In the dining area on the first floor of the hotel, warm yellow mana lamps hung from the ceiling, and the air was thick with the aroma of freshly cooked dishes.
Spade had prepared ingredients unique to Hell to perfection, the scents of fat and spices intertwining to wrap the room in a sense of lazy comfort.
Charlie sat on a soft armchair by the window, holding a piece of cloud pastry sprinkled with Hell-frosting in both hands.
She nibbled at it in small bites, her golden curls draping beside her cheeks and her eyes curved into gentle crescents, radiating a pure smile rarely seen in Hell.
Vaggie leaned against the bar, her fingertips pinching a freshly baked piece of hard rye bread.
As she spread sweet and sour Hell-berry jam over it, she nonchalantly scanned the activity in the hotel, occasionally taking a bite and raising an eyebrow, clearly satisfied with the simple fare.
Angel, meanwhile, was sprawled across the largest sofa with his legs kicked over the armrest.
He clutched a triple-decker Hell-sandwich stuffed with layers of bacon, Hell-sausage, and pickled demon-veg.
He swallowed in large gulps, utterly indifferent to the sauce staining the corner of his mouth, his posture lazy and unrestrained.
Husk had claimed a corner of the bar.
Laid out before him were booze-infused treats Spade had specially made for him—roast meat soaked in Hell-liquor, small cookies brewed with demon-wine, and even the soup wafted with a heavy scent of alcohol.
He took a sip from his glass and then a mouthful of food, his face practically screaming the contentedness of a drunkard saying, “Don’t bother me.” Everyone was immersed in a rare moment of peaceful dining.
The hotel was filled only with the clatter of utensils, the sound of chewing, and the occasional low-voiced conversation.
It was warm and relaxed, as if the strife and dangers of Hell were sealed away by the newly renovated doors.
Spade stood behind the cooking counter, wiping a silver spoon.
His massive five-meter frame looked exceptionally out of place in the hotel.
The eerie smiling mask of Prototype 1006 was firmly fixed to his face, its two hollow eye sockets devoid of emotion, while his long, thin hands—like precision surgical instruments—moved with steady accuracy.
He glanced at the group, a sense of detached indifference hidden in the depths of his gaze.
To him, these people in the hotel were merely temporary cohabitants.
He had always preferred to watch the chaos and trouble of Hell from the sidelines without getting involved.
Right then— BOOM!
A deafening explosion erupted.
The hotel’s main entrance, which had only been renovated for a few days, was blown open, leaving a gaping hole!
Splintered wooden fragments swept into the hotel along with the shockwave.
Wood chips flew as a howling gale tore through the dining area, flipping plates and utensils off the tables and scattering food scraps everywhere.
Niffty, the little maid closest to the door, couldn’t withstand the impact.
Her tiny body was blown backward by the shockwave, slamming hard into the cabinets behind her.
She curled up for a moment, then shook her head dizzily.
The sudden roar froze everyone mid-meal.
The pastry in Charlie’s hand fell to the floor as she stared at the shattered door in panic.
Vaggie gripped her bread tightly, her eyes instantly turning wary.
Angel immediately set down his sandwich and sat up straight, his face full of impatience.
The liquor in Husk’s glass splashed out as his brow furrowed deeply, his irritability nearly boiling over.
Everyone’s eyes were fixed on the doorway.
Only Spade, beneath his mask, remained unmoved.
He even internally rolled his eyes.
He didn’t need to guess; he knew exactly who it was.
In all of Hell, there was only one person who would come looking for trouble in such a tacky, vintage way: Sir Pentious, the self-proclaimed genius inventor.
This guy’s technological level was perpetually stuck in the medieval steam age.
The so-called “Egg Bois” he created were, in Spade’s eyes, fragile and pathetic.
He could crush them with a single finger; they weren’t even worthy of shining his shoes.
Sure enough.
A second later, a massive medieval-style steampunk airship emerged in the gray, murky sky outside the hotel.
Thick black smoke billowed from its metal hull, and steam pipes creaked and groaned.
It was Sir Pentious’s personal combat airship.
It was touted as a fusion of Hell’s dark arts and steam technology, but in reality, it was laughably useless—aside from a few firearms, it had no equipment worth mentioning.
Hell was a world of magic.
Who would ignore powerful spells to use such backward, clumsy technology?
Only those stiff scientists who fell from the mortal realm would be obsessed with forcibly merging magic and tech into such an unsightly mess.
Spade saw clearly that the serpentine figure standing on the airship was indeed Sir Pentious.
He saw right through the nature of this farce—it was nothing more than a mind-numbingly boring act of revenge.
From start to finish, Sir Pentious had only one target: Alastor the Radio Demon.
It had absolutely nothing to do with Spade.
Spade’s five-meter stature, eerie smiling mask, hollow eye sockets, and hair-raisingly precise hands were symbols feared by everyone in Hell.
He didn’t like joining in on the excitement to begin with, and since Sir Pentious wasn’t targeting him, stepping forward would just be looking for trouble.
Watching the show was the most comfortable choice.
Spade moved unobtrusively, slipping silently into the shadows of the dining area corner.
His massive frame was perfectly concealed by the darkness, leaving only his hollow eye sockets to quietly watch the commotion at the door.
Why play the clown?
Why make things unpleasant for himself?
The script for this show had been set long ago.
Even if the details varied slightly, the core act never changed.
He just needed to follow the flow.
Watching the play in silence was where the real fun was.
On the other side, Charlie, Vaggie, Angel, and the others couldn’t contain their confusion and worry.
They stood up one after another and walked toward the ruined entrance to see what was happening.
Husk followed behind, cursing under his breath.
He was fuming; no one is happy when a good drinking session is completely ruined.
Up on the airship, Sir Pentious had already begun his hackneyed, boring proclamation, shouting at the top of his lungs about his hatred for Alastor and his determination for revenge.
His tone was impassioned yet ridiculous; to Spade, it sounded like the monologue of a buffoon.
Spade’s mind was a whirlwind of internal snark: “Is that all you’ve got?
Shouting so loud when your strength is as flimsy as paper.
Revenge?
With what?
That piece-of-crap steam airship?” “A medieval relic with bottom-tier tech.
Plenty of courage, but not a lick of self-awareness.” Next, Sir Pentious began operating the airship, attempting to lower a device resembling a modern airplane’s propeller to launch an attack.
However, the speed at which the device charged was agonizingly slow.
One second, two seconds, three seconds…
The charging bar didn’t budge.
The device creaked and groaned, but there was no sign of it actually starting.
Spade almost laughed out loud.
His mask couldn’t hide the contempt in his heart: “Holy crap, is this charging speed for real?
A snail could crawl faster than that.
You call this a combat device?
It’s practically a comedy prop!” “Pentious, you must have some serious misunderstanding of the word ‘combat.’ At this rate, the enemy could take a nap and wake up before you’re ready to hit them.” While Sir Pentious was still struggling to wait for the device to charge, lost in his own revenge drama…
Alastor, standing at the hotel entrance with his signature elegant smile, lightly raised his hand and snapped his fingers.
*Snap.* A crisp sound rang out, as if a switch for the laws of Hell had been flipped.
Directly beneath the steam airship, the void suddenly twisted.
A pitch-black circular portal manifested instantly, and from within it erupted countless thick, viscous, black tentacles radiating a terrifying pressure—like a deep-sea beast awakening.
The tentacles instantly coiled around the airship’s metal hull.
Their strength was staggering; no matter how much steam the airship vented or how much it struggled, it couldn’t break free.
A moment later, the black tentacles yanked downward.
They forcibly dragged the supposedly powerful “Pentious Combat Airship” into the black void, along with the black smoke and metal fragments, until it vanished without a trace.
As for Sir Pentious himself, he had no time to react before he was tightly ensnared by the black tentacles Alastor controlled.
His massive serpentine body was utterly helpless against them.
The smile on Alastor’s face remained elegant, but a cold, ruthless glint flashed in his eyes.
The tentacles suddenly constricted.
*Squelch!!* Sir Pentious’s physical body was crushed into a pulp.
Flesh and blood splattered into the air of Hell; he didn’t even manage to let out a full scream.
But in Hell, as long as the soul remained, resurrection was only a matter of time.
Unless one was completely obliterated by holy, light-attributed power, disappearing forever?
Not a chance.
Spade, hiding in the shadows, watched this one-sided farce from start to finish.
His mind was reeling with more insults: “That’s it?
That’s it?
Pentious, where did you get the balls to pick a fight with Alastor?” “Your body got popped like an egg.
Where’s your steam tech?
Where are your Egg Bois?
They’re all just for show!” “The most ridiculous part is why this guy died—losing control of his emotions and hurting five women, then feeling he was a sinner who deserved Hell, so he actively wanted to come down here?
And Heaven actually granted his wish?” “A moron from the mortal world is still a moron even in Hell.
Even his revenge is pathetic and laughable.
It’s practically Hell’s Joke of the Year!” “He had a perfectly good spot in Heaven but insisted on coming to Hell to get bullied.
His brain must have been scalded by his own steam pipes!” The commotion outside the hotel subsided in an instant, leaving only the gaping hole in the door and a mess everywhere.
Alastor retracted his tentacles, returning to his elegant, harmless demeanor, as if crushing a demon was no more significant than squashing an ant.
Charlie and the others were stunned, clearly not having processed the sudden conclusion.
Only Spade, lurking in the dark, slowly straightened his massive five-meter frame.
His hollow eye sockets swept over the messy hotel, leaving only a cold evaluation in his heart: A boring farce has finally ended.
And he, the bystander, had watched the whole thing safely.
He hadn’t touched any trouble, hadn’t caused any fuss, and had perfectly followed the established script.
The plays in Hell were always so clichéd, and so…
uninteresting.