The Devil (3)
Either way, I still had to decide what to do with this black cat.
[This body is now no different from your own kind, so do with it as you please.]
The cat murmured the words with its forehead pressed to the floor.
Judging by the tone alone, you'd think it was the most devoted loyal retainer in history.
But I'd seen the sinister scheming it had been doing just moments ago, sizing up its escape route, so taking those words at face value was a stretch.
Thwack!
Then it happened.
Pete swung an empty plastic bottle—where it had scrounged that up, who knew—and smacked the devil clean across the back of the head.
A decisive swing, as if to say, quit the two-faced act!
[Ow! Two-faced? Master Pete? This humble one was merely testing the abilities of the new master we are to serve. If Your Grace is displeased, I shall accept any punishment gladly.]
The devil protested its innocence, rubbing its head.
Pete, ignoring it entirely, raised the bottle again.
I stopped Pete with a flick of my eyes and chewed over the devil's words.
"..."
The excuse about "testing abilities" was absurd enough, but what really rubbed me the wrong way was that whole I'll gladly accept punishment attitude.
It was basically the same rhetoric as the classic historical-drama line, "My lord, pray strike me down!"
If I actually handed down a harsh punishment here, wouldn't I just end up looking like the petty, mean-spirited one?
Beside me, Pete wagged its hands as if to say, you're already plenty mean-spirited, so no-no-no to that.
Clearly Pete needed to spend less time in the gallery.
"Do devils all... talk like that?"
[No, they do not.]
"Right?"
If the entire devil race went around twisting their words and hiding things in every conversation, they'd have to be the most exhausting species imaginable to deal with.
At my question, the devil denied it flatly, then immediately launched into a furious tirade against its own kind.
[I can say with certainty that none among them is kinder than I—some may be worse, but never better. The race called devils is by nature sinister, creatures who live only to deceive others. They are absolutely not the sort to be trusted, kept close, and valued.]
"...Aren't you a devil too?"
[This humble one, too, has always found this cursed bloodline utterly detestable. That is why I have ever yearned for and craved a celestial being. I am infinitely grateful that on this occasion, the Supreme One has blessed me and granted me new birth.]
"Celestial?"
I frowned at the sudden profession of faith.
Celestial? What on earth was it talking about?
[Are you not the great tree that upholds the world?]
"Uh..."
It means the World Tree?
Well, I'd gotten used to being the World Tree, but in a typical fantasy setting, the World Tree is usually depicted as some colossal, sacred tree.
Judging by the goblin and the lizardman, though, my World Tree wasn't all that different in scale.
I didn't bother denying it.
"What exactly do you mean, 'born anew'?"
[Exactly what it says—my body and soul have been reborn anew.]
The prostrate devil slowly raised its forepaws.
Something popped out from its paw tips and began orbiting in a small spherical shape.
A familiar energy.
"...Is that nutrients?"
[Ah, so Your Grace calls this 'nutrients'? What a fitting name for such a warm and benevolent energy.]
Apparently finding it uncomfortable to keep its nose glued to the floor, the devil subtly lifted its head, looked up at me, and continued its explanation.
[Devils are, by nature, conceptual beings. Only by taking something formless as our essence can we maintain form and go on living. Most devils take the malice or murky emotions of others as their essence. It is a principle much like that of Master Pete here, who holds a small yet mighty power within.]
In other words, devils and spirits weren't all that different.
[In the distant past, our kind committed a great, unforgivable sin, and as a race we were made to bear three heavy punishments. First, we may never speak a falsehood. Second, we may not stand alone. Third, we may not stand together.]
[These cruel punishments twisted the devils and made them all the more wicked. Unable to lie, we learned to cunningly distort the truth and deceive others; unable to stand together, we came to distrust even our own kin. And yet...]
The devil's eyes gleamed toward the orb of nutrients.
[This noble nutrient Your Grace has bestowed has replaced the punishment of 'standing alone' that I bore. It is the great fortune of my life.]
[In exchange, this body can now survive not even a single day without nutrients, and so it is wholly yours. I beg that Your Grace will permit me to remain at your side, serving with all my loyalty to repay this grace, until the day you return to the heavens.]
Bottom line: I'd gained one more household member, Pete-style.
"Hmm..."
I stroked my chin thoughtfully.
Beside me, Pete swung its fists through the air as if to say, what's there to think so long about?
"What was your name again?"
[My true name is Baphomet. Though it is now a hollow shell of a name, meaningless. At some point, all the authority that name once held was lost.]
"Baphomet, huh... Then can I call you Met?"
[It would be my honor.]
Met prostrated itself on the floor once more and bowed with impeccable courtesy.
Watching this, Pete sidled over and plopped a hand down on Met's damp shoulder.
Pete's expression was extremely sinister.
The look of someone saying, Nice to have you, little sibling.
...It'll be fine, right?
Contrary to my worries, Met adapted to our home remarkably well.
No—it was a bit much, actually.
[Oooooh! Master Pete! What wondrous craftsmanship! To manifest a figure trapped in the flat fetters of a two-dimensional plane into three-dimensional reality! Maximizing the inherent beauty of the human female while exaggerating and distorting it into a scathing satire of mortal's shallow desires...]
Pete puffed up its shoulders proudly, having no idea what any of that meant.
Thanks to the spirits' peculiar ability, it seemed to catch the general gist, but rather than wrack its brain actually understanding, it clearly just registered it as it's praising me a whole lot.
But Met's theatrics didn't stop there.
[Hooh! And this is astonishing as well! Do not tell me the spirits have established a bidirectional mental network and are communicating in real time?]
That's just a spirit racial trait, though...
I clicked my tongue at Met, sprawled flat on the living room floor, gushing exclamations of awe one after another.
From everything I'd observed, the devil race's curse of being unable to lie certainly seemed to be true.
Which meant all that solemn fussing and flattery was one hundred percent sincere...
Common sense says that's impossible.
It didn't take me long to figure out the mechanism behind the creature's deception.
Met was using the nutrients it had received from me to manipulate its own mind.
It would deliberately induce short-term memory loss, having pre-designed a situation worth being amazed by before erasing its memory.
Then its memory-wiped future self—its present self—would encounter the situation and be made to gasp in genuine astonishment.
A staggeringly wasteful deception technique.
At the same time, seeing it squander such advanced technique on pointless theatrics, I could guess how desperately it wanted to earn my trust.
This was a creature that manipulated its own brain just to deliver a few lines of flattery with sincerity.
If it had actually set its mind to deceiving me, it could have fooled me perfectly, as many times as it liked.
So that's what a devil is...
If Met, who seemed so meek and obliging, was this formidable, I shuddered to think what other devils were like.
I resolved firmly that if I ever met another devil, I wouldn't so much as exchange words with it carelessly.
"Pete!"
I shook off the thought and called for it, and Pete came over wearing an annoyed now what? expression.
I raised my hand to punish the creature, which had gotten awfully cheeky lately, with a knuckle rap to the forehead.
Swish.
But Pete tilted its head just slightly and dodged my hand.
With a sleazy grin, Pete sneered at me as if to say, too slow.
"Oh ho? You're dodging now?"
I let out an awkward laugh and stretched out both hands.
I firmly grabbed Pete's cheeks as it tried to flee, pinned them in place, and delivered a fresh knuckle rap to its forehead.
Thonk!
One more for the audacity of trying to dodge.
Thonk!
Pete looked up at me, cheeks squashed flat, as if protesting its innocence.
It seemed bitter about the reality that no amount of training could free it from its owner's grip.
Met, who had been watching the scene closely, quietly interjected.
[That is due to the immutable providence of hierarchy, Master Pete.]
Pete turned its head at Met's words.
The look in its eyes asked: so I'll never beat my owner, and I'll have my cheeks grabbed like this forever?
[Haha. Rather, the very fact that a servant may voice such grievances to its master and assert its own will is proof of how deeply you respect our free will, Han-yul. Truly a blessed environment. So there is no need to be so indignant.]
The honorific "Your Grace" sounded like some cult leader no matter how many times I heard it, so I made it stop.
"Enough. Did you make that water spirit mold you mentioned?"
At my question, Pete's shoulders stiffened with a jolt.
It shuffled backward, avoiding my gaze.
Which meant it had completely forgotten.
When I narrowed my eyes, Pete quickly seemed to find a solution and turned its head toward Met.
Then it shamelessly pointed a finger at Met.
The scheme was obvious: dump the job on the new guy instead of doing it itself.
"...You think that's gonna fly? Quit messing around and do it yourself."
I scolded it, but Pete stubbornly shoved Met's back, barking orders.
A shallow ploy to offload the annoying task by any means necessary.
But far from being flustered, Met received it smoothly with a pleasant—no, devilishly pleasant—smile.
[Oh dear, Master Pete. This humble one's skill with nutrients is still 'comparatively' crude, you see, and I judge it beyond me to craft the precise mold Han-yul desires.]
Pete waved its fist as if to say, that's your problem, get moving.
I added the threat: you want a sequel to 'The Water Already Knows the Answer'?
[Of course, this humble one does harbor some desire to obey your command, but how could I possibly dare imitate a creation as delicate and beautiful as Master Pete's? Learning, after all, requires a model to follow. If Master Pete would first grace us with that brilliant demonstration, then even this dim-witted devil might learn by watching over your shoulder. At least, so this humble one believes.]
...It'll die before giving a straight answer.
Pete scratched its chin, apparently mulling it over.
It had clearly set out to make Met do the work, yet somehow the situation had turned into Pete doing the job first, under the pretext of a demonstration.
[If Master Pete sets a splendid example, then next time I shall take on everything myself, no? In that case...]
Wow...
Nowhere in there was any mention of itself doing anything.
Pete, swept along by Met's glib tongue, soon began striking a pose of senior-spirit dignity and started shaping the water spirit mold in midair.
Watching this, I clicked my tongue.
It got eaten alive.
To anyone watching, Met was sitting squarely on top of Pete's head.
There was no way an innocent spirit could outmatch a devil's slippery, snake-oil tongue.