Poetry.

Bologue had read some poetry, and in his view, it was a thoroughly romantic term—a literary medium composed of highly condensed language and rhythm, imbued with intense emotions, and expressing the myriad facets of the soul.

Suddenly, Bologue recalled the anomaly he encountered during his ascension ritual, where he witnessed the story of a poet and the mountains amidst a sky-piercing storm as if experiencing it firsthand.

Due to this experience, poetry held a peculiar significance for Bologue.

He grew curious, curious as to why Belphegor would raise such a question. The sinister Devil and romantic poetry seemed quite mismatched no matter how one thought about it.

"From many years ago, I've loved all forms of artistic creation; before movies existed, my favorite art form was poetry."

Belphegor watched the screen, where the scene displayed a desolate expanse and a poet persevering in the knife-like cold wind.

"Still surprised?"

Belphegor took a deep sip of his drink and asked.

"Not surprised," Bologue relaxed, watching the black-and-white film, "Even if you took out an electric guitar now and sang to me, I wouldn't be surprised."

Belphegor laughed heartily.

In the scene, the poet arrived at an unfamiliar town, spreading his poetry within and exchanging with other poets in the town, acquiring new poetry to take to another far-off place.

"My brothers and sisters have different interests, like the Tyrant Mammon you've seen; he's like a garbage collector who never rejects anything of value."

"Sounds like a crow," Bologue said, "They love collecting shiny things, no matter what they are."

"Yes, exactly," Belphegor said, "Every Devil has an irresistible inclination, which perhaps is the beginning of our Original Sin."

Bologue internally noted this piece of information, perhaps it would be useful in the future.

Bologue continued, "Your passion is pursuing artistic creation? That sounds way out of character for a Devil..."

He hadn't finished speaking when Bologue immediately dismissed his own thoughts; Devils are like this—unpredictable and bizarre. Whatever crazy act they do, always has a reasonable explanation in their own view.

One could even say that even the reasonable explanation isn't important, as long as they can feel happy.

"I know it's hard to accept, that a bizarre Devil doesn't desire souls but instead favors such things, like an eccentric youth detached from society, collecting things incomprehensible to others."

Belphegor tinkered with his collection; he was right, if Belphegor were just an ordinary person, he'd be a reclusive oddball locking himself away from society.

Bologue's gaze towards Belphegor became peculiar.

The Order Bureau really knows how to pick Devils—choosing such an odd fellow, but well, only such strange Devils would be bound by a mortal's Blood Contract.

Bologue still held significant vigilance against Belphegor; no matter how strange Belphegor's outward behavior was, he remained an abhorrent Devil.

Belphegor said, "I like these things. For these interests, just like my brothers and sisters, I gradually gained a group of followers devoted to me."

"Unfettered Poetry Society."

Bologue watched the screen, invoking the name of that group.

On the screen, the poet came to a field, where countless poets waited for him in the endless grassland, pitching tents and raising bonfires, like a town rising from the ground.

The poets danced around the bonfire, sang and played; the melodious tunes intertwined with recitals of poems, echoing below the skies.

"You might not believe it, Mr. Lazarus; though I am a Devil, the Blood Contract I formed with the Unfettered Poetry Society was not driven by those ignoble desires."

Belphegor's eyes were fixed on the movie, and Bologue also focused on the film, both immersing themselves in the story like friends meeting at a theater.

The poets gathered and danced amidst the fields, with each passing day drawing more poets from afar to join them until on the seventh day, a visitor waded across water to arrive.

The poets encircled him, sharing their stories from dawn till dusk; another seven days passed, and finally, the visitor finished hearing everyone's stories.

It was time to leave.

The poets packed their belongings, dismantling the town built upon the flat ground; they embraced each other and bid farewells, promising to meet again next year.

Every poet, upon leaving, will pause for a moment before the visitors. The visitors bestow blessings upon the poets, who then touch the visitors' robes, leaving vibrant colors upon them.

This is the first stroke of color within the black-and-white film. More and more poets bid farewell to the visitors, painting their robes with brilliant hues. In this monochrome world, they are like a radiant bird.

All the poets have departed, and the brilliant bird begins its next flight.

"I don't really like calling our connection that of gods and followers. It's not equal; we're more like...a group of like-minded friends."

Belphegor whispered, "That's right, friends. They entrust their souls to me, and I bestow power upon them. It's not merely for the Devil's nature, but for our unified, noble ideals."

"Ideals? Do Devils even have such things?"

Bologue grabbed a handful of popcorn, stuffed it into his mouth, and mumbled indistinctly.

Belphegor laughed heartily, "Sounds incredible, doesn't it? But it is true; there are always some things even the Devil cannot do."

"So this isn't just a movie, right?" Bologue said, "These are the memories of those souls, and you've woven them into a film."

Inside the screen, scenes from a century ago are playing. From Bologue's viewing experience, the costumes, props, and actors' performances in this film are the most exquisite he has ever seen. It seems more like filming a real documentary than a movie.

This is the documentary, peeling those images from the souls using the Devil's Power, cutting them into endless records of the era.

"Yes, it's part of the trade."

Belphegor said as he picked up a dark box, pulling out the film within. The images inside the film grid weren't static but continually changing, along with the man's actions swiftly changing.

This reminded Bologue of when films first appeared, and some people rejected them, saying films were a kind of sorcery that would imprison a person's soul into the film.

Now the sorcery seems to have come true. The man inside the grid noticed Bologue, showing a terrified expression and screaming in desperation.

Bologue could hear his screams; every frame of the man was wailing.

"After all, I am the Devil. No matter how much I love them, my primary job still needs to be done."

Belphegor roughly stuffed the film back in, casually throwing the dark box into the darkness. In the corner illuminated by light, Bologue could see the boxes piled up like a mountain.

"I like trading with people to fulfill their wishes, in exchange for their gaze, to observe their entire life. You can understand me as an audience, and they are my actors."

Belphegor picked up another dark box and pointed to the name on it towards Bologue.

"Scott Martin, you should have seen him."

Bologue remembered this name, recalling the silent, desolate statue within the Undying Club.

"That's right, it's the one in the Undying Club," Belphegor continued, "In his youth, Scott traded with me to obtain funds to explore the unknown. I gave him ample funds, and as a price, I wanted to witness his adventure firsthand."

Belphegor expressed disappointment, "It's a pity. Our transaction should have ended then."

"Scott became a world-famous adventurer, and I also obtained an excellent film. Afterward, Scott wasn't satisfied; he began to fear death, asking me for the power of immortality."

Bologue whispered, "You granted him immortality, but in another form."

"But indeed, it's immortality," Belphegor said mockingly, "From the perspective of Alchemy Materials Science, the current Scott is one of the hardest substances in the world. Time and swords can leave no marks on him."

Belphegor put away his smile, gently brushing the surface of the dark box, his gaze fixed on the screen.

"Actually, I've promised everyone who trades with me that they will achieve immortality in my hands, but they don't believe me; they're just focused on merely surviving."

Bologue roughly understood Belphegor's trading rules. If the Tyrant is interested in anything of value, then the Mammon Coin is the quantification of value contributed to the Tyrant.

What Belphegor loves are interesting stories, others' radiant and beautiful lives, awe-inspiring artistic creations. The more a life can move Belphegor, the more valuable it is in his eyes; he craves others' gaze to witness their entire life.

Bologue asked, "Promise of immortality? Is that one of your great ideals?"

"Of course, that's my promise. Every poet who joins the Unfettered Poetry Society and shares their life with me will be written into that endless poetic verse, gaining eternal life."

Belphegor slowly clenched his fists, his voice stern and filled with anger.

"Regrettably, the Unfettered Poetry Society has been corrupted, and the endless verses have thus ceased."

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