{Chapter: 131: The Weight of a Decision}
"Wh-what?!" the squid-man croaked, kicking frantically.
Dex closed one eye in thought. "No, no. Wait. Chicken wings… two pairs. Four wings. That's definitely even."
He turned to the bystanders who had frozen in place around him.
"Guess I'm not going."
And then, just as suddenly, he grinned.
"…Unless the next one's odd."
The result was utterly one-sided.
Dex, not even bothering to use a fraction of his full power, casually applied pressure to the squid-headed demon's neck—no more than a tenth of his true strength. The effect was immediate and brutal. A sickening crunch echoed in the air as vertebrae compressed and cartilage gave way. Had he pressed just a bit harder, he would've crushed the creature's spine into jelly and sent its soul straight to the depths of the Abyss.
The creature, realizing the sheer gap in strength, gave up all thoughts of resistance. The momentary defiance drained from his bulging eyes, replaced by a forced grin full of appeasement and desperation. A smile that only someone on the edge of death could produce.
"What do you want?" he asked with a trembling voice, as his hands instinctively raised to show he had no intention of fighting. His four wings, which had fluttered in confusion earlier, now drooped pitifully like wilted leaves.
Dex tilted his head slightly and gave a half-smile, one not born of friendliness but curiosity. "How many teeth do you have?"
"...?"
The squid-headed demon blinked slowly, unsure if he'd heard correctly. He stared at Dex, dumbfounded, as if trying to determine whether the question was a trick or some kind of demonic riddle. "What…?"
"I said," Dex repeated, this time more slowly and enunciating each word as if speaking to a child, "how many teeth. Are. In. Your. Mouth?"
The demon froze. His tongue nervously licked across his gums as his brain worked in overdrive. "I… uh… I think I have three layers of teeth? Maybe?" he muttered uncertainly, pointing toward his lipless mouth.
He had never once in his centuries-long existence considered the number of his own teeth. Why would he? He was a demon, not a dentist. But now, under the heavy hand of someone who could crush his skull like overripe fruit, it felt like the most important question of his life.
"I… I'll count them now…" he offered weakly, beginning to move his fingers toward his lips.
Dex's eyes narrowed in disappointment. He really doesn't know…
That level of indecision irritated him deeply.
Before the creature could start counting, Dex's arm moved like a blur. His palm connected with the squid-head's jaw in a thunderous crack, and the result was an eruption of teeth bursting out like seeds from a squeezed fruit. Dozens of bloody enamel shards scattered through the air, shimmering slightly as they spun under the faint red glow of the Abyssal sky.
Dex casually scanned and began counting the airborne teeth as if watching snowflakes fall.
"One… two… three… forty-four… forty-five…"
When the last incisor bounced off his shoulder and hit the cobblestone street with a metallic clink, he grinned.
"Odd number.."
He clapped his hands.
"To war, then!"
He laughed aloud, flames licking his shoulders. With that, he tossed aside the demon like used laundry. The winged creature crumpled to the ground, groaning and leaking various fluids. Dex didn't bother to check if he was still alive.
There was no point. The guessing game had been played, the result determined. Dex had made his choice.
He turned on his heel and strode off toward the recruitment center noted on the war poster, humming a tune with no rhythm, his long shadow dancing behind him.
---
The Recruitment Office of the Abyssal Legion
The building was an ancient ruin repurposed for war logistics. Its stone columns, once carved with infernal symbols of worship, now bore newer, hastily scratched symbols declaring "Demons Welcome! Recruitment Today!" with crude arrows pointing toward an iron door half-buried in skulls.
Dex stepped up to it, wiping the dried blood off his fingers by rubbing them on the stone archway like a child cleaning their hands on their shirt. With a dull creak, he pushed the door open.
The stench inside was overwhelming.
It smelled like burnt meat, curdled blood, rotting bone marrow, and a strange hint of fermented pus. The floor was littered with body parts—torsos without heads, heads without bodies, dismembered claws twitching faintly in pools of black ichor.
And in the center of it all, seated behind a desk made from stitched-together spinal cords, was a grotesquely obese demon. His body oozed slime and pus from countless boils that covered every inch of his grayish-purple flesh. His mouth was wide and lipless, chewing lazily on a slab of charred meat that dripped something… unspeakable.
Dex raised an eyebrow, not at the gore, but at the demon's nonchalance.
"Cozy place you've got here," Dex muttered.
He walked across the blood-slick floor, unconcerned about the muck coating his boots. Along the way, he picked up several stray bones and began snapping them together absentmindedly, crafting a crude but functional chair. After assembling his makeshift throne, he sat down across from the pus-drenched recruiter.
"I want in," Dex said simply. "The war. The Mi Ling World."
The bloated demon didn't even look up. Without breaking his chewing rhythm, he tossed something across the table—a pulsating eyeball wrapped in a membrane of muscle and veins.
Dex caught it mid-air. The eye blinked at him once, then turned opaque.
"That's your pass. Sign the contract, activate it, and the teleportation circle will do the rest," the recruiter grunted between bites.
Dex turned the eye over in his hand. It throbbed gently, reacting to his demonic presence. Within it, a faint script flickered—the terms of a magical pact, written in Abyssal runes that shimmered and twisted, ready to bind themselves to a soul the moment it agreed.
As he examined the contract, the recruiter offered a greasy chunk of meat skewered on a blackened rib.
"Want some barbecue?" the bloated demon asked cheerfully, holding it out.
Dex eyed the chunk. It looked like a segment of a large intestine, charred on the outside but still suspiciously soft. Worse, he could see undigested remains within it.
Politely, he shook his head. "I'm not hungry. But thanks."
"Pity," the demon said as he shoved the entire intestine into his mouth. He chewed with delight, juices dribbling down his chin. "You demons today don't know how to appreciate the finer things. This stuff has flavor! Texture!"
Dex nodded slowly, trying not to gag. A true warrior… fearless even before the filthiest meals. Respect.
"Well… goodbye," Dex said, rising from his seat and brushing imaginary dust off his coat.
"Good luck killing mortals!" the recruiter shouted after him, voice muffled by meat. "Rip off their limbs for me!"
Dex waved a lazy hand over his shoulder but didn't look back. The last thing he wanted was another look at the grotesque display.
But in the depths of his heart, Dex knew he respected that demon—respected his unapologetic, primal nature. There was a strength in that sort of madness.
As he stepped out of the office and into the acrid air of the Abyss, Dex looked down at the eyeball still pulsing in his palm. The power it represented, the war it promised—it all made his blood stir.
*****
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