Leaving behind the Cannibal Town, a place reeking of blood and the grotesque, Spade paced back toward his own territory with a leisurely stride.
The vast majority of this sprawling Hellish domain had been transformed by him into a massive toy munitions factory.
The cold drone of machinery and the rhythmic clank of metal parts echoed through the industrial sector day and night.
But he was not entirely cold and heartless.
Within this land covered in steel and gunpowder, Spade had intentionally set aside a small, stable area.
It was a sanctuary for those demons who truly followed him and worked in his service—a place they could call home.
The population here was a mixed bag.
Most were Sinners who had fallen to Hell, carrying the sins and obsessions of their past lives as they eked out a living.
Only a tiny minority were Hell-born demons, naturally imbued with the inherent violence and wildness of the Pit.
Spade’s management of this residential area was lax to the point of total indifference.
As long as these demons stayed in their place and didn’t cause trouble, he never interfered, letting them run their businesses and pass their days as they pleased.
However, should anyone dare to shatter that peace, there was only one outcome— The doll sentinels patrolling the borders of the territory were not merely for show.
Cold, precise, and devoid of emotion, they would suppress any troublemakers without hesitation—clean, efficient, and utterly ruthless.
Currently, Spade was sitting in an unremarkable teahouse within his territory.
This was his favorite haunt during his downtime.
It lacked the clamor of the factory and the malice of conflict; there was only the faint aroma of tea and the quiet presence of the surrounding demons.
He walked to his usual seat with practiced ease and signaled to the teahouse owner.
“The usual.
A cup of my favorite tea.” His voice filtered through his Prototype 1006 rubber clown mask, carrying a hint of laziness and the calm of one long accustomed to a high position.
Despite wearing a clown mask with a permanent, wide-grinning smile and no visible features, it didn’t hinder his ability to drink tea, speak, or even convey subtle shifts in expression.
Soon, a cup of steaming tea was brought to his table.
Spade picked up the cup and took a slow sip.
The warmth slid down his throat, dispelling some of the weariness settled deep in his bones.
The atmosphere in the teahouse was exceptionally stable.
Whether they were Sinners or Hell-born, everyone went about their business quietly.
Some spoke in low voices, while others drank their tea in solitude.
No one dared to shout, and certainly, no one dared to pick a fight.
After all, everyone knew exactly what happened to those who couldn’t stay in line.
They were either selected to be “retrofitted” into the ranks of the patrol dolls, losing their sense of self to become cold guardians, or they were dragged straight into the munitions factory to be refined into “Canned Demons”—consumables for other demons to trade and use.
In this territory, all manner of shops were already fully established.
Bars and casinos were everywhere, overflowing with the most primal desires and madness of Hell.
Soul contract exchanges, assassination brokers, dark hunt commissions, and abyssal cuisine restaurants were tucked away in the corners of alleys—shady yet booming with business.
There were also clothing stores, barbershops, and parts repair stalls to meet the basic needs of the residents.
But the most prosperous and central business was, of course, the arms trade led by Spade.
Guns and ammunition flowed out of the factory in a constant stream, spreading to every corner of Hell.
He had even established a radio station that broadcasted local news and gossip from across Hell day and night.
Spade’s life now was perhaps a bit too leisurely.
His days consisted of nothing more than drinking tea, spacing out, and occasionally wandering around.
There was almost nothing left that could pique his interest.
Sitting in his chair, his gaze drifted vacantly over the demons in the teahouse as he complained bitterly in his mind.
[Ugh…
when is this ever going to end?
This is way too boring.] [Every single day it’s just tea, tea, tea.
The dolls keep an eye on the factory so I don’t even have to worry about that.
The residents are so well-behaved that nobody even starts a fight.] [Whenever I try to pay attention to some new Sinner Overlord popping up in Hell, they’re all more disappointing than the last.
They’re either pathetically weak or just plain stupid.
I can’t find a single ounce of interest in them.] [Staying in this teahouse for a quiet cup of tea is the only way to kill time, but even then, I’m about to grow mold from boredom!] While Spade ranted internally, he picked up his cup again and let out a long, heavy sigh.
“Sigh, when will this end?
I’m so bored.” He voiced his inner complaints aloud, his tone thick with listless exhaustion.
After sighing for several minutes, with only half a cup of tea left, the air at the teahouse entrance rippled slightly.
A figure appeared there without warning or sound, as if he had been standing there all along.
Spade looked up, and the corners of his mouth twitched into a faint smile.
He knew the newcomer all too well.
It was Zestial.
An ancient demon through and through, his appearance was simple and sharp—dressed in a long, dark, vintage-style coat.
He stood tall with a steady countenance that carried the coldness of centuries.
Devoid of gaudy decorations, his aura was low-profile yet incredibly imposing; one look was enough to know he was not someone to be trifled with.
When Zestial had nothing better to do, he enjoyed dropping by Spade’s place to visit.
The two of them would drink tea and chat, exchanging stories of what they had seen over the past few centuries and sharing the intelligence they had gathered from across Hell.
They were a rare pair of old friends.
Seeing Spade’s depressed expression, Zestial walked straight to the seat opposite him.
He gestured for the owner to bring him his usual tea before speaking slowly.
“I could hear you sighing from a mile away.
What’s the matter?
Has the great master of the Toy Factory found life too dull again?” Spade glanced at him, put down his teacup, and replied grumpily.
“What else?
Look at my life.
Every day is just tea and staring into space.
The territory is stable, the factory is running smoothly, and there isn’t a single thing that requires me to lift a finger or use my brain.
If I don’t get bored, I’ll forget I’m even an Overlord.” Zestial gave a light chuckle and took a sip of the freshly served tea.
“You are blind to your own blessings.
Countless demons would kill for the stable, quiet life you have.
Constant slaughter and scheming—that is the true exhaustion.” “Exhaustion is better than being bored out of my mind,” Spade said, spreading his hands.
His voice beneath the mask was full of helplessness.
“I want to find some fun, but Hell has been far too quiet lately.
These new little ones coming up are more uninteresting than the last.
I can’t muster any interest at all.” “Your standards are too high,” Zestial shook his head.
“Most of those newly risen Sinner Overlords have barely found their footing; how could they possibly catch your eye?
However, a while back, I heard that some of the older Overlords near the border are clashing in the shadows.
It seems to be related to the arms trade.” At the mention of “arms,” Spade finally showed a spark of interest.
“Oh?
Arms?
My factory’s shipments have always been steady.
What kind of trouble could they possibly be making?
Don’t tell me they want to build their own factory and steal my business?” “Hardly,” Zestial said slowly.
“They are fighting over who gets priority for your next batch of supplies.
Word is they’ve clashed several times in private already, and quite a few subordinates have died.” Hearing this, Spade’s excitement immediately deflated.
“Tch, and here I thought it was something big.
It’s just a squabble over supply quotas.
My subordinates can handle those negotiations; there’s no need for me to step in personally.
Still boring.” “You…” Zestial laughed helplessly.
“You sit atop one of the greatest military industries in all of Hell, yet you couldn’t care less about power struggles.
Only you could live such a detached life.” “Is being detached a bad thing?” Spade took another sip of tea, his tone languid.
“Fighting and killing is so tiring.
Controlling everything and then drinking tea in peace—now that is enjoying life.
It’s just…
I’m enjoying it a bit too much.
The boredom is painful.” “If you are truly that bored, why not take a stroll through my territory?” Zestial suggested.
“I’ve taken in a few interesting Sinners recently.
They were quite the characters when they were alive.
Perhaps they can provide you with some entertainment.” Spade shook his head without even thinking.
“Forget it.
I can guess what goes on in your territory with my eyes closed.
It’s nothing but interrogations, torture, and squeezing out information.
The same old routine.
No creativity.” Zestial was momentarily left speechless by the rebuttal.
“Then what do you want?
You can’t just sit in this teahouse sighing forever.” “I don’t know.” Spade leaned back against his chair, staring at the teahouse ceiling with a weary tone.
“I’m just hoping for the day someone interesting shows up.
Either someone to mess up my territory or someone with enough skill to actually talk to me.
Just something so I don’t have to stare at this cup of tea every day.” “You’re practically asking for trouble,” Zestial raised an eyebrow.
“Careful that someone doesn’t actually stumble in and ruin this peaceful life of yours.
You’ll be complaining about the hassle then.” “A hassle is better than being bored,” Spade said righteously.
“This kind of life has no end in sight.
Nothing but tea and sighs.
If this keeps up, I’m going to become a permanent fixture of this teahouse.” The two of them continued to chat back and forth.
Spade didn’t stop complaining about his dull daily life, while Zestial occasionally chimed in or shared obscure pieces of intelligence he had gathered.
The tea steam curled upward as their conversation flowed softly.
Outside the window were the stable streets of the territory, and in the distance, the faint hum of the factory’s operations.
Beside him sat an old friend of a hundred years.
Even if Spade shouted about being bored, deep in his eyes, there was a hidden sense of contentment in this tranquility.
After all, in the chaotic mess of Hell, having a quiet teahouse, an old friend to vent to, and a period of time free from scheming was a life that countless demons could only dream of.