EP.29 - Speechless After Dry Heaving
After vomiting nothing but bile, I groaned in agony, staring blankly up at the hero, utterly lost on how to respond to his words. My mind wouldn't turn properly amid the torment, leaving only anxiety to surge ahead—what if I made him angry? If he asked what I was doing, should I say I was throwing up? But then what if he demanded why? Was I supposed to tell him it was because being pinned under him made me so nauseated? No, I could already picture getting beaten like a dog again.
I barely steadied my body and faced the hero, who stood there silently waiting for my answer.
“...I'm sorry. I suddenly felt like throwing up, and I couldn't risk dirtying the room...”
Just a couple days ago, using polite speech had felt repulsive, but after the beatings, it had already settled comfortably on my tongue. Was a beating the best teaching method? Even as such a self-deprecating joke crossed my mind, my mouth kept babbling excuses to slip by without another hit. It was pure survival instinct, really. I nearly let out a hollow laugh at how ridiculous I found myself.
Anyway, as I rattled on, the hero let out a sigh and began looking me up and down. His gaze soon settled on the handcuffs binding my wrists. Did he think I'd secretly tried to escape and remove them? If he truly believed that, I'd genuinely despise him. If I could have, I'd have fled the moment he left the house with just the collar on me.
Following his gaze to the handcuffs made me suddenly aware of the throbbing pain in my bound wrists. It was like the ache hadn't registered until I noticed the injury—then it flared up sharp and insistent.
“......”
The hero said nothing, just crouched down in front of me with another sigh and reached for the handcuffs. They fell slack from my wrists, powerless. Then, in a low voice, he murmured,
“Today's a wash. We're heading out tomorrow, so I'm freeing you early.”
“......Pardon?”
Caught off guard by the sudden freedom, I blurted a confused reply. Annoyed at having to repeat himself, he scratched his head vigorously.
“We're leaving for the Demon Realm tomorrow to wipe out the remnants. It'd be a loss if you wandered around in handcuffs and got yourself killed.”
He was openly declaring his intent to slaughter my kin while announcing he'd drag me along. I'd heard it before, but it still left a complicated taste. Sure, my inner human self felt no real kinship, but outwardly, it was like boasting about fried chicken in front of a live hen—brutally cruel.
Whatever the case, even if tomorrow promised hardship, having freedom of movement was a genuine relief. No more stiff neck and heavy shoulders from the collar making me shuffle along grunting, no more restrictions on every action from the cuffs.
My freed wrists were raw and red. As I scratched at the itch, the hero watched me for a moment, then grabbed my wrist and dragged me back to the room.
Still queasy and writhing from the vomiting, his sudden touch sent goosebumps erupting across my skin. Don't. Don't touch me. Even your touch terrifies me, disgusts me. But I hated myself for not being able to say it. I just went limp, letting him pull me along.
Back in that room I'd fled earlier, he sat my even more listless body on the bed—not that I sat myself; he placed me there. As I sat dazed, he dragged a chair from the living room, positioned it in front of me, and sat facing me.
Unsure what he wanted to say, fear twisted in my gut, drawing out groans. He sighed deeply and scratched his head again. Each moment he delayed only amplified my anxiety and terror. The silence of dread stretched on until his mouth finally opened, breaking it.
“By any chance... are you hurt anywhere?”
I had no idea his intent, but no specific pain came to mind. It wasn't pain—it was just hating the bastard right in front of me. I hate you. You're repulsive. Disgusting. A filthy human forcing himself on my body. I'd barely encountered other humans, so I could confidently say the one I loathed most was this hero before my eyes.
Ah, right. I need to answer. Or he'll hit me again.
“N-no, I'm fine.”
As I shook my head to reply, my raspy throat leaked out a hoarse whisper. Having puked up even the few potatoes I'd eaten, my strength was gone, leaving my voice feeble. I winced at the throat pain with a groan, and he hummed thoughtfully, leaning back against the chair.
His reaction wasn't great, but not bad either. Relieved, I inwardly patted my chest but kept my guard up.
“...Alright. That's all I wanted to ask.”
He stood from the chair, swapping the handcuffs for the collar in the process. Magic was supposed to be wondrous, yet all I'd known of it bred only irritation. Now even magic filled me with loathing.
The collar was back in his hand, soon clasping around my neck as expected. As I gazed at him with empty eyes, thinking Of course, he said quietly,
“...I'll be right back.”
He tied the chain not to the wall opposite the bed, but to the bedpost, then dressed and left. Alone now, I stared blankly at the door where he'd vanished.
Being able to lie on the bed instead of the floor was nice, but I hated the bed. It terrified me. So I got up and sat in the chair he'd brought. Hard though it was, I preferred it over the soft mattress. In this room, this chair alone held no frightening memories, letting me entrust my body to it and drift into sleep comfortably.
Verilrude left the house in a daze. His conviction that demons deserved to be torn apart remained rock-solid, yet he couldn't shake a nagging unease. Shaking his head to dispel it, he turned his thoughts to the slave he'd captured—the dilemma he'd pondered before.
He knew he'd tormented her mercilessly these past days. Yet her lack of any retaliation felt strangely off. Why no action at all? Can't she fight back? If she can't, then I'm certain. The demon I'm keeping isn't the Demon King. How could one without even a shred of mana be her?
But there were no signs of the Demon King moving to rescue her either. Did she just abandon her?
Mulling it over, he reached the breakfast eatery and slumped into a chair with a heavy sigh. Unlike the place where he'd bought potatoes for Lobelia, this one buzzed with a rowdier crowd. Staring blankly, he caught the word "demon" from a nearby group and quietly ducked his head to eavesdrop.
After agonizing, he decided. Without ordering, he stood and approached them.
“Excuse me, but I have a question.”
“Huh, what?”
The group consisted of three men in their mid-forties. Spotting Verilrude inserting himself as they discussed demons, they tensed warily. Noting their furrowed brows, he smoothly pulled coins from his pocket to ease in.
“Let me buy you a meal.”
“Never met a bad guy who bought the grub,” the bearded one chuckled, pulling out an empty chair beside him. The hooded man and the stern-faced one shrugged in agreement.
Seated, Verilrude ordered drinks and food. As they waited, the hooded man prodded,
“So, what's this question?”
Verilrude paused with a hum, thinking of his demon captive, then asked,
“I keep a demon as a slave, but what does it mean if a demon has no mana?”
“Ho, a demon slave...”
The bearded man stroked his beard, intrigued, but frowned at the mana detail. Common knowledge held no such thing as mana-less demons.
Their thoughtful hums soon fizzled into shrugs.
“Probably faking it.”
“Might try killing you in your sleep, like the bearded guy said.”
The hooded and bearded men replied in turn. Demons' reputation stopped at ruthless life-stealers—no need for deeper thought. Jokes even claimed their mana stemmed from lives devoured; otherwise, why the killings and monster attacks?
Verilrude frowned, troubled. The bearded man's words recalled her assassination attempt. Right, that wench is playing weak to lower my guard and strike. But remembering she'd used a fork, not magic, gave him pause. Or was it just desperate revenge?
Hesitating, he pressed,
“Does anyone know how demons acquire mana?”
The stern-faced man answered, though uncertain—a mere jest.
“By killing people, I hear. Details? No clue.”
No one befriended demons to learn more. Hatred left no room for communication between the races.
Despite treating them lavishly, Verilrude gained nothing useful. His unease deepened. A mana-less demon— he barely remembered her name, but her existence grated. Just being there felt off-putting.
Pondering fruitlessly, he shoved food down and bought some to go. Irritated or not, she was an exception—possibly tied to the Demon King—so killing her outright wasn't an option.
Thinking of Lobelia, he sighed. He knew why she'd bolted to the bathroom vomiting that morning. Obvious reason—one only. Yet his burning hatred showed no sign of fading. His obsession to use her against the Demon King only grew. Whatever her state, prevent suicide, keep watch. As long as she didn't break, bend her by force or lure her somehow to aid in demons' extermination. With that resolve, he headed home.