{Chapter: 200: Memories in a Meal}
Within the chaotic swirl of fractured memories, Dex glimpsed the life of a man—once utterly unremarkable, born of humble origins and raised in obscurity. For the first ten years of his existence, this soul had trudged through life without purpose, caught in the relentless grind of survival. There was no noble blood in his veins, no dazzling talents, and certainly no tale worth recording. His life had been a monotonous string of labor under the scorching sun, grinding away in a backwater village forgotten by time.
From the tender age of five, he toiled daily—hauling stone, digging ditches, and scraping for food—because in that place, there were no laws protecting children. There were no schools, no kind teachers, and no books to spark dreams. He never learned to read or write, not even his own name.
His life could have continued like that, aimless and grey, if not for a twist of fate buried beneath the soil.
One day, while digging in a field, he unearthed something strange—an aged jade pendant, worn smooth by time. That single moment shattered the dull monotony of his life. From that moment onward, everything changed.
The jade wasn't especially valuable by the standards of the highborn, but to this poor, uneducated laborer, it was a treasure beyond imagining. Contained within it was a modest inheritance: the knowledge and skills of a low-tier professional, along with a few scrolls of common supernatural lore.
To a child who had never encountered magic before, who had never even dared to dream, this was like receiving a divine revelation.
From that day forth, the embers of desire were stoked into flame.
He wanted to eat the delicacies described in arcane tomes, to sip forbidden liquors that could ignite the blood, and to crawl into the silk-draped beds of queens and princesses, claiming them like a conquering beast. Power, wealth, beauty—he wanted it all. And he obsessed over it. Day after day, night after night, those cravings consumed him until they bloomed into something greater than hunger—ambition.
It became his fuel, his madness, his salvation.
Despite his average potential, that all-consuming desire awakened a tenacity that defied the heavens. He clawed his way up the rungs of power, evolving rapidly into a full-fledged professional—faster than anyone could have imagined.
What happened after that point, however, was unclear.
Dex sifted through the remnant's memories, but much of it was lost in static. The middle was fragmented—blurry scenes of conflict, triumph, and strange faces he could not recognize. But there was one thing he saw with vivid clarity: the man, in his final days, had become a god.
Even in his divine state, though, Dex noted something peculiar—he wasn't that strong.
Perhaps at his peak he had attained great power, but compared to Dex's current strength, he was still a step behind.
A being who had transcended mortality, unshackled by the trivial chains of flesh, and who had once basked in reverence... now reduced to nothing more than a twitching wisp in Dex's belly.
As for how such a divine being had fallen from grace and ended up in this state? Dex could only guess. The memory was cut off—as if he had only watched the opening and a few scenes of a long, tragic film.
Dex didn't dwell on it. He wasn't the sentimental type.
Why ponder over the past of some mad remnant, who'd probably had his soul beaten to shreds over the centuries?
What mattered was the flavor.
And this one? Oh, this one had a taste.
Smooth, dense, and hauntingly chewy, like roasted eels soaked in wine and aged hatred. The lingering resentment that had steeped in the soul like fermented vinegar made it even more delicious. That bitter fury—raw and directionless—served as the perfect seasoning.
Dex licked his lips, patted his firm abdomen with pride, and gave his verdict with a lazy smirk.
"Ninety-nine points... I'm keeping the last point in reserve. There's always room for more... surprises."
As the remnants of the soul dissolved in his fiery gut, the copper fragment that had held the divine essence began to decay as well. Stripped of its support, it was no longer the indestructible relic it once was. Dex's hellish stomach acid, hotter than volcanic lava, reduced it to molten scrap, which was then absorbed into his body—its energy, its memories, and its legacy all consumed.
He became stronger.
Unseen by the crowd, even the two voluptuous women still leaning languidly against him—one twirling a curl of her dark hair around her finger, the other slowly tracing circles on his thigh with the tip of her nail—had no idea that a god had just died inside the man they flirted with.
There was no heavenly trumpet, no great earthquake, no divine lament.
A god, a once-supreme being, had perished without even a whisper. Eaten. Digested. Forgotten.
The auction carried on as if nothing had happened. The clinking of glasses, the sultry giggles of hostesses, and the rhythmic chant of the auctioneer continued in blissful ignorance of what had just transpired.
Dex leaned back, uninterested in the next ten items up for bid. Weapons, armor, low-tier spell books... nothing caught his eye. They were no more useful to him than a rusty fork trying to carve into dragonbone.
"Seriously," he murmured to himself, "are these toys meant to scratch my scales, or are they here to clean my teeth?"
But while Dex remained aloof, his mere presence cast a long, oppressive shadow over the crowd.
Especially among the group now fighting viciously over a legendary knight's sword. Though the item held immense prestige, more than a few nervous glances darted toward Dex's corner. They feared the same thing:
What if he suddenly takes a liking to it?
Even now, with his arms resting on the soft curves of two eager companions, who whispered naughty suggestions into his ears and pressed closer with every sip of wine, he radiated an aura that made even hardened warriors clutch their bidding tokens a little tighter.
They didn't know what terrified them more:
The idea of Dex competing for the sword...
Or the fact that he might not need it at all.
After all, why wield a blade, when you are the furnace?
Judging from his earlier behavior, it was clear to everyone in the auction hall: Dex might not be the wealthiest individual present, but he was undoubtedly the one who treated money with the least regard. He spent hundreds of thousands of gold coins as casually as one might toss away crumbs from the table—without a flicker of hesitation, without the faintest twitch in his expression.
To the common aristocrats and competitive bidders seated around him, he was a nightmare incarnate. If such a man decided to get serious and enter the market, he wouldn't just participate—he would dominate. His mere presence would inflate the prices of every item he took interest in, turning calm auctions into bloodbaths of spiraling costs.
The auction house itself, of course, would be delighted. Their profits would skyrocket. But for the actual buyers and brokers? It was an infuriating disaster.
And indeed, many of those seated near Dex wore tight-lipped frowns, their dislike barely veiled. A few shot subtle glances his way, hoping to read something behind his amused, languid gaze—but they found only more irritation.
Dex, naturally, felt the heat of their contempt. But really, what of it?
No world in the universe had ever truly liked demons. Sometimes, a demon could get struck by divine lightning just moments after stepping into a plane of existence. Compared to the malicious hatred of world consciousness itself, what were a few dirty looks and whispered curses?
Child's play.
Eventually, the prized knight's sword—a shimmering relic infused with combat enchantments—was bought by a nobleman with a chest puffed high and a wallet now hollowed out. The final bid was 330,000 gold coins. His face was caught in that perfect, tragic blend of exhilaration and despair, as though he'd just married the most beautiful woman in the world—who also happened to be a notorious man-eater.
No doubt, it had cost him dearly.
Moments later, a new item was unveiled on stage—and it was breathtaking.
A sculpture more than two meters tall, carved entirely from flawless crystal, was slowly wheeled into the spotlight. The figure it portrayed was that of a stunningly beautiful woman, her hands clasped in silent prayer, her head bowed with an expression of divine serenity. The details were exquisite—every contour of her face, the delicate arch of her eyebrows, the gentle curve of her lips, all looked real enough to sigh.
The woman's chest was full and subtly emphasized, the robe clinging lovingly to her crystal form. Her slender waist arched into the kind of hips sculptors only dreamed of capturing. From every angle, she seemed to radiate a holy aura—soft, inviting, and yet untouchably divine.
The craftsmanship was immaculate, yes—but the beauty? That was erotic holiness. A sanctified sensuality carved in crystal.
To further enhance the atmosphere, the surrounding light refracted through the statue's surface, casting a gentle halo of mist-like illumination. It was as if light rain shimmered eternally around her, blessing the stage and those watching with reverence and desire.
Gasps of awe filled the room. Some attendees simply admired the artistry. Others—particularly the men—saw something more: a sacred woman they wanted to sin with.
The hosts of the auction, clearly pleased with the reaction, smiled broadly and began their introduction: