Infinite Mana Exorcist
Chapter 40: Logan R18

Chapter 40: Logan R18

Hansora.

The most beautiful woman in the Adventurer’s Inn.

A goddess in her own right—long, golden hair that shimmered under candlelight, curves that drew every eye in the room, and a presence that made men lose themselves to desire.

Whenever she passed by, the air shifted. Eyes trailed after her, filled with lust, admiration, and envy. Yet, despite the hunger in their gazes, very few could afford the pleasure of her company.

Fifty gold coins.

That was the price to lay with the most sought-after woman in the inn. A fortune for most, but for those who had it, many claimed it was worth every coin.

And tonight, she belonged to Logan.

---

"Ahhh! Faster, Logan... Please—wait!"

Hansora’s moans echoed off the wooden walls, her delicate voice trembling in pleasure, her fingers gripping the sheets beneath her. Every thrust sent waves of ecstasy through her body, her breath hitching, her heart pounding.

Logan, however, remained silent.

Not a word, not a whisper—just the sound of his body moving against hers, his touch rough yet controlled, his pace unyielding.

Eighth round...

Hansora’s mind was a blur of pleasure and exhaustion. Her body, usually well-versed in the ways of passion, had reached its limits.

Yet Logan did not falter.

He’s a monster... And he’s so big...

Her thoughts melted into the sensation overwhelming her senses. She opened her mouth, but no words came—only breathless cries of pleasure.

And then, suddenly... he stopped.

A gasp escaped her lips as Logan pulled away, his body glistening with sweat, his breathing heavy. Without a word, he stood up, reaching for his clothes.

Hansora, still trembling, turned to him, her golden locks cascading over her bare shoulders. "Logan, baby, lie down with me for a while—"

But Logan didn’t respond.

He pulled on his pants without a glance in her direction, his face devoid of emotion. Cold, distant.

A shiver ran down Hansora’s spine, but not from pleasure.

"Logan, where are you going—"

For the first time, he looked at her.

His gaze was unreadable, dark, piercing through her like she was nothing more than an object—a mere distraction.

Then, he turned away and strode toward the door, his back tense, his steps firm. Just before he left, his voice cut through the silence like a blade.

"I changed my mind. You aren’t even worth a single gold coin."

The door shut behind him, leaving Hansora alone, staring at the empty space where he had been.

The sheets clutched tightly to her chest, her breath uneven, she felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

A sting.

Not of rejection—she was used to men leaving once they had their fill.

But of something deeper.

Something she couldn’t quite understand.

Yet, she knew better than to question it.

Her fingers traced the cold sheets beside her, and with a hollow sigh, she whispered to herself.

"I guess... it’s on to the next man for me."

---

The night was cold.

Even inside the dimly lit bar, the icy air seemed to seep through the wooden walls.

It was empty.

Aside from the bartender and a single man sitting at a wooden table, shirtless, lost in thought.

Logan.

His blank stare was fixed on the table, his fingers tracing the rough texture of the wood absentmindedly.

So this is what it feels like...

The weight in his chest was suffocating. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t sadness.

It was emptiness.

A void that refused to be filled, no matter how much he drank, no matter how many battles he fought, no matter how many women he bedded.

The bartender stood nearby, waiting for his order. Logan barely lifted his head as he spoke.

"Dragon ale. Lace it with some three-headed serpent poison. I want to go down silently."

The bartender adjusted his glasses, shaking his head with a sigh.

"Another one committing suicide, huh?"

He turned away, gathering the ingredients for the drink, mixing them together with the ease of someone who had done it too many times before.

Logan didn’t react.

Didn’t even blink.

He just sat there, his fingers still tracing the wood, his thoughts clouded by the inevitability of what he was about to do.

The bartender returned, placing three large wooden jugs in front of him.

"I added an extra jug to hasten your way to hell. But one thing... don’t die on the premises. Do it outside at least."

Logan gave a wordless nod.

The bartender, satisfied, walked away, leaving Logan alone once more.

He exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the jug.

"Can’t believe the great Logan is gonna poison himself," he muttered under his breath.

He lifted the jug to his lips.

This was it.

No, Logan... It’s either this or dying by the hand of that Vager bastard! This is the easier way out!

He shut his eyes.

Took a deep breath.

And—

BAM! SNATCH!

"Hey, thanks, buddy."

A hand swooped in, snatching the jug right from his grasp.

Logan’s eyes snapped open.

His gaze darted to the man walking past him, casually downing the poisoned drink in large gulps.

For a moment, Logan wanted to attack him—slam his fist into the bastard’s face.

But then... he stopped himself.

Fine. Have it. Die well.

His eyes flicked to the two others who had entered with the man—one carrying a severed head by its hair, the other walking close behind.

They weren’t ordinary drunkards.

They were adventurers.

But something was... off.

Logan studied them.

One carried multiple weapons, a weapons master, most likely. The other was a swordsman—reckless choice. The last was a woman—likely a sniper or an alchemist.

No mage.

No crafter.

No healer.

A weak, unbalanced party.

At best, E-rank adventurers.

And yet—

Logan’s breath hitched.

His eyes locked onto the severed head the swordsman held.

His pulse quickened.

"What the fuck?! Is that a Mutated Terror?!"

The words left his mouth before he could stop them, his body jerking to his feet.

The swordsman turned with a grin, holding up two fingers.

"Sure is! We killed the bastard. One’s worth a thousand gold coins!"

Logan barely heard the last part.

This wasn’t just impressive—it was impossible.

A group of three killing a Grade-3 type beast? Out of the eight grades of beasts, this was something only C-rank guilds could handle.

His disbelief twisted into something darker.

Anger.

His gaze snapped back to the bartender.

Without a second thought, Logan stomped over, grabbed the bartender by the shirt, and yanked him forward, his voice a growl.

"Are you trying to scam me?! Did you even lace the drink?!"

The bartender, flustered, nodded rapidly.

"I did! Calm down—"

Logan’s grip only tightened.

His knuckles turned white.

The bartender, eyes darting to the adventurer who had downed the poison, swallowed hard.

"Haven’t you heard about the Demon Walker—Asher?"

Logan froze.

His breath caught in his throat.

His fingers slackened.

Slowly, his eyes turned toward the man who had just emptied the jug.

And for the first time that night, Logan felt something other than emptiness.

He felt fear.

"Demon Walker... Asher?!"