Hubertus van Schnecken strutted through the bustling marketplace of the Abyss like he was the boss of the place, his horns gleaming and his chest puffed out in exaggerated confidence. His leathery skin rippled with a self-satisfied swagger, and he moved with all the subtlety of a peacock on parade. Around him, demons of all shapes and sizes bustled, bartered, and bickered, but Hubertus paid them no mind. He was a demon on a mission—or at least, that's the image he wanted to project.
He sauntered past a stall advertising "Eternal Torment Remedies: Buy One, Get One Free," and he paused for a moment, pretending to scoff as if such trivial matters were beneath his notice. In reality, the curious bottles intrigued him for a split second, but he quickly remembered he had an image to maintain. He rolled his shoulders back and continued his exaggerated march, tossing his head as if the very air around him should feel honored by his presence.
A skeletal musician in the corner plucked at a haunted tune on a worn lute, and Hubertus shot the skeleton a nod, one of those nods that said, "Yeah, keep playing. I approve." The skeleton looked up, its empty eye sockets staring blankly, but Hubertus didn't care. He was too busy walking like he owned the entire Abyss. His crimson eyes scanned the stalls, and with every step, he made sure to add a bit of a sway to his hips—because if you're going to be the boss, you've got to have style.
He turned a corner sharply, strutting past a vendor who was hawking jars full of writhing creatures. Hubertus eyed the creatures momentarily, then lifted his chin high, giving a dramatic flick of his hand as if to say, "Peasants. I have no need for your wiggly jar-things." He puffed out his chest, his shoulders back so far that for a second he almost lost his balance, but he quickly recovered, shooting a glare at a bystander as if it were their fault for not stabilizing the earth beneath his feet.
The marketplace was a jagged sprawl, a confusing maze of obsidian stalls, tents stitched together from who-knew-what, and wares stacked high in rickety piles. Glowing souls floated in jars, snakes hissed from cages, and everywhere, bizarre curiosities glimmered. But Hubertus was on a mission. He had no time for distractions—except, of course, to look completely fabulous while he marched. He imagined his path opening like a red carpet laid before a king. Anyone who dared to look at him for too long received an arched brow and a cocky grin, forcing most to turn away and murmur among themselves.
He finally approached a simple stall—no ornate decor, no grand banners—just a wooden table with dark, peculiar items spread across it. Hubertus stopped in front of it, one hand on his hip, the other pointing to a small, nondescript tin canister. It looked unimpressive, but something about it called to him.
"That one," Hubertus announced with dramatic flair, jabbing his finger toward the canister. He arched a brow, waiting for the hunched figure behind the stall to respond. The vendor didn't immediately react, which Hubertus took as an opportunity to let his confidence ooze a little more. He gave a loud, purposeful sigh, tapping his foot as if he had all the power in the world.
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Finally, the vendor lifted its head, revealing a cracked porcelain-like face with hollow eyes. Hubertus could almost hear the vendor's bones creaking as it spoke, its voice like dry leaves rustling in the wind. "The Can of Malefic Worms," the vendor rasped. "A dangerous artifact, demon. Do you understand what you are asking for?"
Hubertus puffed out his chest, giving the vendor his best "of course I know what I'm doing" look. "Do I understand? Pfft, please. I'm Hubertus van Schnecken. What do they do?"
The vendor tilted its head slightly, and Hubertus couldn't tell if the pause was out of hesitation or because the vendor was genuinely questioning Hubertus' sanity. "These worms devour lies, secrets, and fears. They burrow into the minds of those you unleash them upon. They feed on corruption until there is nothing left but hollow truth. They can strip a being of their deepest secrets, unraveling them entirely."
Hubertus' eyes widened, and he let out a low whistle—though he quickly caught himself, clearing his throat and returning to his aloof stance. "Yeah, yeah. That's what I thought," he said, nodding sagely. He could think of plenty of uses for that. "What's the price?"
The vendor's hollow gaze fixed on Hubertus, and the silence seemed to drag on far longer than Hubertus was comfortable with. Finally, it spoke, each word like a chisel tapping away at a stone wall. "A memory. A painful memory—one that binds you still. The day you understood your humanity—the day you realized what mattered most to you as a mortal. That memory, in exchange for the worms."
Hubertus faltered for a split second. The dramatic, swagger-filled façade cracked, and his smile faded. He clenched his jaw, his mind flickering back to a distant recollection—someone he had once cared about deeply, a time when he had felt human in the truest sense. It was like a splinter in his heart, painful and real. For a moment, his confident stance wavered.
Then, the resolve returned. What did humanity matter to him now? He was a demon, and power was what he needed. That old, sentimental memory had no place here. He straightened up, even adding a cocky tilt to his head.
"Fine," Hubertus said, waving his hand dismissively. "Take it."
The vendor reached out, and as its gnarled hand brushed against Hubertus' chest, the marketplace seemed to fade for a heartbeat. Hubertus felt something being torn away—not physically, but emotionally. He gasped as the memory was ripped from him, a fleeting sensation of something cherished being lost. When the vendor pulled back, it left Hubertus with nothing but emptiness where that memory had been.
"It is done," the vendor said, sliding the tin canister across the table.
Hubertus reached out and took the canister, holding it for a moment longer than necessary. It was cold, its weight far heavier than it looked. He turned on his heel, tossing a cocky grin over his shoulder. "Pleasure doing business," he said, his voice dripping with bravado, even though something inside him felt undeniably different.
Hubertus strutted away, the Can of Malefic Worms tucked securely under his arm. He kept his chin high, his shoulders back—marching through the market like he owned every stone beneath his feet. Somewhere deep inside, something had shifted, but he wasn't about to let that show.
He was Hubertus van Schnecken. He had given up a piece of his past, but he gained something far more valuable—a tool for power, a weapon for the future.
And as he marched forward, the bustling market around him oblivious to his sacrifice, Hubertus wore his confidence like armor—strutting through the chaos of the Abyss, every step punctuated with the swagger of a demon who refused to lose.