Ganzaleth pulled Azazel aside into a corner, "Listen, Azazel, your loyalty pleases me; it's clear you're a natural devil, understanding of obedience. We've only known each other a few days, but I want you to know I care about you. We're both devils, after all. So, I'll get straight to the point: have you drunk from the River Styx?"
"The River Styx? Why would I drink that stuff; isn't it undrinkable?" Azazel replied, puzzled.
This time, it was Ganzaleth who was shocked, as if he were faced with the disbelief of winning a fortune: "Gods above, you really did drink from the River Styx! And you don't even know what it does! Poor fellow, even the elf and the human here know not to touch the waters of the Styx." Ganzaleth sighed after witnessing Azazel's cluelessness and continued, "The Styx holds immense power. A mere splash can deeply affect you, and if you can't resist its power, you'll forget everything—your faith, your place, your duties. Some even forget their own gender. Even if you do resist, you'd still lose all memory of the day's events. No wonder! It all makes sense now. It was strange how you, clearly not a low-ranking devil, seemed to know so little about the first layer of Hell as if it was your first time here. Poor soul, you probably aren't too familiar with your own body either."
"Of course, I know my body; I am a man."
How could I have forgotten? So much has happened these past few days—passionate nights with a seductive succubus, the forging of the Blade, and Caitlyn.
How could I possibly forget?
Ganzaleth nodded in agreement, "Yes, you are a man! You've not forgotten or mistaken your own sex, that's good. But do you know the powers you possess as a middle-ranking, um, soon-to-be middle-ranking devil?"
Of course, Azazel didn't know; he had only been a devil for a few days.
Ah, interesting.
Despite the misunderstanding, Ganzaleth clearly believed Azazel had lost his memory. Azazel vaguely felt telling the truth—that he was not amnesiac but a complete novice—would bring him no advantage. Yet, he had no desire to deceive; no special reason, perhaps it was just Azazel's nature. He liked to deceive, but deceiving just didn't feel right.
So, scratching his head, Azazel pointed towards a vast, murky river in the distance and asked, "The River Styx you mentioned, is that it?"
The two looked towards where Azazel was pointing. A turbid, blood-red river flowed sluggishly into the horizon, joined by countless streams of blood that fed into this mythical waterway.
Ganzaleth confirmed with a nod, "Yes, that foul-smelling river is the River Styx. The Acheron, the Lethe, it has many names. No one knows where it begins, but it flows through the entirety of the lower planes. Alright, I suspect there's a lot more basic information you need to know. Time is short, so I'll explain, and you do your best to remember."
"Thank you. That's exactly what I need right now—I feel like I'm lacking common sense." Azazel chuckled honestly. He wasn't deceiving anyone. But Ganzaleth unhesitatingly believed what Azazel wanted him to believe. Azazel thought to himself that from now on, he could proudly claim: I never deceive anyone; deception is wrong. It's just a little misdirection now and then, no harm in that.
Under Ganzaleth's guidance, Azazel learned swiftly, not just the common knowledge of Hell but also mastery over his new physical capabilities. These weren't like the magical arts that took years to master; Azazel now had a robust, powerful devilish body and abilities, having evolved from the blood cocoon only days ago. Potent forces lay dormant within him, and he had no clue how to harness them. Ganzaleth merely served as a guide, helping Azazel acknowledge his powers and feel their might. With some training, Azazel quickly became adept at utilizing these skills.
As the ancient sages of Shenzhou said, knowing others and knowing oneself ensures victory in every battle.
Recognizing the enemy is as vital as recognizing oneself, perhaps even more so in some respects. Azazel surveyed his new body and assessed himself internally.
His new devilish form came with abilities common to most devils, which, though widespread, could be quite useful if applied correctly.
First, there was his formidable physical strength. Azazel could now tear through moderately thick metal plates with his bare hands and pierce rock as easily as tofu.
His resistance to fire was exceptional; barring top-tier spells like Dragon's Breath, ordinary flames posed little threat to him. Even placed on a roast, he remained unscathed.
Most toxins and diseases were equally ineffective against Azazel's new body. Early on, he realized this when Skarl, the leader of the Dustmen, concocted a potent poison to kill him—a virulent plague so lethal that Caitlyn had remarked a sneeze from the afflicted Azazel could decimate a nation.
Even after evolving in the blood cocoon, the diseases and toxins hadn't disappeared; they had simply become a part of Azazel during his transformation. Now, ordinary poisons could not harm him. Moreover, due to these toxins, Azazel found he could secrete a colorless, tasteless venom from his tail, though he had yet to ascertain its precise effects without further testing.
His ability to see in the dark was now flawless; no spell of darkness could obscure Azazel's vision, which was a stark contrast to his previous life where he couldn't function without glasses.
Then there was the aura of evil that perpetually surrounded Azazel, an ability he found extremely beneficial post-transformation. The evil aura had a broad reach, and any enemy within its influence naturally began to distrust their allies, leading to paranoia. A unit could not maintain cohesion under such influence, with mages growing suspicious, thinking, "Why did that arrow get through? Weren't the warriors supposed to block them all? Was it intentional?" And warriors might question, "Why should I protect the mage behind me? Are they more noble than I am?" Such doubts would shatter unity, and the first iron law of Hell was unity.
Of course, there were also the wings on his back, which allowed Azazel short flights. But having wings didn't automatically grant flight; Azazel needed to practice, much like a fledgling bird learning to soar.
There was also his power of summoning, the ability to call forth a devil to aid him in battle. Regrettably, Azazel had no friends or subordinates to answer his call, rendering this ability currently useless.
Lastly, there was the blade at Azazel's waist. Its blade, previously only two fingers wide and gleaming bright, had now turned dark and shiny. Swinging it often produced cries of lament from the air it sliced, and its black spikes protruding from the guard made it even more menacing.
Azazel had a small dispute with Gideon over the name of this blade. Azazel thought the name 'Wubing,' or 'Weapon Soldier,' lacked grandeur. He believed his sword deserved a more impactful name.
"But it's supposed to be called that! It's vivid, direct. That's how we used to name things."
"I think 'Emperor of Flames' has a nice ring to it. 'Emperor of Flames,' how grand. Why couldn't you have chosen a more striking name back then, instead of something so ordinary?"
'Emperor of Flames,' grand? Hardly! He was called that because he taught people to make fire, to burn the land, then farm the scorched earth. That's why they called him 'Emperor of Flames.' And the old sense of 'emperor' differs greatly from the modern one. You know, emperor means 'a great and good person.' So, 'Emperor of Flames' just means 'a great and good person who likes to play with fire!'"
"A great and good person who likes to play with fire, indeed vivid and direct. So, the ancient 'emperor' was like a public servant? How did they become so elevated later on?"
"Is that hard to comprehend? Not at all strange. After all, public servants always end up riding over the people. To throw a punch, you must first pull back your fist; to leap up, you must first crouch down. Why would someone become your servant for no reason? Are they a fool?"
Azazel was speechless. After thinking it over, indeed, that seemed to be the truth. But such discussions were pointless, so he said nothing more. After a while, Azazel declared, "I've decided to call this sword 'Soulblade.'"
"I told you, 'Weapon Soldier' was a fine name. Wasn't the name I chose easy to remember and full of ancient charm, showing that you don't forget where you come from?"
"Soulblade is also good—a blade composed of souls. Just like you said, 'vivid and direct.' It's decided then; it shall be Soulblade!"
"You're truly a forgetful person!"
"Didn't you realize that long ago?"