{Chapter: 167: Bing a Terrorist And Producing Poison Gas Bombs}
Not out of horror. Not even out of moral concern. That was a foreign concept to demons.
No—his question came from genuine confusion.
Killing a few teammates for sport, for fun, was common among their kind. It was even culturally accepted.
But this… this wasn't some petty squabble. This was a calculated blood.
And that should have been forbidden by the Abyss Contract. It was meant to preserve balance, to prevent exactly this kind of chaotic infighting on a massive scale. It was supposed to protect their numbers from collapsing due to impulsive cruelty.
Unless… unless Dex was something else entirely.
"Could he be... a self-destructive type?" the demon whispered, blood bubbling from his throat.
He shuddered.
Among demons, there was a rare and terrifying breed—those who didn't care about consequences. Not even their own. These were the ones who inflicted pain with no thought of strategy. They would kill you for breathing wrong, and then slit their own throats just to feel something new.
These lunatics would destroy the battlefield, their enemies, and themselves in one stroke if it amused them.
Most demons avoided such individuals like the plague. Not out of fear. Out of sheer inconvenience. You never knew when they'd decide to turn on you just for blinking too loud.
Dex... seemed like one of those demons.
For the first time, the bat-eagle demon felt something strange crawl up his spine. Discomfort. Not just from pain, but from realization.
It was like walking through a peaceful town, only to be randomly stabbed in the gut by a lunatic shrieking nonsense.
"Grass..." he cursed weakly in the Demon Tongue.
Dex blinked.
For a moment, he looked genuinely confused—then a flicker of understanding crossed his face. He sighed inwardly, realizing what the poor creature must be thinking.
That this was senseless. That he was insane.
That he was one of those demons.
He raised an eyebrow, almost amused. For a moment, he actually considered explaining himself—maybe clarify that this wasn't about madness, but strategy. That he had a plan.
But then again, what was the point?
The dying don't need answers.
They just need peace.
"...Actually... forget it. I'm too lazy to talk any more..."
Dex stepped forward, casting a long shadow over the broken demon's twitching form. His voice was calm, almost gentle.
"Shhh… don't think too hard. You'll hurt yourself."
He immediately decided it was far too bothersome to explain himself, so he casually raised his hand and slapped the confused demon, knocking him out cold with a dull thud.
"Not even a girl," Dex muttered with a shrug, "Why waste my breath explaining?"
With that, he calmly surveyed the surrounding area. Every demon present had now been rendered unconscious—either sprawled in a heap or collapsed face-first into the dirt. Dex's expression grew coldly efficient. As for the blood and wounds well they would recover just in days.
His hair suddenly began to stretch and twist unnaturally, extending like tendrils with eerie precision. The strands slithered through the air and pierced into the bodies of each demon one by one, embedding themselves like living needles. From each hair, a slow, controlled injection of different virulent plagues was delivered into their bloodstream.
Dex worked like an artisan—no, a surgeon of disease. Each plague had been carefully tailored, not randomly selected. This wasn't some thoughtless slaughter—it was an experiment.
Because he wasn't just a demon.
He was a terrorist, born and molded in the darkest alleys of the Abyss.
And today, he would honor that tradition.
Dex had finally made up his mind: if brute force wouldn't tear through the defense line, he would use terror. Biological warfare was his weapon of choice. He grinned to himself as he moved among the fallen demons.
This time, his chosen method was a [suicide plague attack]—a concept eerily similar to the 'human bomb' strategy often favored by suicidal fanatics in his previous life.
Deep within the bodies of the unconscious demons, Dex buried hundreds of unique, meticulously engineered diseases. Each pathogen had been cultivated to remain dormant and unnoticed, feeding off the host's residual magic power. The diseases would remain asleep until triggered by death.
Once any of these demons died—particularly during the chaos of the upcoming demon tide—the plagues would activate like doomsday devices. They would erupt and spread instantly through air, fluids, and physical contact, infecting any living organism nearby. Worse, the incubation period was ten days, allowing the plague to travel deep into enemy territory long before symptoms ever appeared.
He's a terrorist after all.
When he finally withdrew his hair, Dex let out a deep, satisfied breath.
A surge of anticipation flickered in his cold heart.
Would it work? He wasn't sure. But uncertainty was part of the thrill. And failure, in this case, wouldn't cost him much at all.
He had already implanted strong mental suggestions into the minds of these demons—when they woke, they would eagerly march into the frontline battle during the next tide. None of them would even realize they were walking bioweapons.
Once they were inevitably slain by the native defenders, the viruses hidden inside would awaken, silently hitching a ride on their killers back to the heavily guarded defense line—spreading invisibly, irreversibly.
And those viruses weren't just any plagues—they were his creations.
Crafted with his unique Abyssal signature, each pathogen had a hidden characteristic: if a person became infected with more than one strain at once, they would begin to mutate rapidly inside the host. The viruses would cross-mingle, combine, evolve, and potentially give birth to entirely new diseases—some of which even Dex couldn't predict.
Theoretically, even if only a few strains made it inside the defense line, they could create a storm of biological chaos that would be nearly impossible to contain.
This wasn't a normal outbreak. It was evolution on steroids.
With just this one operation, Dex could potentially recreate a version of the dreaded "Birth Evil" phenomenon—an Abyssal plague so vile it had wiped out entire civilizations in low-tier worlds.
Whether it could have the same devastating effect in a high-level realm like the Mi Ling World was uncertain…
But.
It didn't cost him anything.
So why not try?
He chuckled darkly to himself.
As for the moral and contractual implications—selling out teammates on such a massive scale to secure his own objectives—he barely spared it a thought. This was the Abyss. Morality was a luxury, and the rules were flexible… sometimes fatally so.
Even if there were punishments written into the Abyss Contract for betraying allies, those clauses were often riddled with exceptions. In truth, as long as his actions could be seen as beneficial to the Abyss in any long-term or indirect way, then even a mass slaughter of allies could be overlooked.
Especially if the result weakened the enemy.
In the Abyss, it wasn't the method that mattered—it was the outcome.
One rule stood above all others: Results justify everything.
And Dex knew how to bend results to his favor.
He had already considered the possibility that the operation might fail—that instead of toppling the defense line, his attack might only result in the deaths of dozens of demons. But even then, he had a contingency plan.
If the tide turned against him, he could simply activate the plagues manually during the demon tide. These infected creatures could be unleashed like walking chemical bombs, detonating disease upon contact with the enemy, spreading infection and suffering on a wide scale. As long as native defenders were harmed, the Abyss Contract would still count it as a fulfilled obligation.
And the infected demons?
Collateral damage.
Unfortunate accidents.
Words mattered in the Abyss, and Dex had always been gifted in twisting them.
Born with a devil's tongue and a demon's body, he could make sin sound like salvation.
Teammates or enemies—it didn't matter.
Because to Dex…
Everyone was expendable.
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