This Isn’t an E*otic Game?

Mammon had already infiltrated Scrap Yard by dividing his followers into two factions.

One faction had wormed its way among the factory owners, relentlessly stoking their insatiable greed.

The other had embedded itself among the labor theorists, endlessly fueling their revolutionary fervor and rage.

Once these opposing forces reached their breaking point and collided, the resulting explosion would ignite a civil war—one designed to drag on indefinitely.

And it wouldn’t stop here.

There was a high probability that the entire empire would descend into chaos, torn apart by the struggle between capitalists and labor theorists.

Mammon intended to bask in that anarchy, gorging himself on the souls and grudges that would rain down amidst the power-hungry and greed-driven slaughter.

But the most critical part of his plan was ensuring that his true identity remained hidden.

Mammon needed only to pull the strings from the shadows, feasting on the hatred that festered in the wake of his manipulations.

Unlike Satan of Wrath, who preferred to charge headfirst into battle with the Celestial Pantheon, or Leviathan of Envy, who thrived on direct confrontation, Mammon had found a far safer, far more profitable method.

That was why his followers, too, had taken every possible precaution to avoid exposure.

They had been meticulous—careful not to provoke the Celestial Pantheon, cautious not to attract the imperial family's attention. They had spent years ensuring their secrecy…

And yet.

And yet.

“What the fuck are you guys? Why isn’t my ability working on you?”

The Saint unfastened his belt, gripping it tightly as he spoke in a murderous tone. His words alone were enough to make the followers’ faces twist in despair.

What the hell was going on?

It was as if time had stopped—the entire room remained eerily still, devoid of movement. Only they and the Saint existed in this frozen world, the sole beings capable of action.

“You filthy bastards. You were deliberately egging Kal Lenaro on, planning to make him spill blood, weren’t you? You intended to soak this place in death, offering the resulting resentment and souls to the one you serve, right?”

The Saint’s voice was thick with rage, and the followers’ eyes darted wildly.

They were confused—overwhelmingly so—but their instincts told them they needed to act fast.

“Mammon! Grant us your power!”

A crimson dagger, conjured entirely from blood, materialized in each of their hands.

Then, without hesitation, they lunged at the Saint.

Their cover was blown—there was no other choice.

Revealing themselves would undoubtedly draw the attention of the Celestial Pantheon and the imperial family, but it was already too late. Now, the only option left was to eliminate the Saint.

They infused their bodies with dark magic, strengthening their muscles with unholy reinforcement. The enchanted daggers they held carried a curse potent enough to harm even a soul directly.

To them, the Saint seemed like easy prey.

The space was cramped, like a narrow alleyway, the perfect environment for assassins like them. They had killed countless people in conditions just like this—sneaking through the slums, cursing their victims in secret, snuffing out lives before anyone could cry for help.

And judging by the Saint’s soft features and clueless demeanor, he was the type who had never been in a real fight before.

There was no way he could win.

But the very next moment—

“Alright then. Let’s fucking do this, you pieces of shit.”

With a sharp crack, the belt sliced through the air.

And in an instant, the followers’ teeth were flying.

****

Mammon.

That was a name I recognized.

Of course.