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**Chapter 393: No Tricks, No Constantine**
Constantine ground tobacco between his teeth, the nicotine easing his cravings. "Looks like the truth’s out."
"A single demon confirms it?" Yang Le arched a brow. "You’ve always been cautious. No further tests?"
Yang wasn’t here to play hero. He wanted to study dark magic for his Dimensional Demon Avatar’s growth—long dormant, it craved knowledge.
Constantine’s recklessness was an act. Every "gamble" had a safety net. Like his legendary scam against Hell’s triumvirate—he’d cured his lung cancer while unscathed, exploiting demons’ greed and cowardice.
His "test" on Yang involved summoning a minor demon, not some powerhouse. The demon was a nuisance Constantine had tangled with before, its contract-free presence now weaponized against Yang. When Yang shrugged off the curse left by the "dead" demon, Constantine knew he faced a divine-level immunity.
Tonight was a win: a date, debt relief, and leverage over a god.
"Enough proof," Constantine said solemnly, abandoning his usual rogue charm. "Let’s talk terms."
"I’ll offer two options," Yang leaned forward, elbows on knees. "A favor when you’re in trouble, within reason—or power you’ve never seen."
Constantine scoffed. "Skip the power pitch. I’ve heard enough divine ‘gifts’ since childhood. You wouldn’t think gods could outdo devils in cruelty."
"Still bitter?" Yang feigned shock.
"Trust me," Constantine’s tone turned grave. "Gods’ wrath outstrips demons’ by leagues. I’ve seen it all."
"Back to business. What do you say?" Yang straightened.
"Handshake pact," Constantine extended his hand. "No divine loopholes. I need proof this isn’t another con."
Yang clasped it. A sigil flared on both palms, vanishing moments later.
"Done," Constantine smirked, pocketing the sigil’s hidden flaw—a loophole only he’d noticed.
"Now help us?" Yang prompted.
"Just one favor first," Constantine rubbed his hands. "A pack of cigarettes. Three hours without nicotine and I’m useless."
---
Constantine exhaled a cloud of smoke, his penthouse haze thick enough to choke a horse.
"Cut back, Constantine," Zatanna winced. "Your lungs—"
"Your concern warms my heart, princess."
Relaxed on a nicotine high, Constantine admired his right hand. A god’s pact glowed invisibly—his golden ticket.
"Who needs Hell’s favors when I’ve got divine backing?" he smirked, itching to slap Lucifer's face with this "proof."
---
(End of Chapter)
Constantine ground tobacco between his teeth, the nicotine easing his cravings. "Looks like the truth’s out."
"A single demon confirms it?" Yang Le arched a brow. "You’ve always been cautious. No further tests?"
Yang wasn’t here to play hero. He wanted to study dark magic for his Dimensional Demon Avatar’s growth—long dormant, it craved knowledge.
Constantine’s recklessness was an act. Every "gamble" had a safety net. Like his legendary scam against Hell’s triumvirate—he’d cured his lung cancer while unscathed, exploiting demons’ greed and cowardice.
His "test" on Yang involved summoning a minor demon, not some powerhouse. The demon was a nuisance Constantine had tangled with before, its contract-free presence now weaponized against Yang. When Yang shrugged off the curse left by the "dead" demon, Constantine knew he faced a divine-level immunity.
Tonight was a win: a date, debt relief, and leverage over a god.
"Enough proof," Constantine said solemnly, abandoning his usual rogue charm. "Let’s talk terms."
"I’ll offer two options," Yang leaned forward, elbows on knees. "A favor when you’re in trouble, within reason—or power you’ve never seen."
Constantine scoffed. "Skip the power pitch. I’ve heard enough divine ‘gifts’ since childhood. You wouldn’t think gods could outdo devils in cruelty."
"Still bitter?" Yang feigned shock.
"Trust me," Constantine’s tone turned grave. "Gods’ wrath outstrips demons’ by leagues. I’ve seen it all."
"Back to business. What do you say?" Yang straightened.
"Handshake pact," Constantine extended his hand. "No divine loopholes. I need proof this isn’t another con."
Yang clasped it. A sigil flared on both palms, vanishing moments later.
"Done," Constantine smirked, pocketing the sigil’s hidden flaw—a loophole only he’d noticed.
"Now help us?" Yang prompted.
"Just one favor first," Constantine rubbed his hands. "A pack of cigarettes. Three hours without nicotine and I’m useless."
---
Constantine exhaled a cloud of smoke, his penthouse haze thick enough to choke a horse.
"Cut back, Constantine," Zatanna winced. "Your lungs—"
"Your concern warms my heart, princess."
Relaxed on a nicotine high, Constantine admired his right hand. A god’s pact glowed invisibly—his golden ticket.
"Who needs Hell’s favors when I’ve got divine backing?" he smirked, itching to slap Lucifer's face with this "proof."
---
(End of Chapter)
