EP.41 She Felt Nothing
She felt nothing. She couldn't even remember how many times she'd cried afterward. She just sat there in the bathroom in a daze, sobbing and vomiting, but even so, she felt a glimmer of relief. The hero, once he'd finished, let out a heavy sigh and said he wouldn't do it again for a while. Knowing her essence was that of a sex slave, she'd accepted it as normal. But wasn't this supposed to be a reward? Clutching her depression and injustice, she wept until the bathwater grew cold.
When the bath was over, she dragged her exhausted body out and reached for her cloak, only to find the hero already there.
"...W-why?"
She froze in terror, staring blankly at the hero's face. Her legs trembled so badly she thought she'd collapse right then, but she endured it somehow. She didn't need a mirror to know her face had gone pale; how must he look? Terrified for no reason, she opened and closed her mouth soundlessly, and the hero fastened her shabby cloak for her. Was he going to take her only piece of clothing? As panic twisted her features, he clicked his tongue and tossed her some clothes—not the cloak, actual clothes.
She stared at them, dumbfounded for a long time. Clothes? For her? During all that time being dragged around by the hero, she'd never worn anything like this, so they felt utterly foreign in her hands. But they were unmistakably garments for a person. The weather was warm, so it was a thin short-sleeved shirt and shorts, but seeing them stirred something strange inside her.
"...What is this?"
"For you to wear."
"......"
"I got too worked up earlier. A week's worth had built up."
She mumbled, unsure of his intent, and he waved it off with an awkward expression. From the start, he'd pounced so suddenly, dredging up memories of rape, and now he was acting on his own whims again. She was still scared to death. But since he was giving them, she counted it as a blessing and put them on. She hadn't realized how good it felt to be wrapped in cool fabric. It was the first clothing she'd worn since waking naked in the iron cage. It was shabby, like what nearby adventurers or villagers might wear, but it was fine. The cloak had been so restrictive if she wanted to keep her skin covered.
She didn't thank him, though.
By the time she left the bathroom and returned to the room, a blanket had been laid out—in her usual spot. What was going on? The hero sighed without a word and climbed into his own bed. She watched his back, then averted her gaze.
What the hell? What's his angle?
She couldn't understand anything from earlier until now. How was she supposed to react? What was this? Spare me? Don't do it? Save me?
"......I, this is..."
"Sleep there."
"......"
Was this his idea of kindness, or part of the reward he'd mentioned? She couldn't fathom the hero, so she decided not to try and climbed onto the blanket. The firm yet soft texture seemed to welcome her.
*
He'd been too hasty. Thinking she might be a close aide to the Demon King—or someone the Demon King cherished—he'd forced submission. But the result was this: the demon skipped meals, retreating to the bathroom to vomit repeatedly. Sure, seeing her naked body after a week of pent-up frustration had ignited his lust, but calling that a reward was wrong. Her wailing voice still echoed in his ears. He sighed involuntarily, biting his lip in the hope that this would soothe her heart. But he doubted it would. What if she kept her mouth shut, spilling no information out of fear it'd happen again? The anxiety made his heart race.
He'd made a mistake. He shouldn't have done this. Recognizing his actions as a clear error filled him with irritation. Forgetting how he'd nearly broken her with force, sending her to the healer's, and now repeating the same folly—he wanted to berate himself. But he was always lenient with himself, leaving the scolding to those who'd actually wronged him.
In the end, he sat up in bed and turned to apologize to the demon lying on the blanket.
But his mouth wouldn't open.
She'd thrown off the blanket and was crouched on the floor.
"......What are you doing?"
Did she hate his gift? Or was this some protest against what he'd done? When he asked, she trembled, thinking he was scolding her.
"I-I'm more comfortable like this..."
Her wandering gaze tore at his heart for no reason. Maybe that's why. He got out of bed, slipped on his slippers, and looked down at her face. Her shaking intensified the moment he left the bed, reminding her of what he'd done. It annoyed him, grated on him, that she saw him as an object of terror—especially now, after his own poor judgment.
It wasn't her gaze that bothered him; it was the consequences of his actions. Realizing that left him at a loss.
Demons were fair game; that's what he'd been taught, how he'd lived. No need to apologize to demons, nothing they did was unjustified, they deserved hatred. But what was this mess? Hadn't he driven this mana-less demon to this point himself? Had the people's praise—"You're the hero, do worse!"—blinded him?
As he recognized his fault and tried to apologize, her expression hit him. Those dead, dark eyes pierced him, laying bare his sins.
"...I'm sorry."
A small voice reached him, and he listened blankly. In that moment, facing her not with hatred or rage but something else, he couldn't grasp why she seemed so different.
"It's not your fault."
"......?"
Her red eyes turned to his small voice. He lowered himself to meet her gaze, crouching. The clothes fit comfortably, but her huddled form reminded him of something he'd seen before, narrowing his brows. After assaulting her on the bed, he'd even taken her blanket—robbing her of the floor too. No wonder she trembled there.
What should he do? Ignore her because she was a demon? Why did guilt keep gnawing at him? Like how others' adulation had made him forget how to see the world with his own eyes.
"I messed up today."
"......"
"The floor was your resting place, and I took even that."
"......Yes."
No matter how it turned out, it'd only complicate things, so he forced an apology onto his tongue. Her simple reply came.
This wasn't a simple matter. He'd done wrong—why forgive so easily? He'd never forgiven her mistakes.
"It's okay."
Only then, hearing her trembling voice, did he realize: she wasn't okay; she was just pretending.
Why act like that? Frowning, he stared, then glanced around her. A demon living on the floor, not the bed—she was a slave. Because she was a slave, she thought she had to forgive her master; no room for objections. He knew it wasn't so easily forgiven, yet should he let her brush it off? He'd never forgiven her once.
"It's not okay. You're still shaking."
"......It's okay."
Why say it so lightly? If she were a living, intelligent being, she should snap at least once. Rebel a little, like when they first met—talk back casually. Irritated, he grabbed her arm and shouted.
"What's okay about it?!"
As he yelled, tears welled in her eyes.
"I-it's okay, okay...! It's okay! I'm okay! Please, please, just let me be okay...!"
Tears streamed down as she begged, clasping her hands and sobbing. He could only stare blankly.
Thinking back, he'd made her this way. At first, suspecting Demon King or aide, driven by revenge and hate. Then, judging not the king due to no mana, he pressured for info as a possible aide. When she clammed up, he nearly discarded her for knowing nothing. Later, confirming aide, he went this far—and this was the result.
Demons don't matter. Demons are evil, humans good. Kill them, slice them alive. That absolution had corrupted his morals. He realized he'd gone mad enough to ruin one life, drive one being insane.
"Hic, sob. Please... I'm o-okay... Please, let me sleep on the floor...... I'll strip if you want... Please let go... Sob."
Her cries rang loud in his ears, trapping him in their echo. He released her arm. Her hand shook; so did his gut.
"Hic, aaah!"
He couldn't stop her clawing at her hair in agony. Grabbing her hands would only escalate it; he was speechless.
What's a reward? Is driving someone mad like this a reward?
He questioned himself. A slip of the tongue, forcing submission on a powerless girl just because she was a demon. He just wanted dominance. To show master and slave. You're a sex slave; please your master. But was that right? No—all excuses, pathetic. Disgusted with himself, he stopped.
At a loss, he tried to collect his thoughts.
"S-save me. S-save me. Ku-Kudbeka. Save me. I'm h-holding on here... fine..."
The name he'd thought was the Demon King's slipped from her desperate pleas. Yet he said nothing. He didn't deserve to.
"Hic, Ku-Kud... beka..."
Her voice cut off. Panicking, he checked her breath. She's not dead, right? Fear furrowed his brow. She was breathing. Then a chill hit him.
—Kud, beka.
Her voice echoed again, lips moving, but it felt off.
—Kudbeka.
Not the unstable, tear-choked tone from before. A low, calm voice called the name.
That man's name.
—Save me.