Fork (2)
Verilrude Anemos was a commoner, not a noble. How had such a man grown strong enough to proclaim himself a hero? It stemmed from a single, unyielding resolve.
His path had changed the day he chanced upon the young lady of the Lamiris family. The boy who had simply worked at a restaurant enlisted in the army as a supply soldier, all to be of use to her. And Cecilia Lamiris, moved by his efforts and his vow to strive for her sake, gave him her heart in return.
The one who led gave their heart, and the one who received it chased after the leader. With each repetition, the restaurant boy became someone greater. From supply grunt to trainee, to regular soldier—biting down hard, overcoming the army's injustices, yearning for strength with every fiber of his being, something took root within him. A resilient spirit nothing could break. Others might call it will, but he named it love. Love for Cecilia.
All his achievements, accomplished solely for her, began to shine. And one day, a miracle befell him. The holy stigmata on his back granted him new power. Only then, at a young age, did he rise to captain and earn the title of hero. Everyone sang hymns in his praise, their voices rising in marching songs. They rejoiced that the demons trembled in fear and dared not approach, thanks to him.
But he knew the wretched truth hidden behind those songs. The cries of the suffering on the streets rang clearer to him than the nobles who weighed even the people's deaths against their own gains.
Blood winds blew. When he had climbed the stairs to high office like some ladder, only joyful voices filled the air. But descending to meet their gaze once more, he confronted a world brimming with blood, screams, and wails.
The magic beasts rampaged like beasts without a master, much like tigers or boars raiding villages in winter's famine. They devoured livestock. When people threw themselves to protect it, they devoured the people instead. Lives were lost, families bereft of their precious ones. With their own kin eaten, neighbors slaughtered, and blood winds howling through their homes, the survivors cried exhaustion. Most adventurers multiplied not for gold alone, but to keep the beasts from claiming their families.
Faced with this world, the hero Verilrude Anemos could not look away. He drew his sword. His stigmata-granted abilities and superhuman strength urged him onward. He erected barriers, vowing to protect those within—and the bereaved cried out to him. Slaughter those who killed my blood kin.Tear apart those who slew my love.Cut off the heads of those who murdered my parents and hang them high.
Anger swelled, resentment pierced the heavens. The hero wondered if this was right. And with Cecilia's death, he became one of them, etching the same vow into his heart as he sheathed his sword. I will tear apart those who killed my love. Thus began his path of fiery vengeance.
Home. The hero's room.
I settled back into my spot, careful not to stray from the hero's line of sight. Plop. It felt the same as before, yet somehow different. Courtesy of the hero's kindness—some "gesture of sincerity" or whatever—the wedge potatoes. Honestly, fried and tossed in butter? How could they not taste divine? But they'd get iffy once cooled. Still, having food at all, the mere existence of it, was bliss I knew all too well. I tucked the bag of potatoes neatly into the corner, positioned just so my sole weapon, the fork, wouldn't snag.
In the room, the hero rummaged through his clothes, changing. He didn't seem to care if I, his slave, saw him naked or not. No reason for me to stare anyway, so I glanced at the bag behind his back and let out a deep sigh.
Now I had two choices: stab the hero with it and kill him, or stab myself and die. Even this little fork could end a life if jabbed into the throat a few times. Sure, it'd take force, but the throat wasn't exactly armored, so it seemed feasible. Unbidden, saliva slid down my throat.
Gulp.
The thrill of such a golden opportunity made sweat bead on my palms. I steadied my nerves with a slow breath. Checked the key for the padlock chaining me to the wall, then eyed the hero again. Feasible? Or impossible? Had to gauge it.
Getting caught mid-suicide might just mean confiscation. But attempted murder? That wouldn't end with mere seizure. Worst case, he'd sell me off to those people from before. So, if killing, do it in one strike. If dying, go quietly.
The dilemma deepened, but time was plentiful. I'd wait till night. Even if not tonight, tomorrow or the day after. Plenty of leeway to steel myself—as long as the fork stayed hidden.
If only he'd ordered bacon or steak, I'd have a knife instead. But beggars couldn't be choosers; the fork would do. Anyway, I had to find a way to kill this hero somehow.
Vital spots that came to mind: just two. Throat and heart. Sure, an acupuncturist might know more, but for a layperson, that was it. And this tiny fork probably couldn't reach the heart anyway, leaving the throat as the target.
But as resolve hardened, my heart quivered. I might be the demon king, deserving of hate, but I was Min Siyoon. If dumpster diving was a crime, I'd be a repeat offender, but I'd lived cleanly—no theft, no murder. The thought of killing now sent my heart racing wildly.
Dinner was still hours off, and waiting till he slept felt eternal. Sure, two choices, but if there was a third without dying, I'd take it. Agony had driven suicidal thoughts before, but comfort bred reluctance. Natural, really.
Lost in such depths, the hero spoke first.
"Hey."
"……?"
Caught mid-murder fantasy, I tilted my head innocently to mask any reaction and looked at him. Seemingly oblivious, he finished dressing in choppy motions, lost in thought, then continued.
"What the hell did you do to have zero mana?"
Never expected questions about me. I mulled it over blankly, mumbling, Yeah, why don't I have mana? I'd love to try magic. A demon king without mana, slaving away unable to cast spells? Absurd. And in a role drenched in insult, humiliation, degradation? Utterly repulsive.
Recalling recent days with the hero, I furrowed my brow, sighed sharply, and replied.
"…Dunno."
My curt answer made him assume I was hiding something. "Tell me. Anything helps."
"I really don't know."
At my firm denial, he slumped his shoulders with a sigh. Didn't seem to buy it. Fair enough—no trust between us. Never expected him to listen or believe anyway, so I leaned against the wall and bowed my head.
Small mercy: no hunger pangs. Potatoes and fork. But fixating on the fork made my heart pound.
Thus passed the time. The hero droned on with pointless, trivial chatter, banishing boredom.
Evening came. After sunset, the dark streets buzzed with revelry—people claiming the night as theirs. Surprisingly lively outskirts, I thought, glancing out. Eyeing the hero, who muttered about hunger and food, I turned away.
He peered outside, sighed, and grumbled, "What to eat?"
Knowing it was to himself, I gazed out the window silently before returning to my spot. Hard floor, hard walls. In this wooden nook, I fiddled with the bag to settle my meal.
Rustle.
The hero sighed heavily, stopping me. "No thoughts of eating something else?"
"…No courtesy prep besides this."
I shot down his suggestion flat. Gestures might earn rewards, but with nothing to offer, zilch. No way was I baring myself outside, sprawling dog-like on the ground to be trampled. Worst experience imaginable.
I'd done it out of fear, to avoid sale and cruel death. Nothing more. No voluntary repeats. What reason do I have to please this man?
My cold rebuff drew another sigh from him before he headed out alone. Off to eat solo, apparently. Some code: feed obedient slaves, starve the defiant. Stick to the line, and it'll be fine, I mused, then shrugged it off as irrelevant now. Rifled the bag, slid out the fork wedged between potatoes.
Forks were blunt-tipped, ill-suited for piercing flesh. So, one task: grind it against the floor for sharpness.
Scrape, scritch-scrape. Scrape, scritch-scrape.
Sharp enough for skin to yield to light force. The thought that this fork might grant my freedom stirred odd feelings. Joy? Dread? For a first-time killer like me, it might be my debut murder. Was it truly okay?
No hesitating! Those humans harbored hate without cause—purely for being demon, horned. They despised, scorned, sought my death. The hero was one of them.
Sentimental weakness alone was folly. I'd hated anyway; might as well earn it fully and flee. Back to the Demon Realm, the Demon King's Castle, to wait for Kudbeka. Or maybe he was already waiting.
Kudbeka, I miss you.
The fork's tip was roughly pointed now; the floor bore straight gouges. Messy from haphazard scraping, but I'd stay put—no discovery.
Shoved two potatoes in my mouth, chewed, then hid the fork in the bag. Atheist or not, I wanted to pray now—to anyone, any god.
Though they'd recoil if I asked aid for sin. Didn't matter. Action alone remained.