Chapter 87 - CH: 85: Death Flower And It's Domain

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{Chapter: 85: Death Flower And It's Domain}

Dex could clearly feel it—the malicious intent oozing from every blooming death flower. Like silent sirens of doom, these unnatural blossoms radiated malevolence without reservation, their presence a blatant provocation against the natural order of the world.

Each flower whispered death with its curling petals, their veins pulsing faintly with necrotic energy. Wherever their roots took hold, life began to wilt, the soil turning black and brittle, the air heavy with a metallic tang that stung the lungs. Even the local insects avoided these plants as if guided by primal fear.

Over the course of more than a decade, Dex's plague had undergone numerous transformations. It had evolved—not just in virulence, but in complexity and purpose. Among the many terrifying upgrades it had received, one stood out above all others: [Corrosion of the World].

This effect was not simply destructive—it was dominative.

Through this ability, the power of [Death Plague – Death Flower] could seep into the very fabric of a world, reshaping entire regions to suit Dex's unique physiology and magical resonance. Like terraforming, but executed with plague and death instead of technology or nature. Wherever these flowers bloomed in sufficient numbers, imaginary reality began to bend.

Within these zones, Dex could move freely, unfettered by the pressure most demons face in alien dimensions. The world's natural laws, which typically resisted his presence like antibodies rejecting a virus, were now weakened—corroded at the roots by his spreading influence.

To Dex, this meant liberation.

For once, he could exert a significant portion of his strength without having to endure the world's relentless resistance—no more hiding in the shadows, no more pacing his growth to avoid triggering dimensional rejection. It brought him one step closer to freely roaming foreign realms in full power, a privilege few demons could boast of.

Invasion, after all, was an art.

If a demon wished to truly conquer another world—not just send nightmares or corrupted whispers across dimensions, but to step foot and claim dominion—then he needed to neutralize the world's natural immune system. That's what world resistance truly was: a defensive immune response of the realm will itself.

Should destruction grow too rampant without proper anchoring or subversion, world consciousness would react violently. The intruder would be expelled with terrifying force—if not annihilated altogether.

That's why transforming an away game into a home game was not just useful—it was essential.

Dex knew this well. His inherited memory, drawn from long-dead horrors and ancient blasphemers, was filled with arcane blueprints for rituals and plague patterns. Some were rituals drenched in blood and madness, others required rare catalysts like the heart of a dying god or the tears of a forgotten goddess. Most were excessively loud, unstable, or dependent on celestial alignments. And none of them truly fit his chaotic, practical nature.

He regarded those ancient methods not as instruction, but as lessons. Warnings, even. Their failures were more valuable than their limited successes.

So he chose another path.

Dex studied them, broke them down, and began crafting his own applications. Through trial, error, and sheer will, he began bending his [Death Plague – Death Flower] into something more subtle, more modular, more him. No loud ceremonies. No celestial sacrifices. Just his plague, slowly blooming like mold in a corner of the world until it devoured the entire room or cancer slowly spreading all over the body until it kills the body.

In a way, Dex was imposing his own Domain on the world through the field of Death Flowers.

Of course, none of this would be possible without his other powers—and his uncanny knack for unconventional breakthroughs.

He often joked to himself that inspiration struck not during meditation or solemn study, but while chewing on greasy chicken legs or casually beating up some arrogant townsfolk for sport. It was as if the chaos of real life offered the final missing variables that theory alone never could.

More than once, a half-formed idea lurking at the edge of his consciousness had solidified right after a chaotic encounter or mindless indulgence. It was a strange but dependable pattern.

"Genius," he mused one day, licking bone marrow from a roasted wing, "is 99% failure, 1% brilliance... but if you can cheat, you can skip all that and still win."

So Dex chose to cheat.

He embraced the absurd power of the evolution system—a mysterious, silent force that had grafted itself onto his very soul without fanfare or explanation. It offered upgrades, mutations, and insights that defied all traditional logic. There was no voice, no will, no guidance. Just a presence that gave options, then stepped back.

Dex didn't know what the system truly was. Perhaps an artifact. A divine mistake. A prank from a bored outer god.

But did it matter?

It had never hurt him. Never forced his hand. It wasn't even sentient as far as he could tell. It simply offered—like a vending machine with endless options, and no price tag in sight.

Others might have been cautious. Paranoid. Screaming about traps and manipulation.

Dex? He shrugged.

"If this is bait," he often said, "then what's the hook supposed to catch? I'm no golden fish. I'm barely a poisonous frog. Seems a waste of effort."

After all, what could a cosmic-level higher dimensional manipulator possibly want from him that warranted such elaborate setup? There were easier ways to crush an insect than to fatten it with god-tier power. If someone had poisoned the divine fruit to kill him, then they were playing the long game very inefficiently.

To Dex, this meant one thing: Use what you're given. Exploit every angle. Don't ask too many questions.

If a time came where he had to pay the price? Then he'd pay it. Hopefully with interest.

Until then, he'd grow.

Because even if he were stripped bare—his body shattered, his magic stolen, his mind fractured—he still had something that could never be taken away.

Knowledge.

With his current understanding of plague theory, magical biology, ritual encoding, and interdimensional theory, he could re-establish himself from scratch.

He could become a spellcaster, a blood warrior, a runesmith, or something new entirely. Give him a month, maybe a week. Give him a staff and a target.

That confidence was his true foundation.

Not the death flowers.

Not the system.

Not even his demonic heritage.

But his unrelenting will to learn and adapt.

Dex smiled faintly as he knelt beside a patch of newly bloomed death flowers. Their petals twitched at his presence, sensing the touch of their master. The soil beneath his feet bubbled slightly—alive, diseased, and loyal.

He reached out, brushing his fingers along the black and crimson petals. A whisper of rot passed over his skin, but he welcomed it. This was his world, now—at least in this patch of stolen ground.

"Let's keep going," he murmured to no one in particular, "Let's bloom bigger next time."

He stood, stretching his limbs. Somewhere nearby, a city still thrived. Mortals carried on their lives unaware that death had begun to root beneath their feet.

They would see soon enough.

And Dex would be watching, flower in hand, eager to see how the story unfolded.

*****

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