{Chapter: 188: Peacemaker}
This city was the very embodiment of what one might expect from a classic Western fantasy novel.
The architecture lining both sides of the street carried the distinct aesthetic of Earth's Western Middle Ages—stone masonry, wooden beams, sloped tiled roofs, and buildings stacked tightly together. But here, the execution was leagues beyond the crude simplicity of Earth's history. Everything was more refined, more intricate. The carvings were masterful, the colors bold but tasteful, and even the way light caught the glass windows spoke of skilled craftsmanship.
It had a touch of fantasy grandeur infused into every detail.
Still, Dex couldn't help but draw comparisons. This place, impressive as it was, paled when measured against the large cities in the heart of the wizarding world—places where towering spires pierced the sky and magical constructs wove into the very air, blending the arcane with something almost futuristic. Some cities there bore elements that felt closer to science fiction than sorcery.
And compared to the terrifying splendor of the bottomless abyss—the lava wastelands where demonic cities rose out of molten rock and the capital's obsidian walls towered tens of thousands of meters into the air—this quaint, bustling city was still just a minor landmark.
But even so, it wasn't bad.
The city had an orderly street layout, clearly planned and maintained. Public infrastructure—stone drainage channels, lamp posts, signs written in multiple languages—was all in place. There was a balance between beauty and function.
At the very least, Dex didn't have to worry about walking under a balcony and having a bucket of waste dumped on his head, like in Earth's filth-ridden Middle Ages.
No open sewers. No stench of decay. No clouds of flies buzzing above the gutters. Civilization had indeed progressed.
This wasn't the result of a few years of careful city planning, but the culmination of countless centuries of growth. Some kingdoms in this world had lineages that could trace back tens of thousands of years—longer than all of Earth's human civilizations combined.
What allowed such kingdoms to endure for so long, uninterrupted by revolution or collapse?
Power.
True, absolute, unshakable power.
With the existence of supernatural forces, the ruling class held a vast advantage. Even a low-ranked knight could massacre a hundred armed peasants with ease. When strength was so one-sided, rebellion became fantasy.
The idea that "kings, generals, ministers and nobles all come from the people" simply did not apply here.
Some people were born superior—stronger, faster, gifted by blood or fate.
Some people are indeed born nobler than others.
Born much stronger than ordinary people.
Even without a day of training, a noble's child might awaken powers far beyond what any commoner could dream of. One slap from such a child could send an adult flying. One tantrum could flatten a house.
It was this natural gap that forged the class divisions of this world. And they ran deep.
The son of a blacksmith was almost destined to be a blacksmith. The daughter of a stable hand would likely spend her life with horses and a daughter of whore still won't be able to escape from her fate becoming just another whore.
Only the rarest exceptions ever broke free of this cycle. One in a hundred. One in a thousand. One in ten thousand.
No one knew the exact number. But everyone knew it was low.
Still, unlike the hopeless rigidity of a caste system based on dogmatic beliefs, this world offered something more dangerous—hope.
Because now and then, someone would rise. A nobody. A commoner. A civilian genius. And when it happened, it ignited the dreams of countless others.
Even if the odds were slim, the very possibility drove people to push harder, clawing for a chance to become something more.
The dream dangled in front of them like a carrot on a string. Just close enough to see, but never easy to reach.
As Dex strolled down a well-maintained cobbled street, his sharp gaze swept over the people and places around him. His first rough estimate placed the city's population easily in the millions. That was no small figure, even compared to modern Earth metropolises.
And that was just the visible surface. Who knew how many more lived underground, in hidden guilds, or tucked into the shadows of alleyways and secrets?
He chuckled to himself and reminded himself of his motto: Don't make trouble unless there's fun to be had.
Today didn't feel like a good day for chaos.
Most of the shops hadn't opened yet—probably because it was still early morning. A few vendors had carts of steaming bread or hot soup, calling to passers-by, while shopkeepers yawned as they prepared their stalls for the day's commerce.
The handful of open establishments were focused on breakfast foods or fresh goods deliveries. After wandering for a while, Dex felt his interest begin to wane.
But food… food was always worth trying.
With casual curiosity, he picked a street vendor selling something unfamiliar—a savory pastry, perhaps, or some kind of stuffed meat roll wrapped in leaves. He didn't bother asking what it was. With a few coins tossed to the merchant, he took the snack and wandered off to find a quiet place to sit.
Crossing his legs on a bench near a decorative fountain, he began to eat.
And as he did, he noticed something.
Despite his low-key behavior—people were still staring.
Maybe it was the way he carried himself. Maybe it was the way he sat, relaxed and confident, as if he owned the street.
Or maybe it was his face. His presence. The subtle aura around him.
Even without trying, Dex seemed… different.
Cool.
He didn't mind the stares. Let them look. He was used to it.
So he calmly enjoyed his meal while watching the people pass by.
It was during this quiet observation that he noticed something else.
Though this city was clearly ruled by humans—judging by its architecture, signage, and general aesthetic—only about half the pedestrians were actually human.
The rest were beastkin, elves, dwarves, lizardfolk, or mixed-blood individuals of all shapes and sizes.
This kind of multi-racial composition was usually a recipe for instability.
Even if you dismissed the threat of political plots and conspiracies, there were deeper, more personal frictions. Cultural clashes. Dietary restrictions. Territorial behaviors.
What happens when a strictly vegetarian race shares a district with one that thrives on raw meat? What about differing concepts of cleanliness, noise, or privacy?
Then came the worst of it: the invisible chains of discrimination.
Pride. Prejudice. Tribalism.
These conflicts were often harder to resolve than even religious disputes—because they struck at the core of identity.
Yet… despite the mix, the city was oddly stable.
There was a sense of order in the air. An invisible system holding things together.
Races with entirely opposing lifestyles and cultural habits somehow seemed to coexist peacefully in this city.
According to the memories lingering in the souls of those Dex had killed before, the current structure of this world—this tenuous peace between peoples and species—only came about after a catastrophic event over a century ago: the Great Abyssal Invasion.
Before that dark time, the Mi Ling World was a realm drenched in blood and hatred. Races warred endlessly against each other, driven by ancient grudges, territorial ambition, and cultural intolerance. Brotherhood was rare, and peace was a fleeting illusion. Even among the high gods—the beings mortals worshipped—there were ceaseless intrigues, betrayals, cuckolding, and divine-scale conflicts. These grudges were passed down from parent to child like precious heirlooms, outlasting even dynasties and empires. Though mortal life was short, the hatred between races and clans proved eternal.
Harmony? That word was a lie. A fantasy within a fantasy.
But all of that changed when the Abyss came knocking.
Unlike the native races, who clashed endlessly over fleeting politics or personal vendettas, the creatures of the Abyss moved with a terrifying, singular purpose. Despite their tendency to tear each other apart, they were united in their madness. Their goal was as brutal as it was absolute: annihilate every plane they invaded. Eradicate all life—without bias, without mercy. Slaughter every living being—no discrimination, no compromise. If they could kill their own kin in the process, all the better. Chaos was their creed.
The arrival of the Abyss was apocalyptic. Cities fell in days. Lands were turned to scorched wastelands, rivers turned to dust. Crops died. Entire civilizations vanished beneath waves of demonic creatures. The infamous "Three-Light Strategy"—kill all, burn all, loot all—was not even the full extent of their cruelty. The abyssal invaders didn't just raze the land—they shattered the world's very spirit.
Initially, the native forces tried to resist the invaders independently, clinging to old rivalries and fractured alliances. Their arrogance and disunity cost them dearly. Entire races were pushed to the brink of extinction. Only after suffering immense casualties did the major powers finally acknowledge the truth: they had to unite, or they would all die alone.
So, they reached out to one another—with clenched teeth, bitter hearts, and bloodstained hands.
The process of forming this alliance was not noble. It wasn't forged in righteous hope or shared humanity—it was built on pragmatism, desperation, and a tangled web of self-interest. Every negotiation was laced with lies. Every agreement carried hidden daggers. Treachery was expected, and trust was a luxury no one could afford.
It was so convoluted and dramatic that historians could—and did—fill entire libraries just trying to document it all.
The most contested issue, unsurprisingly, was leadership.
No one wanted to be a follower. Everyone wanted to lead.
And in times of chaos, power is the only currency that matters.
One particularly infamous ruler, during the scramble for dominance, delivered a line that became legendary: "Death is a problem for the future. Power is the problem of now. People live in the now—so how can the future matter more than the present?"
The quote became an instant classic, selected that very year as part of the "Historical Sayings of the Century." It was immortalized in marble in several cities. Students studied it in schools, generals recited it on the battlefield.
But as with many brilliant people, this ruler's brilliance attracted envy—and his personal choices accelerated his downfall.
In the end, it wasn't politics that undid him. It was lust. He had a bad habit of cuckolding his subordinates, and eventually, those under him could take no more. One of them took advantage of the chaos during a skirmish, dragged him from his warhorse, and beheaded him in full view of both enemy and ally.
Ironically, the betrayal had little to do with his famous quote—but everything to do with personal revenge.
That was the state of the world at the time. Disunity. Anarchy. Petty revenge dressed as politics.
Expecting a bunch of species who had spent tens of thousands of years in mutual hatred to suddenly hold hands and fight together just because a greater enemy appeared? Completely unrealistic.
Even with death knocking at their doors, they kept scheming.
One group would sabotage another's supply lines. Another would hold back reinforcements out of spite. There was always someone dragging someone else down. Victory for one was seen as a threat to all.
Eventually, the gods—those ancient beings who had once sworn not to meddle—lost patience. They descended from their celestial thrones and forced a resolution through brute divine force. Cities were leveled by celestial weapons. Armies were forcibly merged. Dissenters were vaporized where they stood. The gods did not negotiate—they commanded.
Peace, if one could call it that, was achieved through overwhelming violence. The kind of peace that comes after a storm flattens everything.
The monsters of the Abyss, upon seeing the cooperation finally take shape, reportedly wailed in frustration. Their opportunity was slipping away. Their enemies had finally found common ground—not through goodwill, but through shared survival.
In a twisted sense, the Abyss had done what millennia of diplomacy could not. It forced the world into unity.
Dex stared quietly at the bustling city before him. Races that had once hunted each other to extinction were now selling vegetables side by side. A dark elf shared breakfast with a dwarf. A beastkin child played near a merchant stall owned by a high elf. It was surreal.
He let out a dry, almost amused sigh.
"Maybe... We really were the messengers of peace," he murmured under his breath, his voice tinged with irony and melancholy.
The Abyss had come to destroy, and instead, had inadvertently taught the world how to live.
*****
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