{Chapter: 174: Consciousness Damage}
"I was too careless… Far too careless. I underestimated the strength of the native defenders of this world. How amusing."
While his expression remained cold, his thoughts were already racing. He began mentally replaying the final moments of the encounter again and again, searching for the moment it all went wrong. A mistake like this couldn't be allowed to repeat itself.
Even if he wasn't one of those armor-clad Saints who climbed constellations, he wasn't the type to fall twice from the same blow.
Yet even as his brain healed and his thoughts sharpened once more, no solution presented itself.
After a moment of dark contemplation, he came to a reluctant conclusion:
"No counter. There's no cracking that kind of suicidal attack… Only enduring it."
The enemy hadn't used any technique, spell, or subtle trick. There was no clever angle or overlooked flaw. They had simply burned a part of their souls then hurled their consciousness at him like a burning meteor—an absolute, all-in, self-destructive offensive. And he had been unprepared.
The knowledge and combat instincts Dex had absorbed from countless battles and tortured souls had proved completely useless.
This wasn't like being bested in a traditional duel.
It was like a world champion martial artist being swarmed by fanatics with bombs strapped to their chests.
He'd been overwhelmed by raw, sacrificial madness.
Even now, he still felt light-headed. His thoughts swam like fish in murky water, distorted and disjointed. It was the aftershock of having his soul directly assaulted. Unlike physical wounds, which the [Evil Undying Body] could mend in seconds, spiritual injuries left lingering distortions. Phantom pain. A dissonance in his very being.
It would take a little more time to fully recuperate.
Gazing into the distance, he could still sense the vile plague he had unleashed. It continued to spread unchecked, seeping through the cracks in the enemy's defenses like black ink through parchment.
His blood-colored eyes glimmered briefly with cruel amusement, but he suppressed the urge to strike again.
"Not yet. The true effects of the plague need time to ferment. No need to act hastily… For now, let's play dead."
With a rustle of darkness, his form vanished—melting into the shadows as he retreated with haste.
After all, following the failed interception just moments earlier, he had no doubt that his enemies had gleaned fragments of his identity and abilities.
Incomplete, perhaps. Distorted by his countermeasures. But even fragmented information was dangerous in the hands of the coordinated. He could already sense the convergence—teams forming, traps being laid.
Staying here would be foolish.
And Dex was many things. But never a fool.
---
Meanwhile, deep within the defense line, surrounded by the glowing remnants of the grand arcane formation, the mages stirred with grim expressions.
A chorus of pained groans echoed around the circle as several demigod-level wizards, seated at the outer edge of the ritual, clutched their heads and gasped for breath. Sweat poured down their faces like rain, and their once-vibrant auras flickered unsteadily, dimmed by the toll of the spell they had cast.
To wound Dex, even briefly, had come at a steep price.
They had sacrificed portions of their own souls, burning away divine potential and lifespans to fuel one catastrophic mental assault. Each heartbeat during the battle had cost them dearly—some losing a fifth of their strength, others closer to half. The arcane backlash left their nerves raw and their vision blurring.
For every thousand damage dealt to the demon, five hundred was paid in blood from their side.
And yet… they had done it. They had hurt him.
Before the commanders could even ask, the lead demigod raised a hand and spoke through clenched teeth.
"The enemy is extremely dangerous," he rasped, voice heavy with exhaustion. "When we probed him—tried to read his soul—he retaliated instantly. There was no chance to retreat. We were dragged into battle. We struck hard, and we believe he's wounded, but…"
He paused, exhaling shakily.
"…he still has strength left. More than enough to kill any of you if you face him unprepared. You'd better get rid of him now."
He extended his hand and, with a flick of magic, released glowing strands of information—battle data, fragmented impressions of Dex's aura, patterns of his corruption, and blurry snapshots of his techniques—into the minds of those present.
Every soldier. Every mage. Every commander.
The knowledge would spread fast.
The hunt had begun.
And somewhere beyond the hills, a demon laughed to himself as he melted into the horizon—licking the blood from his lips, and waiting for his plague to bloom.
---
Henry closed his eyes slowly, allowing his breath to settle as he sifted through the chaotic stream of information transmitted by the exhausted demigod-level mages.
Through their shared consciousness spell, Henry Moore was able to glean a rough sketch of Dex's abilities—just enough to paint the outline of a threat, but not nearly enough to draw the full picture. He now understood the basic framework: the demonic entity had injected a highly virulent plague into the defense perimeter, and based on magical tracking and residual energy patterns, his current approximate location was estimated to be about 470 kilometers east of the main line of defense.
But that was all. Nothing more specific. No exact coordinates, no confirmed sightings, no weaknesses.
The demigod mages, powerful as they were, simply didn't have the means to penetrate the chaotic veil of the demon with their divinations. Their insights gave only a vague understanding of Dex's presence—an ominous silhouette, not a face. It was frustratingly limited, but in a world that had barely any written knowledge or divine record of abyssal demons, it was perhaps all they could have hoped for.
Even if one of the high gods of this world had intervened personally, it wouldn't have made a significant difference. Abyssal demons were creatures of disorder and deception; their very nature resisted the mechanisms of fate, prophecy, and divine insight. That was what made them so terrifying.
Truly learning the depths of Dex's power would require something far more invasive and dangerous—defeating him in combat, capturing him, extracting his soul, and attempting to read the fragmented, chaotic memories within.
All Henry truly knew was this:
Dex, an Abyss Demon classified as a [Middle Level Devil], had entered this world approximately 216 days ago. His methods centered around fire magic, viral contagion, brutal close-quarters combat, and a handful of strange spells laced with abyssal energies. His current position placed him a significant distance from the front lines—but dangerously close to the heartland if left unchecked.
It wasn't much, but it was enough to act on.
Henry opened his eyes, casting a long glance at the circle of demigod mages around him. Their faces were pale, slick with sweat, their bodies trembling slightly from the backlash of the ritual they had just performed. Even for beings of their level, burning a portion of one's divine essence to strike at a demon across spiritual planes took a brutal toll.
Henry's brow furrowed.
"Can a Middle-Level Demon really be this hard to deal with?" he thought.
The havoc Dex had caused, the level of destruction and the sheer tenacity of his resistance—it didn't line up with what was typically expected from a demon of that classification. No ordinary [Legendary-Tier] [Middle Demon] should have been able to pull this off. Even if Dex were technically a [Higher Demon], it would still place him among the most dangerous outliers of his kind.
Henry's thoughts drifted back to past conversations with abyssal entities—monsters who, though hostile, had been coerced into reluctant exchanges of information. Among the things they had admitted, one particular line always stood out in Henry's mind:
"If you ever meet a demon whose power doesn't match their rank, just assume it's a mutant."
Demons, after all, were chaos incarnate. Their biology, if it could even be called that, was unpredictable. Some were born with deformities that granted them immense strength. Others evolved erratically due to the bizarre environmental factors of the Abyss. Many had strange, unnatural adaptations that defied logic and classification.
Trying to rationalize the power scale of demons was a fool's errand.
"The strange ones are always the most dangerous," Henry reminded himself. "And there's no point trying to understand them—they exist to break the rules."
Resolving himself to act, he immediately turned his attention to the surviving demigods on the field. Selecting over a dozen of the most agile and tactically flexible among them, he began forming a strike force—one capable of penetrating deep into the abyss-infested zone to eliminate Dex before things worsened further.
Alison and Emerson, two fellow high-ranking commanders, observed his decision with grim expressions. A silent glance passed between them before Alison stepped forward. Her tone was calm, but carried the weight of authority.
*****
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