Ten Lucky Draws: I Became OP - Chapter 351: A Demon’s Nightmare

Chapter 351: A Demon’s Nightmare

Away from the Mars Plane, and in the Lower Realm of the Land of Weaving.

Although much had happened in the Higher Realm of this place, not a thing changed in the Lower Realm. Well, aside from the fact that a new faction rose and took the place of the Infinite Weavers.

That was something that caused many ripples, but aside from that there were a few members of the Ineffable Pantheon still here aside from the Valkyries.

Kaelthyr had been in the Domain of Lust Demons for three full days now.

When he first arrived—invited under the guise of courtesy—the “party” had been exactly what one might expect from the Succubus Queen’s court.

An orgy.

Dozens of men—incubi, lesser devils, beastmen, humans even a few high-ranking demons—were already arranged in neat circles around a raised dais draped in black silk and crimson velvet.

And they all were waiting for the woman who had brought him here.

His ex-wife… the very woman who broke his heart due to cheating with an incubus. Yet here she was preparing to enjoy or be enjoyed by dozens of men.

And as she had walked forward spouting her nonsense he inwardly recoiled in disgust.

Kaelthyr had come for revenge of course… but information as well, not some freaky nonsense.

With him being the God of Souls and Samsara.

Such things as manipulating a single soul was child’s play.

So, while the Queen laughed and got undressed, he reached into her soul—and changed somethings… Then he simply… left.

The orgy continued without him.

Three days later he had learned everything he needed.

Now he sat alone in the Queen’s private chamber—a circular room of black and purple silk, lit by floating orbs. He had not moved from the high-backed obsidian chair since she left for her “meeting” two hours ago.

He glanced out the window as he spoke, “This place is… pretty underwhelming. The way that brat talked, I expected it to be much more dangerous.”

Though no one else was around, it was obvious he wasn’t speaking to himself.

[Master, what did you expect? You’re all just a bunch of broken monsters.]

His system was still there, fully bound to him, but now evolved far beyond its previous limits. That was also why its tone had shifted, now carrying the voice of a teenage boy.

“Heh, I definitely didn’t expect my power to surge to… what, Hyperversal Equivalent?” he asked with a scoff.

“That brat really needs to add some proper names to these ranks.”

[Haha, I agree. But knowing him… that might happen in, oh, a thousand years or so,] his system chuckled, before continuing.

[Now, that whore ex-wife of yours… her faction is laughably thin. Just two Early Hyperversal ancestors, and the rest of the Elders are Infinite Weavers at best—mid-tier at most. Her power isn’t far off from theirs, either.]

Kaelthyr clicked his tongue in agreement. It was, honestly, underwhelming.

Pathetic, even.

He’d expected more from the woman who had once broken his heart and clawed her way into the world of fantasy as a mere mortal.

“Well, it seems her desire had grown too much even for that damned Incubus,” he said as he stood up.

[Or maybe her image just didn’t meet his standards anymore. After all, who’d want a queen who’s always looking for more men?]

Lust Demons or not, one should have proper dignity once you have a certain status. But the Succubus Queen?

She would spread her legs for a beggar if the wind blew too hard one day.

A wife was meant to be his equal in dignity, not a public whore.

He raised one pale hand. A single drop of his own blood welled at the tip of his index finger—deep red, almost black.

He let it fall onto the floor.

The drop hit marble and spread—rippling outward like ink in water. His body shimmered.

His bones shifted.

Skin paled to a mortal beige.

Hair shortened to a nondescript brown crop. Eyes dulled to flat hazel.

His tall, elegant frame compacted into something average, middle-aged, unremarkable—a-tired human in a worn gray shirt and jeans.

Only his sword remained unchanged.

Long, straight, black-bladed, its edge so sharp it seemed to drink light.

Kaelthyr—no, not Kaelthyr right now— right now he was nothing more than Sammy.

The mortal who lost his world to an Incubus.

He stepped into the corridor.

And the first guard—a lesser incubus in silver mail—turned at the sound of boots.

He opened his mouth to speak.

Kaelthyr’s blade moved once—silent, perfect.

SHK!

The incubus’s head slid off his shoulders before the sound even reached his throat.

Thump.

The body collapsed.

Kaelthyr kept walking, seeming to move at a normal pace, yet with each blink he was suddenly far ahead—leaving a trail of severed heads scattered behind him.

He drifted through the palace like a shadow sliding through smoke.

Guards fell in singles and pairs—some cut clean at the waist, others split from groin to sternum, and some left heartless before they even knew they were dead.

Blood arced gracefully across the marble walls. Screams burst out—short, frantic—and vanished just as quickly.

He moved in a straight, unyielding line toward the throne room.

By the time he reached the last set of double doors—black iron etched with crimson runes—his gray robes were soaked red. Blood slid from the blade in slow, heavy drops.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

With one hand, he shoved the doors open.

CREAKKK!!!!

They creaked inward with a deep groan.

The throne room sprawled before him, its vaulted ceiling painted with writhing, decadent scenes, and its polished black marble floor glinting with the glow of crimson chandeliers above.

The Succubus Queen sat on her throne—legs crossed, violet hair spilling over the armrest, tail lazily flicking. She was alone except for two attendants—both naked, kneeling at her feet.

She looked up at the blood-soaked middle-aged man who had just walked in.

Her brows furrowed.

“Who the hell dar—”

The words died in her throat.

Her crimson eyes—once sharp, mocking, always hungry—widened until the black pupils swallowed most of the iris. Her tail froze mid-flick, curling inward like a wounded snake. The lazy confidence in her posture cracked like thin ice under a hammer.

The man standing in the doorway was unremarkable at first glance: middle-aged, plain brown hair cropped short, tired hazel eyes, a merchant’s gray robes soaked dark with blood.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out for several heartbeats.

Then—barely a whisper, cracked and disbelieving.

“…Sammy?”