The air inside the temple was thick and heavy.
It took Asmodeus a moment to fully grasp what Salavira meant by his words. His eyes gradually widened, and he clenched his molars so hard they almost shattered, but in the end, he laughed out of anger:
“Salavira… have I not fed you enough?” Suddenly, Asmodeus grabbed the cheeks of the person beneath him. “How can you still be thinking about those humans at a time like this?! Are they really that good?!”
“I… ugh! It hurts…”
Salavira tried hard to pry open Asmodeus’s hand that was squeezing his face, but no matter how much he struggled, he couldn’t budge it an inch. Instead, the grip only tightened, causing his bones to ache, making it impossible for him to speak clearly.
He couldn’t understand how his words had been twisted into this meaning, but right now, the demon seemed completely uninterested in hearing his explanation. The fury surged towards his lower abdomen, and Salavira felt a terrifying sensation at the point of connection. He struggled, but it only made that place more excited.
“It hurts?” Asmodeus sneered, mocking him. “Now it hurts, but weren’t you just begging for my…?”
“No…”
Salavira slapped the shoulders pressing down on him, but the next second, his unspoken defense was completely silenced by a rough kiss…
…
Time flowed, and by the time the temple quieted down again, it was unclear how much time had passed.
Salavira had the illusion that he had truly died once, but even so, his soul was still firmly imprisoned by the demon, trapped in a cage of desire and pain, unable to escape forever.
The demon lingered on him like a greedy dragon, or perhaps a loyal dog, sniffing and licking every inch of Salavira’s body, as if declaring ownership.
They lingered in this seemingly gentle embrace for a long time before Asmodeus finally propped himself up, looking down at the person beneath him with eyes clouded by… desire.
“Asmodeus…”
The dazed beauty, under his gaze, instinctively called out his name.
Even after being treated like that, his voice was still soft, with a hint of hoarseness, sounding incredibly gentle, as if the earlier outburst was just a way for lovers to express intimacy.
Asmodeus felt a bit dazed, and for a moment, he truly believed that the grudges between them no longer existed, or had become insignificant.
He was drawn in, lowering his head to plant a gentle kiss on Salavira’s rosy lips.
Then he closed his eyes, exhaling deeply, laughing sarcastically in his heart—
So much time had passed, yet he was still as useless as before. As long as Salavira showed a bit of softness beneath his cold exterior, he would inevitably fall for it.
…Just like a thousand years ago.
Asmodeus still clearly remembered their first argument, which happened on the 238th night of their journey. As for the reason for the argument…
It was the same as now, those damn humans!
Initially, Asmodeus didn’t hate humans that much. These mediocre beings were, after all, just little creations molded by the God of Light in her own image, no different from the creatures born from his shadow in hell.
So for a long time, to the demon, “humans” were just one of the many unremarkable beings in the mortal world.
Until that night—
The moonlight was as beautiful as ever, and he and Salavira sat on a small cliff, watching the golden waves of wheat swaying in the wind below, and the small village beyond the fields, with its scattered lights.
Such a scene should have been as peaceful and beautiful as every other moonlit night, but Salavira’s words shattered it all.
Asmodeus still clearly remembered Salavira’s expression when he said those words, gentle, with a hint of confusion, but the words he spoke were like knives stabbing into his heart.
He said, “Asmodeus, I have an answer to the question you asked me before.”
“I think what you said might not be right.”
“Monsters and humans might not be exactly the same.”
“At least they shouldn’t be sacrifices in the war of the gods.”
“………”
Every word struck Asmodeus’s heart, leaving him stunned and pained, so much so that for a long time after Salavira finished speaking, Asmodeus just stared at the person beside him, mouth half-open, unable to utter a word.
After a long while, Asmodeus finally spoke:
“Not the same? But aren’t they, like monsters, just creations molded into existence? Or is it because monsters are uglier, so you don’t like them?”
Asmodeus grabbed Salavira’s sleeve, as if trying to hold him back: “If that’s the case, when it’s all over, I’ll mold some for you, okay? I can make them prettier than Iliga’s…”
But Salavira didn’t answer him directly, just shook his head: “Asmodeus, I want to think about it myself.”
With that, he disappeared from the cliff.
Asmodeus sat on the cliff for three days and nights, but Salavira never returned.
In a fit of pique, he returned to hell.
Back then, hell hadn’t yet built that extravagant palace, and under the blood moon, the gray-black land was cold and desolate.
Asmodeus used to not care about these things, but after returning that time, he suddenly felt like something had frozen his heart, making it cold and a bit painful.
That was the first time Asmodeus experienced this strange emotion, and it wasn’t until much later that he learned humans called this emotion “loneliness.”
On the first day back in hell, Asmodeus was immersed in anger.
By the third day, he couldn’t help but make excuses for Salavira, even starting to reflect on whether he had really done something wrong.
On the fifteenth day, Salavira returned, but Asmodeus, still sulking, refused to acknowledge him.
So that night on the cliff, the roles were reversed, with Salavira now the one holding onto his sleeve. But unlike before, Asmodeus didn’t disappear without a word. Instead, when Salavira softened his voice and said something, he couldn’t help but forgive him.
He remembered, back then, Salavira had only said one sentence:
“Asmodeus, are you ignoring me?”
…
The memories gradually faded, and Asmodeus stared unblinkingly at the person beneath him, who had fallen asleep from exhaustion. He lowered his head and bit down hard on those lips.
Actually, there was more to that memory.
After Salavira returned, he never mentioned it again, but he couldn’t let it go in his heart, vaguely fearing that Salavira would leave him again.
To keep him, or perhaps for some other reason, he gathered the rarest stones and gold in the world and personally forged a pair of bracelets for Salavira.
In terms of aesthetics, Asmodeus was quite skilled. The bracelets he forged were exquisite and beautiful, making Salavira look even more stunning when worn.
Salavira wore those bracelets ever since.
Even after they turned against each other and fought with swords, it was the same.
Asmodeus couldn’t understand why, with Salavira’s strength, he should have long seen through the tracking spell hidden in the bracelets, yet why did he continue to wear them knowing this?
He once thought it was because Salavira still cherished their bond, naively fantasizing that one day Salavira would return to his side and ask him again:
“Asmodeus, are you ignoring me?”
But in the end, what he got was a sword piercing through his heart…
Salavira ultimately chose to stand on the side of humans, even though he had long seen clearly the filth and baseness of such creatures.
Just like now.
How ridiculous.
Asmodeus sneered coldly in his heart, looking at the sleeping Salavira beneath him, gradually lowering his head, his lips pressing against that slender neck, feeling the warm blood pulsing and flowing beneath the skin.
In the past, he also liked to toy with Salavira like this after he fell asleep, to satisfy his dark desire for control.
But this time, more than ever, he wanted to open his mouth, let his sharp teeth pierce the other’s throat, and turn this disobedient guy beneath him into a corpse that belonged solely to him.
As for the revenge he had meticulously planned, he didn’t care anymore. He would just take his Salavira back to hell, where those lowly humans could never touch him.
However, his sharp teeth only grazed the soft skin for a long time, barely breaking the skin. Asmodeus tasted the bit of sweet blood, and in the end, he mercifully decided to spare the poor beauty in his sleep for now.
Then he picked up one of Salavira’s wrists.
There were no bracelets on that wrist anymore, pale and thin, looking as fragile as porcelain, much more delicate than Asmodeus remembered.
His gaze darkened, unconsciously caressing the smooth wrist, but suddenly he paused—
He felt a small, subtle bump, and looking down… it was a scar.
Asmodeus stared fixedly at that scar for a long, long time, his grip on the wrist tightening, almost breaking the fragile wrist bone.
The sleeping person quickly furrowed his brows.
However, that immense force vanished in the next moment, along with its owner, leaving only the terrifying finger marks.
…
It was midnight—
In the Holy City District, where the noble lords and ladies resided, the lights were still bright. Songs and laughter echoed through the land, and balls and indulgence seemed endless, just as the common folk said, this was paradise on earth.
In Count Romier’s castle, round after round of balls were held without interruption, long becoming a place for nobles to indulge their desires and exchange various pieces of information.
Especially at night, nearly a third of the prominent figures in the Holy City District would gather here.
But tonight, no one in the castle noticed a stranger slipping in and quietly sitting in a corner.
Asmodeus’s gaze swept through the crowd, carefully discerning who carried Salavira’s scent.
He searched for a long time but couldn’t identify anyone, not because his senses weren’t sharp enough, but because almost everyone present had been to the temple.
Even the most inconspicuous servants.
Asmodeus sneered sarcastically, his eyes gradually filling with murderous intent.
Of course, if they could resist the desire to go to the temple, how could they possibly come to such a place of indulgence in the dead of night?
In the castle, the music reached a crescendo, and Asmodeus stood up from his seat, slowly walking towards the middle-aged man speaking in the center of the dance floor. With a wave of his hand, a black long sword appeared in his grasp.
He approached like a wolf locking onto its prey, while the foolish prey remained oblivious.
Until—
The sword flashed, and the middle-aged man’s hands were severed!
Scarlet blood gushed out, and the man immediately screamed, the surrounding people quickly descending into chaos. The screams of men and women, the clatter of soldiers rushing to protect, soon drowned out the melodious music of the ball, turning paradise on earth into a scene of carnage.
And the demon strolled leisurely among them, unhurried, raising his sword to decapitate the middle-aged man, then turning his gaze to the next prey…
Thus began a brutal massacre in the Holy City District.