"What should we do, then?"
"What else can we do? We can only act ourselves! Zaebos, what do you say?" The spearhead was pointed directly at Zaebos.
Zaebos's face darkened horribly. He finally understood why these bastards had shoved the responsibility onto him from the very beginning. They had planned all along to carve a piece off him.
It was rather ironic. The dignified council of Baator Hell's Eight Archdukes had no money to deploy troops and instead needed private funds to serve as military pay. It was utterly absurd. Yet existence had its reasons. Baator Hell's dictatorship ensured that, after layer upon layer of exploitation, private wealth far exceeded public funds.
Zaebos had no choice. No matter how capable he was, he could not stand against the other six. At worst, he only had to bleed a little for now. If things truly fell apart, a little blood would no longer be enough to settle the matter. The six were now united against him. If this was brought before Bel, would Bel listen to the six of them or to him? Was that even a question?
"Thirty percent!" Zaebos said through gritted teeth. He might have to bleed, but that did not mean he had to provide all the resources himself.
"Too little!"
They had known one another for thousands of years—who did not know the others inside out? Thirty percent sounded like a lot, but compared to Zaebos's vast accumulated wealth, it was absolutely not much! In the Lower Planes, resources meant strength. Making Zaebos bleed more was the greatest possible weakening of his power.
There was no tenderness among the Eight Archdukes. They still fought over power. After all, each of them oversaw different affairs, and their actual authority naturally varied in size. It even concerned how