Tears After a Thousand Years
The entrance to the banquet lay hidden along a coastal cliff unreachable by any path walked on two legs. Passing through it led deep underground to the Demanian village concealed within. The residents of Under Barkus now found themselves face-to-face with goblins for the first time in their lives, and an awkward tension hung heavily in the air.
A thousand years ago in Hemonigent, Demanians and countless other races had lived together in harmony. Yet those who remembered that peaceful era had long since grown old and passed away. Only a handful of long-lived beings still carried the memory of those days. To the ordinary Demanians born and raised in the subterranean world of Under Barkus, goblins were nothing more than strange creatures they had only read about in books.
The problem was even greater for the short-lived goblins. While Demanians had grown up in a stable environment with proper education and the transmission of knowledge, goblins had hidden away in the sewers where even food was scarce. With such brief lifespans, their time to learn was limited, and in an environment where simply finding something to eat was a struggle, education remained an impossible dream. Thus, the history of a thousand years ago had become severed knowledge to the goblins—something they knew nothing about. Drawn by the promise of food and water, they had followed Neromeltia’s orders to this unknown place called Under Barkus, and wariness was an inevitable consequence.
“Crawford. Begin.”
“Yes.”
At the Demon Lord’s command, Crawford raised his hand to signal the start of the banquet. Following his gesture, the Demanians in charge of the feast began carrying out food and drinks in unison. A long stone table stood between the Demanians and goblins in attendance, clearly carved from a single massive stalactite. An array of dishes and beverages had been laid upon it.
Though the goblins had never seen such things before, the fragrant aromas told them instinctively that these were food. They stared with mouths watering, unable to look away.
“Goblins. I am the Demon Lord, Neromeltia di Isis. By right, I am the ruler of all monsters, including yourselves.”
When the Demon Lord’s words, heavy with powerful Luina, echoed through the hall, the goblins instinctively felt awe and dropped to their knees. They sensed the surrounding air pressing down upon them and felt as though they had stepped into the maw of a colossal beast. Yet that overwhelming power did not feel frightening. Instead, it stirred a desire to submit willingly, bringing with it a profound sense of security—as if nothing in the world could harm them. Those who lived beneath Luina were inevitably drawn to its source, the ruler herself.
“This hardly seems the place for long speeches, so I’ll keep it brief. As subjects of the Demon Lord, conduct yourselves with proper decorum and enjoy the feast. If you do not know what that means, ask your king, Artis. It simply means do not devour everything in a frenzy. Everything on this table was prepared with care by the Demanians gathered here. Do not forget their goodwill, and live in harmony. That is all.”
The goblins, who had arrived wary in this unfamiliar place, suddenly began showing open goodwill toward the Demanians. It would have been the height of rudeness to remain guarded toward those who had offered them precious food and drink. On the other side, some Demanians had felt displeased that goblins had suddenly appeared to consume the feast they had prepared for their Demon Lord. Yet when the Demon Lord herself praised their efforts and the goblins visibly expressed gratitude and goodwill, their discontent vanished in an instant, replaced by unexpected generosity. Neromeltia’s short address had allowed the two groups to mingle without incident.
“It seems Your Majesty’s gracious words have dispelled the wariness on both sides.”
“…I merely tossed out a few words and left the rest to them. This harmonious scene is simply their natural disposition.”
Thick slices of butter melted atop warm, soft bread, soaking into the freshly baked loaves. A generous salad tossed with savory cheese and various fruits filled large platters, inviting everyone to help themselves freely. Spicy, oil-glazed whole-roasted beef barbecue drew long lines of people waiting to carve their portions. Stew made with flour, pork, cabbage, and carrots had already emptied three cauldrons, proving immensely popular.
Before long, the two races mingled without distinction, enjoying the abundant and delicious feast together. Neromeltia watched them with a gentle smile.
“This is supposed to be a banquet celebrating Your Majesty’s return. Would it not have been better to project greater dignity?”
Crawford seemed displeased that the Demon Lord was not the center of attention at her own celebratory feast. Neromeltia, who could not entirely fault his sentiment, gestured for him to come closer. With Lusteria already seated to her right, she had another chair brought over and placed to her left. One of the empty chairs from the corner of the hall floated through the air and settled beside her.
Standing behind the Demon Lord, Crawford hesitated to sit at the same table as his master, but when she rested her hand on the chair and tapped it softly, he could not refuse and took his seat as ordered.
“What do you mean by ‘project greater dignity’?”
“…I believe a more imposing speech would have been appropriate. An atmosphere of greater solemnity and control would have ensured that everyone remembered who sat at the highest seat as their ruler.”
“Does that mean that because I abandoned my throne for a thousand years, I must now flaunt my authority to extract loyalty from them?”
“…Please forgive my rudeness. While it is good that they are harmonizing without conflict, forgetting who the host of this gathering is would be a grave discourtesy.”
Though she did not agree with Crawford’s rigid stance, she had no desire to dismiss his opinion outright. Opinions born from differing values and personalities deserved respect so long as they were not entirely wrong. Neromeltia turned her head toward Lusteria. The succubus said nothing, merely smiling quietly at her master. The meaning behind that gentle smile reached her clearly, without the slightest misunderstanding: whatever her master said, she would follow every command without doubt.
Neromeltia calmly gave Crawford her answer.
“I understand that every occasion has its proper ceremony. A fitting speech benefits not only the ruler but the people as well. It can raise morale and bind everyone together through loyalty, allowing for even greater progress.”
“Then…!!”
“However, saying that every occasion has its proper ceremony also means that each setting calls for its own appropriate form. It does not mean we must always project dignity and grandeur. I have no intention of flaunting my authority as Demon Lord before people who do not even have a proper home yet. We can do what you have in mind once the Demon Lord’s castle has been fully restored and everyone can enjoy the sunlight freely.”
Neromeltia took a sip of the apple wine before her. Apples were the dominant fruit in Under Barkus—easy to grow and yielding abundant harvests. With surplus left after the residents’ consumption, they could brew alcohol, so most of the local liquor was made from apples. Having brewed apple wine for a thousand years, their accumulated skill and experience were immeasurable. It was almost awe-inspiring that apple wine could possess such deep, fragrant flavor.
“And if we must name the true hosts of this gathering, I believe it is them. Rather than a Demon Lord who only managed to resurrect after ten attempts, those who endured a thousand years and survived to the very end deserve the celebration.”
“Your Majesty…!”
“And you are no exception.”
Neromeltia quietly lifted the bottle and poured the fragrant apple wine into his cup. The potent liquor evaporated, filling the air with a sweet aroma that pleasantly tickled the nose. Once his cup was full, she raised her own and extended it toward him.
“Thank you for protecting the people while I was gone. You have done well, Crawford van Eihart.”
The black knight with long white hair and striking scars across his forehead and cheek looked no older than thirty, yet he was the oldest Demanian, having lived for five thousand years. At his master’s words of gratitude, Crawford’s eyes filled with tears against his will. For a thousand years, he had never once slept peacefully. There had been only heavy duty and an uncertain goal. The weight of those long, arduous years melted away like snow beneath his master’s gentle recognition.
Neromeltia drew Crawford into her embrace. The stalwart knight who had never once allowed even a finger to touch his master now let everything fall away and wept like a child in her warm arms. Lusteria merely sipped her apple wine, her expression showing that she understood exactly what he was feeling.
That day, Crawford was finally able to release all the sorrow he had accumulated over a thousand years in the Demon Lord’s embrace.