Episode 18 - Distrust in the Lugbelk Kingdom, and Its Capital
The restaurant on the outskirts of the Lugbelk Kingdom's capital was bustling, likely due to the lunch hour. Wide-open spaces beyond the capital teemed with carriages shuttling between villages, serving as a rest stop for adventurers setting out on journeys. More deals were struck here than inside the capital itself, in preparation for long travels. Of course, wealthy merchants and nobles conducted their business deep within the city.
Anyway, the eatery where the hero, Verilrude, entered was utterly ordinary. He wasn't one to savor food, so he had no urge to seek out novel dishes. A place selling simple bread or soup would suffice. Bacon or pancakes would be a bonus.
Seated in the shop, his navy-blue hair blending into the shadows, he awaited his meal while lost in thought. Fingers interlaced and pressed to his lips, he let out a low hmph.
He tried to live casually, but one burning goal smoldered within: revenge. And the only way to quench that flame was the blood of demons—of the Demon King.
He ground his teeth, imagining tearing demons apart, dismembering the Demon King's body into pieces that still wouldn't satisfy. He wanted to hang her head from the pillar in the capital's grand fountain square, proclaiming peace to all under heaven.
Of course, before shredding her, he'd neutralize her first, then toss her to others to suffer a gruesome, horrific fate. Ripping out nails one by one, severing fingers joint by joint—still not enough. He gnashed his teeth harder. How could she be such a rat-like coward, abandoning even her Demon King's Castle to flee? And fooling his closest aides with a mana puppet, no less.
But those were thoughts from just days ago. Now, the hero's mind considered a new possibility: even the demon girl he dragged around might be the Demon King.
If she was, he could collar her, drag her kneeless through the capital's heart, and kill her however he pleased. What was there to fear from a Demon King with no mana, no strength? She'd been too incompetent to escape even without a mana-suppressing choker.
But what if she wasn't the Demon King? What if her words were just to hide her master? Then he'd lose the last thread leading to the real one.
Even if the thing beside her was a mana-forged puppet, if the Demon King had granted it personally and pitied her mana-less state, capturing that demon woman could serve as bait.
The hero pondered long, forming hypotheses. With the Demon King's identity unknown, he had no choice.
First: she was the Demon King herself.
Second: the Demon King's wife or concubine.
Third: the Demon King's slave.
If the first, revenge ended immediately. But if after killing her she turned out to be second or third...? Short-term venting, yes—but long-term, his revenge remained unfinished.
He groaned, weighing instant gratification against final vengeance, and chose the latter. A little more caution won't hurt, he thought, clicking his tongue. He'd leave the demon woman bound at his home, trembling from hunger.
He wouldn't judge her words rashly or naively trust them. Evidence first, not words. Judgment could wait. The knife's handle was in his hand—Verilrude's.
He devoured his lunch heartily, then packed one dish to go. Sensing nothing would come of this otherwise, he opted for another approach.
Honestly, I'd always thought I had strong self-control. Despite being dirt-poor, when money came in, I didn't splurge on food—I saved it steadily in the bank. Unless someone bought me kimbap at a construction site, I'd fill up at home with a cup ramen, or a triangle rice ball if I was feeling good. Starving myself to hoard cash like that, I prided myself on patience and restraint.
But now? I couldn't say that.
Hunger had driven me to bite my nails clean off without realizing. Snapping to, I saw I'd devoured all ten—my limit was usually four. That way, I could last on three tomorrow.
Even now, the gnawing emptiness persisted. Naturally. It was just a mental trick—chewing and swallowing to fool myself into feeling full.
"...Sigh."
A sigh escaped. If I'd stayed asleep, I wouldn't have munched my nails from hunger. Why couldn't I control sleep? When I didn't want to wake, why couldn't I just stay under?
Muttering complaints, I shifted uncomfortably. Moving naked was still mortifying, demanding constant vigilance, but that tattered cloak shielding me had oddly grown on me.
I adjusted the worn cloak, kneading my aching arm from lying on it too long.
"Nngh."
No energy left even for words—just groans and grunts. This was what it meant to be too weak to speak.
Shuffling, I leaned against the wall, blankly scanning the room. By the hero's bed: a small table, chair, drawer. Candles on top, coat rack in the corner.
Here on my side? Just an iron ring to hook the chain.
I rattled it a few times, but the lock held firm. Dropping my hand, I gave up. Escape impossible. Chain too short—even with a weapon, I couldn't reach the hero in bed.
Obsessing over the setup, plotting to kill him or flee—all futile. I'm so useless.
Depressed, I hung my head, curling tighter. Some time passed; the front door creaked open outside. I jolted, flopping down and turning to the wall.
A silent I don't want to see your face.
"Asleep?"
The hero entered, prodding my butt with his foot. I planned to fake sleep, but when he jabbed my crotch, irritation flared. I whipped around.
"...!"
Glared, narrowing my eyes—and spotted the paper bag in his hand. Fried aroma wafting: potatoes, probably. Wedges, not basic fries, but the scent tormented regardless.
Hunger amplified delicious smells; my stomach cramped viciously, gurgling shamelessly.
Ugh, damn it. Embarrassed, I scowled, averting my gaze, head bowed. Figured he'd eat out, not pack to torture me. Resentment bubbled.
Head still turned and lowered, he dropped the bag before me and headed to bed. What's his game now? I shot a glare. Hit me if I eat? Poisoned?
I didn't trust him, just as he didn't believe I was the Demon King. Human-to-demon: everything twisted. Words I'd hear out or understand from another human? Ignored here. Distrust sealed ears, suspected deceit. Every action scrutinized.
That was us—mutual rejection of good faith. Fine, whatever.
"Eat."
He sat on the bed, staring. I misheard? Just... eat?
I glared, probing intent; he shrugged innocently. No point asking if it'd end in blows or poison. Looked packed for me, but trust? Hardly.
Suspicion lingered; I clenched itching hands. Hunger screamed eat, ease the pain, fill up. But after? Could I handle it?
No. I shook my head, banishing thoughts. Trusting yesterday bent my pride—and backfired. Sudden kindness? Scheme. No trust. No more misery.
I curled tighter, turning back on him and food. Scent teased relentlessly; brain signaled stomach—but I held firm. Nails gone, desperate for food, yet emotion ruled. Fear of consequences dominated.
Hero's irritated voice exploded.
"Ah, seriously—!"
See? True colors.
"Just eat. Wanna starve?"
You'll demand something anyway. Like before leaving.
Thud, thud—he approached. I swallowed, bit my lip, bracing. Where this time? Back turned, I can endure. Calmed my pounding heart.
He squatted before me, yanking my cloak. Nakedness exposed, I panicked, eyes wide, twisting to reclaim it.
"...L-let go...! D-don't...!"
He stared, incredulous at my wrecked voice. I know, hilarious. Despite my desperate rasp.
Paranoia surged; teeth grinding, I tugged futilely. Please, let go. Even if not my body, exposure feels vile.
He watched, face twisting in annoyance, then released.
"Ugh...!"
Mid-pull, his release sent me tumbling back. Thud against wall—tears welled, sharp pain stabbing bruises.
Ugh. Groaned inevitably.
He grabbed the bag, fished out fries—wedges, close enough. Glanced, then dropped them.
"Not eating? Then don't."
Coldly, he shook the bag, scattering the rest on the filthy, shoe-marked wooden floor.
I stared blankly. Inevitably, saliva slid down my throat.
Gulp.