EP.49 - Silence
Rascal stood there quietly, as if simply waiting in his place at his master's summons. Why had the Demon Lord suddenly called for Rascal? Was she planning to invade a human village again? If so, the current Lobelia would surely strike him as something utterly alien. Until now, Lobelia had never used magic, which only solidified that suspicion.
Even so, having come this far—and with Rascal already summoned—he knew suppressing her now would only make things worse. Swallowing hard, he knocked on the door.
When it opened, he expected to see that same haughty figure seated in her chair, just like before. But the one who opened it was none other than Lobelia herself.
At first, thinking it was an attack, he reached for the sword at his waist. But her expression froze his hand in place. Her face was twisted in sheer terror, leaving him unable to act.
She summoned Rascal, so she must be the Demon Lord. All those assumptions had long since crumbled to ash.
He glanced around the room. The layout was slightly different from when he'd stormed in before. It felt more like the interior of a mansion now. Nothing like when that man, Kudbeka, had proclaimed her the Demon Lord.
As he stood there dazed, a trembling apology spilled from Lobelia's lips. Her voice was heartbreaking, desperate. She seemed convinced he meant to kill her or hand her over to the humans—shaking violently, collapsing to the floor, even wetting herself in fear.
Watching her, he felt a strange relief. This is the Lobelia I know. Not that alien thing that emerged after she fainted.
But the relief was short-lived. Seeing her prostrate herself, heedless of the urine soaking her pants, begging—he couldn't hide his bewilderment. Then she crawled forward on all fours, pressing her face toward his shoes.
What had reduced this demon woman to such a state? Ah, it's my fault. I've done this to her.
Her anguished cries only weighed down his guilt further. Coward that he was, he reached out to lighten that burden—to stop her desperate pleas by stroking her shoulder, soothing her.
But his touch only terrified her more. She shook harder, tears streaming like a downpour, drenching his shoulders as if caught in a rainstorm. Another voice struck him like a blow.
"H-Hehe... I-I'll give you th-this mansion too..."
He couldn't control his expression. His pupils shook violently, like waves crashing in a storm.
Offering him the Demon King's Castle to spare her life, begging him not to sell her, promising anything—it was pathetic, utterly degraded. And that degradation was his doing.
A month ago, he might have struck her down, calling her a loquacious demon bitch clinging cowardly to life. But now, he couldn't.
With the rose-tinted glasses off, facing what he'd done objectively—this was the result. He'd trampled her dignity to the end, shattering her legs so she could never rise again.
What monstrous thing have I done? His fists trembled with the thought. He was a sinner. He had to apologize. But first, he needed to ask—hear it from her lips, not that alien presence.
If it wasn't her, this Lobelia's answer would surely differ. He voiced the question.
"Who are you?"
It was the same question he'd once asked her. Back then, the response had come proudly:
—I am the master of the Demon Realm, king of all magic beasts. Lobelia Yuris.
That voice had been arrogant, haughty, looking down on all else as if proclaiming herself the world's ruler. It had unconsciously tensed him.
So he asked again. And the reply was a fortunate one.
"......Huh?"
A dazed voice, far from haughty. But he bit back his relief, chastising himself. I've crushed her—broken her pride beyond bending.
As he groaned silently, unable to speak, she uttered her name. Stammering in fear, not arrogance—it confirmed she wasn't that other presence.
Did she swallow the Demon Lord's personality? Or...? Complicated. He didn't know what to call it. Lobelia Yuris sharing a body with the Demon Lord—and another Lobelia Yuris? Was the Demon Lord multiple personalities? Did this one suppress the other?
Reasonable suspicions. Swallowing again, he posed the final question.
"Are you the Demon Lord?"
At that, Lobelia's trembling lips curved unnaturally upward, as if to please him. The smile deepened awkwardly, then settled into calm serenity, as if she'd resolved something.
What the hell?
Her small mouth moved. "...Y-Yes. I-I'm the Demon Lord."
As her words ended, she pressed her temple with a peculiar finger gesture—only her ring and pinky fingers folded, the rest extended like a gun.
He didn't know what she intended, but realizing it was magic, he panicked and shouted. Squeezing out his last dregs of mana, he lunged to stop her.
But before his hand reached, a terrifying sound rang out.
Bang—!
A sound he'd never heard. Like a cannon, but sharper, more piercing. A cannon deafened; this tore at the eardrums, proclaiming death.
His body froze at the noise. Before him, her small form crumpled limply to the floor.
Thud.
Snapping from his stupor, he pulled her tiny body into his arms. She'd done something with mana, but he wasn't sure what. Nosebleed streaming, blood-tinged tears, lips curved in peaceful repose—it was eerie, chilling.
"Sorry, sorry...! Please, please..."
Give me a chance to atone. I was wrong. I tormented you into this. I never meant to push you this far. No, sorry. Any excuse will do. Just let me atone. Breathe.
His trembling fingers checked her pulse. Fortunately, with so little mana left, she hadn't fully ended it—but it wouldn't last.
"L-Live. Sorry. ...Please."
His words felt primitive, devolved. But that was fine. Language wasn't what mattered now.
He whipped his head around. He needed somewhere to lay Lobelia—surely the highest room for a Demon Lord. Then his gaze caught something: blankets strewn by the grand door, rumpled as if someone had slept there.
Seeing it, he didn't know what expression to make and simply wept. Sorry. All my fault. Blinded by humanity's side. Drunk on power. Lost in revenge.
Regaining composure, he tried to lay her down. First, wipe the blood from her nose. Finding an unsoiled cloth patch, he gently cleaned her nosebleed, her tears.
Tears, bloody tears, snot, nosebleed, urine staining her—she was filthy. Unsure, he placed her on the blankets and sprinted off.
Mana-less running exhausted him, but he couldn't stop. Bursting doors open, he found the bathroom, hoisted her, and washed her body. Drying her after, he carried her to the top floor.
Facing the massive mana-locked door, he gritted his teeth, gripped hard. Channeling scant mana, his head throbbed with mana overload, but he pressed on.
Laying her on the bed, he exhaled heavily. Staring at her still-closed eyes, guilt surged anew.
If I'd apologized the moment I saw her, bowed my head... If I hadn't tormented her as "punishment"... If I hadn't broken her pride with food... Starved her, shamed her, gifted trauma repeatedly—what right do I have to speak?
Did he even deserve atonement? He didn't know. Even if rejected, he'd atone until accepted. Even if forgiven, until his heart was sated.
Did a hero who brutalized a demon life deserve the title? God's blessing, stigmata-granted strength—did he merit it?
He, who'd wrought such horror on one life, beyond demon or human.
Thinking slowly, he recalled what he'd stolen. Back to their first meeting: rage blinding him, snapping her horn.
Dragging her fainted form, chaining collar, cuffs, shackles—raping her defenseless.
Taunting her starvation with food to break her, mocking.
And, and, and. Too much stolen. Horn, dignity, home, will to live.
Even as the world's evil incarnate, Lobelia Yuris was distant from that—yet he'd thoroughly violated, toyed with, ridiculed her.
How could such a man be forgiven?
Clutching his aching chest, he buried his upper body in the bed. Praying, apologizing, begging forgiveness.
"Sorry, sorry... All my fault, I was wrong."
Tears burst forth. To the woman—demon—he'd driven to suicide's brink with his vile acts, he atoned.
If people saw him weeping beside a demon, begging forgiveness, they'd stone the madman. But now, he could declare proudly: Throw your stones. If that's atonement, so be it. Even if Lobelia demands it now, I'd do it.
Absurd: the beggar hale in limb and mind; the one to forgive, broken beyond.
No—she didn't have to forgive. He must beg regardless; she owed none.
"Sorry. Really, all my fault."
"......"
Only silence answered his pleas. The heavy quiet crushed his shoulders, whispering: Too late to realize and beg. Face what you've done—driven one life to end itself.
He had no retort. How do I atone? Maybe not even in death. Yet he must.
Leaning into the bed, swallowing tears.
"Sorry."