refreshing. It snapped him back to awareness.
[Oh. You endure longer than expected.]
Molech spoke with intrigue, lounging on his jagged throne like one enjoying a spectacle, gazing down at Damian.
It probably was entertaining. Like setting an ant that spoke human words ablaze with endless torment—everyone would watch.
He thought himself accustomed to hellfire’s pain. He had even sacrificed his entire body to unleash it before.
Twenty Infernals contracted in his previous life. But Molech’s torment dwarfed them all.
“Khuhuhu.”
Laughter burst forth suddenly.
Molech stroked his horns, puzzled by Damian’s laugh.
[If you wish to quit, say so anytime. It’s been entertaining enough.]
“Why would I? I’ll contract with you even if it kills me.”
Hellfire’s pain proportional to its power. What devastating blaze could such agony unleash? The title Hell King was well-earned.
Amid groans of torment, the thought brought endless amusement.
Contracting with Molech would negate the need for his Infernal kin.
Those Books of Hell could serve other purposes.
One could vastly amplify black magic temporarily; many could summon a fragment of a demon to this plane.
Demon descent carried great risk. Damian had used it only thrice before regression.
Scarcity of Books was an issue, but eliminating all witnesses was the true hurdle.
Even the ignorant sensed demons through their souls.
Yet the results were certain. Once, a single Infernal had turned twenty elite orthodox knights to fuel.
A mere Infernal wielded such might. Summoning part of Molech? Even Michael and Rubia would struggle.
He had to seize this chance. That alone filled Damian’s mind.
Stab. Each time consciousness faded, he stabbed himself with the sword.
Blood trickled, pooling, only to boil and evaporate in Molech’s heat.
Pain had thresholds. Peak agony prompted the brain to block it—a familiar sensation.
One issue: his sense of time was slipping. He couldn’t tell if a day had passed.
[The day has ended. The new sun will soon crest the sky’s zenith.]
Reading his thoughts, Molech approached, descending the throne to peer at him.
“Cough.”
His throat burned; blood mixed with his breaths. Actual heat atop the pain made even breathing torture.
[Little one. Are you truly human?]
Molech’s demeanor had shifted dramatically.
The domineering amusement gone, replaced by curiosity-laden tones.
“Just tell me the result….”
Time until the duel with Arkin was short. Missing it would complicate matters.
[Passed. The King of all Infernals, Molech, hereby contracts with the human Damian Renekht.]
With those words, the hellfire tormenting his body vanished.
[My last contract with a human feels recent, yet here’s another so soon.]
Demons perceived time differently. Over a millennium since the last black mage’s execution—mere moments to Molech.
“Grrgh!”
The contract etched into his soul. Perhaps from disuse, the discomfort drew a groan.
[Child who received my ember.]
An obsidian-gleaming finger bone tapped Damian’s forehead.
Molech’s hellfire faded. With the contract sealed, the Hell lord must return.
[Burn the world to its end.]
With that, Molech’s form crumbled entirely, vanishing without trace. Only scorch marks in the chamber attested to his presence.