The Reason
They say you can tell the size of a house just by looking at the bathroom. Compared to the tiny bathroom in my old one-room apartment, this one was pretty spacious.
The houses I knew were built from concrete, smeared with cement, floored with cheap linoleum, and tiled in the bathrooms. But after coming here, I'd learned that bathrooms could be a bit different from what I was used to. Of course, the whole world was already pretty far from common sense.
I was soaking blankly in the warm bathtub, staring out the window, when the door creaked open again before I knew it. What the hell. Why's he coming in again? In my panic, I splashed around trying to adjust my position. The hero, who'd opened the door, let out a sigh and hung the towel he'd brought on the wall, then set down the slippers on the floor with a thud.
Why the sudden change? He'd been hitting me and hurling insults nonstop—how was I supposed to understand what he was thinking? Reading the hero's intentions felt impossible for me.
As I narrowed my eyes at him, he spoke in a low voice.
"Come to the bed in a bit."
With that, he shut the door with a click. That brief noise—its sudden appearance and disappearance—left a gaping void that unsettled me deeply.
Ha, fuck. I clutched my throbbing head, splashing in the water and groaning.
Not "come back to the room," but "come to the bed"—what the hell did that mean? No way, no way, I thought, but it seemed all too likely, and my body shrank back involuntarily. I didn't want to. I hated it. But now that he'd said it, I didn't want to leave this tub. So I clung on desperately, splashing to soothe my turmoil, curling up to escape reality, submerging myself completely to forget it all.
But it was no use. His words burned too fiercely to forget, only tormenting me more. The fear clung like damp rot, crawling through every corner of my body like a centipede, no matter how I tried to shake it off.
How much time passed? The flowing time seemed to urge me out, stealing the warmth from the water I'd been soaking in. It had felt so hot earlier, but now it was cool. That made the emotion even more bitter.
I didn't want to go, but if I was late, would he curse me? Beat me? I hated more pain, but lateness scared me, and going early meant he'd pounce. Thoughts clashed, but in the end, I had no choice but to get out.
Splashing as I rose from the tub, the water I'd been in now lay cold and still, as if asleep. Should I drain it? I hesitated, but even lifting it was impossible with these slender arms, so I gave up. He'd handle it since I couldn't.
Ignoring what I couldn't do, I shook out my hair down to my waist with the large towel he'd brought, then dried my wet body. Stepping out of the bathroom, I saw slippers waiting on the dry wooden floor.
In a world where people wore shoes everywhere, slippers made sense culturally. But pondering what giving them to me meant, I racked my brain. Connecting it to what the hero had said, I finally grasped the implication.
People wear shoes because the floor gets dirty. Bare feet or socks soil easily. That's why they live off the floor—on chairs and beds. But slaves don't get shoes. Obviously, since slaves don't live on chairs or beds.
Yet the guy who called me a slave had given me slippers. That meant one thing.
Damn, living like this has me tensing up at the sight of slippers now.
"Haha..."
I swallowed a dry, hollow laugh, then forced my lips down. Silently, I slipped them on.
The soft, cushioned feel against my soles—not hard and precarious—stirred something subtle I couldn't shake. It hadn't been long since I'd walked barefoot on the floor, but the discomfort lingered in memory. Maybe that's why it felt nostalgic, even grateful.
Of course, thinking about why he'd given them made nausea surge.
Embarrassed, I wrapped the damp towel around my body and slowly approached the door to the hero's room. My hand touched the knob, but courage failed to turn it.
But what then? I couldn't run anyway—I had to mind the hero. Steeling myself, I opened the door.
Passing through the dark living room into the bedroom, a single candle burned brightly, softly illuminating the space. It felt like that hour between deep night and dawn, pitch black outside, with just this one flame lighting the room. The hero sat on the bed, watching me quietly, as if waiting.
"You're late."
His voice was flat, emotionless, even-toned. The more monotone it was, the more I feared not knowing his true intent. If he was happy, he'd laugh; sad, he'd cry; angry, he'd yell. Then I'd know: fawn for extras when glad, stay silent when sad, brace for blows when mad.
Whether from the sudden kindness or the "come to the bed" command, my frayed nerves snapped at his voice.
"I'm sorry."
I answered calmly, fearing what silence might bring. Cautiously gauging his mood, it didn't seem that bad—small relief.
As I inwardly sighed in relief, his gaze swept over me from head to toe.
"You washed up clean. And put on the slippers."
"...Yes. Thank you."
Each word twisted my gut. His tone implied I should thank him for the warm bath, for clean feet—his graces. So I mouthed gratitude. No sincerity. If I truly felt it, I wouldn't have plotted to kill him, let alone tried.
Matching his toneless voice, I replied without emotion. He leaned forward casually.
"Sit here."
He patted the empty spot beside him commandingly. I bowed my head and sat silently on his right, staring at the floor.
The spot where crushed potatoes had been was now clean—he must've tidied while I bathed. Sitting like I was awaiting punishment, eyes on the floor, he turned away and rummaged.
The clinking with every shoulder and arm movement suggested a collar again, but he pulled out handcuffs instead. As I frowned at them, he chuckled at my puzzled expression.
"You tried to kill me—I can't just sit idle. Collar's only on your neck, so limbs are free. Right?"
"..."
So that's the reason. I'd considered failure's consequences, but now it felt like I hadn't at all. Too thrilled by success fantasies, I'd gone blind. Biting my lower lip, the heavy cuffs clicked onto my small wrists.
Recalling only he could unlock them with magic, a hollow laugh escaped. Already, the future darkened. Closing my eyes at the binding cuffs, his voice drew closer.
"By the way, can't you summon the Demon King or something?"
"...Yes."
"Tch, no mana—makes sense."
He spoke assuming I wasn't the Demon King. No reason to claim otherwise now; I stayed quiet.
"Weird, though. Why's a demon mana-less?"
He tilted his head, puzzled, then scratched his scalp dismissively. I didn't know either—no answer. My body was full of mysteries. Kudbeka only answered what I asked, so I knew only those bits.
Lobelia Yuris is the Demon King. That's all. I couldn't suddenly be a magic genius from Earth; familiarity with a magic-less life meant I hadn't dug deep. Regretted now, though.
His musing dragged, then cut off abruptly.
"Honestly, scouring the Demon Realm for a week drained my mana completely. I was recovering, but you kept me up last night too."
I wouldn't have dawdled in that village with Kudbeka if I'd known he'd raid the Demon King's Castle so soon. Fuming inwardly, hands neatly folded on my knees, his hand crept up my shoulder.
Naturally arm-in-arm now, I frowned, eyes drawn to his hand.
"Gonna need another day's rest. Good for mana recovery anyway."
His hand slid down my arm, to my back, then slipped the towel free. Easily undone, it fell limp over me, baring my chest.
Handcuffed, I couldn't cover properly; large breasts limited arm movement. Up-down was doable, side-to-side a struggle. Grimacing at his touch, I twisted away—but it wasn't easy.
Couldn't just accept it. His breath close, hands roaming—goosebumps inevitable. If the bath and slippers were to make ravaging me on the bed easier, I never would've washed. Though he'd have forced it anyway.
Shivering, teeth gritted, I finally spoke.
"Ugh...! P-please, don't."
His hand froze. His sharp gaze turned on me.
I hated force. Hated entangling with a man's body. That's why I said it. Give me a cloak, I'd crawl like a slave, live on the floor—why go this far? No clue.
Serious-faced, I pleaded. He blanked his expression, shoved my shoulder hard.
"Ugh...!"
I toppled limply onto the bed; he flipped over, looming above.
As I scowled, his irritated voice cut in.
"Why should I stop just 'cause you say so? You tried to kill me—you gotta expect this much, right?"
"Then just kill m— Ugh!"
Slap—ear rang. Senses hypersensitive, the sharp pain never dulled. Wouldn't even if it did—sad thought.
Writhing from the hit, tears welling, I glared. Huffing breaths, he lifted me fully onto the bed.
Softness enveloped me. If for sleep, I'd be grateful. But for violation? Complicated.
Seeing him undo his pants, revulsion surged.
You fucking bastard.