Reincarnated in a novel: I am the villain!-Chapter 289: The Five Dukes of Argentum!
The silence in the plaza was brittle, liable to shatter at any moment.
Around Damien, the liquid mercury of the street rippled violently.
A dozen more Argentan guards glided forward, their bodies flowing like water before hardening into jagged, chrome spikes.
They surrounded the trio, their faceless heads reflecting Damien’s mask.
"You dare?" the Captain of the Guard vibrated, his arm morphing into a massive silver lance.
"You dare freeze a citizen of the Silver Faction? This is an act of war, Solid!"
Hearing this Damien didn’t draw his sword.
He didn’t even look at the Captain. He kept his boot resting on the frozen, statue-like head of the guard he had just neutralized.
"War?" Damien scoffed, his voice distorted and metallic behind his mask.
"More like priest control." He snorted, as someone who had been in the abyss for so long, he knew that he couldn’t afford to look weak in any situation
So with that in mind, he pressed down.
*CRACK.!*
The frozen guard groaned as hairline fractures appeared on his neck.
"Release him!" The Captain roared, surging forward.
*BOOM!*
Damien in response flared his Hollow King’s Authority, in tandem with his will.
The surprising air turned dark as tendrils of shadow escaped from his back, his will pressing against the very atmosphere turning the air heavy and suffocating.
The liquid guards experiencing this faltered, their forms losing cohesion for a split second under the pressure.
Noticing this, Damien reached into his trench coat and pulled out a heavy iron medallion.
He flicked it into the air and caught it.
This was the Wandering Baron’s Crest
"I am Baron Dante," Damien lied smoothly, his voice dripping with arrogance.
"And in my House, when a servant barks at a guest, death is the only option."
The Captain froze. He looked at the medallion, it was indeed the undeniable sigil of the Deep Abyss Nobility.
Even if this layer was different, the hierarchy of the Abyss was absolute. A Baron was a Noble. And a Noble could not be executed on the street without a trial.
The Captain hesitated, his lance arm wavering.
He looked at the frozen guard, then back at Damien.
"A Baron..." the Captain hissed, his voice sounding like grinding gears.
"You are far from home, Solid."
"And you are close to death," Damien countered coldly.
"Now. Stand down. Unless you want your puddle of a city to turn into a sculpture garden."
The Captain glared, his faceless head rippling with repressed rage.
But he saw the darkness swirling around Damien.
He saw the unconscious girl who smelled of high-tier demon blood and calculated the odds.
"Fine," the Captain spat. He lowered his arm, liquefying the lance back into his body.
"But the Silver District is for refined citizens. Solids belong in the Slag Heap."
He pointed a liquid finger toward the distant, smoke-choked edge of the city.
"Go there, Baron. If I see you in the Upper Spire again... being a baron won’t save you."
Damien kicked the frozen guard, sending him sliding across the plaza like a hockey puck.
"A pleasure," Damien said.
He turned to Elian. Pick her up. We’re leaving."
*********
[Location: The Slag Heap – The Outer Rim]
The transition was jarring.
One moment, they were walking through streets of pristine, flowing chrome.
The next, they crossed a bridge over a river of toxic sludge and entered a nightmare of rust and iron.
The Slag Heap was where the "Solids" lived.
It was a sprawling shantytown built from the scrap metal of the upper city.
Buildings were welded together from engine blocks and discarded pipes.
The air tasted of sulfur and oil.
"This feels more natural," Damien muttered, adjusting his collar.
"It feels like trash," Elian grumbled, supporting the unconscious Isabelle.
"Master, we need a place to rest. Her soul is stable, but her body needs to recover from the burnout."
Damien scanned the street.
It was crowded with the rejects of the Abyss, Drifters, Orcs, Beast-kin, and demons with physical forms.
They watched the newcomers with hungry eyes, but the lingering aura of Damien’s earlier outburst kept them at bay.
"There," Damien pointed.
A massive building made from the hollowed-out hull of a crashed airship sat at the end of the street.
Neon lights flickered above the door, spelling out "THE MELTING POT."
Pausing for a bit, Damien decided to go there, so without any hesitation he pushed through the heavy iron doors.
The noise hit them instantly. The roar of conversation, the clanking of metal tankards, and the thrum of heavy machinery. The bar was packed.
Damien walked to a corner table, his presence clearing a path through the crowd.
He sat down, and Elian laid Isabelle gently on the bench.
"What can I get you?" A waitress with four arms and skin like bark slammed a menu onto the table.
"Anything that isn’t poison" Damien said. "Also a bit of information."
He tossed an abyss crystal onto the table.
The waitress bit the coin. "Water coming up. For information? Ask the big guy."
She pointed a thumb toward the bar.
Sitting there was a monster.
He was easily ten feet tall, hunched over the counter.
He looked like an Ogre, but his skin was a dark, gray grey, lined with fire like tattoos that glowed like lava under his skin.
He was drinking from a bucket that glowed red.
"Is that... molten lead?" Damien whispered, confused.
"Ferro-Ogre," Elian noted.
"A variant of the Ogre bloodline, it seems due to abyss radiation they’ve evolved this way over thousands of years gaining the ability to control and ingest lava and fire."
As if sensing their gaze, the Ogre turned. His eyes were small, burning coals.
He grinned, revealing a maw of iron teeth.
"You!" the Ogre roared, his voice booming over the din of the tavern.
He stood up, shaking the floorboards, and walked over to their table.
He loomed over Damien, casting a massive shadow.
"I heard what happened up there, news travels fast here," the Ogre rumbled.
"You’re the Solid who froze the Silver-Spoon guard in the plaza."
The tavern went quiet.
Damien looked up calmly.
"He was in my way."
"BWAHAHAHA!"
The Ogre threw his head back and laughed. It sounded like a car crash.
"Good! Those liquid bastards need to be beaten every now and then! I’m Ziriork."
Ziriork slammed his bucket onto Damien’s table.
"Drink up, little Baron! It puts iron in your blood!"
Damien politely declined the molten lead.
"I prefer my insides unmelted, Ziriork. But I will take some answers."
Ziriork sat down, the bench groaning in protest.
"Ask away. Anyone who spits in the face of the Silver Duke is a friend of Ziriork."
"Silver Duke?" Damien leaned forward.
"Explain, after all, don’t forget I’m new here.."
Ziriork wiped a drip of lead from his chin.
"Indeed you’re new, Listen close, newbie."
Ziriork held up a massive hand, ticking off fingers that looked like sausages made of steel.
"This city, Argentum? It’s run by the Platinum Prince. A 9th Order monster. He sits in the Spire and never comes down. He’s practically the god of this layer."
"But the city," Ziriork continued,
"is managed by the Five Dukes. Each one runs a faction."
"Duke Aurum holds the Gold. The banks, the trade. Greedy bastard."
"Duke Argent holds the Silver. The law, the police. The liquid pricks you met."
"*mDuke Ferro," Ziriork tapped his own chest,
"My boss. The Black Metal Faction. We run the factories, the weapons, the heavy industry. We’re the reason this city stands."
"Duke Aes holds the Bronze. Construction and labor."
"And Duke Adama... the Diamond Faction. Magic, research, tech. Weirdos."
Damien absorbed the information. A council of five 8th Order Lords, ruled by a 9th Order Prince.
"It sounds organized," Damien said.
"Too organized for the Abyss."
"Indeed," Ziriork snorted.
"Back then when I got to this layer, do you know how surprised I was? However under the power of the prince, not many moves can be done"
"I need to get to Layer 7," Damien cut to the chase.
"How do I get an audience with the Prince?"
Ziriork choked on his drink. He stared at Damien like he was insane.
"You don’t," Ziriork said.
"The Prince locked the downward gates a century ago. No one leaves Argentum. We are all trapped in this machine of a city ."
Damien’s eyes narrowed. "There is always a key."
"Well," Ziriork leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble.
"There is indeed a way, actually you’re quite lucky, Baron. You arrived at a... special time."
"Special?"
"Every fifty years," Ziriork whispered,
"The Platinum Prince gets bored and descends from his spire to hold an event."
"A competition between the factions. A trade of power."
Ziriork grinned, his iron teeth clashing.
"It starts in three days. The winner gets an audience. And the Prince grants one request."
"Anything, Wealth, power... or passage to the deeper layers."
Damien’s grip on the table tightened.
A wish from a 9th Order Entity. That was it. That was the path.
"What is this event called?" Damien asked, his cross-shaped pupils dilating with his King’s Intent.
Ziriork slammed his empty bucket down.
"It’s where fortunes are made and lives are sold..."
"A place where only the strongest bodies and sharpest minds make it to the next stage!"
"The Exchange!"
Damien smiled behind his mask.
"Oh?," Damien whispered. "It seems I need to prepare"
