This Isn't an E*otic Game?-Chapter 105: Corruption Not Allowed

Satan started to panic.

That damn saint bastard seemed to have realized it, too.

That he couldn’t be killed.

Why?

The torture the saint had just endured—it was the kind of pain no ordinary human could possibly survive.

It was stranger that he hadn’t broken.

‘Does he want to die?’

If there’s anything more terrifying to a human than death, it’s the destruction of the soul.

Permanent erasure.

Not Heaven. Not Hell. Just total, eternal nonexistence.

There wasn’t a single being who didn’t fear that.

And yet the one in front of him—what the hell even was he?

Watching that wreck of a body still trying to swing back as if it wanted to die, Satan realized his entire plan was crumbling to dust.

He was the Demon Lord of Wrath.

His specialty was violence and merciless slaughter.

In other words, if his opponent wasn’t afraid of violence or slaughter—if they were a lunatic desperate to die—then his specialty meant absolutely nothing.

“[Sa...tan!! Hurry!!]”

Asmodeus’s rampage seemed to be growing.

Apparently, she was becoming impossible to restrain—pained groans escaped from both Belphegor and Leviathan.

There was no more time to hesitate.

Satan summoned his cursed sword, Baltaluch, once again and gripped it tight.

“[I’ll respect your choice. Don’t regret it.]”

Satan charged forward.

The saint tried to create a weapon using time-stop, but with his ruined body, he couldn’t even hold it properly.

This was Satan’s authority.

His wrath eats away at the flesh.

Not even Asmodeus’s divine power could heal it.

To mend those wounds, she’d have to unleash even more of her authority than she already had—but doing that would destroy the saint’s body completely.

That was also why the three Demon Lords were fighting in the human world instead of their own.

The saint’s pitiful defense was blown away instantly by Satan’s strike.

Satan slammed the saint’s body to the ground, then pressed his foot down hard on him.

Baltaluch plunged into the saint’s leg.

With the stench of burning flesh, the saint screamed in agony.

“[Give up. Give up!! Just give up already!! Take my hand!! You don’t want more pain, do you?! I know it hurts! You feel it, don’t you?! Like your soul’s being torn apart!! Take my hand!! Take it!!]”

Satan bellowed.

He ramped up the power of Baltaluch even further.

With the sound of searing meat, the saint’s scream grew even more frenzied.

The pain made him bite down so hard that his teeth shattered, and blood poured from his clenched fists.

Satan prayed desperately inside.

He hadn’t felt this powerless in all his long life.

“[Take it!! Saint Amayel!! I don’t want to hurt you anymore!!]”

If this went on, the saint might actually die.

And that would be a disaster.

He didn’t want to experience another catastrophe like the one 300 years ago.

Satan pulled the sword from the saint’s leg.

The saint, gasping for breath and unable even to pass out due to Satan’s authority, looked up at him with a face twisted in anguish.

“Just... fucking kill me already, you bastard. Hurry up and kill me!!”

Satan was speechless.

What the hell was he supposed to do now?

He raised Baltaluch.

Where should he strike this time?

His arm?

His stomach?

Should he roast the saint’s face?

But what if he died from the pain?

The saint’s condition was far from stable.

His heart was pounding so fast Satan thought his brain might burst. His shattered teeth and convulsing body—one more burst of pain and he could easily die from shock.

“Kill me!! Please!! Kill me!! Stab me with that sword!!”

Unable to endure the blazing pain from his melted leg, the saint screamed for death.

Satan couldn’t swing the sword.

“[Goddamn it!! Belphegor!!]”

Satan looked toward the Demon Lord of Sloth.

Belphegor rushed over.

One of Asmodeus’s arms had broken free, and she tried to reach out toward the saint, but Satan caught her in time.

A painful groan escaped Satan’s mouth.

Asmodeus’s power was becoming too much for him to handle.

“[Amayel!! Amayel!!]”

Asmodeus thrashed violently.

Each time she did, Talhaim’s Rock Mountain shook as if an earthquake had hit.

Her black left wing trembled fiercely.

Lucifer was desperately trying to control it, doing everything he could to keep Asmodeus in check.

But considering he was holding off the entire Pantheon’s interference as well, even Lucifer had to be reaching his limit.

“[Belphegor!! Hurry and corrupt him!! Right now!!]”

Leviathan shrieked with desperation.

Belphegor lunged toward the saint, who lay collapsed on the ground.

Her hand turned black.

“[It’s not the way I like to do things... but right now, even I don’t have a choice.]”

Belphegor gently picked up the saint, who was still conscious, still gasping in agony, unable to pass out or die.

Her hand had turned pitch black.

“[Don’t worry. It’ll feel better soon.]”

Her fingers sank into his head as easily as pressing into tofu.

They slid into the saint’s mind.

Satan and Leviathan’s faces lit up.

That’s it.

This was Belphegor.

The same Belphegor who had corrupted more humans than anyone else during the Celestial War.

There was no way she’d fail.

There was no way she couldn’t corrupt the soul of a single human.

“[Belphegor!! Do it!!.........]”

The two Demon Lords shouted with joy—

“[Ah... what the...]”

A deflated whisper escaped from Belphegor’s lips.

****

Inside the saint’s mind, Belphegor was watching his life.

Memories of the journey he shared with Kanya.

Memories of running all over the Scrap Yard, trying to save people.

Memories of being semi-forcibly seduced by three women.

Memories of moving to save the twin princesses.

Memories of agonizing over how to rescue the witch Erfa.

Memories of being treated like a burden by the prophecy-bound Jericho family.

And then—

Earlier memories began to flow into Belphegor’s vision.

From that moment on, she began reading them in chronological order, not reverse.

To corrupt a human, she had to know his past in meticulous detail.

Only by understanding him could she corrupt him.

Belphegor’s mind rapidly scanned the saint’s history.

She witnessed the moment he was born.

She saw him growing up under ordinary parents, spending a quiet, average childhood.

Apparently, he hadn’t been a particularly gifted child.

“Ma’am, Minkyoo’s grades... they’re not that good. With these scores, it’s going to be hard for him to get into a decent university.”

As he entered adolescence, his memories began to darken.

Belphegor focused in on that part.

Pain and suffering.

Trauma and scars.

Those were the most essential memories for corrupting a human.

One snowy winter day...

The saint tasted the first bitter failure of his life.

“I think I screwed up. I kind of winged the Korean section, but I totally bombed the math. I don’t think I’ll get into college.”

Belphegor watched from the backseat of a kind of car she’d never seen before, as the saint sat there on the ride home, his voice trembling, about to cry.

“Son! Don’t worry! You’ll just try again next year!”

“Yeah, don’t be so hard on yourself. Let’s go out for dinner. I made a reservation.”

His parents’ comfort caused the color of the memory to brighten ever so slightly.

But not long after, that memory was swallowed up by a suffocating blackness again.

A pitch-black shade that Belphegor would’ve absolutely adored.

“It was a heart attack. If he’d been found even a minute earlier...”

The saint’s father collapsed.

And just like that, he quietly passed away.

The shock of the sudden death was something the saint’s mother couldn’t overcome.

Her health deteriorated rapidly—brutally, in no time at all.

“Minkyoo... don’t worry too much, okay? I’ll get better soon, and somehow, we’ll figure it out...”

She smiled as she spoke, but the saint couldn’t smile with her.

“This isn’t the time for me to be studying for exams, Mom. We’ve still got debts. I’ll figure something out for your medical bills.”

It felt like he had just given up on something big.

The saint began to work.

He took whatever jobs he could get, earning money however he could.

In a brutal, endlessly repeating cycle of hardship and exhaustion...

The saint’s memories darkened further and further.

They were being stained in a grimy, suffocating shade of black.

But despite everything the saint did to try and save her—his mother didn’t make it much longer.

Barely a year after his father died, the saint lost his mother, too.

Without even the time to properly grieve, he was forced to keep pushing through reality.

Even with his parents dead, he still had to work.

Busy, painful, grueling days piled up endlessly on the saint’s back.

Belphegor instinctively realized: this was the critical branching point of his life.

When this much pain and suffering stacks up, a human breaks.

Very few survive it.

It was time for him to shatter.

And if she could precisely replicate the point where he broke and twisted—his mind would collapse, unable to endure.

Then he’d become Belphegor’s little toy.

Belphegor smiled, delicately savoring the saint’s /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ memories as if admiring a work of art.

And then—

There was a fire at the place where the saint worked.

Belphegor watched the moment of his end.

“We have to get out!! Now!! Hurry!!”

The saint was evacuating children.

They were academy kids inside the building he was working security for.

The saint frantically ran throughout the building, finding and guiding out every child who hadn’t escaped.

He tore off his clothes, soaked them in water, and wrapped them around the last child as he carried them out.

And in that moment—

The ceiling collapsed, and rubble came crashing down.

The saint threw the child.

And was crushed beneath the debris instead.

“Mister...?”

“Go!! Now!! I’ll get out myself, just run!!”

The child sobbed but managed to escape the burning building.

The saint struggled to crawl out from under the wreckage.

But it was heavier than he expected. He couldn’t move.

“Fuck!! Why are you doing this to me?! What the hell did I do to deserve this?!”

His mind going hazy from the smoke, the saint screamed through tears.

“Why the fuck... to me...”

That was the end.

The saint’s memory cut off.

Belphegor remained silent for a long time.

He was the hardest kind of human to corrupt.

Someone who, despite a wretched, pitiful life full of suffering, still chose kindness in the end.

It was actually easier to corrupt someone who had lived a perfectly good life.

Because underneath that perfection was always suppressed resentment and anger.

But this man—this being—was impossible.

He was kinder than anyone, and yet didn’t believe he was kind.

He lived on, constantly blaming himself for not being perfect.

Lived on, mistaking his own essence—his own truth.

Someone like that was almost impossible to corrupt.

Belphegor felt her will deflate.

Even horrifying tragedy and monstrous reality couldn’t change the saint’s soul or mind.

Instead of cursing the world, he chose to do what little good he could.

[.......How... how am I supposed to...]

If she had more time, maybe it wouldn’t have been impossible.

But that was the problem.

Belphegor didn’t have more time.

“[Damn it!! Belphegor!!]”

Satan and Leviathan screamed.

[You worthless fucking morons!!]

Lucifer’s voice shrieked into the air.

“[Amayel!!]”

With Asmodeus’s shout, her divine power flared up explosively.

And then—

[You arrogant little bastard. Blocking my sight just so you can pull this shit?]

A voice rose from the abyss.

It was the cry of the Mad God of the Pit—

Abaddon had begun to speak.