Chapter 71: Greed
Hell has been remarkably peaceful of late; no major events have transpired.
The only noteworthy occurrence was the wedding of Samael and Lilith—a grand and solemn affair presided over by Lucifer himself.
They were united in marriage deep within the Abyss; yet, on neither side was there a shred of joy.
Samael sat quietly, sipping his wine, while Lilith sat beside him, giggling coquettishly as she flirted with a demon.
There was absolutely no interaction between them—not even an exchange of glances.
"Are you two absolutely certain you want to be together?"
After the ceremony, Asmodeus asked the question again, his voice tinged with disbelief, for he simply could not fathom the necessity of this marriage.
"Of course." Lilith, making a show of courtesy, hooked her arm around Samael's neck and flashed a smile laden with hidden meaning.
"Alright then."
Lust shrugged his shoulders and offered them his most profound blessings.
Lilith giggled, a blush rising to her cheeks; yet Samael—appearing utterly devoid of passion—merely cast a cold, indifferent glance at them before turning away and returning to his seat.
It was as if his task had been completed.
Beelzebub gazed out at the demons seated at the banquet tables. Thanks to Lilith's connections within their ranks, the wedding had drawn a sizable crowd—including even several King-level demons.
He could not help but remark to Lucifer: "Your Majesty, might this be considered a formal alliance—a marriage—between the demons and ourselves?"
Lucifer paused briefly, the goblet he was raising to his lips hovering in mid-air, as his dark-crimson eyes swept imperceptibly across the room.
It was an absurd arrangement.
Samael's heart belonged to Gabriel; and as for Lilith—had she ever truly loved Samael?
What, after all, was there to look forward to in a marriage forged in Hell, save for the mutual loathing of two souls bound together?
Did Samael and Lilith not understand this?
Of course they did. Yet, they stubbornly chose to walk this path nonetheless—neither willing to let the other go.
Ironically, however, it was through this wretched pair that the relationship between the Fallen Angels and the demons had become more harmonious than ever before.
He offered no verbal reply; instead, he simply drained his goblet to the very last drop. The alcohol stimulated his nerves, staining the corners of his eyes a vivid crimson—a sight that left countless witches gazing at him wistfully, yearning for his favor.
A witch pouring his wine seized the opportunity to flaunt her voluptuous figure before him, yet Lucifer didn't spare her a single glance. Instead, he seized a succubus attempting to slip away unnoticed, cupped his delicate white chin, and dragged him into the inner chambers.
Witnessing this, the surrounding demons erupted in whistles, then turned their mocking jeers upon the fawning witch.
"Trying to climb into his bed? Take a look at yourself first!"
"Exactly! Do you really think you can compare to *anyone* in His Majesty Lucifer's harem? It's utterly pathetic."
The witch's face flushed crimson; she immediately lunged at her jeering peers, and before long, the scuffle devolved into a tangled, carnal embrace.
Beelzebub watched the lewd, writhing tangle with a disdainful curl of his lip.
With morals like *that*—as if His Majesty would ever deign to look their way!
Still, the fact that Lucifer actually maintained a harem—one comprising both males and females—came as a genuine surprise to him.
He had assumed...
"So, if His Majesty behaves this way himself, why does he look down on *me*?" Asmodeus's resentful voice cut through his reverie, prompting Beelzebub to roll his eyes in exasperation.
"It's patently obvious that you've already disqualified yourself; just stop making such futile struggles."
What nonsense was this about "both running a harem"? Whether you have four or five partners, it's a harem; whether you have forty or fifty, it's *still* a harem... The sheer audacity of him to utter such words! He truly lived up to his title as the Demon of Lust.
How could he possibly put himself in the same league as Lucifer?!
As the Lord of Hell, what exactly was wrong with His Majesty keeping a harem? Having a few attendants to wait upon him was simply a matter of status and prestige.
Asmodeus, on the other hand, had simply cast aside all restraint. Ever since *that* particular night, he had become utterly indiscriminate—willing to take anyone and anything that came his way.
He dragged all manner of bizarre, grotesque creatures onto his bed. Beelzebub had no desire to waste another breath on him; instead, he simply glanced left and right. "How come I haven't seen Mammon anywhere?"
"Oh, I saw him outside with a group of demons," Asmodeus remarked, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "That gold-hungry brat has really started to take after His Majesty lately; if you were to say he was His Majesty's offspring, no one would ever question it."
"Give it a rest. If you try to pull any stunts with him, you'd better watch out—he'll strip you so bare you won't even have your undergarments left," Beelzebub said, casting a look of disdain at him.
Mammon was not inside the Nether Realm proper; he had no interest in the clinking glasses and social maneuvering of the banquet. Furthermore, Lucifer had recently loosened his leash on him—he gave a low huff, though it was unclear if he was expressing dissatisfaction.
In any case, he had easily detached himself from that social circle and stepped outside, accompanied by a few demons.
They were his retinue.
Upon realizing that Lucifer paid them no mind—and indeed, never would—the young demons showed no signs of feeling deceived or resentful.
Following Mammon was a sound choice, and—as if by unspoken consensus—that was exactly what they had chosen to do.
Their group arrived at Pandemonium: the place where the angels had fallen.
The ruins of the gnome construction site still stood there, though work on the palace had ground to an indefinite halt. Ever since their initial construction efforts ended in failure—and especially after Lucifer had used his demonic power to conjure a fully-formed palace of governance into existence within the Nether Realm—the foreman, a gnome named Pyenom, had begun to engage in passive resistance and foot-dragging.
"They're outsiders, after all; how could they possibly master the patterns of these volcanic eruptions and learn how to avoid them?" one of the demons scoffed, mocking the gnomes' hubris.
"You speak the truth," Mammon replied, his gaze fixed intently upon the land itself—scrutinizing every subtle, unassuming detail.
From the very first moment he laid eyes on this land, he had felt an instinctive fondness for it. He could keenly sense the treasures buried beneath the surface—treasures that those foolish gnomes, despite toiling away for so long, had completely failed to discover.
"They may be competent weaponsmiths, but they are hardly qualified materialists," he remarked, a look of regret flickering in his eyes. However, the attention of the young demons accompanying him was focused elsewhere entirely.
The demon who had spoken earlier voiced his agreement, then ventured a tentative question: "Have you heard the news, Your Highness?"
Mammon's dark eyes held no trace of emotion as he turned his head to look at the demon addressing him.
"What is it?"
"That final vacant seat—whom does His Majesty intend to bestow it upon?"
The successful outcome of the Chaos Dragon's interview proved that Lucifer was not merely paying lip service; beyond the Fallen Angels, other races, too, stood a chance of being selected.
Consequently—from the heavens above to the depths below, across both land and sea—an ever-growing number of races flocked to try their luck, though without exception, every single one met with rejection.
As time wore on, countless pairs of eyes remained fixed upon that solitary, final seat.
On the surface, Hell appeared as placid as still waters; yet beneath that calm exterior, a turbulent current of speculation regarding the ultimate answer surged and swirled.
"How on earth would *I* know?" Mammon rolled his eyes, only to hear the demon murmur in a low voice:
"Have you ever considered... that His Majesty might be saving it specifically for *you*?" He gazed at Mammon, his eyes lingering on the young demon's features—features that bore a striking, albeit subtle, resemblance to Lucifer's own.
There was, after all, good reason why rumors regarding the "Little Prince of the Demon Realm" had been gaining such intense traction.
Mammon offered no immediate reply; instead, he quietly weighed the plausibility of the suggestion.
"Why don't you go and give it a try?"
If any position were to be allotted to a demon, Mammon—undoubtedly—stood a far greater chance of securing it than any of the others.
The younger demons, one after another, began egging him on—urging him to go and pull some strings through the "back door." Upon hearing their entreaties, Mammon responded with surprising alacrity:
"Very well, then. I suppose I *shall* go and give it a try."
With those words, he left them behind and vanished into the depths of the Netherworld—striding off with the air of a wealthy landowner's simple-minded son.
"What did you just say?" Lucifer fixed a heavy, brooding gaze upon Mammon—a demon possessed of both audacious gall and a hide as thick as a rhinoceros's.
The young demon remained utterly unperturbed by that intimidating stare; his own eyes were fixed on a spot some distance away, brimming with an expression of lively amusement.
"You really shouldn't treat them like that," he remarked, his gaze lingering upon the bevy of beautiful succubi—all bound hand and foot.
These, then, were the fabled members of Lucifer's "harem."
"Not a single one of them is as rough-and-tumble as *you* are. It's really quite pitiful," he added. He was referring, of course, to those demons who maintained lovers—be they male or female—within the realm of Hell; for even demons understood the fundamental principle that one ought to treat one's paramours with tenderness. "Don't touch." Lucifer gave Mammon a light, measured tap on the head, halting his indiscriminate groping. His blood-red eyes swept coldly—and without the slightest trace of emotion—over the succubi cowering beneath the bed.
They were, after all, his desires; even though they had detached themselves from his body, he was still obliged to carry them around. If any went missing, he would have to go out and search for them.
That way, he could avoid the absurdity of one day finding himself surrounded by a bunch of creatures calling him "Father"—or, in even more ridiculous scenarios, "Mother."
"It would be far less trouble to just break all their legs," he remarked thoughtfully after a moment of contemplation.
The succubi, already bound in uncomfortable restraints, began to struggle violently upon hearing this airy, casual suggestion.
They might be voiceless—Lucifer forbade them from making a sound—but they certainly weren't stupid.
How could he even suggest such a thing!
Now that they had detached from their source, they were independent entities; Lucifer had no right to dispose of them in such a manner!
The succubi scraped their long, sharp fingernails against the floor, creating a grating screech in protest; however, their feeble, impotent resistance was swiftly quelled by Lucifer.
He locked all the succubi away inside a storage cabinet, intending to release them only when the need arose.
Succubi possessed an innate, exceptional talent for flirtation—a skill from which he could still learn a great deal.
Having finished these tasks, he shed his usual air of wanton sensuality; his handsome features shifted as he raised a brow, turning his gaze toward Mammon. "You say you want to become Greed?"
"Why shouldn't I?" Mammon retorted self-righteously. "Everyone says I'm your son. If I can be anything else, why can't I be *that*?"
"But you know perfectly well that there is no father-son bond between us." Lucifer rubbed his temples, his brow furrowed in exasperation. "Furthermore, show some respect to the Chaos Dragons; when they were born and took on their forms, you were likely still nothing more than a wisp of black mist."
"I have no parents—many demons don't," Mammon stated. "We are born of the heavens and the earth; we acknowledge only the first being who teaches us—be it another demon, a beast of Hell, or even one just like ourselves."
"I awoke within a mine, and the very first thing I laid eyes upon was gold. Were it not for you, I would likely still be wandering there to this day."
"It was *you* who gave me all of this." He gazed down at the strand of red agate beads bound around his wrist, his eyes holding a rare depth of emotion.
"I look upon you as a father—"
"I certainly don't recall having a son as grown as you are." Lucifer chuckled; he had just remarked that a host of demons would likely pop up claiming to be his children, and here was the first one.
Yet, Mammon remained distinct—different from those others who seemed to have sprung from nowhere.
During those days of chaotic ignorance, Mammon had indeed brought him a fair amount of amusement, adding a touch of substance to his otherwise solitary existence.
Did the very first disciple he had taken under his wing after arriving in Hell truly possess the qualifications to inherit this mantle?
"Do you know what 'Greed' truly entails?"
"I don't!" Mammon answered loudly. Lucifer struggled to suppress a laugh—how could one be so unapologetic about one's own ignorance?
Mammon, however, looked at him with earnest intensity.
"But whatever it is you require of me, I will carry it out and prove myself to you."
"Then build me a palace," Lucifer said. "You've just returned from Pandemonium, have you not?"
A lesser being might have been struck with awe—or even dread—at the realization of just how intimately Lucifer was acquainted with the inner workings of Hell and every shifting tide of its affairs; Mammon, however, harbored no such sentiments. Upon hearing the answer, his eyes lit up with a spark of excitement.
"Just a single palace?"
"Yes—just one palace," Lucifer affirmed with a nod.
"The Dwarves failed in their attempt. If you can succeed where they did not, I shall bestow the mantle of Greed upon you... *however*..." He paused, shifting the tone of his voice as he cast a cool, measured gaze upon Mammon. "This palace must be second to none—save for the Grand Cathedral."
Mammon had never seen the Grand Cathedral; Lucifer, drawing upon his own memories, conjured a visual manifestation of it for him.
Surging demonic energy wove a magnificent tableau into existence: a luminous stairway ascending into the heavens, flanked by a sprawling complex of palaces arranged in perfect, harmonious order. As Mammon gazed upon the golden floor tiles and the opulent gem-encrusted pathways that stretched as far as the eye could see, he finally understood how Lucifer and his ilk had cultivated such an air of innate nobility.
The sheer opulence of Heaven stirred something within him, solidifying his newfound conviction: angels, it seemed, truly were filthy rich.
Mammon accepted the challenge to build the palace.
Without a moment's hesitation, he swiftly assembled a workforce. First, he enlisted the demons he was accustomed to commanding; assigning them leadership roles, he tasked these lieutenants with fanning out to recruit even more demons to the cause.
Next came the Fallen Angels. With shrewd ingenuity, he invoked Lucifer's name—bolstering his appeal with the vivid imagery of the Grand Cathedral that was now indelibly etched into his mind.
He sought out the elder demons of Hell—many of whom possessed exceptional artistic talent—to create the necessary blueprints. Vassago himself personally drafted the designs, while that old fox Barbatos—shedding his usual miserly ways—even volunteered to supply the gold leaf.
Mammon needed not utter a single word; armed with that single blueprint, the moment the Fallen Angels laid eyes upon the image, they were instantly galvanized with boundless zeal.
He was, indeed, remarkably clever.
No one had explicitly taught him these things, yet he had gleaned every essential insight from the subtlest of details—interpreting the demons' willingness to be exploited as a desperate eagerness to pledge their fealty, and discerning, from Lucifer's nuanced demeanor, precisely what would stir the proud, aloof hearts of the Fallen Angels.
Who could possibly imagine that this same demon had once been a witless simpleton, incapable of stringing together even a single coherent sentence?
And so, upon the barren plains, tents began to rise. Pennants bearing Mammon's crest fluttered in the wind—appearing, amidst the gloom, like ranks of diminutive soldiers shouldering their long pikes. Like schools of darting fish, the laborers fanned out across the site—a motley mix of various races—digging trenches and erecting fortifications.
And alongside those engaged in the toil of construction, a separate contingent was stationed nearby—tasked with providing entertainment and keeping spirits high. Mammon collected a site fee from them, permitting bands and various trades to set up shop right alongside the construction site; harpists and fire-eaters vied with one another, while acrobatic stunts and beast-fighting matches served as side entertainment.
Witnessing the massive scale of Hell's mobilization, the other Sins grew restless. After observing the scene for a while, they approached Lucifer to seek an explanation.
"Do you truly intend to hand the Seat of Greed over to Mammon?"
"It is merely a palace," Asmodeus remarked. "Any one of us—myself included—could conjure up seven or eight of those without breaking a sweat."
"Magic is easily defeated by magic," Beelzebub interjected. He clearly approved of the idea of constructing a palace; however, one small detail still irked him.
"He borrowed my entire brigade of chefs; could you have him return them to me as soon as possible?"
Having gone several days without a single decent meal, he was truly suffering.
"And isn't he doing an excellent job of it?" Lucifer said, withdrawing his attention from the outside world.
"Conjuring a palace is, of course, a simple feat; but to raise a 'Pantheon of Demons' from the very soil of Hell—that is no easy task."
The phrase *Pantheon of Demons* made their ears prick up in sudden alertness.
"Whether in managing the transition between the old guard of demons and the new, or in reconciling the relationship between demons and the Fallen Angels, he has exceeded my expectations."
"Is this, then, the test you set for him?"
"No—it is a testament to his own capabilities." In his hand, Lucifer held a petition submitted by the demons—a document expressing their collective desire to see Mammon appointed as one of the Seven Sins, penned in language both earnest and sincere.
The petition bore Dantalion's signature as the primary signatory, yet it was also endorsed by the likes of Baal, Agares, and others.
They had finally come to terms with their true standing. In order to secure a place for demons within the new power structure—and to ensure that their faction would not be entirely sidelined—they had collectively signaled their willingness to yield, even though Mammon himself was a demon known for his close ties to the Fallen Angels. "In the end, it is *we* who have emerged victorious in this revolution."
His words were as light as wisps of down, yet they struck with the force of thunder, crashing heavily into their hearts. Beelzebub's heart gave a sudden lurch; unlike his companions, he did not join the chorus of praise and flattery directed at Lucifer. Instead, he simply watched him—watching that air of effortless composure, that serene detachment.
Uncharacteristically, he remained silent for a long, long time.
The construction work continued in full swing; under Mammon's command, the workforce had been divided into four teams operating simultaneously.
The first team was tasked with mining and quarrying. They moved nimbly through the mountains—amidst plumes of smoke and jets of flame—hauling back glowing materials extracted from ore-rich sands heavy with the scent of sulfur.
In Heaven, these substances had been utterly disregarded; here, however, they served as the very currency of avarice—transformed into treasures of immense exchangeable value.
The second team channeled molten lava to smelt metals. After the slag was skimmed away, the resulting liquid metal—pure and fluid as water—radiated with searing heat as it flowed along pre-cut channels toward the third team.
The third team commenced their work the moment the materials arrived, operating a veritable assembly line to fabricate a diverse array of models and implements.
And the largest team of all—the most massive contingent—comprised every architect of exceptional talent, including the faction led by Phenom.