Seven Sins System Chapter 816. Headache
Seven Sins System Chapter 816. Headache
That was the first part.
Getting Mamon on board?
Surprisingly doable.
Convincing him there was money involved?
Even easier.
The real problem?
My dad.
Yeah.
That part.
I exhaled slowly as I leaned back in a chair in front of the king’s office desk, staring at the ceiling like it personally offended me.
Because here’s the thing, Hell runs on balance. Not morality. Not justice. Not vibes.
Balance.
Seven domains.
Seven lords, each handling their own corner of eternal chaos.
And right now?
Two of those “capable” ones were… missing.
Me.
And Luci.
Which already made the system wobble like a poorly stacked tower of contracts.
So asking for a third one to leave?
Yeah.
That wasn’t a request.
That was a headache.
“Denied.”
That was his first answer.
Naturally.
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
Because of course it was.
Dad doesn’t do impulsive approvals. He does calculations. Long ones. With consequences. And spreadsheets. Probably spiritual spreadsheets.
Which made this whole conversation feel like trying to get budget approval for a war.
Because technically?
That’s what it was.
“Mamon cannot leave,” he said.
Which, fair.
Mamon is the economy.
You pull him out for too long, and suddenly souls aren’t being processed correctly, contracts lag, value chains collapse, and someone somewhere starts underpricing damnation.
Which is unacceptable.
So yeah.
Valid concern.
But still annoying.
I tapped my fingers against the table.
Because alternatives?
Let’s review.
Levi?
Envy.
Capable.
Smart.
Also already busy manipulating ten different political conflicts at once.
Not available.
Beel?
Look.
He’s not useless.
He’s just… specialized.
In eating.
A lot.
Logistics? Maybe.
Strategic tracking? No.
Belph?
I don’t even need to explain.
If we summon him, he’ll show up.
Sleep.
And somehow still complain.
Asmo?
I love him.
Truly.
He is my best friend.
But he is thinking with his d*ck. He isn’t really reliable.
So yeah.
Seven domains.
And somehow?
Only two reliable ones left in Hell right now.
Mamon.
Levi.
And both busy.
Which meant…
We were screwed.
Temporarily.
We couldn’t let the third one go, except for the useless one. Which I also didn’t need it.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor.
“Dad,” I said at the time, voice calm but firm, “we don’t need him permanently.”
Silence.
“We just need him temporarily.”
More silence.
Then…
A long exhale.
“You will not destabilize the economy.”
“Obviously.”
“You will not destabilize the system.”
“I’m not Luci.”
Pause.
“That is not reassuring.”
Fair.
But after more back and forth negotiation, logic, some very subtle emotional manipulation.
He gave it.
Permission.
Conditional.
Limited.
Annoying.
But usable.
Which brought us to the next problem.
Mamon himself.
Because even with permission?
He still had to agree.
Workaholic.
Profit-driven.
Emotionally allergic to unpaid effort.
And after what I told him?
He had one condition.
No summoning circles.
No rituals.
Especially not with Luci’s idea.
Because yes.
That almost happened.
The Lord of Pride.
Drawing a summoning formation.
Using his pee.
He banned it immediately.
We had a system.
Direct call.
Consent-based manifestation.
No ritual humiliation involved.
Progress.
After everything was settled.
Negotiation done.
Permission granted.
Conditions agreed.
I took the wine and stepped back into the mortal realm.
And landed.
In my dorm.
I stood there for a moment.
Silent.
Still.
Looking around.
Cramped.
Messy.
Mortal.
A single bed.
“I could flatten a skyscraper,” I muttered. “And this is where I sleep.”
The silence didn’t argue.
I turned into my human form and dropped onto the bed.
It creaked.
I stared at the ceiling again.
Mission not done.
Plan just started.
And somehow?
I felt more tired negotiating than fighting.
Which is saying something.
Because fighting?
Easy.
Punch.
Break.
Done.
Negotiation?
That’s war with paperwork.
I exhaled slowly, trying to convince myself that the mattress springs drilling into my spine felt like the firm support of a luxury spa bed.
They didn’t.
They felt like vengeance from the clearance section. I rolled to my side and noticed a single sheet of hotel-brand stationery folded in half on my desk, precisely in the spot where I’d planned to toss my shoes.
I padded over and unfolded it.
“I’ll stay with Lord Luci tonight. He invites you as well. Elysian Spire Hotel, Penthouse 2026. Algan.”
I blinked, reread the scrawl, neat, military, absurdly polite, and stared at the address. Elysian Spire. Five-star, skyline view, sheets with a higher moral fiber count than most saints. Of course Pride stationed himself there. I could practically feel the smugness radiating off the paper.
“Fine,” I muttered to the empty room. “At least someone’s sleeping well.”
Teleportation would’ve dropped me straight into the hotel lobby, sure, but after Luci and I already treated the finance district like a bonus level of mortal’s RPG, the last thing the evening news needed was footage of two devils materializing inside a five-star resort.
If I wanted to sleep in silk tonight instead of holding a press conference, I had to cover the brimstone and slip back into everyone’s favorite overworked physician. So I did a compromise hop, blinked into a dark alley one block over, dusted myself off, and strolled the rest of the way as plain old Dr. Allen. No horns, no tentacles, no coat. Just jeans, a sweater, and a face that said I haven’t slept since the Reformation.
Elysian Spire’s lobby was weapons-grade elegance. Polished marble, soft gold lighting, orchids that probably had trust funds. A baby grand played itself near the fireplace and the scent of something citrusy hovered in the air like expensive indecision.
I approached reception. The concierge wore a smile that had more training than most Olympic athletes.
“Good evening, sir. How may I assist you?”
“Dr. Allen. I’m heading up to Penthouse 2026.”
Her fingers danced over the keyboard, nails click-clacking with the precision of castanets. “I’m sorry, I don’t see your name on the authorized-guest list.”
Of course not. Pride never adds my name.
I offered my friendliest mortal grin. It probably looked like mild dentistry pain. “Could you double-check? Az—Allen.”
She checked again, eyebrows arching in a practiced display of sympathy. “I’m terribly sorry.”
I sighed. I could argue. I could snarl ‘do you know who I am?’ Absolutely not or I could take the demonically responsible route. Bend free will like a pipe cleaner.
“Look at me.” Voice gentle. Firm. Hypnosis skills gliding over my words like velvet dipped in chloroform.
[Hypnosis skills succeeded]
The concierge’s pupils dilated, her polite smile smoothing into something vaguely blissful, like she’d just been awarded Employee of the Millennium.
“You’ll add my name,” I said softly. “I’ve been cleared for Penthouse 2026.”
She nodded, smile serene, typing something imaginary. “Of course, Dr. Allen. Allow me to escort you.”
A bellhop materialized, skinny, eager. He grabbed a silver keycard and led me to the private elevator.
Elevator doors whispered shut. Ambient instrumental jazz seeped from invisible speakers. The bellhop pressed P. We ascended in silence.
Seventy-one floors later, a soft chime announced our arrival. The bellhop opened onto a foyer larger than my entire dorm suite. Marble. Crystal chandeliers. Art I couldn’t identify. He set the keycard on a table, bowed, and retreated as though backing away from a sleeping dragon. Sensible kid.
I walked deeper, shoes muffled on hand-woven rugs. A wall of floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the city, night lights glittering like spilled souls. And there, at a glossy onyx bar, stood Luci in silk pajama pants and a robe that probably required a PhD in textile engineering. Algan sat on a barstool, posture straight even off duty, sipping something amber.