{Chapter: 132: A Devil's Courtesy}
Strolling leisurely down the uneven streets of the abyssal city, Dex twirled the strange item he had just received in his fingers—an eyeball that pulsed faintly with arcane energy. He examined it under the dim red light of a lava lantern, the soft glow reflecting off his skin like hot embers licking across obsidian.
There was no need to rush.
Time wasn't an issue here. No deadline. No impatient handlers breathing down his neck. Just endless possibility.
So, he decided to gather intelligence before diving into the upcoming planar war. Knowing one's battlefield was a cornerstone of victory. Whether his enemies fought with cursed tomes and summoned firestorms or preferred cleaving each other into bloody ribbons with laser swords—either way, Dex needed to prepare accordingly. One did not bring a pitchfork to a plasma duel.
Charging headfirst into chaos without understanding the terrain might make for a dramatic entrance, but Dex had seen too many of those types explode gloriously in the first five seconds.
He wouldn't be one of them.
Besides, he had to admit, the entire recruitment process had been shockingly simple—absurdly so. No tests, no background check, not even a ritual oath of torment. Just a slobbering demon offering him a seat, a skewer of grilled filth, and a free abyssal item that doubled as both a teleport key and contract.
Warm hospitality. Dex almost felt bad about leaving without eating.
Almost.
"If I just walk away with this and don't show up for the war," Dex mused aloud, spinning the eyeball like a coin on his palm, "would that make me a thief or a connoisseur?"
The eyeball blinked at him. He chuckled.
---
Some time later – Inside a peculiar storefront…
Dex stepped into a place that could loosely be called a shop, though most travelers might have mistaken it for a sewer outlet or a collapsed fungus farm.
The room had no clear walls or corners. The space warped inward on itself in irregular curves, like a melting candle had once dreamt of being architecture. Dim green light emanated from semi-living sacks hanging from the ceiling, pulsing softly like inverted heartbeats.
At the center of the room was a… thing.
It was difficult to say what kind of creature the shopkeeper was. Its body resembled an abstract painting rendered in meat, somewhere between a deflated balloon and a dripping wax sculpture. Several tentacles rested lazily on a low counter made of bone and rusted metal.
Its face—or the approximation of one—opened into three different mouths, and one of them tried to smile as Dex approached.
Dex bowed his head politely and spoke with perfect courtesy.
"I'd like to purchase a piece of intelligence."
The creature blinked—several times—then straightened slightly, clearly alarmed despite its gelatinous frame.
Inside, the shopkeeper's mind raced.
'Oh no. One of those.'
---
In the Abyss, everyone feared polite demons.
Not the raging berserkers who roared and smashed everything in sight. No, those were simple creatures. Predictable. Manageable. You could reason with violence. Bribe it. Threaten it back.
But the ones who smiled?
Who bowed?
Who used calm voices and asked for things like information?
Those were the ones that made your bones sweat.
The shopkeeper—an old merchant who had lived in this layer of the bottomless Abyss for over four hundred years—had long since come to accept the chaotic rhythm of this cursed realm. He had seen mountains walk, rivers scream, and devils grow gardens of screaming eyeballs.
He had learned to expect madness.
But not the calculated madness of a well-mannered demon.
Those were the worst.
From his networking with other merchants, he knew the saying by heart:
"Don't fear the roaring beast. Fear the one who speaks sweetly before crushing your soul."
'I'm not afraid of a violent demon, I'm afraid of a polite demon.'
There's nothing wrong with the former, since most demons look like that.
'I am angry every day. Either I beat others to death or I am beaten to death by others.'
The results are either quick death or quick strengthening.
With his years of business experience, he was confident that he could handle that kind of customer.
The latter is very wrong. Even demons have learned to be polite, which shows that this kind of guy is also an extremely abnormal type among the abnormal group. Either he is mutated, or his brain is damaged. Gods know what the thinking of a lunatic is. They don't need a reason to take action.
You don't even need to say "What are you looking at? What's wrong with you?" You can be kicked without warning just because the road is so flat while walking on it.
Although the expression on the shop owner's face did not change, his three brains began to work at full speed.
'The defensive spells set up in the store have been activated. I hope they can withstand any problems…'
Dex, meanwhile, stood patiently. He even smiled a little—just enough to be polite.
"I'm looking for something basic," Dex continued. "An overview of the power system used by the forces in the plane I'm about to visit. Military structure, known entities, common weapons, popular schools of magic or technology... I don't need names. Just patterns."
"Y-y-yes… of course," the shopkeeper stammered, forcing his face into a businesslike neutrality. One of his tentacles slithered beneath the counter, activating three layers of protective glyphs.
Just in case.
A soft click echoed under the floor as runes carved into abyssal crystal came alive.
Dex raised an eyebrow.
"You're quite cautious. I respect that."
The shopkeeper tried to laugh. It came out like a wet cough. "Ha… ha… in our line of work, it pays to be... thorough."
Strictly speaking, the shopkeeper had always considered himself a capable individual. He wasn't the strongest demon in the city by any means, but in his own tier—among the creatures who dwelled in the margins of this layer of the Bottomless Abyss—he believed he could hold his own. He had survived countless petty squabbles, power struggles, and surprise ambushes over the years. There was confidence in his stride, pride in his cunning, and just enough cowardice to keep him alive.
Yet the moment Dex stepped through the threshold of his shop, that confidence evaporated like boiling ichor on a forge plate.
*****
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