EP.20 No Need to Overthink the Fork Hero's Words
There was no need to ponder the hero's words deeply. It was simple: if she kept ignoring him and acting obnoxiously, he'd hand her over to those humans who desperately wanted to kill her cruelly. Who could choose that fate? Just listening to the screams from that crowd made her future crystal clear. The wails of those who'd lost family stabbed at her like daggers. Even though it wasn't her crime—even if it might have been Lobelia's—she couldn't even deny the guilt. What revelation was this agony trying to force upon her? Honestly, she thought the hero pulling this stunt was a lunatic. But if she had opened her eyes as a human, lived among them, lost a loved one, and had her blood kin slaughtered, could she swear she wouldn't act the same? This world was already steeped in the belief that demons and humans couldn't coexist. In that reality, there was no room for harmony—only the annihilation of one race. Why had it come to this? No one was left to answer that question. In such a twisted relationship, neither side would even consider listening, let alone talking. Even if she shouted right now, I'm innocent!, no one would seriously think, Yeah, maybe she really has no guilt. So, in this moment, her only option was to obey the hero to avoid being abandoned.
Maybe that's why the hero had shown her this—under the guise of searching for the Demon King. To intimidate her. To make her feel firsthand how the world despised demons, magic beasts, and especially their king, the Demon King, spewing hatred and curses. And if that was his strategy, it worked perfectly. She lacked the courage to face that resentment head-on.
As she hesitated, fumbling for words, her eyes darting away, the hero sighed and continued.
"Alright, let's see what you can do."
His words drew expectant glances from the others, alternating between him and her. The silent pressure—if she didn't want to be sold off and killed—tormented her. Biting her lower lip, eyes downcast, she heard him continue.
"Slave, lie on your back and bare your belly to show submission."
Ugh. She swallowed a groan. Draped only in a cloak, any careless stretch of her arms or legs would expose her nakedness, so she'd minimized her movements. Yet the hero, knowing this, tormented her with such words. If he'd just said lie on the floor, she'd have done it neatly. But specifying like a dog? It felt like he just wanted to humiliate her.
Still, what choice did she have? With threats of pulling nails, gouging eyes, skinning alive—every horror imaginable—she had zero desire to face those people. Enduring shame and humiliation here was the wisest path. That was her rational judgment. But her emotions refused to move her body easily. Do I really have to? A faint hope flickered: Is he joking?
"Um, th-that..."
Clinging to that sliver of maybe, she cautiously addressed the hero. His response was a sharp glare and icy tone, forcing compliance.
"Fine, you won't do it then?"
His words were soft, but everything else—cold, heavy, razor-edged. Chilling. Just do it. With that, she gave up, muttering, "O-okay, I'll do it..." and slowly bent her knees. Sitting with her butt on the floor, she squeezed her eyes shut, leaned back, and lay flat. The cloak still covered her for now, but lifting her limbs like a dog would inevitably flip it open, fully exposing Lobelia's naked body.
Her breasts bared brazenly, smooth white skin without a single hair below drawing every eye. At the hero's single command, she'd stripped like a dog, baring her belly—and the crowd went wild at that word, rushing closer to ogle her body. Revolting gazes. Terrifying emotions crawled up her like centipedes. Scary. Stop. Don't. Shame flushed her red; the humiliation of this submissive pose before others ground her teeth. As tears welled, the hero—seemingly for show—nudged her belly with his foot.
"Ngh...!"
Not a stomp, so no real pain, but the hard sole pressing slowly into her soft abdomen drew a whimper. As she groaned in misery, the crowd cheered it, praising the hero.
"Dude, you're the slow-torture type!"
"Man, looking at that body..."
"How'd you tame a demon with just a common collar like that?"
Admiration for his power mixed with crude appraisals of her body. No joy in it—just rising irritation. But pinned underfoot, she had no room to vent. The hero adjusted the rattling chains and addressed the others in a noble tone.
"Haha, looks like my slave isn't ready to leave my side yet."
Nonchalantly grinding his foot on her belly, he spoke. The crowd nodded approvingly, disappointedly retreating—though many lingered to savor her exposed shame. He lifted his foot and murmured low.
"Get up."
"...Y-yes, yes!"
She smoothed her twisted face, scrambled up, rubbed the footprint on her belly, and yanked the cloak over it. The last stragglers smacked their lips regretfully and slunk away. Her head felt ready to burst from shame. No understanding why she endured this degrading play, but surviving the immediate threat was a relief.
Following him, shame lingered, but subtle hunger gnawed too. The potato's texture, butter's aroma, oil's savor—craved even fallen on the floor. How much better hot? She tried banishing humiliation with that thought. It didn't fully vanish, just burned her face hot. Come to think of it, he'd said he was hunting the Demon King. No way it'd appear rummaging the palace—why persist so stubbornly? Sneering inwardly, she trailed him. If he'd believed her from the start, he'd have found the Demon King right behind him. Pathetic, eyes gleaming for revenge while overlooking her. Of course, as slave to master, dying anytime wouldn't be odd.
How long had they walked? Not a mini-Demon King's Castle, but a restaurant. Again? No way, you bastard. Another tantrum? Her brows furrowed unconsciously, face twisting, lips chewed. He'd eaten well before—why this? Understanding that hero made no sense. Nor the irrational rage against demons here. No need to understand. No desire to.
Resigned, entering the restaurant stirred it again. Her horns. Hair. Eyes. But spotting the collar, they relaxed, resuming meals. The hero claimed an empty seat. She shuffled, hesitantly sitting on the floor beside him. This must be my spot. No pig slop this time, though.
He ordered black tea and wedge potatoes. Same shop as the takeout, it seemed. Gloomily staring at the floor. Dipping in tea...? Or nothing for me this time? Head drooped. Soon, food arrived. He glanced, sipped his tea, then set the potato bowl before her.
Eh? Baffling. Despite her polite speech and crushed pride—mixed leftovers shoved in her face before—he now gave pristine wedges. Eat straight from the bowl? Brows knit, but he handed a fork too. Head tilted in confusion, she glanced up at him in the chair.
"...Th-this is...?"
"Eat. A gift for your effort today."
What effort? Then she recalled baring her belly like a dog just before. Mortifying, but maybe he felt bad? Or rewarding her for upholding his image? Anyway, those delicious potatoes were hers. Why return here, same order? She knows I picked floor scraps. Addicted to the taste, huh? I get it. Lips pouted smugly. But food given—tied to her actions—no reason to refuse. Starving, this was fine. Pitiful, eating floor-level from a bowl while others sat chairs, but a feast to her now.
The aroma of double-fried wedges, parsley-butter stir—nose-tingling. Her empty stomach growled. Feed me now. Thinking to stock up for future fasts, she gripped the fork.
"Th-thanks, I'll dig in."
Eying the tea-sipping hero warily—not kicking the bowl, right? Nah—she speared a potato. Flavor exploded, erasing doubts. Delicious. Safe. Warm, subtly sweet. Floor scrap was good; fresh was heaven. Others might scoff at her fuss, but after days starving, nail-biting, succumbing to scraps—she was grateful. Obeying out of fear led to "effort," then food. Humiliating, but cheaper than "suck my dick." Tasty. Belly fills quick, but half gone. Package the rest? Nibble at home when starving?
Cautiously flattering him:
"M-Master."
Calling him that, risking shame—he glanced around, looked down. Seemed pleased.
"What?"
Seizing the moment:
"I'm full, can't eat more... C-can I package the rest...?"
Declaring it'd tide her over at home. He might rage, dump it: Want food? Show effort every time! Fine—asked expecting half-refusal. But:
"Do that. Owner!"
He summoned the proprietor, had the bowl wrapped in paper for takeaway. Potato bag in hand. It worked? For real? Joy nearly brought tears. Nails gone—what if next skip? Relief. Bowing gratefully:
"Thank you."
He passed the remaining tea.
"Yeah, thirsty now? Wash it down."
Flatter outside, get wants met? Easy mark? She sipped.
* A tall, handsome man with navy hair blending into the night sky and brilliant blue eyes emerged with a demon—black hair, red eyes, pointed horns—leaving the shop abuzz. How'd a common collar tame her so? And such a striking guy? Plus, oddly, he'd come solely to order food for his slave. Sipping only tea. Earlier visitor too—tasted first, liked it, brought slave back? The owner wore a subtle expression, then chuckled dryly.
"No way he'd show kindness to demon scum."
No need to add should rip 'em apart—every human here thought so. Mysterious fellow, he mused, clearing dishes. Then noticed:
"...Wait, where's the fork?"