Abyssborn: Sovereign of Sin and Ruin

{Chapter: 191: A Glimpse of Restraint}

[Tonight, the prestigious annual auction hosted by Harlan Auction House will proceed as scheduled. Rare and precious treasures gathered from across the continent will be presented, including semi-artifacts, ancient tomes, rare potions, and other valuable curiosities. We cordially invite all honored guests and collectors to attend and participate.]

[—As is tradition, one-tenth of the total proceeds from this grand event will be donated to the valiant warriors stationed on the frontlines, battling demonic threats day and night. May the blessings of the gods shelter them—and all of us.]

Dex stood before the wooden notice board located at the center of the city's bustling square. He had originally planned to find a quiet alley and release some pent-up frustration by practicing a bit of brutal military boxing on a couple of unlucky passersby. But the poster caught his eye and changed his mood in an instant.

The sullen look on his face faded, replaced by a faint grin as the wheels in his mind started to turn.

"Auction, huh…" he muttered with an amused tone, eyes narrowing with growing interest. "According to the tried-and-true patterns of interdimensional adventures, this is prime protagonist material. Exotic treasures, rare encounters, secret deals, and no doubt—some stunning ladies dripping with danger and mystery. I'd be a fool not to check it out."

With that declaration, his evening plans changed entirely.

During the daylight hours before the auction, however, Dex had another agenda. He set out to explore the city in detail and gather valuable intelligence. He moved through crowded districts and shadowy backstreets alike, analyzing the behaviors of citizens, travelers, and various races. He carefully observed patterns—where the migratory population tended to cluster, what facilities they used, and how the general healthcare system functioned across nearby nations.

Despite his chaotic nature, Dex was still an expert in biochemistry—and though he wasn't planning to spark chaos behind enemy lines just yet, that didn't mean he was about to behave like a saint.

A little field work was necessary.

A demon of his caliber couldn't possibly go around empty-handed. He needed resources to sustain himself, and if he could earn some advantages from blending his unique skills into the local systems, all the better. With his twisted sense of professionalism and demonic "racial pride," collecting data for future havoc was almost second nature.

Naturally, walking around in broad daylight wasn't exactly inconspicuous. Dex claimed he was being low-key—but in truth, he might as well have had a spotlight hovering over him as he strolled casually through the streets.

His appearance stood out like a sore thumb.

Despite this being the heart of enemy territory, he walked with the entitled arrogance of someone touring his own estate.

Several city guards passed by him during their patrols, their gazes sweeping over his exotic outfit, otherworldly aura, and haughty expression. Yet none stopped him. Not one dared to approach, let alone question him.

That in itself was remarkable.

He walked with exaggerated confidence, toes pointed outward in a deliberately flamboyant strut. His outfit gleamed with expensive materials most commoners couldn't even dream of affording. His posture, the way he glanced at people with bored contempt—it all gave the same impression: that he couldn't be bothered to care about anyone or anything around him.

While he didn't provoke open hostility, it certainly wasn't due to humility. Rather, his entire manner screamed dangerous eccentric.

Even ordinary citizens gave him a wide berth, whispering quietly behind his back.

'No way he's some low-tier cultist or spy... not with that level of swagger. This guy's probably a powerful rogue, or maybe some unhinged noble. Either way, he's not someone you want to mess with.'

So, the guards pretended not to see him. They passed him by without incident, secretly thankful for an excuse not to get involved.

Dex, meanwhile, blinked in disbelief as another patrol ignored him entirely.

'…Huh?'

'What the hell? I've been walking around like a peacock in mating season. Why aren't they reacting?!'

Dex clenched his fists silently, annoyance bubbling beneath his skin.

Inwardly, he complained bitterly: 'I thought a dazzling specimen like me—handsome, exotic, refined, and mysterious—would be as impossible to ignore as a shooting star in a dark sky. I imagined people pointing, whispering, trembling in awe... but instead, they're brushing me off like I'm background furniture!'

'Damn it! Am I not radiating enough charm?!'

Frustrated, he let the demonic power subtly coiled in his limbs dissipate. He had been prepared—hoping, even—for some idiot to come question him, give him a reason to wreak havoc and skip the auction entirely. The disappointment was almost tragic.

But alas, no bait was taken.

It seemed his theatrical display of villainous elegance had gone unappreciated.

With a reluctant sigh, Dex kept walking, muttering under his breath, "Fine… I'll go to the damn auction. Maybe there'll be someone there who knows how to appreciate true beauty."

And with that, the Demon strolled on—leisurely, annoyed, and still very much the brightest star in his own imagined spotlight.

By the way, Dex also considered taking a detour back through the alleyways and grinding into dust the little brat who had irritated him earlier—along with that self-righteous fool who had dared to meddle in matters far above his pay grade.

As for his original infiltration plan?

Well, that could always be adjusted.

'Anyway, as long as I eliminate any witnesses, I can just relocate. It's not like there's any shortage of cities to wander into. The impact on the big picture? Minimal at best.'

In this world, the only forces that could pose a genuine, decisive threat to him were the true incarnations of the gods—those who had descended from their divine thrones into the mortal realm. And even then, that was assuming they showed up in person, which was increasingly impossible.

Anyone beneath that level—whether Saints, Archmages, or divine avatars—could, at most, inconvenience him. Perhaps trap him for a time or push him back with sealing techniques. But a true existential threat? No. Their lifeforms were simply too different. Their strength was leagues apart.

And because of that immense confidence in the vast disparity between himself and the locals, Dex was, in fact, just one flimsy excuse away from flipping the entire city upside down—hacking through shops, squares, and taverns with his twin machetes, turning a peaceful street into a bloodied memory.

However, much to his dismay, the city guards had chosen the worst possible reaction.

They ignored him.

No provocation, no interference, no curious questions.

Not a single one of them gave him the excuse he was hoping for. Not even a glance that lingered too long.

With no viable reason to act out, Dex—after a few seconds of pouting internally—begrudgingly made the mature decision.

He decided to be the bigger demon today.

Yes, he would let this one go. Just this once.

After all, a true noble demon, a connoisseur of carnage, had to know the art of restraint.

Still, he allowed just a whiff of his malice to seep into the air around him—nothing more than a breath, a whisper of murder in the wind.

---

It was at that exact moment—when Dex chose to stay his hand—that many unsuspecting lives were inadvertently spared.

The guards, entirely unaware that they'd just sidestepped a calamity, continued their rounds in peace. The brat who had annoyed Dex went about his day as if nothing had happened. And throughout the square, sensitive individuals—those attuned to the fluctuations of intent and energy—froze in place.

A chill ran through the air, sharp and sudden, like the first breath of winter crawling up a soldier's spine before battle.

Ordinary citizens didn't notice it. For most, it was no more than a passing draft. But for the trained, the awakened, and the magically inclined, it hit like a slap to the face.

Inside a restaurant near the square, a bald man dressed in traveling gear set his teacup down with a clink. He rubbed the goosebumps rising on his arms and muttered with unease to his companion seated across the table.

"Did you feel that? Just now… for a second, I thought I was about to be pulled into something nasty."

His voice was low, cautious.

The sensation had been faint, but unmistakable. A malevolent aura—thin but suffocating—had brushed against his senses like the passing shadow of a predator. Not quite an attack, not a spell, but a presence that made his instincts scream to run.

It reminded him of the time he stood too close to an adult dragon's lair in his youth. That same paralyzing pressure. That same feeling of being utterly prey.

His hand had almost gone for the emergency teleportation crystal hidden in his pouch. Almost.

His more composed companion kept a steady grip on his weapon, eyes scanning the surroundings. After a minute of quiet, he finally muttered, "…Seems it passed. No one's screaming. No bodies on the floor. No crater outside the window."

The bald man let out a breath, but his expression didn't ease. "Still, that kind of malice doesn't belong in a city. Not unless something big's brewing."

It was unnatural. Dangerous.

"Maybe someone just ticked off a powerhouse," his friend offered, shrugging with a grimace. "You know how these elites are. One wrong word and suddenly you're a smear on the cobblestones."