Chapter 574: Do whatever you want, I’m going
The corridor ended at a pair of dark metal doors, adorned with pulsing runes that resembled eyes about to open. Vergil and Amon stopped before it. The silence was almost solid—there was no sound of servants, no echo of machinery. Only the distant whisper of the Abyss breathing.
Amon snapped his fingers.
The runes gave way with a muffled click, and the doors swung open of their own accord, revealing Countess Ingrid Asmoday’s office.
The air inside was thick, hazy with gray cigarette smoke mingled with the metallic smell of iron and sulfur. The walls were living obsidian, pulsing gently, as if the building itself had a heart. Chains hung from the ceiling, and within them, Void crystals emitted a cold, unsettling glow.
In the center, behind a table made from a single block of infernal stone, Ingrid Asmoday sat—or rather, reclined, her long, shapely legs crossed on the table, her heels smeared with dust and blood resting on stacks of documents.
She wore black leather and braided metal straps, a katana strapped to her back and a lit cigarette between her lips. Her eyes—red, feline, and full of disdain—looked up over the red-lensed glasses that slid down the bridge of her nose.
When Amon and Vergil entered, she blew a cloud of smoke in their direction, unhurriedly.
“Oh…” she said, her voice hoarse, laced with irony. “The great Amon himself. What an honor. Should I lay down the red carpet, or would you prefer to step on corpses as usual?”
Vergil arched an eyebrow. His gaze slid over the scene with complete disinterest. It was as if he were looking at a child playing at being dangerous. Neither the cigarette, nor the provocative gaze, nor the scent of demonic power seemed to affect him.
Amon, however, maintained the same unperturbed expression.
“Ingrid,” he began, his deep voice filling the room. “I assume you received my letter.”
She removed the cigarette from her lips and let it dangle between her fingers, exhaling smoke with a crooked smile.
“I received it,” she replied indifferently. “I read the first three lines, found it boring, and threw the rest in the fireplace. The report is on the table somewhere. Take it and go. I’m busy.”
Vergil gave a small smile. That was unexpected—and interesting.
Amon took a step forward. “I’m not just here for the report. We have matters to attend to.”
She huffed a short laugh. “And I’m paying attention to your ‘matters’?” “I have enough trouble with the Abyss waking up every week, the miners going crazy, and the Void trying to devour half the city. If you came to collect something, you’ll have to get in line.”
Her tone was insolent, almost lazy. But the air around Amon began to shift. Small arcs of infernal energy vibrated on the ground, as if reality itself were bending under the weight of her presence.
Still, Ingrid didn’t flinch. She took another drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke directly into his face.
“You can keep that alpha-male aura, ‘my lord,'” she said with a mocking smile. “I’m the boss here.”
Amon was silent for a few seconds. Vergil, who had been watching the exchange with his hands in his pockets, let out a sigh.
“Are you serious?” he murmured, shaking his head. “Two centuries of accumulated power, and this is how the strongest demons resolve things? A puff of smoke and a bruised ego?”
Amon slowly turned his gaze to him, as if to say, “Stay out of your depth.” But Vergil had already grown bored with the theatrics.
He raised his hand, and an invisible wave of mana formed around Ingrid. For a moment, she arched an eyebrow, unsure of what was happening.
Then, her chair was simply ripped from the floor—pulled back by an invisible force—and she fell backward onto the floor with a metallic CRACK, her cigarette flying and extinguishing on impact.
The sound echoed through the office.
Amon slowly shifted his gaze to Vergil.
Vergil simply shrugged, his face calm, almost bored. “What is it? She was annoying me.”
The silence that followed was heavy, sharp. One of the crystals in the ceiling cracked, releasing a thin wisp of bluish smoke. The energy in the room shifted—the air trembled.
Ingrid slowly stood up.
Her gaze, once lazy, now burned crimson. Her pupils contracted into slits, and a dangerous smile spread across her face. Every movement made the metal ornaments on her clothes jingle like war bells.
“Uh…” she said, running her fingers through her hair as her cigarette burned forgotten on the floor. “So the little boy decided to play sorcery?”
Vergil stared at her, motionless. “I just wanted to help the conversation flow,” he replied, with a hint of irony.
Amon crossed his arms, watching. His face remained impassive, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes.
Ingrid took a step forward. The ground beneath her boots crackled. Her power began to manifest—a black aura, cut through with red sparks, as if the Void responded to her anger. The obsidian walls vibrated, and a crack ran across the stone table.
“Amon…” she said, her voice hoarse and laced with venom. “Is that idiot your new puppy?”
Vergil arched an eyebrow. “I’ll bite if necessary.”
She laughed. “Oh, how cute,” she murmured. “A mortal with a sharp tongue. Are you going to threaten me now?”
Vergil tilted his head, his eyes shining with dangerous calm. “No. I’m just curious to see if this attitude of yours matches the power they say you possess.”
The ground shook.
In an instant, Ingrid moved—the sound of chains and the crack of air cut by the katana echoed through the room. Vergil merely raised a finger, and a translucent barrier appeared, blocking the attack as if she had struck solid glass.
Her blade stopped inches from his face. Their gazes met—and for a moment, the entire office seemed to hold its breath.
Amon sighed.
The silence after the blade’s impact was almost sacred. The tip of Ingrid’s katana still rested against Vergil’s invisible barrier, red and black sparks dancing between them. The air crackled, heavy with energy and hostility.
Amon stood between them for a few seconds, watching as if watching two children fight over a toy. Then he let out a long, deep sigh—the kind of sigh borne of centuries of wasted patience.
“For the hell of it…” he muttered, rubbing his temple. “You two are impossible.”
Vergil turned his face just enough to look at him, as if to ask, “What now?” Ingrid, for her part, still kept her gaze fixed on Vergil, a sly smile tugging at her lips again.
Amon sighed again, more heavily.
“Ingrid…” he said, his tone calm, almost tired. “He is your superior. Please show a modicum of respect.”
The sentence hung in the air for a few seconds.
The silence that followed was broken by a single sound: the soft crack of the cigarette butt still burning on the floor.
Ingrid blinked. She looked at Amon. Then she looked at Vergil.
And then… she started laughing.
First a muffled chuckle, then louder—until the echo of her laughter filled the entire office. It was a hoarse, mocking laugh, vibrating with disbelief and a touch of madness. She leaned against the cracked desk, tears of pure amusement streaming from the corners of her eyes.
“Superior?!” she repeated between giggles. “Oh, that was a good one, Amon! Seriously, for a moment I thought you were joking!” She wiped the corner of her eye, still laughing. “That one? That little mortal in the suit?”
Vergil arched an eyebrow, his face completely neutral, and said in an almost lazy tone,
“Little mortal? I’ve heard that one before.” Amon crossed his arms, observing the scene. His gaze, still impassive, fixed on Ingrid—and, without changing his tone, he murmured,
“Kill her. Whatever.”
The world stopped.
Vergil didn’t respond. He just breathed.
And in the next instant, half the mansion disappeared.
The sound came next.
A roar of destruction ripped through space-time like thunder ripped from the belly of hell. The ceiling was obliterated, the floor shattered, and a wall of blue energy tore through the office, swallowing the walls, the pillars, the windows—everything—in a single devastating wave.
Chains snapped, crystals exploded in sparks of Void, and the starless sky of Last Night was lit by an explosion of pure demonic mana.
Amon stood still, his cloak flapping under the impact, his eyes narrowed against the dust.
Time seemed to flow in slow motion.
Fragments of stone and metal floated in the air like suspended leaves. Ingrid, however, was no longer there.
She had moved—fast enough for the attack to graze her. Her silhouette emerged from the rubble, landing on one of the columns that still resisted the destruction. Her body was covered in small cuts, the skin burned in places, but her gaze… her gaze was now pure shock.
She stared at the empty remains of the mansion.
Half of her simply… was gone.
“What the…” she murmured, her eyes wide. “What was that…?”
Vergil was still in the center of the attack, his hands in his pockets, his coat flapping with residual energy. His gaze met hers—cold, sharp, emotionless.
Amon broke the silence.
“That, my dear…” he said, his voice calm, as if commenting on the weather. “That’s the Demon King you said was ‘worthless.'”
Ingrid’s face paled.
For a second, she stood still—the cold wind whipping against her loose hair, the smell of sulfur and destruction mingling with the smoke from her fallen cigarette.
Then her eyes narrowed, her entire body tensing. Energy began to condense around her, like a whirlwind of fire and shadow.
“Demon… King…?” she repeated, almost in a whisper. “Are you saying that this arrogant piece of meat… is him?”
Amon simply nodded. “Yes.”
That was all he needed to say.
Because in the next instant, Vergil disappeared.
The sound that followed was the brutal ripping of air.
A flash of blue flashed in front of Ingrid—and before she could even blink, he was there, inches from her face.
“I was told you were good…” His voice sounded low, gravelly, sharp as a blade.
Her eyes widened, trying to react, but Vergil had already swung his fist.
“…but you’re just an arrogant brat.”
The punch hit like thunder.
The impact ripped through the ground, the air, and the distance. Ingrid was thrown like a projectile—her body crashed through columns, walls, and layers of solid rock. The sound echoed like the roar of an avalanche, the air exploding in concentric waves around the point of impact.
With every kilometer it traveled, the energy left trails of destruction—craters, melted rocks, dust being sucked into the void. And yet, Vergil didn’t seem to have exerted his full strength.
He simply stared at the horizon, his eyes glowing an intense blue.
Amon remained standing among the wreckage, calmly gazing at the spot where Ingrid had disappeared.
“Can you handle this? If she’s incapable, you can choose whoever you want to go with you to the tournament,” he said, his tone light, almost casual.
“I’m out of here, thanks,” he said, and teleported away.