Chapter 180: Making half a billion
"Shall I inform the high priestess?" Mateo asked from a respectful distance and in an even tone, yet no answer came.
Alejandro stood still, his gaze fixed on the black SUV as it disappeared beyond the gates. His thoughts churned beneath a composed exterior. After Damian had shut him down and gone as far as to issue a subtle warning with that brief crimson glow behind his shades, Alejandro had pushed forward regardless.
As a seasoned businessman, his negotiation skills were among the best, and he had not backed down easily. He circled the topic from every angle, probing, baiting, testing. Yet he gained nothing of real value beyond one unsettling truth. The abundance of cursed weapons within Damian’s faction was not an exaggeration. They had even referred to the items they were selling as basic.
At first, Alejandro dismissed it as a bluff.
That illusion shattered the moment the transaction began.
He had led them into a private vault, a chamber large enough to swallow a man whole, filled to its limits with neatly arranged stacks of cash. Five hundred and fifty million dollars, laid bare without concealment.
He had expected awe, or at least acknowledgement.
Instead, he watched in stunned silence as Damian activated the ring and the money vanished.
Not gradually, not carefully, but violently, as though the air itself had turned into a devouring force. The stacks collapsed inward, dragged into the ring like debris caught in a storm. Within moments, the entire vault stood empty.
Only then did Alejandro understand the value of the ring truly far surpassed the value of the weapons they bought. He even suspected the weapons they had sold were truly insignificant compared to what that faction might possess.
The thought unsettled him.
A group wielding power of that scale, hidden behind the veil of anonymity, strengthened by whatever entity they served, was not something he could afford to provoke recklessly.
For a fleeting moment, he had considered turning the mansion into a battlefield.
But standing before Damian, he had been unable to measure him. There was no clear sense of strength, no oppressive aura to quantify, only that quiet, suffocating certainty of danger.
If he chose wrong, the consequences were absolute.
Either Damian would erase them entirely, wiping out his household without effort, or he would escape, leaving them stripped of both wealth and cursed weapons. In either outcome, Alejandro lost.
Letting them leave peacefully bought him time.
Time to investigate.
Time to understand.
Time to prepare.
In the end, restraint had been the wiser choice.
"Don’t bother," Alejandro said at last, his brows furrowed, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. "I will speak to the high priestess myself."
.... Meanwhile....
Damian sat in silence, his gaze fixed on the ring resting against his finger, a strange gleam flickering in his eyes.
From Racheal, he had learned why demi-gods rarely relied on cursed tools. They were either too weak to matter or came with a price too steep to justify their use.
Every cursed tool carried a backlash.
Treasure was no different.
The soul of the greedy minister still lingered within the ring, bound to it by obsession. Even in death, it refused to relinquish what it had once claimed. That same greed twisted its function.
Anything stored within the ring would slowly fade from the user’s memory.
The more time passed, the more distant the memory became. Only by retrieving the item and reaffirming its existence could the memory be restored. If forgotten entirely, the soul within would claim it permanently, sealing it away beyond recovery.
That meant his money was not truly safe.
If he left five hundred and fifty million dollars inside for too long, he could lose it without ever realizing it.
It was a terrifying flaw hidden beneath an immensely valuable ability.
His thoughts drifted to the other cursed tools.
[Anyone who wields Weeping Home harms themselves simply by holding it. They will bleed continuously from the hand that grips it until they release it. Only then will the wound begin to heal.]
[Joking Boy has no hilt. Should it graze its wielder even slightly, they will suffer the same thousand cuts inflicted upon its victims. Cursed weapons do not discriminate.]
The system responded precisely, offering the clarity he sought.
"Wow..." Damian exhaled quietly.
The weakness was not separate from the power.
It was the power.
Each curse carried the very essence of the tragedy that birthed it. The flaw and the strength were inseparable.
Even Treasure followed the same principle. Its greed did not simply grant storage. It consumed, concealed, and claimed.
Instead of unsettling him, the realization only deepened his curiosity.
"Are you thinking about what to do with half a billion dollars?" Racheal’s voice cut through his thoughts.
She expected excitement.
Instead, Damian’s gaze remained distant, unfocused, as though he was staring far beyond the present. It took him a moment to return to himself, and when he did, he did not answer her question.
He asked his own.
"Can I create cursed weapons if I arrange mass tragic events?"
Buzz!
Silence fell instantly.
Racheal stared at him, genuine shock flashing across her face. In the front seats, Lith and Loth exchanged glances through the rearview mirror, their expressions tightening.
When Lin Qui first encountered cursed weapons as a human, he had been curious.
But never like this.
Never to this extent.
Racheal felt something shift within her as she replayed his words. This was not a passing thought. It was aligned with a pattern she had begun to notice.
She had ignored it before, brushed it aside, but she could no longer deny it. The truth settled heavily in her chest.
This man was more vicious than her ex. He was more dangerous and far more willing to cross lines others would not even consider.
’This is the man who killed Duke Haborym!’ Lith and Loth shared the same thought.
They had always wondered how a human could accomplish such a feat, but now the answer was becoming painfully clear. Their master was not normal.
He did not carry the same grace or composed temperament as their former master, yet in other aspects, he surpassed him entirely. There was something far more dangerous in the way he thought, in the way he spoke, and in the things he was willing to consider without hesitation.
For a brief moment, their bias against Damian wavered, and a new possibility took root in their minds.
They began to imagine it.
A future where this man sat upon the abyssal throne.
The people of Velmora had lost a lion, only to gain a dragon.