The uses of a soul are manifold.
They can be consumed, a delicacy unto themselves. Placed in the "Nursery," souls hasten their metamorphosis into larvae.
They can be played with, for most malevolent beings harbor a perverse delight in toying with innocent souls—a predilection as innate as a cat's urge to bat with a mouse.
They can be read, like books. The thoughts of a soul rich with life experience can be perused by devils, who peer into lifetimes of memories, secrets buried deep, extracting them if they so wish, though such books are single-use. After a devil's perusal, most souls shatter.
They can be utilized, infused into dolls or golems by arcane arts, granting these otherwise dull constructs greater power and experience. Some powerful liches need but a strong soul and a suit of black armor to craft a fearsome dark knight.
With such myriad applications, it's no wonder the soul prism stands as the most robust currency of the Lower Planes.
The "Soul Stone Fabricator," akin to a massive, twisted coffee machine, is the tool that incarcerates souls into "cages," transforming lackluster purple crystals into radiant gems. Once imbued with a soul, these empty "cages" shimmer with a rainbow's brilliance under the light, the beautiful hues of trapped spirits.
For a devil, killing or destroying a person is simple, but capturing a soul intact is a far more complex affair.
Even for a mighty demon like Abaddon, it took considerable effort to preserve a father's soul intact. To keep Azazel's soul from the slightest damage (and, of course, to torment him), Abaddon even resorted to high-level magic.
What is difficult for others is trivial for Azazel. His blade, the Soul Cutter, currently houses over a hundred souls, those of the unfortunate mercenaries.
Though these mercenaries were not particularly powerful, their audacity to venture into Hell, even claiming a fortress, at least demonstrated their courage. Azazel roughly estimated the value of each mercenary soul to be between twenty to fifty gold coins. As for the three Templar Knights, each was worth at least three hundred gold coins.
All told, well, it's quite the sum—over three thousand gold coins.
Three thousand gold coins!
How long would it take to earn that sum by moving bodies? At a rate of one silver coin per month, it would take a hundred months to earn a hundred silver, which is one gold coin. Three thousand gold coins—how much would that be!
At that moment, Azazel wished for a calculator to tally up the zeroes.
"A calculator? Aren't you a college graduate?" Chi You interjected lazily from the depths of his soul.
"That's exactly why I need a calculator! I was great at math in high school," Azazel retorted with conviction.
"Perhaps consider it in terms of 'virginities'—it's easier. One virgin, one night, three gold coins. Three thousand gold coins would be the value of a thousand virgins' first nights!"
Azazel decided to ignore Chi You, who was becoming increasingly unscrupulous. He set about his work; after all, time is money.
In truth, the work was not strenuous, merely tediously repetitive. Azazel felt like a factory worker on an assembly line. The process was straightforward: place the purple crystal cages in their designated slots, then coax a soul from the Soul Cutter with care—importantly, without harming it. Once the soul was gently inserted into the funnel atop the "Soul Stone Fabricator," the lid was closed, and the cranking began. It was akin to operating an old-fashioned telephone crank. As the funnel spun, the soul seemed to be in a blender—albeit a specially designed one that wouldn't harm the soul. With continuous rotation, the soul was gradually pushed into the cage, a process taking about half an hour. After half an hour, Azazel's first soul prism was complete. Without pausing to celebrate, he moved on to the next.
Throughout the process, the souls screamed incessantly, some making all manner of promises to tempt Azazel, even bursting into song. They tried everything to distract him from his task. But for Azazel, now equating time with money, their pleas fell on deaf ears.
No wonder they say devils squeeze the soul; it does resemble juicing. Stir and stir, and money materializes.
Azazel shook his sore hands, lamenting, "Ah, the root of all evil, indeed. For its sake, I'm even trafficking souls."
Time flew, and it was only after he had caged the last soul that Azazel realized he had been working nonstop for three days.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, Azazel gazed at the neatly arranged one hundred and three soul prisms with a sense of accomplishment. It felt like a farmer at harvest time, looking out over fields of golden wheat. Azazel fancied he could see countless glistening calamity coins flying toward him—a truly gratifying sensation that filled him with a sense of achievement. Perhaps, he mused, this was the joy of labor.
Though devils scarcely need sleep, rest was necessary after prolonged exertion. Azazel found some sweet wine in the room and rested after drinking.
Upon awakening, the first thing Azazel did was play with the "Soul Prisms," arranging them into squares, triangles, pyramids, stacking them high. There were many ways to play. After having his fill, he stored the valuable little things in his belt and left the room, heading back to his bloody fortress.
An even more delightful task was at hand: spending.
Yugoloth merchants offered a variety of goods—weapons, materials, machines, women, information, all manner of slaves. Anything one could imagine, they could sell, provided one could afford the price.
Azazel had considered, if these merchants were not well-armed, simply plundering the Yugoloth traders. How wonderful it would be not to spend a coin. But after perusing the Book of Demons, he realized that while the deed was doable, the cost was too steep.
Robbery is a crime, even in Hell, with the distinction being that if it's a perfect crime, the perpetrator not only avoids punishment but is also praised and feared. However, if caught, the consequences are dire, not just from the victim's reprisal but from the legal proceedings alone.
Yugoloths have a racial trait that binds every merchant group (which typically operates as a consortium) with an invisible tether. Harm or deceive one, and all will know. These selfish Yugoloths won't help each other, but they'll mark you and wait for a chance to exact revenge. Thus, stabbing a Yugoloth in the back is ill-advised.
So, Azazel waited for the Yugoloth merchants' arrival, inspecting his fortress in the meantime.