[Dungeon Protocol: 70% in progress]
I nod at the system's update in my mind, handing my coat to the doorman as I stride into the restaurant, right on time. I've changed into the fresh clothes I packed, the crisp fabric carrying a subtle, clean scent that seems to cut through the room's aroma of herbs and polished wood. I feel a few eyes on me, the weight of recognition from other diners. I ignore them.
I let out a short sigh as I finally reach my table in the private section, picking up the leather-bound menu on instinct. My eyes scan the options, but my mind is elsewhere. I make my order to the waiter, my voice level. I ask for a full serving of pressed duck terrine to start, followed by the beef Wellington, and a dark chocolate pudding to finish. I order for two, knowing with cold certainty that I'll have company soon enough. Breaking rules always has consequences, and I'm sure those consequences will be walking through those doors any minute now.
I'm just finishing the last bite of the rich, smooth terrine when I see him. Samael. He pushes through the main dining area with a contained fury, his expression a thundercloud. He scoffs audibly as he reaches my table, glaring down at me before dropping into the chair opposite.
"What is wrong with you?" he hisses, leaning forward, his voice low but razor-sharp.
I try to keep a straight face, but I can't stop the slight, knowing smile that curls at the corner of my mouth as I take my first sip of wine. I chew the last of the terrine slowly, swallow, and set my fork down with a soft clink before meeting his burning gaze.
"That's quite the odd question to lead with," I say, my tone deliberately light.
"You know exactly what I mean. I've seen the tabloids. The 'tragic suicide' of Darcy Grey. The university board is already in emergency session. The city government is drafting a formal apology and planning a substantial compensation package for you."
"Congratulations to me, then," I shrug, pouring another glass of the deep red wine. I've realized how easily this task has settled into a rhythm, almost like a new hobby. I never really liked my days as a bartender. Maybe it's better when you're the one being served.
"A dungeon, Aaron? Seriously?" He leans in further, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "We tracked the energy signature straight to Delilah's Inn. This isn't what we agreed on. This isn't your role."
"My role," I say, cutting into the beef Wellington the waiter has just set before me. The pastry crust flakes perfectly. "I'm meant to be a stripper, essentially. Sleep with emotionally vulnerable women and collect their souls while they're distracted? Is that the executive summary?"
"It's not that crude. You're an incubus, Aaron. Seduction is your primary function. Corruption through desire."
"Doesn't that title give me some degree of agency?" I ask, taking a bite. The meat is perfectly medium-rare. "I can and should seduce whomever I want, in whatever way works. The 'seduction' part is the only thing that feels general in the job description. The method seems… flexible."
"Then why did you feel the need to create a dungeon?" he snaps, his patience visibly fraying. "There's already a repository for corrupted souls. The Corrupter stores them in mythic jars in his personal library before they're processed and sent back to the general hellscape for recycling."
I eat another slice, letting the complex flavors of mushroom duxelles and tender beef sit on my tongue before I answer. I want him to wait. "The Corrupter is building a legion for the apocalypse, correct? Why would he leave his most promising assets dormant in jars? That's poor resource management."
He fumbles for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he analyzes the loophole I've pointed out. It's no wonder, I think, that The Creator's forces have beaten them so consistently. Their bureaucracy is stifling. "He isn't leaving them dormant," Samael finally says, but his voice lacks its earlier conviction. "He's… curating them. Preparing them in his own way."
"My intention for the dungeon is to help the corrupted souls," I say, pushing my plate aside slightly. "I'm still an initiate, which I'm well aware of. But think about it. If souls are actively collected and housed in a specialized dungeon, we maintain full, immediate access to them. We could train them, condition them, and prepare them for battle on a schedule. We could build an army, not just a storage unit." I take another sip of wine. "Jars are for preserves, Samael. Not for soldiers."
"I get your point," Samael says, but his voice is tight, unconvinced. "But if I allow your methods... Aaron, your methods are deeply questionable. If every Incubus and Succubus in the Legion finds out their systems can be manipulated, that they can create loopholes like this, they'd start building their own dungeons. They'd try to outwit their primary purpose, to game the system for personal power or rebellion. You're forgetting the core fact: what the Corrupter did for you. He saved you from eternal condemnation."
"Those are expensive words, Samael," I reply, setting my spoon down. "Too expensive to be thrown around so casually, especially coming from a candidate of Hell. Everyone already knows the age-old story. How the Devil double-crossed The Creator and became a fallen angel. Now, the Corrupter is double-crossing him, skimming souls right from under the Reaper's nose. This is all just a newer, shinier version of the same old betrayal. Don't dress it up as salvation."
His eyes widen a fraction, a flash of genuine surprise he can't quite mask. "How did you...?"
"I know the Reaper's access to my soul was denied. The transfer was blocked. There's a very real chance I shouldn't be here at all. But I also know exactly what awaits me in the other place." I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking softly, and finally start on the dark chocolate pudding. It's rich, almost bitter. "Endless preachings. Hollow lessons about forgiveness. Pressure to forget, to act like the knife in my back never happened. To smile and turn the other cheek until there's no cheek left to turn. I don't want that. I refuse that."
I let the silence hang between us for a moment, the clink of cutlery and murmur of other diners a distant backdrop.
"Here's what you do," I say, my voice dropping into something low and decisive. "You tell the Corrupter he has my operational loyalty. But loyalty works both ways. Delilah's Inn will be reopened. We'll use it as a legitimate cover for the dungeon operations. A place to lure in more of the cheating, the corrupt, the already-damned. We won't just collect their souls; we'll assess them, train them, and forge them into a usable battalion for the apocalypse he's planning."
I point my spoon at him. "Your first task is to fix the systems of the other Incubi and Succubi. Tighten the protocols, patch the glitch I found before anyone else exploits it. This stays contained. Then, I need your strongest, most disciplined candidates—ones who can follow a new order—to help me run the Inn. We do this right, we build him a real army. Not a library of dusty jars."
I take the last bite of pudding, the sweetness a stark contrast to the cold calculation in my words. "Jars are for relics. What we're building at the Inn will be for war."