When physical attacks proved ineffective, they attacked the enemy's mind instead, turning it into an idiot. Constantine was very familiar with this tactic, having used it on all kinds of demons more than once.
Demons were born in Hell, which was saturated with the power of Chaos. They were often all muscle and barely any brain.
It was not that Great Demons and Satans were unintelligent, but the overwhelming majority of demons were ordinary demons and imps—just laborers, really.
If Hell were viewed as a giant corporation, then the demons who operated in the mortal world and traded for human souls through contracts were its salespeople. They had to abide by the terms of their contracts, with no right to go beyond them. Nor did they fully understand the power of contracts or what they represented.
That was why Constantine could escape unscathed time and again. In the end, even several demon kings could do nothing about him, perfectly proving that a man with too many debts had nothing left to fear.
"Then I'm going in, Pinhead. When you kill me later, could you make the chains go in through one temple and come out through the other?"
As Ghostface Number Three spoke, he shoved the mushroom beneath his mask and began chewing. He even started bargaining.
"I don't think having a hole in my forehead would look very good. Besides, my identity is supposed to be secret. If you break my mask, won't I get doxxed?"
The merciless monk glanced at Ghostface without saying a word. By the time the latter had finished speaking, he was already shaking in place, then began rubbing himself all over Constantine like he was in heat.
"Wake up. Don't get high yet. What do you see?" Constantine struggled to pull away the hallucinating