Chapter 8: The Sword Manual of Exorcism and Half of Whitebeard's Face
After closing the dimensional gate behind him, Lin Hao entered his personal study—an ethereal space that existed somewhere between the real world and the infernal dimension tied to his demonic contract. The little devil, that black-horned imp who acted as both his assistant and energy courier, floated ahead, the flames on its tail flickering like a candle in a storm.
When Lin Hao first stepped inside, the room was barely ten square meters wide, the rest engulfed in pulsating shadows. Each time the little devil shuttled through its dimensional loop, the circle of light expanded, revealing rows of floating runes, ancient relics, and fragmented memories from countless worlds.
This was not inside the little devil's body, but an independent sub-dimension forged by the Infernal Core that Lin Hao had obtained when he became the Demon King of the Shenlei Bureau. The little devil merely served as the key—his demonic bloodline's anchor that could unlock this space across realities.
He had once tested whether the little devil could carry this space across world boundaries—stuffing its mouth full of food and "local specialties" from each plane—but the experiment had nearly driven the creature into trauma. The infernal space refused to follow its host, existing instead as a fixed dimensional coordinate within Lin Hao's demonic energy field. That meant his plan to "hide here and ride the interdimensional currents" was a complete failure.
Lin Hao first examined the "Grievance of Living Beings" meter hovering in the air—a crimson orb filled with black mist. It represented all the emotional energy gathered by the little devil recently. The reading was astonishing—enough to fuel a hundred dimensional traversals.
Every second, across the multiverse, lives ended in terror, anger, despair, or hatred. But only those deaths linked by karma to Lin Hao could feed his core. The demon system only absorbed the negative energy caused directly or indirectly by him.
Killing with his own hands, deploying curses, unleashing the devil's contracts—these gave him full yield. Destruction wrought by his contracted servants or those empowered through his demonic seed granted partial shares, based on the degree of involvement.
And recently, the Black-White War that erupted in San Francisco—triggered by Jack Bryan's devil-fruit mutation and the ensuing chaos—had sent an overwhelming tide of resentment into his system. Thousands of lives snuffed out in the riots, and every ounce of fear and hatred rippled straight into Lin Hao's infernal ledger.
Not only that, the nationwide protests and racial uprisings that followed continued to supply him with energy. Each scream, each burning car, each act of vengeance—whether direct or indirect—was another line of power feeding his demonic core.
For the Demon King, America was truly a blessed land, a paradise of endless chaos.
Back in China, even a small incident required months of orchestration to stir meaningful energy. His colleagues at the Shenlei Bureau were numb to evil, their moral nerve endings long dead. To draw enough resentment for a "hundred consecutive traversals," he had to keep devising new ways to provoke the world.
Sitting cross-legged in the center of the glowing array, Lin Hao murmured the Meditation of Seven Sins, stabilizing the demonic currents, then commanded:
"Begin."
The little devil vanished in a flash of black smoke, then reappeared moments later, clutching a shimmering golden nugget in its stubby claws and dropping it before Lin Hao.
The Demon King touched it lightly. A stream of information flooded his mind:
Golden ore from Journey to the Center of the Earth—mundane but pure.
"Hmph. At least it's currency material."
The summoning continued—each crack of dimensional light producing more strange artifacts: Hu Yifei's leather jacket, Xiaoyanzi's homework book, Qi Tongwei's sniper rifle, Gao Qiqiang's annotated Art of War, Xu Hongdou's black silk stockings…
Lin Hao wordlessly set aside the leather jacket and stockings—not for indulgence, of course, but for sentimental nostalgia.
He tossed the sniper rifle into a pile of useless junk. "In the Qing Dynasty, this might be worth something. In modern America, who needs it? There's a Walmart down the street that sells heavier artillery."
Suddenly, the little devil heaved up a tattered monk's robe.
Lin Hao caught it and froze.
Eight glowing characters blazed on the inner lining:
'If you wish to learn this skill, you must first castrate yourself.'
It was none other than the legendary Sword Manual of Exorcism from The Smiling, Proud Wanderer!
The imp disappeared again, returning moments later holding a rough piece of jade. Lin Hao frowned and asked, "Where did you find this?"
The little devil whimpered and gestured vividly—apparently describing a middle-aged man squatting naked in a cave with a dagger trembling in his hand before the imp snatched the jade away.
Lin Hao burst out laughing.
"Hahaha—Master Yue, looks like I've saved you from a lifetime of regret! Lady Ning should really thank me. Shame I'm not in that world, or I'd insist she repay my kindness personally."
The little devil spun happily in midair, its sharp tail slicing the air with gleeful chirps:
"Cut-cut-cut-cut—chirp-chirp-chirp!"