Survival Skills Are Essential in a Peaceful World
They say you need social savvy to get by in a peaceful world. That thing people call "office life." Even if you can't hold your liquor, they tell you it's fine not to drink—but show up to the after-work drinks anyway, and your boss fills your soju glass to the brim. Complain about the pressure, and the mood sours instantly. Then, as they keep pouring and you keep downing shot after shot in turn, it was pure torment for me, fresh to the working world. And when they finally said, "Go easy, you've got work tomorrow," I'd scream inside, Yeah, thanks for the permission, you bastard. Anyway, that's the art of survival: grinning through the bullshit, pretending everything's fine with a smile. But even in those situations, it's not always about just smiling it off. Sometimes, like now, it was about owning up to my own screw-up and apologizing.
How the hell do you apologize to someone higher up and beg forgiveness? I half-wished for a manual. But life with people isn't that simple. Everyone's different, with their own personalities and expectations. Some melt for flattery, others demand straight talk and genuine remorse. Staring up at the hero casting his shadow over me, I clutched the collar around my neck and trembled. What do I even do? I racked my brain, but all I got was the rattle of chains. Had becoming a real demon dulled my wits? Or was it all the head blows? Nothing came to mind, just agony.
I groaned, ngh, and forced my mouth open to find words. Speak first—let them talk, and you lose control. Take the lead, persuade him. "...S-sorry...!" After agonizing, I bought time with that opener. Now watch his face, ease into it. Sincerity—what the hell even is it? I didn't know, but if he wanted his ego stroked, some fawning might work. Or maybe he saw real admission as the only true apology. I wasn't him; no way to know upfront. I'd have to feel it out in conversation. As the one in the wrong, my chances to probe were slim.
Trembling, I opened my mouth. His expression shifted subtly—like, go on, spit it out. If wrong, I was screwed. I scraped together more words. "I-it was my fault... I won't do it again. Please." Knowing the pain of violation, I begged desperately not to relive it. I clasped my shaking hands, moving them slowly. Rubbing palms, quivering voice, shuddering body—it might look pathetic, but so what? I was a slave now, reduced to begging. Better pathetic than raped again.
The hero watched, then hummed thoughtfully. If this flopped, amp up the puppy eyes; if it worked, list my sins, repent, beg for another punishment. As tears welled and I pleaded, he hummed again, placed a hand on my head—then gripped my hair hard and growled low, "Too much talk. Come on."
Damn, no dice? "Kgh...!" Pain like my scalp ripping shot through me. He ignored it, yanking me to my feet and dragging me off. Hair in his fist, we left the room, but bent double as he was, I saw only floor. Stumbling on shaky legs, he shoved me into a room. Familiar setup: like the old house's bathroom. A water basin, tub for soaking, ladle nearby.
His hand released my jaw; I steadied myself and looked around. A bathroom? Odd, but after days unwashed, welcome news. Watching his back as he silently ladled water into the tub stirred mixed feelings. Forgiveness? Or just postponing? Unclear, but relief all the same. I sighed inwardly, out of his earshot. No private time meant emotions bottled up—no release, just accumulation, no matter how many silent sighs.
Washing matted hair, scrubbing filth and bruises—pure blessing. Thanking the water silently, I stood behind him. Scary, sure, but escape impossible. I'd endure. Resolve didn't stop the tension, cold sweats, fear. A man who'd raped me might pounce again; one who'd beaten me could swing anytime. How could I relax? No way. Stripped of shelter and food, drowning in shame, scraping by—I felt pathetic. But pathetic survival beat death. Some might say they'd rather die, but stuck to him, flight and suicide blocked, nothing left but swallow humiliation. That was my allotted life. Lobelia Yuris's life. Nothing permitted. Sad.
"Hey."
"...Yes?"
"Heated it with magic. Get in."
Heated the water? The same hero who'd tossed cold water and left me before? If he'd started like this, I might've seen him as kind, leaned on him amid rage and revenge. But no. Cautiously, I half-covered myself, shuffling forward. Nearing the tub, he touched the chain.
"Eh?" Shoulders lightened; I yelped, eyes wide. Clunk. Chain hit floor. He said flatly, "...Your neck's raw. Badly chafed."
He'd unclasped the collar, brushed my neck. Terrifying touch, but I masked it, trembling still. He glanced, sighed sharply, withdrew. "Clean your neck." Then left.
Alone, I stared blankly at the tub. What? No personality swap after nearly dying. He wouldn't change because of my feelings. Bewildered why he'd suddenly soften. Better than cold water before: warm bath, free neck. Bliss. Spotting a small stool, I fetched it, sat. Tempted to plunge in, but no—avoid murky water later. Ladled warm water over me.
Splash. Splaaash. Long-lost warmth—not knife-sharp pain or rapist's foul heat. Different comforts; tension eased. Scrubbed dust, rinsed oil-matted hair repeatedly; body near-clean. Bruises remained. They wouldn't wash off—marks of suffering, stories etched. Still, I washed. If water could erase memories...
This hip bruise from a kick. Lifting breasts, solar plexus welt—fist, probably. Muttering thus, I sighed heavily, stood. Dipped right foot; ripple, shiver. Savored, then stepped in fully, sat, soaking to shoulders. Despite ladling, enough for my small frame. Sunk in, basked. How long since peaceful bath? This warmth? No judgments now; eyes closed blissfully. Could sleep here—better than hard pallet. Warm, cozy. May it last forever.