CHAPTER 69: CHAPTER NO.69 JOB CHANGE QUEST (7)

"You... persist," came the low rumble from within the helm. His voice was like grinding stone, layered with ages of authority.

What the fu*k!

It spoke.

Until now, I’ve been in two dungeons, including this one. But I assumed that these monsters are just that... monsters in the end. Like a muted NPC, already programmed to do what must be done. Silently doing their duty, which is protecting the dungeon or outright attacking any outsiders.

That’s why this is such a shock for me, that a supposed muted NPC has broken the cycle by speaking.

For a long, suffocating moment, silence followed. Only the echo of Paimon’s distorted voice lingered, heavy enough to crush the air from my lungs.

That voice wasn’t mechanical, nor the hollow mimicry of some cursed AI—it was alive. Ancient. A sound carved out of time itself, older than this dungeon, older than the concept of sin.

"...So you can speak," I muttered, tightening my fists, black sparks crawling across my knuckles. "Then why the hell are you pretending to be a statue?"

Paimon tilted its head slightly, the motion unnervingly human. The cracked fragments of its helm glowed faintly, pulsing with something that wasn’t quite mana."Pretending?" The voice reverberated like a choir of dying stars. "No. I remember."

The temperature dropped. Not in degrees—but in spirit. The oppressive weight pressing down on my shoulders made my knees buckle, even with Armament Core reinforcing my body. The shadows around the throne began to stretch, melting into distorted shapes that moved like slow smoke.

"My Lord’s scent... your essence reeks of him— No, it’s quite faint actually— Ah~ It’s Princess Lilith’s. So you’re her son, I presume?"

My breath hitched.

That name—Lilith.

The way Paimon uttered it wasn’t casual; it was reverent, almost nostalgic, like the echo of a prayer that had outlived its god.

"You knew her?" I asked before I could stop myself. My voice came out low, controlled, but my heart was hammering.

Paimon’s helm turned toward me fully, the motion slow and deliberate. Beneath the cracks, a faint crimson light pulsed, like a dying sun fighting to stay lit.

"Knew?" A deep rumble followed, half-laughter, half-lament. "I used to... babysit little princess."

The fu*k?!

"Or at least till my lord required my service again."

Service, again?

"I can see, little lord, you’re looking quite confused."

Hah~ Confused? I’m goddamn beyond confused, yet every fibre of my being screamed that I needed to stay calm. My fists were clenched so tight the black sparks crawling across my knuckles seemed to writhe like living shadows.

Sovereign Haki surged subtly through my limbs, a quiet storm waiting to erupt, ready to overwhelm any momentary lapse. I could feel Paimon’s presence, ancient and solid, pressing against every nerve. It was as though I wasn’t just facing a monster—I was facing history itself, a living monument to centuries that predated even the faintest memory of the world I knew.

"So what was this service you spoke of? And are you alive?"

Paimon’s helm shifted, the faint red glow behind the cracks pulsing like a heartbeat. Its voice was lower now, measured, almost intimate.

"Service... I’m doing it right now, as if I’m alive? No, I died when my lord ripped my soul out of my body aeons ago. Yet... here I remain. Bound to the echoes of my purpose, tethered to the command that refuses to let me fade."

The words hung in the air like molten lead. My mind raced, trying to parse the logic of it. Paimon wasn’t alive in any conventional sense, yet it moved, thought, and now spoke with intent. It was as though some fragment of the original consciousness had survived, stitched into the armour and bone of this construct of vengeance and duty.

I took a cautious step forward, my boots scraping across the stone tiles. Each step was deliberate, measured, but my palms itched to strike. The black energy coiling around my limbs was restrained only by my will, waiting for a spark to erupt into chaos.

Lucifer ripped its soul out? But why? The questions, too many goddamn questions.

"It’s time to finish what you started, little lord."

Booom!

The tiled ground beneath Paimon craved in as its figure vanished from view, and a massive fist clouded my view in an instant before my body could even react.

POW!

CRASH!!

My body flung airborne as pain overwhelmed my senses.

This bastard was holding back?!

I slammed into the floor with a sickening crack, shards of stone embedding into my arms and legs. Pain shot up my spine, screaming in every nerve, but I forced my body to respond. Sovereign Haki surged quietly beneath my skin, tendrils of black energy coiling along my limbs, muscles, and sinews, primed for retaliation.

The chamber trembled under the residual force of Paimon’s strike. Dust and shattered obsidian floated in sluggish arcs, suspended by the sheer weight of suppressed energy. My vision blurred, but my Observation Grid processed every micro-flinch in Paimon’s stance. It wasn’t just anticipation—I could feel the rhythm of its movement, the silent calculus of centuries etched into every joint, every seam of armour.

I pushed off the floor, black sparks erupting from my fists as I charged. Step, step—each footfall left faint black fissures burning into the stone. My first punch met Paimon’s armoured forearm midair, the impact vibrating up my spine. The Knight staggered—not much—but enough to confirm my calculations were correct.

POW!

Another clash. Sparks danced between us, shredding the residual air into static. Paimon’s wings flared, whipping the surrounding shadows into jagged crescents, twisting the space like liquid darkness. I pivoted midair, using the momentum to strike again, elbows and fists reinforced with Armament Core, every blow amplified by the raw willpower coiling inside me.

The King of Hell did not retreat. Each strike it threw was calculated, precise, a symphony of devastating force. And yet, with each clash, I felt it—the pulse of recognition in its eyes. Not fear, not anger. Recognition. A relic acknowledging a successor to a legacy it had long served.

It’s time; otherwise, I might really die.

Shururu....

I again summoned the Muramasa blade from the inventory.

Conqueror’s Coating.

This one I got after killing the zealots and Torion—the Champion of Ares. Unused. I don’t even know if I could defeat this monster with this.

ZUUUU!

The dark purple sheen spread over my arms and shoulders like a living shadow, thick and viscous, yet impossibly light. It wasn’t just reinforcement—this was Conqueror’s Coating, an invisible tide of domination radiating outward. The purple sheen ran along my arm into Muramasa as black lightning arcs flashed along the blade.

The instant Conqueror’s Coating enveloped me, the very air seemed to shrink away. Every microflinch of Paimon’s body was recorded, analysed, and mapped in real time by my Observation Grid. The room itself trembled in recognition of the sheer will radiating from me, invisible yet palpable, a tide of force that warped space and perception.

Paimon’s wings beat once, twice, sending shards of obsidian spinning outward, but the strikes didn’t connect in the way they should have. It was as if my aura alone repelled them, the black lightning of Conqueror’s Coating bending their trajectory mid-flight. Each of its swings met... nothing. Yet the invisible waves of force hit, subtly but violently, enough to push and twist the Knight’s armour against its will.

I lunged, Muramasa in hand, every movement coated in Conqueror’s Coating. I didn’t need to hit to strike; the black lightning leapt from the blade in silent arcs, invisible to anyone without perception beyond mortal bounds. The weapon moved with my will, slicing through the space around Paimon as if the air itself obeyed me.

BOOM!

Paimon staggered. Its footing wavered, the obsidian tiles cracking beneath the pressure of invisible collisions. Every instinct honed over countless centuries suddenly betrayed it—not because it was weak, but because it had never encountered a force of this kind. A force not merely of body or armament, but of will, bending reality to its owner.

The King of Hell rose to full height again, six wings unfurling in a display of ancient dominance. It swung its arms, tested the currents of my aura, but each movement now carried the weight of calculation and caution. It knew, on some instinctual level, that this was not a simple duel. It was a reckoning with a successor to the very legacy it had served.

Step by step, I advanced. Not a single strike of Paimon’s could reach me directly. Each attack seemed to vanish into the void between us, yet the reverberation of force struck it mercilessly, pressing, twisting, and displacing its form. Black arcs of lightning licked across its armour as if the blade itself had struck, yet I hadn’t moved Muramasa an inch in space—the Haki carried the attack.

I forced a step closer, letting my aura bleed outward, every nerve and sinew screaming with Conqueror’s dominance. Paimon’s helm shifted, the faint crimson pulses of its cracks widening as if struggling against the invisible pressure.

I smiled, teeth clenched. "Now, let’s end this," I muttered, voice low, laden with authority. My arms moved in a blur, but the strikes weren’t for direct contact—they were for effect, each fist wrapped in the invisible tide of Conqueror’s Will. The chamber became a storm, the shadows bending toward me, the air crackling with unseen arcs of power.

Paimon’s wings beat in desperation now, attempting to disrupt the currents—but the Haki was everywhere. It wasn’t a weapon. It was inevitable. Every punch, every feint, every movement of mine reached it before it reached me. The King of Hell—banished though it was, ancient though it had become—was being overwhelmed by the mere weight of my will.

The obsidian throne room shuddered. Stone cracked. Shadows tore and twisted. And yet, Paimon did not fall. It knelt slightly, armour groaning, wings folding in as if conceding the inevitability of what had come. Its voice rumbled again, gravelly and broken, yet still commanding:

"You... are... he... who should not awaken..."

And in that moment, the room went silent. The only sound was the hum of the Haki, the pulse of Conqueror’s Coating radiating outward, a tide of domination that left no space untouched.

I stepped forward, slowly, deliberately, letting the aura engulf the last inches between us. "I am Dominic Nocturne von Morningstar," I said, each word a hammer. "And this is my will."

The air itself seemed to shatter at the declaration. Paimon’s armour fractured under the invisible weight, its wings folding helplessly, and for the first time in centuries, the Banished King of Hell trembled.

A move flashed in my mind, something Shanks inherited from Roger. A deadly finisher move.

Divine Departure.

It is basically a pure Haki discharge from the sword. This is the most simplified explanation.

BOOM—

The black lightning of Conqueror’s Coating leapt violently along the Muramasa, not striking physically, yet every invisible arc tore through Paimon’s aura as if reality itself were slicing its essence. The cathedral-like chamber quaked, the obsidian tiles splitting under the sheer pressure of will alone.

Step by step, I closed the final distance, Sovereign Haki thrumming through every fibre. Each heartbeat was a drum of inevitability. The air bent, shadows peeled away from the walls, and the very stones of the dungeon seemed to bow to my intent.

Paimon lifted its helm, the faint crimson cracks pulsing like a dying star. Its six wings trembled, as though testing the strength of a storm it had never encountered. The Banished King of Hell was no longer moving with precision—it was reacting, struggling, adapting too late.

I whispered to myself, letting every ounce of Conqueror’s Will feed the surge: "Divine Departure..."

The Muramasa blazed—not with fire, not with mana, but with the invisible, irresistible tide of Haki. The arcs of black lightning, usually subtle, now burned bright even to mortal perception, snapping like living shadows along the length of the blade.

And then I struck. Not with flesh, not with steel—but with the pure weight of my existence.

The invisible wave erupted outward, colliding with Paimon as if the world itself had delivered the blow. The King of Hell’s wings convulsed, armour groaning, cracks widening, yet still it did not collapse. Its helm turned fully toward me, and the faint recognition in its eyes now burned with awe—and fear.

Every muscle in my body screamed as I layered strike upon strike, the Divine Departure forcing every ounce of my Conqueror’s Will into a single, unrelenting torrent. The chamber became a hurricane of unseen force, shadows twisting violently, obsidian shards levitating and spiralling in chaotic arcs, reality itself bending to my will.

And then, silence.

[You defeated the King of Hell, Paimon the Obedient.]

[Level up!]

[Level up!]

I raised both of my hands up high into the sky.

I took several steps back before losing all strength in my legs and falling to the floor.

"Pant, pant...!"

I spat out the heavy breaths I’d been holding in until now.

I won, somehow.

It was an incredibly close fight.

’However... wasn’t this the end of the quest?’

I collected my breath for a long time before painfully raising my body up.

***

Stone me, I can take it!

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