Chapter 83 – Am I Don’t Know Anything Except Working?
Lux’s eyes flicked toward the TV again. The anchor was now deep in discussion with a very square-jawed analyst wearing a navy suit that screamed "Trust me, I have offshore accounts."
The chyron below read:
GOLD PRICE SURGES AMIDST GLOBAL RESERVE PANIC.
The anchor said with a perfectly neutral smirk, "And as we can see, gold has risen by 12.3% in just the last forty-eight hours, fueled by distrust in fiat and increased institutional hoarding. Joining me now is—"
Lux’s instinct kicked in like a cornered beast. His eyes narrowed. His fingers twitched. His Greed System sharpened like a blade at his back.
Oh. Oh, he could use that.
If he just looped back the hedge fund flow from the dummy accounts in—
"Nope," Lux said immediately, and louder than necessary.
He slapped the remote like it owed him money and switched the channel.
Cartoons.
Bright colors. Exploding pancakes. A talking giraffe in a business suit offering legal advice to a banana wearing a monocle.
"That’s much better," Lux breathed out, sagging like a deflated demon soufflé.
Silence returned.
Well—almost silence. The TV made a ridiculous SPROING sound effect as the banana tripped over a wheel of cheese and got eaten by a courtroom turtle.
Lux didn’t laugh. He just stared. Empty.
Something felt... weird.
Not bad, exactly. Just foreign. Unnatural.
He had centuries of mental momentum behind him. Years—centuries—of movement, logistics, negotiations, accounting manipulation, debt weaving, demonic loophole engineering, soul contract clauses written in fire ink. He had three universal lawsuits still pending and a personal inbox that probably looked like a digital war crime.
And now?
He was doing nothing.
Nothing.
He blinked.
"What do people do in their vacation?" he muttered, like he was asking the carpet for tax advice.
[Do you want me to give you suggestions based on greed and lust you have?]
Lux dragged a hand down his face. "No. Absolutely not. No sin-algorithm-based itinerary. No five-day Lust-Optimized Itinerary including saunas and soul-stealing massage parlors. No personalized gluttony map of city buffets ranked by gold-to-carb ratio."
[...You already opened that one last week.]
"That was for research," Lux snapped.
[You ate seventeen éclairs.]
Lux glared at the ceiling. "I was emotionally compromised."
[You were slightly inconvenienced by a pigeon.]
"...It pooped on my coat."
[A legendary-tier coat.]
"Exactly!" Lux huffed.
The room went quiet again except for the cartoon giraffe delivering a closing argument to a courtroom full of crying grapes.
Lux muttered again, quieter this time, "No... What do I want to do during this vacation?"
The question wasn’t even rhetorical. It hung in the air like a glitch that didn’t want to be patched. It echoed around his skull.
He rubbed his temple with one hand and held his coffee cup like a lifeline with the other. The bitter warmth seeped into his palm.
"I could go shopping," he offered weakly.
[You already did it yesterday.]
"...Right."
Lux sighed. He stared into his empty coffee cup like it might start whispering life advice. It didn’t. Traitor.
"What if I take a road trip?" he said aloud, like an idea was trying to crawl into his head. "You know. Real mortal experience. Cheap diners. Wrong turns. Gas station coffee. Bad music. Regret."
[You do that every quarter with the Imp guild leader.]
"That’s called war. I’m talking about vibes."
[Define ’vibes.’]
"Emotionally poor decisions with aesthetic value."
[...Searching for mortal social media tags.]
Lux laughed again. Then sighed.
The laughter didn’t quite reach his eyes.
The cartoon giraffe was now crying. The courtroom turtle hugged him. Everyone clapped.
"Am I... I don’t know anything except working?" Lux muttered, brow furrowing. "Maybe yeah... since that’s all I knew my whole life."
He stared at the flickering cartoon chaos on screen, but the colors didn’t register. Just noise now. His voice had dropped quieter, like it wasn’t meant for the room—just for the truth finally slipping out.
[Emotionally unavailable, but not lonely. Your Lust Bond Level with Naomi is active. Rava’s Mark is currently glowing. And your passive Incubus Pheromones are still at 87% effectiveness despite morning breath.]
"...Thanks for the analytics."
[Would you like me to match you with a new heiress within a ten-mile radius? Parameters: billionaire, high compatibility, mild trauma, preferably hot.]
"No," Lux said, but weaker this time.
[She’s a jewelry magnate’s daughter. Owns a tiger. Believes love is a myth but is open to being proven wrong.]
"Tempting."
[Her name is Diamond.]
"...Of course it is."
Lux stood up and walked back toward the window, the breeze brushing across his bare chest. The sunlight had shifted slightly, spilling longer golden streaks across the floor. The city buzzed below—horns, chatter, the faraway whoosh of something fast and loud passing by.
He looked down at the cup.
Still empty.
Like him?
Okay, no. Too dramatic.
"System," he said softly.
[Yes, sir?]
"...Add one more entry to my vacation list."
[Certainly. What is it?]
"I want to learn what I actually like," Lux said, voice low, almost confused. "Not what I buy. Not what I control. Just... what I like. Except money, gold, profits, and rich women."
There was a long pause.
[Processing... That may take longer than expected.]
"I’ve got time."
[Very well. Initiating Soul-Based Preference Calibration Protocol.]
Lux blinked. "That’s a thing?"
[You left it unfinished. You started the process 142 years ago and then forgot after a meeting with the Sin Exchange Board.]
"...That sounds like me."
Lux blew a slow sigh out of his nose, staring blankly at the cartoon giraffe now putting on a tiny graduation cap and walking across the screen with overly cheerful music trailing behind it.
A pause again.
A longer one this time.
The kind that filled a room, heavy and quiet. Even the air-conditioning had the decency to hum a little softer.
Lux’s gaze drifted back toward the ceiling like it owed him an answer. It didn’t. That thing never cooperated, just like the damned Financial Flame Archives in Hell that still refused to sync with mortal spreadsheet formats.
His fingers twitched slightly against the side of the cup.
He was fidgeting.
That was dangerous.