Another ten thousand years passed.
It was a span of time so long that even the magma in the deepest parts of Hell seemed to have cooled and reheated several times over.
Sins surged, souls wailed, and power shifted.
Old demons fell, and new hegemons rose.
Yet, some existences were like withered trees rooted in the very center of the darkness—no matter how the eras washed over them, they remained motionless.
This time, Carmilla had come to pick up the shipment in person.
Last time, it had been her two daughters, Odette and Clara, who had handled it.
That time, that batch of “special meat”—of unknown origin and worth a king’s ransom on Hell’s black market—had left them in a long, pensive silence after they returned.
Carmilla hadn’t asked many questions then; she had simply let her daughters bring the goods back.
But this time, she came to his door personally.
Clearly, there were things her daughters couldn’t handle, things they weren’t meant to know.
Spade came out to meet her himself.
The clown demon, who had lived through untold ages in Hell, always wore that inscrutable, faint smirk.
His scarlet mouth stretched to his ears, and his makeup was mottled, yet his eyes were as cold as ten-thousand-year-old ice.
In all of Hell, few demons dared to look him directly in the eye.
This time, Spade personally handed the contract to Carmilla.
“Long time no see, Ms.
Carmilla.” Spade’s voice was airy, carrying a hint of playfulness but hiding an unquestionable authority.
“It’s rare to see you making the trip yourself.” Carmilla stood there, clad in black, luxurious attire, surrounded by the faint, oppressive aura of an old-money High Demon.
Her expression remained neutral as she glanced at the contract, written in dark gold ink and stained with the faint scent of souls.
“Last time, the two children were naive,” Carmilla said, her voice low, calm, and devoid of emotion.
“There are things they shouldn’t touch, and things they shouldn’t ask.” Spade chuckled, tapping the contract lightly with his finger.
“I understand.” His tone was casual, yet every word was clear.
“Everyone knows the rules of Hell.
Don’t ask what shouldn’t be asked.
What shouldn’t be known remains unknown forever.” Carmilla didn’t waste another breath.
She took the quill and signed her name at the bottom of the contract.
Her handwriting was sharp, carrying the air of someone accustomed to decisive slaughter.
Once signed, the low-ranking demons nearby immediately went into action.
They moved crates sealed with special materials—emitting a strange aura—onto the Hell-chariots that had been waiting nearby.
The wheels ground against the earth, leaving faint trails of black fire.
Throughout the process, Carmilla didn’t ask a single question.
She didn’t ask where the goods came from.
She didn’t ask what that “meat” actually was.
She didn’t ask how many souls, how much sin, or how many erased existences were involved behind the scenes.
She remained silent from beginning to end.
Spade watched her, his mind as clear as a mirror.
In official records, all of Carmilla’s actions—all her ruthlessness and her lack of scruples—boiled down to one single purpose: protecting her family.
Protecting her daughters.
Protecting everything she cared about.
For her family, she would make deals with devils, walk through seas of blood, and ignore all morality and limits.
Spade knew this better than anyone.
Therefore, he wouldn’t bring it up either.
Some truths, once spoken, could never be taken back.
Some secrets, once revealed, left nothing but suspicion and blades between old friends.
As Carmilla turned to leave, Spade spoke up slowly.
“You don’t need to overthink it.” He leaned against the doorframe, his clown makeup looking particularly eerie in the dim light.
“This batch is clean.
At least, within the scope of your use, it’s clean enough.” Carmilla’s footsteps paused, but she didn’t look back.
“I trust you.” She said only three words.
Simple, yet heavy as a thousand pounds.
In Hell, the phrase “I trust you” was rarer than any oath or contract.
Spade smiled and didn’t explain further.
Whether she believed him or not was irrelevant.
He had given her an excuse, a way out, and her dignity.
As for the truth, it was safest to let it rot in his gut.
Carmilla lingered no longer, boarding her chariot and disappearing beneath the murky, grey-red sky of Hell.
Another ten thousand years.
To Spade, this ten-thousand-year cycle was calm and uneventful.
As for how other demons fared—sinners wailed, gangs fought, territories were contested, and blood stained the earth red as a new generation of Overlords expanded their hegemony, venting their sins and greed.
In Spade’s eyes, it was all just a tedious farce.
Nothing worth watching, nothing worth caring about.
Anyone brave enough to provoke him?
Not one.
In all of Hell, any demon with a modicum of brains and status knew one thing: this clown demon had seen countless hegemons rise and fall from the era of the Old Overlords through the chaotic years of the New Overlords.
And he, along with his two long-lived old friends, remained standing, firmly occupying their own place that no one could shake.
Zestial was the same, naturally.
His temperament, methods, and status were almost identical to Spade’s.
The two old monsters understood each other perfectly—they didn’t interfere with one another, but they looked out for each other.
Carmilla went without saying.
She was the top arms giant in Hell.
Weapons, ammunition, forbidden gear, war machines…
almost the entire arms trade in Hell was firmly monopolized by her and another demon named Ned.
To call it a monopoly was an understatement.
It was true dominance.
Anyone who dared to disrespect her, move against her in the shadows, or cut off her path—Carmilla wouldn’t even have to lift a finger.
By the next day, the offender’s territory, strongholds, and even their entire district would be reduced to ash by endless munitions.
Not even a scrap would remain.
As for the Hell nobility?
They were just “alright.” Scheming, fighting for power, looking glamorous on the surface while being filthy underneath.
Allying today, betraying tomorrow, and sitting together drinking and laughing the day after.
Spade couldn’t even be bothered to look at them.
Times were evolving, and Hell was constantly updating.
Between ancient castles and ruins, new-style buildings gradually appeared.
Bars, taverns, pleasure houses, underground casinos, and even grey zones dedicated to indulging demonic desires sprouted like mushrooms after rain.
Noisy, decadent, frantic, depraved.
Spade ignored it all.
Too boring.
Too shallow.
Too meaningless.
He had seen the most primitive darkness and the most extreme madness; these mortal-like pastimes didn’t interest him in the slightest.
As for mana tides, natural disasters, or Hell-level upheavals—reaching Spade?
Pure fantasy.
Every demon, every soul, and every being with even a bit of foresight in the area knew exactly what level of power the clown demon possessed.
To provoke him was to gamble with your life, with no guarantee of winning anything.
Spade had long since grown accustomed to the gazes of awe, fear, and curiosity directed at him from a distance.
He was used to being looked up to and used to being feared.
One day, he was walking aimlessly through the streets at the edge of his territory.
The sky of Hell was forever a weave of dark red and greyish black.
The air was thick with the scent of sulfur, gunpowder, and a faint metallic tang of blood.
The ground beneath his feet was hard and cold.
Occasionally, low-level demons hurried past; upon seeing Spade, they would immediately lower their heads and scurry along the wall, not even daring to breathe loudly.
Spade paid them no mind.
Just as he rounded a corner, his gaze suddenly froze.
Not far ahead stood a sign with a certain sense of age to it.
Its style was reminiscent of the 19th or early 20th century.
It was quaint and old-fashioned, carrying a sense of disharmony that didn’t belong to this era of Hell.
Spade raised an eyebrow slightly.
He stopped and took a closer look at the sign.
The writing was somewhat blurry, but he could vaguely make out the name of a town.
“A town?” he murmured to himself, his tone laced with confusion.
“Since when does Hell have something like this?” In his memory, this area didn’t used to be like this.
It used to be filled with cannibals and savage creatures—chaotic and bloody—something that couldn’t be associated with the word “town” at all.
Without thinking much of it, he walked toward it.
The closer he got, the clearer the overall picture became.
To call it a town was accurate; it was a reasonably sized settlement.
Houses were scattered about, roads were beginning to take shape, low-level demons were busy working, there were simple shops, and buildings were under construction.
The population was decent, and while order wasn’t perfect, it had a preliminary structure.
It was no longer the purely savage, chaotic land of slaughter and devouring it had been in the past.
Spade stood outside the town and gave it a casual scan.
His eyes—seemingly playful but capable of piercing through anything—easily saw through the layers of buildings to the center of the town.
The new, tedious Overlord—Ms.
Rosie the Cannibal—was busy directing her subordinates in decorating a shop.
She was working with great enthusiasm, completely unaware that a gaze from afar had already seen right through her.
Spade only looked for a few moments before turning to leave.
He didn’t want any involvement with this Cannibal lady—not in the slightest.
The reason was simple: she was a cannibal.
If you knew, you knew.
The nature of a cannibal was devouring, plundering, flesh, and desire.
Spade himself was an existence woven from metal and flesh, with a bizarre body and unique power.
He and cannibals were simply not of the same ilk.
It wasn’t that he was afraid.
It was just that he couldn’t be bothered to deal with them.
It was troublesome, uninteresting, and easy to get dirty in the process.
So, he merely watched from a distance, withdrew his gaze, and walked away with steady steps, leaving no sound and no trace of his presence.
*** **Inside Cannibal Town** Rosie stood with her hands on her hips, directing a group of rough-looking, hideous cannibal subordinates who were busy renovating her new shop.
“Over here!
The planks aren’t nailed down properly!” “There!
Paint it again!
Don’t be sloppy!” “Everyone, get a move on!
The sooner we finish, the sooner we can open for business!” Her voice was loud, carrying the typical roughness and directness of a cannibal.
Suddenly, she paused.
She turned her head in confusion toward the entrance of the town.
For a split second just now, she had clearly felt it—a gaze that was incredibly powerful, profound, and heavy with the weight of endless ages had been fixed upon her.
The gaze wasn’t aggressive or murderous, yet it made her feel a hint of pressure from the depths of her soul.
Rosie frowned and immediately looked around.
But the area was empty.
Only a few low-level demons were walking slowly past, with no aura of any high-level existence.
“Strange…” she muttered to herself, scratching her head.
“Did I imagine it?” Having lived in Hell for so long, her vigilance was engraved in her bones.
But that gaze had come and gone in a flash, vanishing almost instantly.
Rosie watched for a few more seconds but still found nothing.
“Forget it.” She waved her hand and stopped thinking about it, turning back to shout at her subordinates, “Don’t just stand there!
Get back to work!” Maybe she really was too tired lately and her senses were playing tricks on her.
Or so she thought.
She had no idea that the gaze that had just brushed over her came from an old-school clown demon of Hell—one whom even her father’s generation, or even more ancient beings, would fear.
And that being had merely been passing by, taken a look, and turned away.
He didn’t even have the interest to make her acquaintance.