Seven Sins System Chapter 886. Acceptable

Seven Sins System Chapter 886. Acceptable

I stayed in that pool for what felt like all night.

Or the rest of the day.

Honestly, I wasn’t sure anymore.

Time inside the Royal Abyss Chamber was weird. There were no windows, no clocks, nothing to tell you, “Congratulations, idiot, you wasted six hours boiling in demon soup”. There were only ancient demonic letters glowing on the walls, the distant screams of damned souls, and the Abyss pool dragging poison out of my body like it was personally offended holy trash had entered royal property.

Also, I passed out at least twice.

Maybe three times.

Hard to count unconsciousness. It didn’t come with receipts.

The first time was when I opened my eyes and found I was here.

The second time, the system told me the poison had reduced to five percent. A war healer stood beside the pool, checking my burned hand while wisely not making eye contact. The chains were still there too. I asked if Dad had ordered them to keep me tied like an aggressive pet.

The healer said nothing.

Smart.

The third time, my body finally felt like mine again.

Not perfect.

No.

Perfect was for Pride demons, angels, and people who didn’t grab murder cores with their bare hands.

But my ribs no longer felt cracked. My burned hand could move without making me want to bite through stone. The silver poison beneath my skin had faded into faint ghost-lines before vanishing completely under the pool’s pressure.

[Poison Contamination: 0.8%]

[Regeneration Efficiency: Restored]

[Demonic Channels: Stable]

[Core Status: Intact]

[Physical Condition: Combat-Capable]

[Recommendation: Avoid High Holy Saturation For 72 Hours]

I stared at the last line. “Cute.”

The chains dissolved a moment later, which meant Dad had been watching.

That old demon probably had the entire chamber monitored through ten ancient spells and one emotional manipulation curse labeled ‘son prevention’.

I climbed out of the pool slowly.

The Abyss water slid off my body like liquid shadow, reluctant to let go. Red steam rose from my skin. The demonic letters on the walls dimmed, as if the chamber had decided I had suffered enough to continue ruining other people’s lives.

I stretched my shoulders.

No pain.

Then I flexed my fingers.

Only a faint sting remained in my right palm.

Acceptable.

A servant entered with clothes before I even asked. Black royal layers. Dark fitted inner shirt. Long coat with red lining. Armored accents over shoulders and wrists. Crown-prince style.

Crown Prince of Shadow Realm.

Lord of Wrath.

I dressed properly.

The fabric settled over my skin, hiding the last faded marks of poison. My hair was still damp, so I pushed it back and let it fall messily enough to look intentional. The mirror beside the chamber showed my reflection.

Pale? Slightly.

Eyes too sharp? Always.

Mouth still looking like it wanted to mock light realm? Naturally.

Good as new.

Mostly.

The first thing I did after being released was not rest.

Obviously.

I went to the Wrath vault.

The vault doors recognized my blood and opened with a deep, satisfying groan. Rows of weapons, cursed artifacts, sealed relics, forbidden contracts, and emergency potions glowed in the darkness. The kind of place that would make a mortal thief cry, pray, and die in that order.

I ignored the weapons.

For once.

I went straight to the locked potion cabinet.

My personal stock.

Epic rank recovery potions.

Rare.

Expensive.

Disgustingly effective.

Only I had this batch because I had taken them from an ancient battlefield reward chest centuries ago and refused to share. Not because I was greedy. That was Mamon’s illness. I was just practical.

And selfish.

But mostly practical.

I took two bottles, thought about it, then took a third.

Mamon and Luci would never ask.

Which meant I had to force it on them like an emotionally constipated caregiver.

I hated being considerate.

It made my skin itch.

With the potions tucked into my tentacle, I teleported.

Space folded.

The Wrath Palace vanished.

Greed’s domain appeared.

Mamon’s palace did not look wounded.

Even if the lord was half-dead, his palace still screamed wealth, order, and judgmental cleanliness. Gold-black marble floors. High ceilings. Silent servants moving like trained knives. Ledgers floating midair. Doors opening before being touched because apparently even wood respected Greed’s schedule.

I appeared directly inside his home office.

No warning.

Because knocking was for people with fear.

The scene in front of me made me stop.

This devil was crazy.

Mamon was sitting behind his desk.

Healing.

And holding a meeting.

At the same time.

War healers stood around him, hands glowing with dark-gold restoration spells. One healer was stitching shut a holy burn across his shoulder with thread made from condensed shadow. Another was sealing a wound near his ribs where demonic poison had clearly bitten deeper than he wanted anyone to know.

Mamon himself sat straight in his chair, glasses repaired, hair combed, expression calm.

His suit?

Ruined.

But replaced halfway, because naturally someone had already brought him another jacket and draped it over his shoulders while his body was still smoking.

His tablet was in his hand.

His assistants, staff, accountants, soul auditors, and probably three terrified department heads sat lined up in front of his desk like students awaiting final judgment.

One assistant was speaking quickly.

“The returned soul count has stabilized across twelve lower-channel ledgers. However, several missing batches appear to have bypassed the ordinary greed-marking route. The mortal shell companies connected to the residue trade have begun liquidation behavior. Also, there are reports from the mortal realm that the school site has been sealed by Algan’s team.”

I stood in the middle of his office in silence, watching this absolute lunatic continue reading figures while war healers patched his body like a luxury carriage after a demon stampede.

The healer on his left said carefully, “My lord, please reduce cognitive load while the treatment—”

Mamon’s gaze shifted.

The healer shut up.

Yeah.

Classic.

My tentacle spat one potion onto my hand and I lifted it like a trophy.