{Chapter: 129: Return to the Abyss II}
And the fact is exactly as he thought, unlike the demon who is the type of angry old man who will do whatever he wants when he is unhappy, the dark elves like to play dirty and are good at stabbing people in the back, especially stabbing their teammates.
If one really wanted to have a heart-to-heart with them, they would definitely die miserably.
They turned and drifted deeper into the city.
Back with Dex…
He strolled along the edge of the chaos, humming a nameless tune from a time no longer remembered. With every step, the city welcomed him—the buildings leaned a little closer, the shadows grew a little deeper, and the air thrummed with potential disaster.
No one dared approach him. Not yet.
He skipped over a pile of fresh corpses like a child on stepping stones.
Soon, he arrived at his true destination:
Grieg's Tavern.
Inside, the scent of roasted bone marrow, spiced venom, and stale curses filled the air.
Laughter echoed. Coin clinked. Secrets whispered.
Dex inhaled deeply.
Then he smiled.
"…Home."
Looking up at the warped, half-charred tavern sign swinging lazily in the acrid air, Dex let out a long, almost nostalgic sigh. The letters etched into the wooden slab were faded and chipped, but still legible: "Grieg's Tavern." Time, corrosion, and ash had claimed most of the surrounding buildings, but not this place.
"Hmm… a familiar old place," he muttered to himself, voice laced with irony. "The name hasn't changed, and it seems like the owner hasn't died in the past few hundred years. That's a pity."
He raised a clawed hand to brush the soot from the corner of the sign, as though confirming its reality. Although only a hundred years had passed in the wizarding world, nearly four centuries had unraveled in this layer of the Abyss due to its unpredictable, jagged flow of time. He had half-expected the tavern to be gone—either devoured by dimensional instability, burned down during a demonic turf war, or consumed by some ravenous lower beast—but against all odds, it stood defiantly. Bruised and beaten by time, but still breathing.
Still open. Still owned by the same man.
He chuckled darkly to himself as he pushed open the cracked, charred double doors and stepped inside. The hinges shrieked in protest, echoing like a banshee's cry through the smoky interior.
Inside, nothing had changed—yet everything had. The once vibrant tavern, filled with the sound of reckless laughter and clashing mugs, was now quieter, more brooding. Shadows hung like curtains from the ceiling, dancing above the flickering red candles that floated in the air like hovering souls. A band of mismatched Abyssal drifters nursed drinks in the corners, eyeing each other like wounded wolves. A haze of smoke clung low to the floor, fed by the dozens of pipes and arcane fumes filling the room.
At the heart of the tavern stood the bartender. Greg.
Dex's gaze lingered on him for a moment.
Greg hadn't aged the way mortals did—but the Abyss had taken its toll on him. Of the ten writhing hands he once boasted, only seven remained. One of his three eyes was milky and blind, with a faint, perpetual glow leaking from the cracked socket. His once slick carapace was dull and scarred, scorched in places and etched with deep gouges that looked like they had been carved by regret rather than blades.
Still… he was alive.
Dex moved forward and slid onto one of the barstools, the wood creaking under his weight. He crossed his arms and leaned onto the bar like a regular returning home after a long campaign.
"Bartender," Dex said, voice friendly but tinged with amusement. "Give me a glass of wine. Just mix it however you like."
Greg looked at him for a few heartbeats too long, a subtle confusion flitting across his tired features. "You look… familiar. Been here before?"
Dex blinked, then remembered. He was still in human form. A morphed form, layered upon his true body—an elegant transformation that made his presence easier to mask across planes. With his unique talent, few beings beneath the divine tier could pierce the illusion.
But in this place, there was no need for masks.
With a faint pulse of will, the transformation unraveled like mist, melting off his body and revealing the truth beneath.
He simply changed his appearance back to his original form.
Suddenly, a strange fire demon wearing armor, nearly six meters tall, with a human-like appearance and countless flowers tattooed on his body, appeared in front of Greg.
A hush fell across the room.
Greg raised his gaze—then stopped, frozen as recognition dawned.
The bartender's breath caught in his throat. The lines on his face twitched as he processed what stood before him.
Dex.
The name screamed in the back of his mind. He had searched for this demon once, long ago. Researched. Investigated. Obsessed. But Dex had vanished like a ghost, no trails, no sightings, no whispers. Eventually, Greg had given up—just another potential lost to the entropy of the Abyss.
But now here he was, not only alive, but larger, darker, and far more terrifying than before.
'Still a Middle-level Demon,' Greg thought. 'But… different. Far, far stronger than anything else I've ever seen in that category. His power's bloated beyond measure… it's unnatural.'
'Although he is still a [Middle-level Demon], he is completely different from the ordinary [Middle-level Demon]. I am afraid that it can easily crush most beings of the same level to death.'
'How did he become so strong?!'
'Damn it… I should have taken action back then!'
But none of this made it to Greg's face. Bartenders in the Abyss survived by their poker face, and Greg's was one of legend.
He smiled politely, stirred together a concoction with practiced fingers, and slid the steaming, color-shifting glass toward Dex.
"One Abyssal blend. Hope it brings back memories."
Dex took a sip. The drink burned sweetly on his tongue before transforming into bitter heat that curled in his chest. It was like drinking sorrow, flame, and honey all at once.
He nodded. "Mm. Still as delicious as ever."
Greg bowed slightly. "Thank you for the compliment."
"For hundreds of years, your wine has haunted my palate," Dex said thoughtfully. "Even in the higher layers, I could remember its taste."
Greg chuckled, allowing the tension to ease, even if just slightly. "You flatter me."
They shared a quiet moment, reminiscing over half-truths and ancient drinks, until Dex stood.
"Well," he said, brushing off his armored leg, "I should get going."
Greg nodded, defaulting into the practiced farewell of all barkeeps. "Take care. And welcome back anytime."
Dex paused at the door, back turned. His voice was distant and cool. "No need. I won't be coming back. I plan to learn how to mix cocktails myself."
The words struck Greg like a slap. He blinked, stunned. "You… what?"
It was the first time any customer had declared such a thing to him—at least, not to his face.
There was a twitch in his lips, perhaps amusement, perhaps confusion, but he still smiled and replied, "Well, I hope you succeed."
Dex turned his head slightly, just enough to look at him out of the corner of one blazing eye.
"Oh no," Dex said. "I still need your help."
Greg barely had time to blink.
A tremendous force slammed into him, invisible and absolute. The wards embedded in his skin screamed in alarm, flaring to life in crimson arcs—only to shatter under the pressure like dry glass.
The defensive measures hidden on his body surface immediately issued a warning that it was overwhelmed.
Greg's face changed, and a strong aura burst out from his body, trying to fight back.
Greg's instincts roared, and a shockwave of power burst from him, shaking the tavern, but it was too late.
A hand.
Massive. Black. Wreathed in flame.
It closed over his head like a vise, blocking out all light, all sound, all hope.
Dex lifted him like a doll.
A cruel, almost nostalgic smile curled across his lips.
The pressure grew.
"Crack…"
Greg screamed as his skull compressed, the sound sickening and wet. He thrashed, releasing spell after spell in desperation—but nothing could break Dex's grip. It was as if the hand holding him was the embodiment of punishment itself.
The patrons and servers around them panicked. Some dropped their drinks. Some screamed.
Feeling the unconcealed aura from the two, their faces changed drastically!
They immediately wanted to turn around and run away, fearing that they would be implicated, but with their strength at the moment, they didn't even have time to run away.
But they never made it far.
The temperature in the tavern skyrocketed.
Then came the Crimson flames.
From Dex's body, from his hands, from the core of his fury—blood-red flames surged outward like a tidal wave of wrath.
Everything burned.
Flesh, bone, stone, time itself—all melted beneath the inferno. Screams were swallowed in seconds. Bodies turned to blackened ash before they even hit the floor.
No matter if it was a living thing or simply matter and energy, everything began to burn at a very fast speed.
Greg, caught in the heart of it, shrieked as his form blackened and cracked. He poured all his magic into resisting—but it was like using a candle to stop a volcano.
When it was over, only crystalline ruins remained. The ruins of the tavern that had been burned into crystals.
Ash floated through the air like snowflakes in a forgotten dream.
Dex stepped out of the wreckage, untouched, his footsteps clicking on the scorched ground. He didn't look back.
A few stunned passersby stared at him from across the cracked street, their faces masks of horror and disbelief.
He said nothing to them. Instead, he muttered to himself, voice tinged with melancholy.
"That succubus is actually dead... What a pity."
*****
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