Dragging the Hated Demon
He had grabbed one of the loathed race and was dragging her around like a rag doll. There wasn't any particular reason for it. Well, if there was a special reason, one could call it that.
She was a demon who had been hanging around with a man who looked just like the one who had shown up in the empty Demon King's Castle, proclaiming himself the Demon King. Of course, considering that the so-called Demon King was just a mana-forged puppet, she might simply have been created to make the bait more efficient.
A mana-less demon—a thing he'd never even heard of before. At first, she claimed to be the Demon King herself, but no matter how he thought about it, it seemed like a lie to protect her master. As if something like her could be the Demon King.
Once he was convinced of that, he started debating her usefulness. If she had no ability to summon the Demon King, no value as bait to lure him out, and no knowledge about him at all, was she really of any use? And if she was the type to break after just a few days as a slave, was there even any point in keeping her around?
No, he could confidently say there wasn't. Look at those scrawny limbs—she didn't seem capable of doing a damn thing properly. Useless for labor. And as a sex slave? She'd shattered after just two rounds. Useless there too.
He'd heard some nobles used slaves for clerical work, but those were for nobles or merchant guilds—not commoners. If she had no value as a slave, he needed to extract information using her demon heritage, but even that was a bust. She was no better than trash.
Even the king knew that if he dumped her on the outskirts, the locals' rage would tear her apart in no time. There was no reason for him to look after her convenience, so maybe he should just hand her over to those people for a fee.
The rattling carriage was on the road to Luplettas—two days away—and then another week to Bellante, right up against the Demon Realm. He'd protect her until then. But after that, if she proved utterly useless during the remnant purge, there'd be no reason to keep shielding a worthless vermin like her.
It really soured his mood. The way she convulsed at the slightest raise of his hand, looking at him like he was some villain. He couldn't fathom why she stared like that. Humans were the victims of demons—why was she acting like the victim? It was incomprehensible, and he had no desire to understand.
Gazing at her face, sunken into exhausted sleep to erase the dark circles, only irritated him more. It was like having something obnoxious right in front of his eyes, a nagging feeling that wouldn't fade.
*
The next morning came, and two more days passed since departure. They finally arrived at Luplettas—a place he'd been to before, one that felt oddly nostalgic.
During the carriage ride, the hero and I exchanged no words beyond "eat" or "sleep." I had no desire to chat with him anyway, so his silence was a relief. But the other humans' gazes were icy and murderous, forcing me to lean on him wordlessly for protection. Terrifying as he was, he wouldn't assault me mid-journey, so I clung to his side, trembling, signaling with my bare neck, unbound hands, and unshackled ankles: I'm this man's slave.
Otherwise, they might mistake our silence for something trivial and try to kill me on the spot.
Upon arrival, I trailed timidly behind him. Nothing physically restrained me, but the hostile stares and frigid air left me with nowhere else to turn. How pathetic. To rely on the man who beat and raped me.
Tears welled up, but I couldn't afford a scene, so I just kept walking. Barefoot behind him, annoyance bubbled up. He dressed so meticulously, even with his cape—why couldn't he spare me one decent pair of shoes?
How long had I been inwardly cursing him when he suddenly booked an inn, planning a short stay? After two days of dried rations, constant rattling, and nighttime camping, my body ached all over. What a relief.
Luplettas specialized in preserved foods, drawing plenty of adventurers to the inn. Without Kudbeka's magic concealing me, my demon nature was exposed, earning me undisguised revulsion.
Climbing the stairs under those glares, securing a room, finally eased my breathing. Wandering with murder in their eyes wasn't easy.
The moment we entered, I bolted to the corner, collapsing and heaving deep breaths to unclog my chest.
The hero watched with a hollow chuckle, then draped his outer coat over a chair and sat on the bed, staring at me. Did he have something to say? He only stared like that when he did.
Realizing the usually silent hero had words for me sent fresh anxiety crashing in. I averted my eyes, leaning my head against the wall, gaze fixed on the corner.
But he spoke anyway.
"We'll rest a day, then head out again."
It sounded like he was sharing plans ahead of time, so I nodded inwardly. But as I opened my mouth to murmur agreement, he continued.
"But once we reach the Demon Realm, if you're useless, I'll ditch you."
I couldn't reply with a casual "yes." Ditch me? For real? Knowing full well what that meant?
Right—he didn't like me much. If he did, he wouldn't treat me like this. He hated demons, and I was one. When unnecessary, discard. I cost food just by existing—not dirt, but still.
Useless slaves got dumped. Logical. But hearing it made my heart pound. Anywhere humans were, I'd be dead meat.
How could I prove my worth? "I'm the Demon King—spare me!" was off the table from the start. No one would believe it, and forcing belief was suicide.
For someone desperate to survive by proving utility, it was no option. So where? What did he even mean by "useful"?
I pried open my heavy lips.
"…What would be, useful?"
Being discarded to mockery, contempt, and dismemberment? No thanks. These humans were vengeance-mad, their demon hatred boiling over. Outskirt folk thought that way; everywhere probably did.
I hated pain. Hated death. But my lifeline was in his hands. So I had to beg. No matter how repulsive, infuriating, how much I wanted to shove him away—I needed him now.
I'd prefer a kind master, but that seemed unlikely. My lips quivered as his response came.
"Tell me what you know about the Demon King, or serve as a slave. But you're useless as a porter or sex toy. Spill on the Demon King. If you know nothing even in the Demon Realm, you're gone."
Ugh. His words were reasonable. Keeping a slave meant protection, food—and expectations. No one bought a rejecting slave unless sadism was their hobby.
Since arriving, I'd babbled questions like a baby, ignorant of demons while dragged by the hero. I was Lobelia Yuris, the Demon King, but also clueless Min Siyoon.
I couldn't provide what he wanted. I didn't even know what Kudbeka was, and hearing he was a puppet left me baffled by magic.
These limbs couldn't carry loads anyway. In the end… just imagining it made me want to vomit. I clamped my mouth, swallowing tears.
Damn. My rapist, my sole protector. The world made no sense. A groan escaped; he furrowed his brow.
Really, was that all I could do…? If I had any info on demons or the Demon King, I could scrape by—but nothing? Did I have to sell my body?
I wanted to run. But I'd get caught.
"Hey."
Trembling amid swirling thoughts, his cold voice pierced my ear. Snapping to, I looked up; he sighed.
"Look. You won't even pretend to be a slave—how am I supposed to keep you around?"
What? He'd dragged me as a slave, tried stripping my only cover in public. Forced my body in that coercive master-slave dynamic. And he said that?
Crazy? Or was I? Living free, now enslaved, going mad?
It hurt. Eyes down again, he spat in exasperation.
"I've told you three times now, and you haven't answered once. You're a failure as a slave. Useless. So just talk about the Demon King. If you won't, say it quick—staring at trash like you is exhausting."
Ah. Snapping awake, I spoke.
"…Sorry. My fault. I'll answer from now on."
Two days of food had left some strength, unlike before—not enough to quell nausea, but I could speak. Bowing, begging, he just chuckled dryly.
Ignoring my bow, he cut me off.
"Fine. Do what you were doing—just spill what you know. Might let you live."
Earlier, possibility open but you're useless here—do this. Now, even that door slammed; no info, you're out.
Terror froze me, wasting time—regret gnawed. No rewinding. Spilled water couldn't return. I had to fix my mess.
How to survive? Avoid discard? Even discarded, survival odds?
Save me. Too scared—gonna puke.
"Sorry."
Soup from earlier threatened to rise. Stomach churning—
"S-sorry."
Throat cracking already, depressive. Desperate to prove worth, but life wasn't easy.
"…S-sor, ry."
Apologizing admitted fault. Repeating showed incompetence or stupidity. Beg for one more chance.
I knelt. Heels to butt, upper body pitched forward. Hands clasped politely before my forehead, I begged again.
"…Won't happen again…"
How much pride to discard for survival?