SSS-Rank Evolving Monster: From Pest to Cosmic Devourer

After performing a deep bow, Armstrong finally took his leave. From start to finish, he hadn't dared to meet the old man's gaze even once.dsf

On the surface, he seemed composed, the very idsfmage of a dutiful son. But his trembling fingers and the cold beads of sweat trailing down his temple betrayed the storm in his heart. To an outsider, it might have looked like the young master was simply ill. Yet those who knew better would understand—this was fear.ksnd

Only when he had descended a considerable distance from the central mountain did Armstrong allow himself to breathe. He let out a long sigh, drawing in fresh air as if it were freedom itself. Slowly, he lifted his head, his gaze turning toward the sky. Longing flickered in his eyes.

"I wonder… when will I ever reach the same realm as Father?"

That's right. The frail-looking old man—seemingly half a step away from death's door—was none other than his father: the Yellowlock family patriarch, the sole Domain Manifestation expert of their lineage. A realm so high that Armstrong could only dream of it… yet deep down, he knew it was a height he might never touch.

As these thoughts churned, Armstrong's mind shifted toward one name, and his expression twisted strangely. His lips parted, releasing a whisper more like the hiss of a restless spirit than a man's voice:

"Crown Prince Damien… born into the fallen Valthorn line, a family incapable of producing even a single Channel Forging expert. Yet in such barren soil, this bastard managed to slay one with his own hands."

Armstrong's pupils narrowed. There had to be a secret. A hidden path, a forbidden method—something that could help him shatter the bottleneck holding him prisoner.

But it wasn't just that. The memory of a certain girl surfaced, and his expression darkened further.

How dare that lowly prince lay his filthy hands on the one destined to be mine?

The coldness in Armstrong's eyes deepened, his aura briefly rippling with the hint of murderous intent.

…

Mesrith Inner City.

The streets were alive with noise and color. Vendors stood outside their brightly painted shops, their throats straining as they shouted over one another. Their faces were split with joyous smiles, though behind their eyes gleamed the sharp, hungry light of profit.

Business had been unusually good these past few days. Every merchant worth his salt knew the reason—the announcement made by the Divine Research Guild. Opportunity like this came rarely, and none of them intended to waste it.

They weren't chasing money. No—money was fleeting. What they wanted were profits, connections, and influence, the kind of gains that lasted.

Through this chaos moved a tall, dark-haired man in a plain black long coat. His face was handsome but stern, his steady stride drawing glances from the crowd. Damien ignored them, his eyes set on a particular shop up ahead.

Outside that shop, a chorus of youthful voices echoed:

"If you're stuck at the Iron Realm, don't despair! Buy the specially refined Silver Rank breakthrough pills!"

"The response of your dreams, right at your fingertips—for only 299 mana stones!"

Boys and girls cried themselves hoarse, weaving words with all the flair of seasoned hawkers. Their youthful energy was matched by clever phrasing meant to snag the desperate and ambitious alike.

Damien finally stopped, his eyes lifting toward the massive signboard swinging above the shop's entrance.

"Abacus Pavilion…"

Two simple words, painted in bold golden strokes. Yet there was something wrong with them. Damien felt a subtle weight pressing against his mind, a charm so insidious it made one's gaze linger unwillingly. Even in the crowded street, he could sense the way eyes kept drifting upward, again and again, drawn to the name as though compelled by unseen hands.

His frown deepened.

Just then, a flicker of violet mist coalesced by his ear. The purple genie appeared in miniature, legs crossed as he perched on Damien's shoulder with a sly grin.

"This is the very shop your Blue Hammer King used to frequent," Arctic said, voice brimming with satisfaction. "We'll find every ingredient we need inside."

Damien's eyes narrowed, his expression still skeptical. He wasn't the type to accept things at face value, even from Arctic. Yet, there was no denying it—the Pavilion sold the components he required for the Silver Rank pill.

And more importantly, it sold something else.

Information.

Damien, using his six-hundred-fold acceleration, had already crossed the vast expanse and arrived at Mesrith City.

Yet, despite his speed, the city's sheer size was a labyrinth. Finding Niomi and Violet within its countless districts would be like searching for a single grain of sand in the desert.

He needed information. Reliable information.

At that moment, Arctic's voice whispered in his ear, reminding him of the Abacus Pavilion nestled in the heart of the inner city. Damien's eyes narrowed—he had already intended to investigate that place.

While his thoughts churned, the faint sound of hurried steps approached. A delicate fragrance, reminiscent of purple lilies, brushed past his nose.

Damien was about to turn when a hesitant, almost trembling voice reached him:

"E-Excuse me, distinguished warrior… may I help you?"

He turned his head slightly.

Standing before him was a young girl, no older than twenty. Her nervousness was written all over her pale face, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her apron. It was obvious—this was her first day working here.

Damien's gaze lingered for the briefest of moments before his brows furrowed. A spark of irritation flickered in his eyes. He had no interest in small talk, let alone wasting time on some greenhorn clerk.

The girl's hopeful smile faltered under the weight of his silence. But even as her expression dimmed, she fought to keep her voice steady, unwilling to appear weak before someone like him.

Damien shifted his body, already preparing to leave—when his sharp ears caught something interesting from the hushed discussions all around him.

The moment the timid girl approached him, Damien could feel it—several gazes had shifted in his direction.

With his heightened senses, the whispered discussions behind polished counters and shelves were as clear as day.

"That useless nepo-girl finally managed to hook a customer…"

"Tch, but look at him—doesn't seem like he'll spend much."

"Heh, today's the last day of the monthly evaluation. If she can't squeeze a sizable sale out of him, she's gone tomorrow for sure."

"I wonder how her father will react when he hears his darling daughter was thrown out?"

The words dripped with ridicule.

If Damien could hear them this easily, the girl certainly could as well.

Her cheeks flushed a furious red, as bright as a ripe tomato, her hands tightening against the folds of her dress.

For a moment, Damien's curiosity dimmed. This was nothing more than the petty struggles of ordinary folk—hardly worth his time. He was about to turn away.

But then he remembered—he needed to shop here anyway. Why not let her have the commission? It would save him the trouble of another clerk pestering him, and perhaps even serve as a small kindness… not that he cared.

With that thought, Damien gave a faint nod. His voice was calm, cold, yet deliberate.

"I want to buy medicinal ingredients. Can you help me purchase them?"

The girl blinked, stunned. Then, realizing what he said, her eyes lit up with a sudden spark of relief and joy. She bowed her head deeply, trying to hide the quiver in her lips, before motioning him eagerly inside.

Her name, as Damien soon learned, was Rosy. One of many salesgirls working at the Abacus Pavilion. Unlike the others, who had bribed or schemed their way into employment, Rosy had been placed here thanks to family connections. That alone was enough to earn her endless scorn.

Still, the reason anyone fought for a position here was obvious.

The Abacus Pavilion's system was brutally simple: salesgirls received a direct cut of every transaction they completed. The more the customer spent, the fatter their purse became. It was a ruthless incentive system that drove competition to extremes.

Profit meant survival.

Fail to meet your monthly quota, and you were dismissed without hesitation.

For most, this was the only chance to climb above the mud.

No one wanted to lose such a lucrative position.

And Rosy, teetering on the edge of failure, had stumbled into Damien at her most desperate moment.

Led by the excited salesgirl, Rosy, Damien stepped through the entrance.

The instant his foot crossed the threshold, his perception shifted. His steps slowed. His eyes widened faintly in surprise.

It was as though he had crossed into another world.

Everywhere his gaze fell, brilliance reigned supreme. The vaulted ceiling shimmered like it had been carved from countless diamonds, each refracting light in dazzling cascades. The floor beneath his boots gleamed with a sheen of pure gold, smooth enough to reflect faint silhouettes.

Yet… something was off.

Despite the overwhelming wealth displayed in every corner, not a single item was laid out for viewing. There were no shelves, no trinkets, no pills, not even a token herb jar. For a "pavilion" that claimed to be the heart of trade in Mesrith, it felt less like a shop and more like a sacred treasury.

Damien's daze broke quickly. His brow furrowed. He disliked places that tried to cloak simple business with unnecessary mystery.

Before he could voice his impatience, Rosy—already clutching a notebook that seemed to have appeared out of thin air—lowered her head slightly and asked in a polite, hurried tone,

"Distinguished customer… please, tell me what you wish to purchase."