Reincarnated in a novel: I am the villain!-Chapter 292: Bar Talk

[Location: The Melting Pot Inn – The Slag Heap]

Leaving the Exchange center, Damien wandered for a bit, before heading to the inn

And sure enough, just like before, the air inside the tavern was thick enough to chew.

Smoke, sweat, and the metallic tang of cheap rust-liquor filled the room, creating a haze that stung the eyes.

The noise was a constant, low-frequency roar of machinery and grumbling voices.

When Damien walked in, the noise dipped for a second.

The drifters, laborers, and cast-off demons of the Slag Heap eyed him. He was the "Solid" who had caused a scene ever since he arrived.

In a place where hope usually died at the door, he smelled like a variable, at least if nothing else he added some color to their daily lives.

For this, Damien ignored them. He adjusted his mask and walked straight to the corner booth where a massive shadow loomed.

Ziriork, the Ferro-Ogre, was nursing a fresh bucket of molten lead. His metallic skin, studded with rivets and natural armor plates, gleamed dully under the flickering mana lamps.

"You did it," Ziriork rumbled, not looking up. "I can smell the registration ink on you. And the stench of High-Grade Abyss Cores."

Damien sat down opposite the giant. The rusted bench groaned under his weight.

"It wasn’t cheap," Damien said, resting his elbows on the table.

"It never is," Ziriork took a swig of the glowing red liquid. Steam vented from his nose like a locomotive. "So, you’re really going through with it. You’re going to dance for the Prince."

"I need something he has," Damien said calmly. "And I don’t dance for anyone."

Ziriork laughed, a sound like grinding gears in a trash compactor.

"You newbies are always so confident." The Ogre leaned forward, the wooden table creaking in protest. His small, burning coal-eyes locked onto Damien’s mask.

"Listen to me, Zero. You think this is a fighting tournament? You think you just go in there, swing that white sword of yours, and take the prize?"

"Isn’t it?"

"No," Ziriork’s eyes hardened. "I’ve been stuck in this city for two hundred years. I’ve seen many Exchanges. I even participated in two of them."

Damien raised an eyebrow behind his mask. "And?"

"And I lost," Ziriork pointed to the massive, jagged scar running down his metallic chest. It looked like someone had tried to peel him open like a can.

"I lost because I thought strength was enough. But the Platinum Prince... he doesn’t care about strength. He has an army of 8th Order Dukes. He has the Silver Guard. He doesn’t need another soldier."

Ziriork held up three thick fingers, each one tipped with an iron claw.

"The Exchange has three stages. If you don’t understand them, you’ll be dead before you draw your weapon."

He folded one finger down.

"Stage One: The Appraisal."

"It’s an auction," Ziriork explained, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "But you don’t buy things. You sell yourself. You have to present something of value to the Five Dukes. An artifact. A secret. A skill. If they don’t bid on you, you are eliminated. Instantly."

Damien nodded slowly. Value, not surprising for considering how self centered everyone on this layer seemed

Ziriork folded the second finger.

"Stage Two: The Molding."

"This layer is made of mercury and liquid metal," Ziriork continued. "The second test is about control. They will put you in the Silver Sea. You have to force the metal to obey you. If your soul is weak, the metal will eat you. I’ve seen 7th Order Warlords drown because they had strong muscles but weak minds."

Damien’s lips curled into a smirk beneath his mask. Willpower? That is my specialty.

Ziriork folded the last finger, leaving a fist on the table.

"Stage Three: The Liquidation."

"Combat," Ziriork finished, downing the rest of his lead with a hiss. "But not in an arena. They drop the finalists into the Chrome Jungle. It’s a free-for-all. The last one standing... or the one who amasses the most ’Profit’ by stealing tokens from others... wins the audience."

Ziriork slammed the empty bucket down.

"Here is my advice, Zero. Don’t try to be the strongest in the room. There is always a bigger monster in the Abyss. Hell, the Dukes themselves are 8th Order."

The Ogre pointed a metal finger at Damien’s chest.

"Be the most Interesting. The Prince is immortal. He has seen empires rise and fall. He is bored out of his mind. If you can show him something he has never seen before... something that breaks the monotony of his eternity... he will give you the world."

Damien leaned back.

Novelty.

He thought about the blueprints in his head. The film projectors he had built with Hephaestus. The combustion engines. The "culture" of the Blue Star that he had weaponized on the Surface.

The Abyss was stagnant. It was powerful, but it was old and lacked innovation.

"Novelty," Damien whispered. "I can do novelty."

"Good," Ziriork grunted. "Because you have competition."

"Who?"

"The Diamond Faction," Ziriork warned, his voice dropping even lower. "Duke Adamas has a champion this year. A monster. They say it learns and adapts, it’s even called the ultimate life form behind closed doors."

Damien stood up. His cross-shaped pupil flashed Gold and Black.

"Oh so such a thing exists?" Damien adjusted his trench coat. "Sounds like a good show."

He turned to the stairs leading to his room.

"Thanks for the tip, Ziriork."

"Just win," the Ogre replied, staring into his empty bucket. "I bet fifty cores on you. Don’t make me lose my drinking money."

Damien paused on the first step.

"Fifty cores? You should have bet more."

He walked up the stairs.

"Because when the game starts... the price of ’Zero’ is going to skyrocket."

......

Author’s Note, a big shout-out to everyone reading so far as we near 300 Chapters, especially a big shout-out to the highest privilege readers like @Brice03 @Operativemojo @Ssy1 and anyone who reads this book in general, you guys are legends!!