Episode 33 - Displeasure
How long had I been asleep? When I opened my eyes this time, the sight was familiar. But I hated this familiar scene. The unfamiliar hospital had been far better. As I tried to sit up, a chilling sensation washed over me. Why does the hero keep putting me on the bed like this? Is he going to assault me again? The moment that thought flashed through my mind, my breath hitched, then came racing back in gasps. Heuk, heuk. Cold sweat trickled down my back as I panted. The reason was simple enough. The cloak that had been draped over me until we reached the hospital was now hanging on a chair. It felt terrifying to think he'd stripped me this bare. I scanned the room to make sure the hero wasn't there, then quickly threw off the blanket and wrapped the cloak tightly around myself.
"Hoo, hoo." Deep breaths. Deep breaths were the way when this happened. I pulled the cloak snug to calm my ragged breathing, curling back into the spot where I'd first been, making myself as small as possible. Then I drew in a deep breath, held it for two seconds, and slowly exhaled. At first, I worried I'd suffocate, but it actually worked—calm started to settle in. With a bit of relief, I thought that even if I kept collapsing from exhaustion, it would be nice if he stopped laying me on the bed like this. But I'd told him at the hospital the floor was more comfortable, so he was probably doing it just to torment me. Or maybe he planned to rape me the moment I woke up. Surely he hadn't assaulted me while I slept? On that slim chance, I reached down without thinking and touched myself. But there was no change—no sticky fluids, no looseness. The nagging possibility faded. I let out a deep sigh of relief, only for the hero to burst through the door.
The moment he entered, he glanced at the bed and muttered, "Huh? Where'd she go?" in confusion, then turned his gaze toward me. I'd just caught my breath, but meeting his eyes filled me with dread. He'd been the one to put me on the bed in the first place. Was it to assault me? Was he serious? I tried to drop my trembling gaze, then lifted it again to gauge his mood. He let out a heavy sigh.
"S-sorry."
I added an apology, worried he might get annoyed because of me. Lately, I had to beg forgiveness so often it was exhausting, but saying it like this usually kept him from getting too harsh, so I had to keep doing it. He exhaled fully and spoke.
"Hiding in that corner again? It's morning—eat this at least."
He grumbled like he was lecturing, holding out a bowl. I furrowed my brow, peering at it. Soup. Even if they packed potatoes in bags for travel, how had he brought this? There were no plastic wraps or containers in this era. As I pondered with a strange expression, I realized the faint aroma wafting in wasn't from the bowl in his hand, but from outside. Did he make it himself? Anxiety surged—what had he put in it?—but he set a wooden spoon neatly beside it. I stared blankly, and he plopped down on a chair a short distance away, watching me.
"Don't collapse again."
"...Why are you suddenly being like this?"
I couldn't hold back the question. Normally, I'd never dare ask while watching my step, but the unease and suspicion were overwhelming. If he said something like "You've eaten, so show some gratitude" or "Repay me" and dragged me to the bed, I wouldn't survive it. In this familiar room—and the terror it brought—I awaited the hero's words, more frightening than anything else. My clenched fists grew slick with sweat from the tension, and my pounding heart seemed to echo in my ears.
"Haa. There aren't many demons left anyway, and you're the only one I can ask. If you keep passing out, how am I supposed to get answers? Plus, because of you, our departure's been delayed two days."
Ah. That was the reason. And he seemed irritated that my collapses kept pushing back the schedule. I hesitated, then bowed my head slightly.
"Sorry."
"You'll drag it out a few more days 'recovering,' huh. Sheesh."
"...Sorry."
I had nothing to say. We'd been supposed to leave yesterday, but late that night I'd tried to kill him with a fork, then endured the rape that followed—my agony delayed his start by a day. Then the hospital, and another collapse, another day lost. Was it my fault? I felt compelled to apologize again, bowing my head. As I bobbed silently, he waved it off and pointed to the soup in front of me.
"Fine, just eat."
"...Yes."
My weary voice sounded like it was begging for nutrients. My throat was so raw even speaking hurt, so it made sense. No malice, probably. That was surely the whole reason he was feeding me. Not some prepayment for "service." Starving as I was, I framed it positively, deliberately ignoring the negatives, and picked up the spoon.
"I'll eat well."
One spoonful. I nearly gagged—uuk—but swallowed it down with spinning vision and tears. Shuddering, I spat out ragged breaths as I forced the soup past my lips. "Ugh, euk... euup." What if he saw this as me calling his food disgusting? What if it looked like protest? Swallowing my misery, I shot him a sidelong glare. Sure enough, my retching struggle twisted his face. Damn, damn. If I didn't want to face Lobelia demanding I turn back, I had to eat. To avoid torment from that darkening expression, I had to eat. To quell this hunger, I had to eat. Gags surged up, my stomach cramping. My throat rebelled, questioning if this was even food. Tears and agony accompanied each swallow. The soup had no real taste—which made it better, like hospital food. Groaning miserably, I managed a few more spoons before my shrunken stomach filled up fast. I hadn't eaten much lately, so it held less now. Setting the spoon down, I clamped my mouth shut, squeezed my eyes tight in agony, and fought the urge to vomit. Please, please don't throw up. I need this to live. No matter how revolting, if I can endure, I will.
"Hic."
Tears held back, breath stifled, a single hiccup finally let me calm. The hero, who'd been watching silently, chuckled softly and approached. Terror seized me—I squeezed my eyes shut and shielded my head with my arms.
"S-sor—"
Letting the cloak ride up and expose me mattered less than this defense. Shame was nothing compared to potential violence. Grabbing my hair? Striking? Dragging me to the bed? Unable to read his intent, I trembled with eyes closed. No matter how long I waited, no hand came—instead, a clatter from the bowl's spot. Eyes snapping open, I stared blankly ahead. He'd taken the half-eaten soup and left for the living room. Clinking from the kitchen followed. No beating? No dragging? Relief. Sweet relief. I'd braced for him grabbing my hair in anger at my attitude, or pulling me to bed for "gratitude" since I'd eaten. But no. A sigh of true relief escaped me. Hoo. Only then did I think I'd behaved properly—or had I? Anxiety lingered as I eyed the door he'd exited, gaze uneasy.
My unease mounting, I brought a nail to my mouth and bit it. Then it hit me: my stomach was full now, but when hunger returned, I'd unwittingly eaten my emergency rations.
"Ah, I should save them..."
As I mumbled darkly, staring, the hero returned.
"Save what?"
I flinched, pressing against the wall while eyeing him. But he didn't seem intent on my fears, sitting on the bed with a complex expression. Head bowed, I couldn't tell if he watched me or his luggage. I just wished the day would pass without incident. Gloomily downcast, tears seemed to well. As I whimpered, his low voice came.
"Hey."
"...Yes?"
Hesitating at his call, I answered and lifted my head. He leaned back on his arms, humming thoughtfully. Our eyes met. Carefully, he spoke.
"Plans changed. We leave tomorrow. You'll be hiding somewhere safe anyway, and... there aren't many magic beasts in the Demon Realm left, so it'll be fine."
He sighed heavily, like something urgent pushed him to hurry, laying out tomorrow's schedule. At least it seemed he had no intentions for me today. A blessing. My anxiety always spiked fearing what he'd do, but this was as good as a promise of nothing. Internally sighing in relief, I mumbled and nodded. As long as he wasn't ordering me to fight and die, I didn't care. Mumbling, I dropped my head again.
My mood wasn't great. A slave was property—mine to do with as I pleased, personal assets. I'd lived knowing that, thought it would be fine, but facing reality furrowed my brow. Others said to instill fear to break a slave, make them obey without question—but this was nothing like what I'd hoped. Fear was there. Submission too. But she panicked at the slightest touch, convulsing. From the hero's standpoint—or rather, Verilrude's own—it wasn't ideal.
Demons. Slaves. She knew nothing useful. No mana, no magic. No grasp of the Demon King's nature, or anything else. She whimpered sickly at every turn, and using her like others did slaves for lust had wrecked her fast. Verilrude knew continuing would break her. The more she tired, the more he did. Irritation boiled. Why should one demon sour his mood like this? He couldn't fathom it. Pitying her suffering only stressed him more—why pity a demon? Get it together, you bastard! Cecilia's dead. My soldiers who followed me are dead. Grimacing, he reaffirmed his resolve. Soon, he decided: Take her on tomorrow's magic beast cleanup. If useful, keep her. If not, discard. Better to dump a useless bitch on the street to die. Even crueler ends—who cared about a demon's death? He steeled himself further, judging that keeping her would only harm his mental health. After long deliberation, he spoke.
"Plans changed. We leave tomorrow."