That's right—the two influential ghosts before him were both accomplices in this whole gambling affair.
Each side provided fighters and a venue, fanned the flames, pushed others to place bets, and with the ancient snake lending a hand, they all took part in this rigged beast fight behind the scenes.
What frustrated Ian the most, though, was that despite all the effort he put in from beginning to end—handling everything himself—he not only had to return the rich folks' winnings in full, but only got a measly thirty percent from what he scraped off the poor.
"Satisfied? Of course we are!"
"You handled it well. We trust your work—looking forward to more collaborations."
The two sly ghosts cheerfully pocketed their shares, tucking them into small stashes inside their Spear Cages. They also carefully stored away those items with sentimental or symbolic value that needed to be returned as favors.
The Underworld, where souls dwell, was supposed to be a gloomy, silent prison.
Once inside, the dead would be worn down by time—consumed by loneliness, with their memories and emotions slowly eroding.
But ever since this little troublemaker arrived, he kept stirring up chaos, bringing some much-needed spice to the monotony of the Underworld.
Especially with Samael—the snake—suggesting to Ereshkigal that the Spear Cage barriers be opened at regular intervals, giving the undead a breather.
For most of the human spirits who'd been locked up so long, this was a rare and precious mercy.
They couldn't truly roam free, sure—but it was still far better than wasting away in solitude inside a Spear Cage.
And once a rule has a crack, it can slowly be pried open for change.
"By the way, there's something I want to ask—how did you gain the ability to transform into the Mad Lion Uridimmu? Does it have anything to do with the beast tide?"
After the loot had been split, Centurion Tareel's expression turned serious. The eyes within his soul-fire form narrowed intently.
He had once fought to defend Babylon's ruins from the beast tide and died in battle. His hatred for those creatures ran deep.
"Uh, probably because I ate the Herb of Immortality. My body underwent some kind of transformation during molting. Ere-sama knows about it."
"As for the beast tide… I'd love to know where they came from too."
Ian flicked his tongue with a sigh, visibly troubled.
"Haha! Well, that's fine then!"
"The Eleven Offspring are the oldest monster templates in Mesopotamia. If your advancement purified your bloodline and pushed your form in that direction, it makes sense."
"Besides, those creatures are all bloodthirsty maniacs—not sly little devils like you."
The old general reached through the Spear Cage and gave Ian a heavy smack on the head, laughing heartily.
Could you maybe not praise me like that? I'm trying to be a decent snake here, Ian muttered to himself, gloomily playing along.
Just as the pleasantries wrapped up and he was about to deactivate the containment barrier, two bundles flew out from behind, landing with a thud.
Ian glanced at the golden gleam and edges of clay tablets sticking out and looked puzzled.
"What's this?"
"A little gift. You'll need it out there."
The martyr from the ruins of Babylon and the old blacksmith Um—famous for his musclebound arms and smelting skills—exchanged a grin.
So generous? Ian was about to make a sarcastic remark, but his slit pupils narrowed suddenly.
"What do you mean, 'out there'?"
"Nothing…"
The two schemers inside the Spear Cage glanced up at the dome and dodged the question, their expressions subtly evasive.
Including this round, it was already their third time working with the little guy.
It was common knowledge that the dead often brought gold and silver as burial offerings to bribe Underworld guards.
Gallû Spirits in particular had a fondness for treasures touched by the living's aura.
Newly arrived spirits could use that trick to distract the Gallû Spirits and boost their survival odds.
But no one had ever heard of a snake collecting that kind of stuff.
And every time this little guy split loot, he'd always go for the low-value clay tablets—ones marked with inheritance locations.
Earthbound valuables, useless to the dead, were usually left behind on the surface.
A schemer like him? No way he'd settle for scraps.
The two sharp-eyed ghosts had clearly figured something out.
That's why they packed those items—because they knew the snake would take them. He had to.
Sure enough, after catching sight of a few lines on the clay tablets, Ian's tense expression relaxed.
He forced a cordial smile, nodded subtly to his partners, then slithered off toward the distant mountains, his body swaying with each movement.
...
In a secluded valley, Ian stashed the loot inside a hidden cave.
Then, red and black mist coiled around him as his body reformed into the shape of the Mad Lion Uridimmu.
Gazing at his mighty silhouette projected on the stone wall, Ian nodded in satisfaction.
He'd been in the Underworld for nearly half a year, and had almost finished absorbing the Authority of the Beast: Self-Modification.
Tiamat had mapped the Spirit Origin profiles of the Eleven Offspring into his mind using an anchor link, and Ian had been gradually decoding and replicating them.
His advancement from bronze to silver had allowed him to master the Self-Modification form of the Mad Lion Uridimmu. Still, without ever having seen the original, something always felt... off.
If he could ever take down one of those beasts during a Magical Beast tide and absorb it directly, Ian was confident he could fully capture their divine essence.
Aside from that, the "gifts" from those two old foxes weren't exactly freebies.
One asked him to deliver a message. The other wanted help finding someone.
Seriously, even in death they had unfinished business?
Then again, from another angle, carving those requests onto clay tablets was like willingly boarding a pirate ship.
Everyone had dirt on each other—made working together much smoother, didn't it?
Honestly, ancient people just lacked information. Their intelligence? Definitely not lacking. Anyone who thinks they were all fools is the real idiot.
Especially those two—true veteran tricksters!
Wouldn't be surprised if the whole betting ring and fleecing of poor ghosts had been set up just to rope him into this exact situation.
Well, whatever. Gold and such were basically worthless to the dead stuck in Spear Cages.
Money only works when it circulates. It's not like you can plant it in the Underworld and expect it to grow, right?
He'd already gotten them their event time, launched the beast fights—this pile of useless junk they'd gambled away could just count as entertainment expenses.
Ian convinced himself without the slightest shame. His eyes sparkled at the thought of all the gold and silver he'd stashed in the cave.
Still, best not to get too flashy. Just a few more jobs like this and he'd lay low.
Thinking of those two sly old ghosts who'd roped him in, the Mad Lion twitched the corner of his mouth and looked toward the faint red glow over the mountains.
Right now, his master was still digging beneath Uruk.
As usual, Ereshkigal probably wouldn't summon him for another three or four hours.
So, with time to spare, it was the perfect chance to go visit his other teacher.
Ian sighed, gathered his thoughts, dug his claws into the earth, and charged through the death fog, heading for the deep valley ahead.
With brown-red fur and a golden mane, the Mad Lion bounded through the gray mists like a streak of fire, swift as lightning.
But the further he went, the rockier the path and the denser the death fog became. His sleek fur, which could once shrug off arrows, began to dull and wither. His flesh hissed and sizzled as rot set in, forming festering patches of various sizes.
Still, the Mad Lion grit his teeth and pushed forward, ignoring the pain.
At the same time, a shimmering phantom of a purplish-green plant—shaped like a camel thorn—appeared along his body, emitting a soft hum. Drawing on its regenerative properties, it began purging the death energy and repairing his wounds.
At last, after half an hour of full-speed sprinting through pain and itching that teetered on the edge of bliss and agony, Ian burst past the boundary of the death fog and leapt into the valley.
And the very first thing the Mad Lion did upon landing?
He rolled to the side, sprawled out belly-up against the stone wall, and began frantically scratching like an oversized house cat riddled with fleas.
Just then, long emerald hair draped down, and a pair of soft, pale hands moved along the grain of his fur, gently scratching and soothing the itch that had worked its way into his flesh.
But as the fingers wandered lower, they inevitably touched a place no hand should go.
Ian's fur bristled, his limbs sprang like loaded springs, and he shot backward with a jolt.
The startled lion crouched against the stone wall, eyes filled with alarm as he stared at the slightly disappointed figure ahead, internally screaming.
A person shouldn't—at the very least, they shouldn't...
...
(40 Chapters Ahead)
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