Chapter 573: Getting to Know Last Night
The portal closed behind them with a muffled roar, as if the very air had been ripped from the world.
The cold came first.
It wasn’t the natural chill of the absence of heat, but the kind that seemed to bite into the soul. The wind blowing from the plains of Last Night carried the whisper of a thousand lost voices, mingled with the distant sound of chains, hammers, and screams muffled by the depths.
Vergil lifted his chin and looked around.
Before him, the horizon stretched as far as the eye could see: a vast expanse of black and gray rocks, riven by rivers of liquid metal that ran like pulsing veins. The sky was a swirl of shadows, starless, only blue lightning that writhed within the clouds like hungry creatures trying to escape.
And at the center of it all, rising like a monumental scar, was The Mouth of the Abyss—a crater so deep it seemed to swallow the light, spewing out instead a dense, blue vapor made of pure Void energy.
Around it, like the layers of a doomed empire, sprawled the city: Last Night, the mining heart of the Underworld.
Vergil took a deep breath. “Well… I must admit.” He observed the metal towers and the tracks winding up the slopes. “I expected something… less functional and more, shall we say, apocalyptic.”
Amon walked beside him in silence. His boots touched the ground unhurriedly, and even with the weight of the hellish air around him, he seemed untouched, as if the world simply bent over backwards to avoid disturbing him.
“Ingrid Asmoday rules this territory,” he said, without looking away. “She’s not the kind of demon who likes extravagance.”
Vergil arched an eyebrow. “Ingrid Asmoday.” The name rang in his mouth with a curious note. “Is that the countess you mentioned?”
“That’s right.”
“Countess…” Vergil repeated, giving a slight, ironic smile. “And you said she’s powerful, right?”
Amon finally turned his head, his gaze impassive. “Strong enough to be called the Demon Queen,” he replied, with a calmness that only made the title more impressive. “But she never cared about that.”
Vergil laughed, a hint of incredulity. “So you gave her the title of ‘countess’? How generous of you.”
Amon continued walking, indifferent. “I offered her the title of queen. She refused. She said ‘queens have too much responsibility and too little freedom.’ So I gave her the title of countess, which she also didn’t ask for—but at least she agreed not to kill me for insisting.”
“Oh, what a drama, Amon,” Vergil commented, hands in his pockets. “As if anyone would kill you.”
Amon gave a soft grunt, somewhere between a suppressed laugh and a silent warning.
They followed a wide road paved with blocks of dark ore, reflecting the distant lightning. Demons worked on the slopes—some with bodies covered in glowing runes, others pulling carts filled with Void Ore, that impossible material that seemed to absorb all light around it.
Vergil watched with a mixture of curiosity and appreciation.
“So this is where most of the infernal weaponry comes from, right?” he asked, averting his gaze to a colossal forge nearby. The heat was so intense it warped the air. “Impressive.”
“Yes,” Amon replied. “Void Ore is the backbone of the Underworld. Ingrid discovered how to refine it without causing dimensional ruptures.”
Vergil glanced at him. “Refining nothingness,” he murmured. “That’s… poetic, somehow.”
Amon didn’t answer, just kept walking.
Vergil walked at the same pace, hands in his pockets, his coat flapping in the cold wind.
“You seem very comfortable here,” he commented with a slight smile. “One of the rulers of the Underworld, walking among miners and demons without even a bodyguard. Almost… humble.”
Amon looked ahead, his face expressionless. “Many things are resolved simply by being humble.”
Vergil gave a short laugh. “Humility?” he asked, amused. “It’s not something a demon should have.”
Amon stopped. He turned to him, and for a moment the air around him seemed to thicken.
“It depends on what kind of demon.”
Vergil met his gaze and, after a second, smiled. “Touched.”
They continued walking, the sound of their boots echoing among the metallic echoes of the mines.
Along the way, Vergil observed everything carefully: the elevators descending through the crevices, the tracks transporting ore, the control towers surrounded by winged watchmen. The city wasn’t pretty—it was practical, brutal, living. An organism made of sweat, fire, and raw energy.
Demons stopped discreetly when they saw Amon pass. Some bowed, others looked away in silent reverence.
Vergil noticed.
“They respect you,” he commented casually.
“They fear chaos,” Amon replied emotionlessly. “And they know that, as long as I exist, chaos has its limits.”
Vergil nodded and looked into the vastness ahead. “Funny. I always thought the Underworld was chaos.”
Amon replied calmly, “No. The Underworld is balance. Chaos is what comes from above—from the gods.”
Vergil chuckled softly. “A philosophical touch, Amon. You should write a book.”
Amon ignored him.
The two of them continued for a few more minutes, the path becoming narrower, lined with black pillars that seemed to melt and reform, as if reality itself trembled in that territory.
The sound of the forges grew distant, replaced by an eerie silence, broken only by the rush of wind from the Abyss.
Vergil felt the energy of the place press against his senses. The air was heavy, dense, almost alive. Every breath felt like a pact.
“I can understand why you chose this woman to oversee this area,” he said, surveying his surroundings. “It’s the kind of place anyone would lose their sanity.”
Amon replied simply. “Ingrid never had a sanity to lose.”
Vergil laughed. “I liked her already.”
Then, in the distance, the towers of the Main Mansion began to appear.
It stood on the edge of the cliff, overlooking the colossal crater of the Abyss. A castle of living obsidian, with towers twisting in opposite directions, connected by narrow bridges and suspended passages. The windows emanated a constant reddish light, and from the center ran a trail of energy that descended straight into the void—as if the mansion itself were feeding the Abyss.
Vergil whistled. “Well, well… it seems the countess enjoys a good view.”
“She says the Abyss makes her sleep better,” Amon replied, climbing the steps to the main entrance.
Vergil looked back at the crater. The energy emanating from it was almost hypnotic, as if calling to him, whispering in a language he barely recognized.
“I don’t doubt it,” he murmured, looking away.
When they reached the double doors—two enormous slabs of blackened metal with arcane inscriptions in pulsating red—Amon merely raised a hand.
The runes reacted, opening with a metallic roar.
The doors opened with a deep, metallic roar, echoing through the corridors like suppressed thunder. From the other side, a wave of hot, dry air invaded the room—the smell of burnt iron, sulfur, and bitter incense mingled in a perfume typical of Last Night.
The interior of the mansion was as grand as it was oppressive. The floor was polished black marble, reflecting the flames of torches that floated on the walls. Enchanted chains arced from the ceiling, conducting energy crystals that served as lamps. Everything was functional yet artistically brutal—a perfect fusion of power and demonic order.
As soon as Amon crossed the threshold, three figures immediately appeared in the main hall.
Servants.
A tall demon with gray skin and ember eyes was the first to react. He fell to his knees so quickly the impact echoed. Two others—a demon in a crimson uniform and a scribe with small wings—followed suit, lowering their heads until they nearly touched the floor.
“Lord Amon…!” the demon said, her voice trembling. “It is an indescribable honor to welcome you to Last Night!”
Amon simply nodded, calm and unhurried.
Vergil, a few steps behind, crossed his arms and watched the scene with an arched eyebrow.
“Funny,” he murmured, low enough for only Amon to hear. “I enter with the supreme ruler of the Underworld, and not a single glance at me.”
Amon didn’t respond, just kept walking.
The servants parted, their heads still lowered. When one of them dared to look up, his entire body stiffened—not in fear, but in pure doubt. His eyes fixed on Vergil for a moment, but nothing in his expression changed. An outsider? A guest? It didn’t matter. The protocol was clear: no one mattered more than Amon.
Vergil noticed. One corner of his mouth lifted in a crooked smile. “I should charge you for this lesson in humility,” he commented quietly.
“You’re already being paid in experience.” “Amon,” Amon replied impassively, walking toward the main corridor.
The sound of footsteps echoed off the walls. Each of Amon’s steps felt heavy, solid, as if marking territory. Vergil followed effortlessly, his gaze wandering over the carvings and runes that moved discreetly on the metal walls, changing shape as if they had a consciousness.
They climbed the first flights of stairs. The side columns were adorned with infernal symbols in liquid silver, pulsing in a steady rhythm. Vergil noticed that each step seemed to whisper as he stepped—perhaps vigilance runes, perhaps souls sealed there.
“What a cozy home,” Vergil commented, his voice thick with irony. “I can only imagine the parties she throws.”
“Ingrid isn’t one for parties,” Amon replied. “The last few ended in executions.”
Vergil gave a short laugh. “Ah, so she’s the fun type.”