Thrice Forborne
As I once said in the past, thrice forborne—Cain had been a web novel producer. He'd been exposed to a vast array of stories. Among them, possession tales were plentiful. Some were brilliantly original, others tediously clichéd. They came in every flavor, each with its own allure. And through it all, one truth had dawned on him naturally.
Altering causality is a damn dangerous game.
What will happen, will happen. If you block one event you know about through your foreknowledge, some other unforeseen disaster will erupt in its place. A possessor clinging to the original plot? Why obsess over the canon flow? Because you can't predict how far the ripples will spread. Because it undermines the advantages of being a pioneer.
I tried to avoid that shit as much as possible.
But that's the nature of possession stories. You don't want to change things, but to survive, you must. Human life is the most precious thing there is. He knew his actions would invite changes. But when death loomed and madness clawed at his mind, was it reasonable to cling blindly to the original plot?
"Cain."
"Aigoo, Your Highness. Long time no see."
His voice dripped with sycophantic flattery, but instead of rubbing his palms obsequiously, his knuckles cracked with an ominous pop-pop.
"…."
Gulp. The prince forced his trembling body to still. Memories flooded back—of being beaten like a dog in the past. More terrifying than psychological fear was the pain etched into the flesh, a lesson the body never forgot.
"What brings you here?"
He mustered his dignity, trying to sound princely.
"Aigoo, do we need a reason to meet between us?"
Killing demons had made it clear. Ah, this won't do. They're not feeling the crisis enough. I shouldn't kill too many. Gotta hold back. Messing around like this will screw everything up. They're gulping empty air, spinning delusions.
The Empire's Second Prince before him, Wilhelm, was a prime example. Complacent in good times, veering off course like a fool. One of the traitors who would bring down the Empire.
"If we only meet when there's trouble… no, sorry."
So he'd beaten him. Right up to the brink of death. Royalty? With demons swarming everywhere, what did bloodlines matter? Wilhelm had fallen to demonic temptation, lost his reason! To restore sanity, physical shock was needed! Convinced by Cain's logic, everyone had gone along with it. Officially, it was "treatment for temptation." In truth, it was "re-humanization" for mental reprogramming.
"Indeed, isn't it?"
That day, Wilhelm had seen death clearly. Demons? No. The man before him was death. Cain. Pretending otherwise, but a literal mad dog. The moment his eyes rolled back, you prayed to God. After three days and nights of beatings, enlightenment struck. Aah! It was all my fault! Everything's on me! I'll do anything, just stop hitting!
"I just returned from near the border."
"Ah… I heard about that. Yeah, I did."
The magic circle managers had been in an uproar, or so he'd heard. Cain had appeared out of nowhere, demanding to be sent to the border. Personnel records and logs were essential for managers. They had to verify identity and check with superiors. He'd answered with a beaming smile and his fist. The bosses would understand, he'd said. The result? All hospitalized.
"From the managers' perspective, they were just doing their jobs. Cain."
"Does it make sense they didn't know my face? The Mad Dog, right? They probably mouthed off once. Like, 'Me? This vital magic circle post? How dare some rootless commoner! Go get permission and come back, you scum!'"
"…."
"I didn't say it outright, but people pick up on vibes. It came across."
"So you beat them."
"Yes."
"Even so, that's a bit…."
"It's called offense to one's feelings."
A madman. A real madman. What kind of lunatic does this? Wilhelm wanted to flee right now. But against his reason, his body moved differently. Haha! Laughing. "The managers were in the wrong!" Trying desperately to appease Cain.
Because he was the Empire's sharpest blade, the perfect demon-slayer? If only.
The reason was simple. Because he was the Mad Dog. Utterly unpredictable. If he were always rabid, they'd plot his removal. But he seemed rational and meek most times—until his eyes flipped, and chaos erupted. Impossible to counter.
Above all… it hurts too much. Terrifying.
The nickname "God's Right Hand" was apt. One hit, and you screamed for God. Bones didn't break, organs didn't rupture. Just pain. Agony enough to crave death. No fainting. Too painful even for that. Wilhelm had endured three days and nights of it.
"The managers aren't the point. Don't change the subject."
"S-sorry. Go on. I'm listening."
"When I got there, the knights weren't fighting. Any guesses?"
"…."
A fork in the road to survival. Think carefully. Grasp the mad dog's intent. Was he truly clueless? No way.
A mad dog, but no dumb mutt. If he were just blindly rabid, he'd be dead. He knew when to ask, when not to. Who to prod, who to spare. And now that mouth gaped wide. Feed it grist, or it'd chew your head first.
"Probably… picking their battlefield."
"Picking their fight."
"Merit isn't just kill counts, Cain. More attention. Greater influence. Many knights are nobles; they're sensitive to that."
Saving a conscript guard unit versus securing a major water source for a region—which shone brighter didn't need explaining.
"They've got too much slack. The party leaders too. Think all the demons are dead?"
"Er… thanks to you, maybe? N-no sarcasm. Literally."
Internal power struggles when demons weren't eradicated? Seemed impossible, yet the man responsible stood before him. Cain. Because of him.
"Cain, you kill demons too damn well. You show up in crises, always win."
Since demons appeared, crises abounded on the continent. Ironically, no existential threats to the heartlands. The Demon Slayer descended every time. Demons begging for mercy. A man above demons. Undefeated. Invincible. Legend. Myth. Embarrassing titles, but stark truth.
"Everyone's gotten complacent. And complacency in crisis? Perfect soil for treasonous thoughts."
"Interesting."
"Happened before. Knights fought over weakened demon forces you'd softened up. You cleaned up the last one, so it blew over."
Hm. So it's all my fault in the end. Got it. I was the problem.
"Guess I hunted demons too eagerly."
"Cain?"
"My bad. Yes. Kill me."
"No! Absolutely not! If anyone's wrong, it's us! We were!"
Unease. Ominous chill. Gooseflesh. Self-criticism from him? What scheme? What words next?
"From now on, I'll hustle at more than just demon-slaying."
"No need! Just demons, Cain. I'll handle the rest. Demons alone tire you out."
"Am I complaining about demon-hunting now?"
He'd meant no need for extra work—you're beat from demons alone, weakling. Cold sweat now.
"In Your Highness's eyes, I look like a pathetic wretch."
"No! Never! I meant, no need for headaches…."
"My head doesn't ache. I never drag things out to headache levels."
An old proverb: Poor head, suffering body.
"Flip that, Your Highness. Know what it becomes?"
Body too good, no need for head. Wilhelm was speechless. How does it twist like that?!
"Ah, one more. Thrice forborne absolves even murder."
"Forborne? Cain, I don't understand…."
"Who asked you to?"
Speech to the prince shortened abruptly. Treasonous by hierarchy, but no room for protest. It came. Damn. That terrifying madness.
"I've thought it over. I've held back a ton. Demons would cry discrimination."
"Naturally…."
"But seeing this mess, it flips."
Thrice forborne—now it's kill mark.
"Your Highness knows how much I value fighting demons."
"Of course, Cain."
"Can't fight carefree with home front like this."
No yielding the demons before him. Nothing more rewarding than killing them. But slaying all solo? Even mad dogs rest. No need to roll like a real mutt. Can't bus everyone, but one share. Half a share at least.
So.
"Time for normalization?"
"Normalization…?"
"Your Highness. What you suffered."
Arrogant, haughty on royal blood—remade into a different man in three days. Cain's special brew: violence. Nothing it couldn't fix.
"Mental reprogramming incoming."
The demon war had changed much. Knight orders' garrisons, for one. Once mostly in castles, now field-ready for emergencies. Conscripts could fight demons. Knights won against them.
"Captain. Support request nearby."
"Demons showed?"
Tsk. The captain reclined, clicking his tongue.
"Send a senior knight or so. Handle it."
Obvious why such staffing. Scout for glory fields. Or call if it fits. Not all, but most orders like this.
"But Captain, urgent request—sounds like many."
"If idiots overreact, we waste time."
"They begged within two hours…."
"These bastards dictating to knights?"
Had to go. Ignoring brewed trouble. But late? Sure. Complications arose. Two hours stretched far longer. Over four hours later, knights arrived.
What demons prompted this?
"You came."
A man sat instead. That voice. Face. Menacing aura. Familiar. Who…?
"Two hours late."
"Cain?"
"Demon Slayer?"
"God's Right Hand?"
The Mad Dog Cain, here?
"Let's see. 120 minutes. 7,200 seconds…."
Next demon alert? Pavlov's dogs, rushing out. Simple method.
"Neatly. Seven thousand per head."
Etch it into flesh and soul.