If not for the contract he had signed with the academy and the fact that he had spent twenty years here, Orsaga might never have developed such a calm and steady mindset.
The violent impulses had drastically diminished.
If he were still in the Abyss, the idea of fair trade with the weak would never have even crossed his mind—he would've simply started by ripping out their soul.
Trade was something only beings of equal standing were entitled to. The weak didn't have the right to negotiate.
After all, demons were creatures who simply took what they wanted.
Now that he could suppress his nature enough to interact peacefully with the weak, Orsaga felt that he was already giving them more than enough respect.
And if they still failed to understand the situation, he wouldn't bother with pretenses anymore. He'd teach them the law of the jungle in the simplest way possible.
Without sparing another glance at the person who respectfully saw him off with a swollen face, Orsaga wandered down the street, turning his attention to the new spell he had acquired.
To be honest, the spell wasn't particularly sophisticated by his standards. At best, it was just barely passable—crude and cluttered with unnecessary elements. But what he needed wasn't so-called esoteric knowledge, it was something more basic: a concept, a spark of creativity.
To him, this spell was like a signpost, something that could point him in the right direction.
With his current knowledge, all it took was a seed—he could grow it into a towering tree.
So even though it only offered a general idea, the spell was still useful.
Not long after, and with a bit of effort, he followed the original creator's line of thinking and successfully solved his own problem—achieving exactly the result he wanted.
On a whim, he looked at a nearby tree.
The moment his gaze settled, the tree began to tremble, and then—along with the birds and insects on it—it exploded in an instant. From the fragments, countless blossoms of Deathblossom Flowers rained down from the air.
He casually caught one of the floating petals between two fingers, brought it to his nose, and sniffed. Satisfied, he murmured, "Beautiful."
The so-called Animation Spell essentially infused dead matter with temporary life energy.
But that was all it did. Sure, it came alive—but with no intellect, no control, and only for a limited time. In truth, there were many abilities that could achieve similar effects.
For instance, high-level wizards in this world would eventually develop a layer of peculiar radiation around their bodies as their power grew.
This radiation constantly affected the surrounding environment in unpredictable ways. There were even reports of wardrobes growing legs and running off—much to the dismay of their owners.
But those individuals—what kind of power were they wielding?
To be considered high-level in Orsaga's eyes, a wizard needed to be at least Tier 4.
And that young wizard? What was he worth?
Nothing but a tiny ant—trash that could be burned to ash by a single spit.
What truly intrigued Orsaga wasn't the clumsy display of raw force, but the active, controllable nature of the spell.
In the past, the most he could do was spread his will into another being through plague, corrupting them from the inside out and turning them into Deathblossom Flowers using their own flesh and energy. As for lifeless things like rocks and trees, he had no effective method of conversion.
But now, with the conceptual foundation of this spell as a reference, his abilities had taken a leap forward.
As long as it had a physical form, Orsaga could now transform it into a Deathblossom Flower. The only difference was how much energy he needed, depending on the toughness of the material.
And that meant a great deal to him—it signified that his ability to corrupt the world had grown easier, and he no longer even needed blood sacrifices to do so.
After admiring the flower for a moment, he turned and extended it to someone beside him, smiling as he said, "A gift for you."
At some point, a cold, beautiful woman had appeared next to him, cloaked in black robes that emitted a slow, swirling gray mist. Only her delicate face was visible, the rest hidden in mystery.
She glanced at the flower in his hand but didn't take it. Instead, she pointed at the ground, where countless Deathblossom Flowers lay scattered, and said coolly, "No thanks. I think you'd better clean up this toxic mess. You're getting awfully close to a busy district. This isn't some secluded forbidden forest—it's going to cause a lot of trouble for others."
To her, those scattered flowers were as deadly as the most potent poison. Ordinary wizards wouldn't even be able to defend against them. Orsaga spreading them around so casually was the height of irresponsibility. It was practically making the security department's job harder.
No wonder she looked at him with such thinly veiled contempt.
Orsaga gave a helpless shrug and snapped his fingers. Instantly, the flowers erupted in blood-red flames, casting a dazzling light around them that made the scene look almost dreamlike.
And in the next second—they vanished completely, not even a speck of ash left behind. It was like a fleeting illusion.
Watching her momentarily stunned by the scene, Orsaga casually slipped the last flower into her hood and said, "It's a beautiful sight, isn't it? If destruction is inevitable, I think it's better to make it elegant. This flower carries no harmful effects—I hope you'll accept it. After all, gifting a beautiful flower to a beautiful woman just feels right."
Without waiting for a response, he began humming a strange folk tune and wandered off into the street.
That seemingly simple tune took on an uncanny elegance in his mouth—elevated beyond what any composer might have envisioned. A few casual changes in melody gave it a haunting beauty, as though it had been completely transformed.
In recent years, due to sheer boredom, he had used long-range avatars to study music and painting outside the academy. With his innate abilities boosting his learning, he earned the title of "Master Artist" in just a few months. His work was so valuable that even a casual painting could bankrupt a noble—and they still might not be able to afford it.
Besides indulging in good food, drink, and sleep, he occasionally ventured out to punish the strong and protect the weak—because even as a demon, one shouldn't forget their roots.
Still, he couldn't shake the growing feeling of boredom in his heart.
Maybe… this was the price of power. A dull life, with no pressing worries, no world-ending enemies lurking in the shadows—everything just flowed a little too smoothly.
Wasn't it supposed to be non-stop trouble after unlocking cheat powers?
So why did it feel like… no one even wanted to bother with him?
At times like these, Orsaga couldn't help but question whether he was really the protagonist.
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T/N:
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