Chapter 554: New Developments (6)
“It’s mealtime.”
At Oliver's single remark, the book Edith had given him, filled with blank pages, quivered as something like an eye emerged on its cover—a sight that wasn’t quite human yet couldn’t be called animalistic either.
Oliver placed the book on the floor, and, though it had no legs, it somehow managed to scurry skillfully toward the pile of demon books stacked across the room.
“Kyararararararara━━!!!”
The book from Edith emitted a bizarre, distinctive sound as its back split open wide like a mouth, hungrily devouring the demon tomes.
“Krrrrrrrrrrk━━!!!”
Although it only seemed to open and close its covers, its ferocity was akin to a starving hunting dog. The books Oliver had taken from the Flesh Chef’s vault were ripped to shreds, their pages scattered in all directions, yet the book from Edith picked up and consumed every last scrap.
It seemed Oliver had been wise to cast a soundproofing spell the moment he entered. If he had forgotten, the innkeeper would’ve been banging on the door, demanding to know what was going on.
Without a word, Oliver observed the book from Edith voraciously consume dozens of volumes, its meal finally concluding after some time had passed.
“It’s certainly changed…”
Watching the book as it finished its meal, Oliver thought back. He had previously fed it a single demon book, but back then, it showed no noticeable change. This time, however, was different.
After devouring several dozen books, the inside of Edith’s once-empty book now seemed to contain a sort of energy. With his warlock’s vision, Oliver could see this energy had a texture similar to the Hell's Entrance that Puppet had displayed in the contaminated area, or to the Sleeping Forest, which had been created from hundreds of thousands of human souls.
It was an eerie energy, like the power of hell repurposed—an unearthly and alien energy.
Slowly, Oliver extended his hand toward Edith’s book, now emitting black steam.
“Krrrrrr…”
The book growled at Oliver, baring a wary hostility it had never shown before. Although he didn’t fully understand, it seemed that by consuming so many books, it had developed a form of self-awareness, similar to a black magic artifact.
Thankfully, at least it hadn’t tried to bite. That would’ve hurt.
“Hm…”
Surprised by the book's unexpected attitude, Oliver withdrew his hand, and Big Mouth, with its bulging belly, seemed to cheer the book on.
“Groo-ook!”
As if to say, “Thanks for doing what I can’t.”
Turning, Oliver gave Big Mouth a silent look.
“…”
“…”
Then he looked back at Edith’s book.
“Should I splash water on it?”
Contemplating what to do with a book that had grown self-conscious and wary, Oliver was uncertain how to proceed. He’d never encountered anything with this kind of reaction before.
People could be reasoned with through conversation or combat.
Animals typically cowered in fear whenever they saw him, rendering them harmless.
And black magic items, for the most part, were cooperative and obedient.
“Goorook?”
Therefore, Oliver had no clue how to handle this type of creature—one that neither ran away nor approached but simply maintained a cautious distance.
“Should I knock it out with the quarterstaff?”
Looking at the quarterstaff he held, Oliver pondered. It seemed like a surefire method, but he shook his head and set the quarterstaff down.
Then, kneeling on one knee to meet the book’s gaze, he displayed his empty hands, showing that he meant no harm.
Of course, he could have struck it or unleashed his power to attack it.
Fortunately, his intention seemed to have gotten across, as the book’s wariness diminished ever so slightly.
Seizing the moment, Oliver continued to reassure it, repeatedly insisting he had no intention to harm.
“I mean you no harm, Demon Book.”
“…”
Even so, the book didn’t immediately come closer, but Oliver soon thought of a way to persuade it.
“There are still more demon books you haven’t eaten yet.”
Inspired by Big Mouth’s enthusiastic support, Oliver tempted the book with the promise of more to eat.
It worked. The wary demon book immediately dropped its guard, approached Oliver’s hand, and returned to its original form.
As expected, it craved more of its own kind.
“You’re just like Big Mouth—you love consuming your own kind.”
“…”
Big Mouth narrowed its clustered eyes at Oliver in disdain, but Oliver paid no mind and prepared to open the demon book, which now radiated warmth like a living being. Just then...
Beep– Beep– Beep–
A signal sounded.
It was from the communication device Lucien had given him.
Because he’d kept his lodging location secret, he had received the device for the rare instances he might need to be reached. Hearing the beep, Oliver checked the time before answering.
He had anticipated contact for the evening party, but it was still four hours before the scheduled time—a bit early for an expected call.
“Lucien wouldn’t contact me early just for no reason… Could something have happened?”
Sensing that something might be wrong, Oliver answered the call.
“Hello.”
Upon his greeting, Lucien’s voice came through, as expected.
Lucien greeted Oliver and immediately got to the point, and Oliver responded.
“Yes, tonight’s party. I’m aware… No, I wouldn’t go so far as to say you owe me any thanks. We agreed on this, didn’t we? Though, I haven’t seen Mr. Ewan around lately… Ah, he’s with you? At a gambling den? Impressive.”
Hearing news of Ewan from Lucien, Oliver was genuinely amazed.
True to his ambition, Ewan had squandered the Flesh Chef’s astronomical legacy overnight and was already deep in debt again.
Although it might seem rude, Oliver couldn’t help but wonder if Ewan was deliberately accumulating debt, as if checking off items on a bucket list.
“Ah, thank you for not cutting off my fingers for his sake… Of course, I have no plans to repay that debt myself. My partner strictly warned me against it… But is that the reason for your call?”
Lucien’s voice responded through the device.
[No, that’s part of it, but there’s something else.]
“What is it?”
[Have you prepared the dress code for tonight’s party?]
“Yes, I’ve prepared.”
Oliver responded without hesitation. Along with casual clothes, work attire, and formal wear, he always kept about thirty outfits packed within Big Mouth, ready for any situation requiring proper attire.
After hearing his answer, Lucien sounded slightly surprised.
[Ah… I see.]
Though Oliver couldn’t see his expression, his social experience enabled him to sense Lucien’s discomfort through the tone of his voice.
“Is there an issue?”
Oliver’s question met with a moment of silence, then Lucien replied.
[...Hm, could you attend in the attire we’ve prepared? To be honest, it might be a bit improper.]
Oliver could hear the awkwardness and guilt in Lucien’s voice. Though it wasn’t certain, Lucien seemed to be in a difficult position.
Rather than feel offended, Oliver felt curious. He wondered what could make someone like Lucien, one of Milieu’s bosses, so uncomfortable.
“I don’t mind, but why?”
[I received a request.]
Lucien called it a “request,” though his tone suggested otherwise.
“From whom?”
[The Holy Knight.]
Upon hearing the answer, Oliver envisioned the Holy Knight, clad in armor and wielding a rosary that had summoned an entire army...
...
“The presence suits you.”
“And you as well.”
The capital city of Gallos, Laville...
Ten kilometers outside Laville, there stood a grand villa by the lake, an estate grand enough to be mistaken for a palace.
It was a relic from the golden age of nobility, having fallen to ruin during a series of political upheavals but recently restored.
A testament to this fact was the opulently dressed guests who had gathered here in formal suits, tailcoats, and dresses.
Most of them were Gallosian nobles, easily identifiable by the crests embroidered in gold thread on the cuffs of their clothes.
“Well, it looks like they've finally ditched carriages in favor of automobiles?”
An elderly noble commented to a man young enough to be his son, who had arrived at the villa in an elaborate custom car specially ordered from Landa’s F Company.
“Haha, yes, Count.”
“Just as a young man should be—eager to embrace new innovations.”
In the past, such behavior would have been criticized as unbecoming of nobility, but the older noble no longer cared for such trivialities.
As another noble remarked earlier, they had all been thriving too much to worry about those things.
“Who would have thought? Thanks to that hooligan stirring things up, our situation has actually improved.”
A middle-aged man sipped his wine, and the man opposite him nodded in agreement.
“That’s true. Things were chaotic back then, but it allowed us to handle a lot of issues at once. We got rid of those troublemaking populists and regained control of the economy.”
They were discussing none other than the chaos caused by the Flesh Chef.
Though the exact reasons were still unclear, the upheaval he caused in Laville had ironically led to a restoration of stability for the nobles of Gallos.
Once it was revealed that the prominent populist figures, who constantly ranted against the nobility, had been financially supported by the Flesh Chef, the nobles were able to dispose of them both legally and morally.
Not only that, but they managed to strip the populists of their political influence, silencing those who had always been so vocal in their opposition to the aristocracy.
This was only natural since these so-called populists had been involved with such a heinous criminal.
Of course, no one was concerned that many nobles had themselves been frequent consumers of the Flesh Chef's culinary horrors and the infamous Bloody Wine that supposedly restored youth and vitality.
People, after all, tend to be lenient when it comes to their own vices.
“It’s a bit troubling that those hooligans are still causing disturbances. My wife is so frightened that she wants to take the children and escape to a resort,” one noble remarked.
“Well, that’s a blessing in disguise. After all, absence makes the heart grow fonder when it comes to one’s wife and children.”
“Ha! You jest.”
“I’m quite serious. And it’s a good thing that disturbances keep happening—it gives us more opportunities to invest in property.”
The numerous nobles present all silently agreed with that sentiment.
The Flesh Chef’s carnage had undoubtedly been a major catastrophe for Laville, but thanks to an anonymous investor, the nobles had made an incredible profit.
They had bought up the devalued properties left in ruin and sold them at a handsome profit once the area was restored.
Although countless people were still struggling with the rising rents and property prices, to the nobles, these concerns were irrelevant.
As if to affirm this attitude, one man half-jokingly remarked in a tone laced with indifference:
“Honestly, sometimes I think it would be nice if the Flesh Chef—or rather, that gangster—came back. Just a joke, of course.”
Most laughed, as if to confirm it was indeed just a joke.
Then, a man spoke up with a slightly ominous tone.
“Well, according to the rumors, it might just happen.”
“Oh, you’ve heard it too?”
A few well-connected nobles had also caught wind of the whispers circulating in the underworld.
Talk of the Flesh Chef’s supposed return, associated with a certain warlock from across the sea.
“Landa’s fixer, I hear.”
“I heard he’s from the Magic Tower.”
“Apparently, it’s both.”
“Either way, he sounds dangerous. I’ve heard he’s attending the party tonight—is it safe to have him here?”
“What’s there to worry about? This place is as secure as it gets.”
A noble glanced at the Holy Knights discreetly stationed throughout the massive villa.
These knights were dispatched from the Pater Church to protect Armand, the prime minister and grand inquisitor of Gallos, ensuring the nobles could gather in this remote location without a care despite the ongoing unrest.
At that moment, a voice rang out through the hall.
“The representatives of Reculevelli Corporation have arrived.”
All eyes in the hall turned in unison toward the source of the announcement.
Reculevelli Corporation had been hastily formed through a partnership with the royal family, designed to track down the Flesh Chef’s hidden assets. It was also the main reason so many nobles had gathered at this event.
The Flesh Chef was gone, but the allure of his legacy—and the wealth and political power it represented—still captivated these individuals.
They couldn’t take any direct action, but they knew there might be advantages to be gained.
“Is that him?”
One man remarked, spotting a figure with a slightly gray head, a gaunt build, and hands covered in bandages, holding a quarterstaff.
Even from a distance, he looked distinctly unusual, and his attire—plainly that of a warlock—made it easy for those who had heard of him to identify him immediately.
This was none other than Dave, the fixer from across the sea who had played a critical role in recovering the Flesh Chef’s fortune on behalf of Milieu.
Rumor had it he’d single-handedly slaughtered hundreds of druids, wiped out dozens of factions in dense forests, and even fought Puppet to a standstill—a truly monstrous feat.
His emaciated, injured appearance might cast doubt, but those with sharp instincts sensed something unusual about Dave. The reserved demeanor of Milieu’s bosses toward him confirmed the rumors might not be just hearsay.
“Heh, so that’s what he looks like.”
“Not all that different from the rumors, but still, not quite what I imagined.”
“That’s a warlock?”
“And bold enough to show up here too.”
Young people, debutantes, and elderly aristocrats alike muttered opinions about Dave.
Some spoke out of pure curiosity, others calculated how he might be used, and some remained trapped in their own world of arrogance, forming biased judgments of him.
But in this setting, the common thread was that no one approached the warlock easily; they were content to watch from afar as if observing an exotic creature.
Then, while everyone kept their distance, a woman with pink hair approached him and struck up a conversation.
It was Jane.
“Hello, Dave.”
“It’s been a while, Miss Jane.”