Chapter 1781: Summer in Fool

In the midsummer evening of Cat Getan, dim yellow light floated in the air. Heat steamed above the surface, and the dampness rising from the soil mixed with the fresh scent of grass, drilling into the room through the gaps in the doors and windows, but it could only float above the room.

The guests who walked into the dining room smelled an incomparably rich aroma.

People who received the invitation looked at others calmly, finding that they were all familiar faces. They were all Archmages who had gathered in Cat Getan for the construction of the Earth's magical defense network a while ago, as well as their few remaining apprentices.

At this moment, everyone had an indescribable expression of shock on their faces.

It had nothing to do with the aroma or the dishes, only because the room was filled with energy that had almost formed into substance—that was the power of demons they were all too familiar with.

"What is going on?!" Jim asked with trembling lips. He lowered his head to look at the food on the table and asked, following his instinct: "What kind of meat is this? What kind of meat is this? Schiller!"

"This is moose meat."

"Impossible!!!" A female mage screamed. She began to roar like a madwoman, reaching out to grab the steak on the table, but her companion stopped her, staring tightly at the steak on the table and swallowing.

Schiller stood up from the head of the long table and raised his glass, saying: "As you can see, today's main courses are red wine-marinated venison leg steak, rosemary venison ribs, pan-seared liver tips with sour cream and parsley, venison blood pudding, and vegetable venison red soup."

"Are you crazy? This is not venison at all!" A black mage roared: "How dare you... how dare you... you will be cursed!"

"Of course, every place has different customs for calling meat. In my eyes, what is lying on the table are sixteen strong deer, but in your eyes, they might have another name, called 'demons'."

Everyone froze.

The group of people who had seen the dishes before couldn't identify the type of ingredients for various reasons. Strange was an outsider mage who had almost never dealt with local demons. Zatanna's power didn't come from demons, and although she had fought against demons, she hadn't had in-depth communication with them, so naturally, she couldn't feel it.

But these Archmages sitting here were different. Their power almost entirely came from angels and demons. Sensing the power of demons had become an instinct for them, so they were very sure that what Schiller said was true. The raw materials for the dishes on the table were demons.

And precisely because they knew the power of demons very well, they understood that the grade of the demonic power lying on Schiller's table right now wasn't low—at least it had to be at the level of a demon general.

An old mage with a full head of white hair trembled, his hand almost knocking over the plate. He looked at Schiller in panic and asked: "You killed so many demons, the Hell Lords won't let you go!"

"At least I am still standing here now, aren't I?"

Strange, sitting at the head of the right side, seemed to understand Schiller's intention. He picked up the napkin with a slow movement, tied it in an elegant posture, picked up a fork with one hand, looked around the circle, and said: "You aren't wanting powerful strength? Now the power is placed before you. If you don't want it, I'll eat it all."

"Clatter," the plate was knocked over after all.

But no one paid attention to the old mage's situation. Everyone stiffened, fixing their gazes on the table full of rich dishes. Every wisp of heat rising from them was raw, pure, unadulterated essence of power.

That was different from the power demons gave them. Demons usually twisted power into trickling streams and sent them to fragile humans. They had been incomparably grateful for this gift.

But Schiller's dining table was flowing with a surging torrent—no one bestowed it, no one descended, totally primitive and ferocious, but powerful beyond compare.

Their lips began to tremble, their hearts and lungs began to surge, and their souls stretched out fangs and claws from their pupils, clamoring to swallow everything before them. That was the power they could never obtain through gifts.

Who hadn't thought about becoming a demon?

Such thoughts flowed through everyone's brains like electric currents around the table: powerful, eternal, unscrupulous, getting rid of the weak shell, heading to the promised land in dreams.

"Schiller." A low voice sounded.

Schiller saw the reflection of a goat with yellow eyes in the reflection of the sideboard opposite the dining table. He also understood that only he could hear Azazel's words at this moment.

"You killed my subordinates and put them on your dining table. This is an offense that can never be forgiven. You will pay the price for this."

"Why be so anxious? Your Excellency Azazel." Schiller looked at the reflection of Azazel in the mirror while holding his wine glass and said: "I didn't just put your subordinates on the table."

After a "crackle" sound of metal clashing, all the guests picked up their tableware with trembling hands. Saliva flowed from the corners of their mouths, and scorching flames emerged from their eyes.

Even the team led by Jim picked up their tableware with slight hesitation. They weren't people who hadn't eaten magical creatures before. The roasted elf venison at the Maya Carnival was also quite delicious.

And this group of people had consumed quite a bit of power during the war against the vampire invasion. Even if they weren't the kind of greenhorns who relied too much on power, the hunger in their souls kept clamoring.

Jim remembered the incomparably beautiful food he had at Schiller's banquet last time. That aroma that penetrated the soul might not be his illusion. What was wrong with demons?

Just as the first fork was about to touch the food, Schiller's voice sounded again.

"I am deeply honored that everyone likes the dishes I provided, but I have to remind you slightly: some of you have groundless misunderstandings and malice toward me."

No one was listening to him seriously. Perhaps they heard it but didn't care. They were just blindly rushing toward the power they might obtain, and Schiller continued calmly: "Some of you came uninvited. The greatest respect I can show this kind of person is to let them appear at the banquet in another way."

"I sincerely hope that the rudeness flowing in their blood vessels won't affect everyone's enjoyment of the taste. Then, the banquet begins."

Schiller raised his glass lightly and sat down again.

Everyone else felt as if they had fallen into an ice cellar.

"I smell it, I smell the scent of Kaz's soul!" An old witch with an ugly scar on her face shouted: "And that sheep-hoofed thing named Saria. This table is filled with the scent of their flesh and blood..."

Jim opened his eyes wide. He stood up with a "whoosh" and roared in disbelief: "You gave them..."

Then he used a shocked look to look at the food on the table, very clearly seeing two different kinds of meat in every dish.

Jim's lips also began to tremble. He kept swallowing saliva instinctively, fighting the nauseating feeling rising from his stomach. He almost ate it.

Cannibalism—the most unforgivable crime since humanity established a civilized society.

"Crazy! Crazy! Schiller, you are crazy!" Jim kept waving his hands and shouting: "I won't eat them. This is simply unreasonable. I'm leaving now!"

After saying this, Jim pushed the chair and walked toward the door. He glared at his companions. Madame Xanadu opened her hands and said: "I am not human, I am a forest fairy..."

"I am also..." Bennett swallowed with hesitation.

Feeling Jim's angry gaze, the remaining three still stood up slowly and then followed Jim to leave.

Strange also put down his fork, looking coldly at the dishes on the table. Schiller's gaze turned to him. Strange met his gaze without fear and said: "I am a surgeon."

"So you only save people?"

"So I understand how dirty the human body is. Your seasoning ruined this table of good dishes."

Strange was hinting at another thing—since he wanted to use dishes made of demons to stimulate the greed of human mages, letting them understand that directly plundering and killing demons would gain more, then why go to the trouble of adding extra psychological burden to the diners?

Since they had eaten the meat of demons, there was no turning back. Shouldn't they be trying every means to trick them into eating it?

But what Strange didn't expect was that after a second of pause, this group of people rushed toward the full table of meat like starving beasts.

No hesitation, no hesitation. Strange seemed to hear the voices in their hearts.

What does cannibalism count for? We are very hungry now, we need power. As long as we can fill our stomachs, we will eat anything.

What does cannibalism count for? We have been hungry long enough. Because we are strong enough, we are the diners. The weak are always weak and should be on the dining table.

What does cannibalism count for? When we truly sublimate into creatures completely different from weak humans, the meat that enters our stomachs is just meat. What is wrong with humans?

Boundless anger clouded Strange's mind. He felt that all the mouths opened by everyone at this gluttonous feast had become whirlpools that sucked his reason in.

Just then, a wine glass held by a hand was placed in front of him, making a light sound. Strange looked up blankly, only seeing Schiller's eyes containing a smile.

"Do you see it? Stephen?"

Strange looked at the situation on the dining table again. He didn't see any people, only a group of hungry beasts, devouring the meat chunks thrown by humans without scruples.

Their fangs were ground down, their sharp claws were retracting, and a layer after layer of thick fur grew on their bodies. When Strange tried hard to open his eyes again, he only saw a group of fat livestock, a group of pigs with flapping ears and fat bellies.

"Subdued by satiety, but fear hunger even more..." Strange repeated Schiller's words involuntarily.

And Schiller looked at Pamela sitting at the head of the left side and said: "When a person forgets who they are and yields to hunger, they become a pig, and humanity is always yielding."

Pamela's fingertips pressing on the table trembled slightly. She looked up at Schiller's unfocused eyes, then looked at the delicacies placed on the table, and then smelled a kind of fragrance from the instinct of her human genes—not the scent of meat, but the scent of fruit.

When Azazel appeared opposite the long table, the shadow brought by the huge black wings shrouded everyone.

No one stopped. Everyone was frantically stuffing meat into their mouths, abandoning tableware, abandoning etiquette, reaching out to grab, using teeth to bite, until most of the meat was divided and eaten. They finally picked up the tableware again.

This time it wasn't to cut food, but to cut their own kind.

When the first scream was issued, Azazel took a deep breath. His left wing flicked lightly, and an Archmage busy fighting for food was slapped against the wall behind, turning into meat paste.

Still no one stopped.

Forks stabbed into eye sockets, table knives cut through throats. The bloody feast finally truly staged. Everyone climbed onto the table and began to use the most primitive weapons—nails and teeth—to tear flesh from their own kind.

"Screech!"

Blood splattered onto Azazel's face, from his cheeks to the corners of his eyes, all bright red. He closed his eyes, and blood beads slid down from his eyelashes.

"How is the taste?" Schiller stood opposite the long table, his dark green suit almost melting into the bushes under the sunset. He raised his glass to Azazel and asked.

Azazel stuck out his tongue and rolled the sliding blood into his mouth. The devil's sharp canine teeth were exposed. He opened his eyes, looked at Schiller with the horizontal pupils of a goat, and said: "Sin that even demons find spicy. Thanks for the treat."

Schiller walked slowly to the opposite side of Azazel. Azazel turned to look at him. Schiller placed the empty wine glass in front of Azazel's neck.

Azazel suddenly opened his eyes wide. He looked at Schiller in disbelief and said: "You know the devil cannot refuse sin, so you lured my subordinates like this!"

Schiller didn't answer. Sharp fangs flashed under his human skin. He turned the wine glass in his hand and moved it closer to Azazel.

His tone gradually deepened, "Azazel, the Lord's scapegoat, the original sacrificial rite of livestock. Leave your blood, and you can leave."

"Schiller, you are crazy!"

"I told you he isn't Schiller." Constantine's voice sounded at the door.

Azazel turned his head abruptly. Constantine was already looking at him from the door frame, saying coldly: "Your subordinates were killed by me. I told them I wanted to re-sign a contract, and no one can refuse the temptation of showing off my soul in Hell. The livestock of Hell never learn their lesson."

His gaze fell on the wreckage and corpses all over the table, and he said calmly: "In the past, they excluded me, and I didn't care. The lambs I manipulate are in Heaven and Hell."

"Now their hungry cries are annoying. I think their Lord should start slaughtering."

"I choose a strong lamb from my livestock pen and put it on the altar, just to get their Lord to put them on the dining table. Very fair, isn't it?"

Constantine smiled and walked to Azazel, saying: "You have absorbed all the top-grade sins here, so you must pay the bill. Otherwise, I will let the demon kill me and then go to Heaven to spread the ugly face of your defaulting on debts to all the angels."

Azazel looked at Constantine in shock, then glanced at Schiller, then glanced at Constantine.

Ten minutes later, Constantine picked up the wine glass filled with deep red liquid.

He gently lowered the cup mouth to toast with Schiller, then raised his glass and looked up, enjoying the blood-scented air sliding down his throat, with madness and debauchery that had never changed in the depths of his hair shadows.

Schiller looked at Constantine with an unprecedentedly deep gaze and said.

"Through you, enter the city of pain; through you, enter the pit of eternal misery, Constantine."

"Through you, enter the crowd of no return, Schiller."

"To Dante."

"To Dante." ===== CHAPTER 1782 =====