Standing inside the cage, Harrey gazed at the distant, slowly approaching island.
He knew—that place would be his home for quite a long time to come.
Turning to glance at the other captured Yharnis soldiers beside him, Harrey was overcome with a sense of unspeakable shame.
Some were gravely wounded and on the verge of death; others were drugged and barely conscious. Many lay half-dead, eyes vacant, each one looking like a beaten stray dog with their spirit broken—as if their spines had literally been snapped.
Clenching his teeth, Harrey still couldn't accept how they had gone from proud warriors to this sorry state.
But he also understood—saying such things in front of the Mardain soldiers nearby would only invite mockery. So he buried the resentment deep within his heart.
He swore silently to himself: 'One day, I'll pay them back a hundredfold.'
Once the fleet reached a certain distance from the island, all ships came to a halt under the flag commands of the lead vessel.
Long wooden planks were extended from the midsections of the ships.
Then, the soldiers of the Mardain began throwing large float boards at each prisoner—just enough to keep them from drowning. Without the slightest mercy, they shoved the prisoners toward the planks at spearpoint, forcing them one by one to jump into the sea.
It was a calculated move to prevent the captives from regrouping and hijacking the ships. No chances for escape were allowed.
The distance and direction had been meticulously measured by veteran sailors—just right. Even those who couldn't swim could float ashore with the help of the boards and the tide, so the soldiers weren't worried about failing their mission.
As the highest-ranking commander of the enemy army, Harrey was chosen—thanks to some anonymous backdoor maneuver—as the first to jump, leading the rest.
Standing atop the plank on the lead vessel, under the gaze of countless eyes, Harrey felt an intense urge to curse. But good upbringing—and the surrounding weapons pointed at him—forced him to swallow the words.
Still, in his heart, he was already cursing the ancestors of whoever arranged this.
When under someone's roof, you bow your head.
He might not have heard the saying before, but in moments of humiliation, one tends to grasp its meaning instinctively.
Standing on the edge of the plank, Harrey looked down at the sea below. For a moment, he thought he saw a large dorsal fin slicing through the water.
After several days of soul-crushing treatment, Harrey, born of noble blood, decided to temporarily set aside his hatred. Surviving came first.
With a solemn expression, he turned to the Mardain soldiers pressing him to jump and asked, "You're sure there aren't any sharp-toothed sharks or sea monsters down there, right?"
The soldiers exchanged uncertain glances. Clearly, they had no idea.
Harrey frowned and added gravely, "Don't get me wrong, I'm not worried about myself. I'm concerned about the wounded. If there really are things down there, they'll never make it to shore. That'd mean mission failure for you."
One of the younger soldiers hesitated, thinking Harrey made a good point, and ran off toward the ship's cabin—likely to report the concern.
Harrey kept his expression calm, but his heart quietly rejoiced.
Soon, the soldier returned and shouted to the others, "The general said that during this season, this area doesn't have many sea monsters or carnivorous fish. Even if there are some, they won't eat too many people. Just throw the prisoners in. If they die, that's their problem."
And with that, the soldiers wasted no time. Without warning, they shoved Harrey—still visibly stunned—with a long pole, pushing him off the plank.
Because of the lingering effects of the tranquilizers, Harrey couldn't even try to dodge. His body moved slower than an arthritic old woman.
As the sea rushed up to meet him, he glared back at the soldiers above and mouthed silently, "You bastards… remember this…"
Before he could finish, seawater filled his mouth.
---
The Royal Capital.
Orsaga sat comfortably in his chair, one leg crossed over the other.
In front of him floated a pale blue ring of light. Inside the magical display was a live image of Harrey being carried by the tide to the shores of Mobis Island.
This was the spell [Far-Sight Lens], a reconnaissance spell that projected scenes from a distant location. The range depended on the caster's strength, making it a rather effective scouting tool.
"The first phase of the Death Plague experiment is complete. Now begins phase two. Since the plague can alter life at the cellular level, could it also modify biological structure and genetic makeup? I remember something from my last life… zombies. That could be fun…"
Although Orsaga had never seriously studied science—his knowledge of cells was minimal—magic had its own parallels.
Through the powers of the [Plague Origin], he could use the invisible plague as a medium to perceive things on a microscopic scale, granting him a unique perspective on the infected. This allowed him to observe their condition in uncanny detail—and even influence it.
What would be a rigorous, complex process to others appeared fluid and intuitive to him. It felt like he could just reach out and reshape things at will. Strange, yet fascinating.
He knew full well that his grasp on these powers was still superficial. The [PlagueOrigin] wasn't just about unleashing disease—it had far greater potential. Just like [Magicalaffinity – Corrosion] and [Elemental Affinity – Bloodflame], these powers were not given to him as finished products, but as branching paths.
It was up to him to train them, to determine how far he could take them.
Right now, he was trying to find his path. After all, even if many people walk the same road, there are countless ways to walk it. The best one is the one that suits you the most.
In his vision, the moment Harrey touched Mobis Island's soil, he became the primary carrier of the Death Plague.
That was Orsaga's "reward" for the first man ashore—the plague would radiate outward from him. Harrey was even granted partial immunity, turning him into a walking plague canister.
An unsealed one.
From Orsaga's observation, the seeds of the plague had already taken root in Harrey's body. Slowly but inevitably, they would grow. When fully developed, every breath he exhaled would spread the disease, every drop of blood would carry it. He himself would become the plague's cradle.
Since Orsaga arrived in this world, the number of lives he had taken—directly or indirectly—was beyond counting. The world's resistance to his presence grew stronger by the day. Even the air felt thick and sluggish around him, as though everything resisted his very existence.
After casually helping Jaemar defeat the Yharnis's army, this resistance increased again. Even though Jaemar made the decisions, the debt still landed on Orsaga—after all, he was the power behind it all.
He could feel it—the world's tolerance for him was nearing its limit. One step further, and strange things might start happening: divine retribution, meteor showers, or an army of troublemakers showing up at his doorstep…
For demons—unwelcome intruders—the world had little patience. Especially one as unruly as Orsaga.
If not for his talents [Crimson] and [stealth – Silence], he would've already had a crowd of "heroes" banging down his door, inspired by the world's will to remove him.
In every world, infiltrating demons always received the same treatment—mobbed the moment they appeared.
Just like the previous demons in this world—each one got beat down the moment they entered. Their power severely suppressed, they'd be hounded by wave after wave of so-called heroes.
Either they cut a bloody path to world conquest, or died tragically with no glory, or—if lucky—escaped back to the abyss. No time to build power, no time to grow.
Orsaga, on the other hand, had more options.
Unlike typical demons obsessed with devouring souls, he fed them to his evolution system to convert into energy.
He didn't care whether the soul was pure or wicked, delicious or bland—it all went into the same bucket. Only the conversion rate mattered.
If possible, he'd rather harvest souls in the Abyss—a place teeming with killers and warriors where survival of the fittest reigned supreme.
But that was a high-risk zone. Compared to invading other worlds, it was much harder to operate there. Without at least Demon Lord-level strength, a single misstep could mean instant death.
Plus, dimensional invasions were tied to the will of the Abyss itself. Only by destroying enough worlds could one qualify to enter the ranks of Abyssal prince.
Only by proving one's value to the Abyss would it grant more resources and power.
Every Abyssal prince met a minimum benchmark—World Destroyer.
They could shatter minds and souls with a glance, pluck stars with bare hands, dry oceans and flatten continents with ease. They were capable of taking on galactic empires, and even dragging whole planes filled with billions into the Abyss.
For a demon to evolve from juvenile to Demon prince, the resources and opportunities required were beyond imagination. The only proven path was endless slaughter across dimensions to earn the Abyss's favor. That was the only way to improve the odds from almost zero to a sliver of a chance.
To Orsaga, who possessed the evolution system, other paths were theoretically possible—but this one had been proven to work.
And unlike his abyssal brethren, Orsaga had many tools at his disposal.
On this path, he had an unmatched advantage—and perhaps, the potential to go further than anyone else.
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