Infinity: Kill your way through the movie world.

Crowley's expression finally changed.

The origin of hell.

That is the foundation that sustains the entire Hell dimension, the underlying rule for the existence of demons, and the ultimate collateral for all demon contracts.

The price of breaking the oath sworn by the very source of hell is not death, but the backlash from hell itself, an annihilation more thorough than death.

“Lore,” Crowley’s voice was low, for the first time omitting the honorific ‘Chairman,’ “that’s going too far. I, Crowley, always keep my word. For hundreds of years, no one has dared to question me.”

“We have it now,” Wu Heng said.

He looked at Crowley.

There was no anger, no mockery, and not even the condescension of a victor in his eyes; he simply examined the situation calmly, as if confirming the completeness of a contract.

Crowley remained silent for five seconds under that gaze.

Five seconds later, he lowered his head.

"...By the very source of Hell as my witness," he said, his voice seemingly squeezed out from between his teeth, "I, Crowley, King of Hell, hereby swear."

"All demons belonging to Hell, immediately withdraw to this dimension and return to your positions within twelve hours."

"Hell will not lay its hands on the human world until the Witcher Guild has dealt with the threat of the angels."

"If any demon violates this order and trespasses into the human world, the Demon Hunter Guild shall deal with it as it sees fit, and Hell shall not hold it accountable."

He paused, his throat bobbed, swallowing centuries of arrogance.

"The oath is fulfilled."

The moment the words fell, a deep rumble, as if from the very foundations of the earth, came from the depths of the hellish palace.

That was the very source of hell responding to the oath, etching that phrase into the very foundational rules of hell.

Wu Heng stood up. He didn't thank him, didn't say goodbye, and didn't even glance at Crowley.

They simply walked towards the palace gates.

The soles of the boots rolled over the stains on the carpet, a mixture of angel crystal powder and red wine, making a soft, sticky sound.

Crowley stood there, watching his retreating figure.

“Lore,” he suddenly said.

Wu Heng did not turn around.

Crowley paused, as if hesitating whether to continue.

“…You’re keeping Hell here, not to keep things in check, but because you’re afraid that the human world can’t afford another war.”

Wu Heng paused for a moment.

It was so brief, so brief, that Crowley almost thought it was his imagination.

“We’re keeping Hell here,” Wu Heng’s voice came from the doorway, as calm as if he were stating experimental data, “because the Witchers don’t have the resources to fight on two fronts right now.”

He didn't turn around.

"Not because of kindness."

His figure disappeared outside the door.

Crowley stood alone beside the broken throne, looking at the stain mixed with red wine and crystal core powder, and at the crack on the back of the throne that ran from the top to the base.

After a long while, he bent down and picked up the overturned wine glass.

empty.

He casually tossed it aside without calling anyone to clean it up.

“Kindness,” he repeated the word softly, as if savoring a foreign concept.

The sulfurous wind blowing in from outside messed up a strand of his carefully styled hair.

He couldn't be bothered to pay attention.

Twelve hours later, ten medium-sized cities around the world that had been 'protected' by demons were simultaneously evacuated.

Residents emerged from their basements and makeshift shelters, staring blankly at the deserted streets. The demons in black armor with burning sulfur eyes had vanished overnight, as if they had never existed.

The families of the missing will never know where their loved ones have gone. The blood-red sword flags hanging upside down on the roof of the city hall remain, fluttering in the wind.

The old priest of Bologna stood in the square in front of the Basilica of San Bernardino, looking at the remnants of demonic equipment left behind during the retreat: damaged helmets, broken shoulder armor, and abandoned weapons.

He picked up a short sword that still retained the warmth of hellfire and made the sign of the cross on his chest.

He didn't know why the demon had suddenly left.

All he knew was that at least 300,000 familiar faces in this city would never return.

The Waldorf Astoria New York, penthouse suite.

Crowley stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, looking at the Manhattan night sky.

In the distance, the entrance to hell was slowly closing, and the last batch of retreating demon soldiers lined up and silently stepped into the sulfurous crack.

He was holding another glass of wine, this time a regular bourbon.

The deputy cautiously reported: "Sir, those stragglers in the Middle East who are allied with the angels have refused to obey the recall order. It is reported that they have reached a formal alliance with the remnants of Bartholomew's forces and are preparing to establish an independent territory in the Euphrates River basin."

Crowley took a sip of his drink.

“Refusal to obey.” He repeated the word as if chewing on something hard to swallow.

"Should we send out a punitive expedition?"

Crowley did not answer immediately.

He looked out the window at the place that was once the World Trade Center, now only a memorial pillar remains.

"No need." He turned his back to his subordinates and waved his hand slightly to stop them. "We won't make a move."

The deputy was puzzled.

“Let them continue their dogfight with the Witchers.” Crowley downed his drink in one gulp. “Let them both suffer heavy losses…”

He didn't continue.

The entrance to hell outside the window closed completely, and the sulfurous mist disappeared into the Manhattan night as if it had never existed.

But those who lost their lives and those who suffered the pain of losing loved ones will never forget.

Occasionally, an unstable blue-white light flickers at the horizon, the remnants of energy from the fallen angels.

The human world remains a purgatory.

It's just that this hellish place is temporarily free of a group of opportunistic thieves.

When Wu Heng stepped out of the teleportation array and returned to the guild command center, Renault was still at the Paris defense command post, and the artillery fire on the screen had temporarily ceased.

The technician on duty looked up and saw a figure in front of him who was completely free of blood and whose trench coat was wrinkle-free.

"...Chairman." The technician swallowed hard, unsure how to ask.

Wu Heng did not explain.

He walked to the console, pulled up the global disaster map, and the markers for the demon-occupied areas changed from red to gray within twelve hours, and then were all cleared.

His gaze lingered for two seconds on the area that had just returned to blank.

He then turned off the screen and turned to the next pending report on Liz's team's casualties in Mosul.

"Notify the commanders of all war zones," he said calmly, "that the demonic threat has been temporarily lifted, and all forces should be concentrated to deal with the angels."

The technician paused for a moment, then his face lit up with joy, and he quickly bent down and started typing on the keyboard.

"Yes!"

The command center was once again filled with the sounds of busy communications and keyboard typing.

Wu Heng stood in front of the control panel, his back to everyone, looking out the window at the night sky that had been repeatedly ravaged by holy light and artillery fire.

No one saw him remove his balancing gloves and gently rub the web of his right hand, where there was a crack in the energy circuit that was continuously bleeding.

The power within the balancing glove seems to have been partially absorbed.

He put his gloves back on, and the four-colored halo lit up in turn, quickly covering the tiny wound.

As always. (End of Chapter)