A Deep Night's Romance (1)
Nella had never intended for things to go this far, yet she had ended up laying bare even the complex she had kept buried deep in her heart. They had only been talking, nothing more, but somehow the conversation had drifted in an unintended direction, leaving her deeply flustered. Convinced that no one would enjoy such a grave and somber tale, Nella had watched Neromeltia’s expression the entire time she spoke. She had been ready to stop at the first sign of discomfort. Yet Neromeltia had listened with perfect composure, even nodding occasionally with a spark of genuine interest in her eyes whenever the story took an intriguing turn.
After finishing, Nella found herself replaying the exchange and began to suspect that Neromeltia had deliberately steered the conversation toward hearing her story all along.
“Hehe. Not a single novel with an orc as the protagonist?”
“……”
“Orcs always appear with the descriptor ‘hideous’ attached?”
“…Yes……”
Neromeltia smiled enigmatically as she quietly poured fresh chamomile tea. The conversation had been long enough that the teapot should have gone cold, yet the new cup still released warm, fragrant steam as though it had just been brewed. The gentle aroma drifted through the air, bringing a sense of calm.
“The great library the orcs compiled by copying their preserved ancient texts. I don’t know how those books reached the orcs in the first place, but it seems they came from people with very particular values. Humans, demons, elves, angels, fairies, mermaids… When only fair-skinned races are cast as protagonists, it’s clear the discrimination runs deep.”
“…Is that so…?”
“And novels, as always, need villains for dramatic effect. A race as physically powerful as orcs would make for an appealing antagonist, wouldn’t they? Nella, did you ever read a single novel that praised the Demon Lord?”
“Ah……”
“Even if the author is listed as a demon, how can you trust it? Demons themselves praise the hero and condemn the Demon Lord. It’s perfect human propaganda, isn’t it? If you let yourself be diminished by novels from such dubious sources, I would be terribly saddened.”
It was the first time Nella had ever applied rational doubt to what she had always accepted as truth. History, technology, literature, economics, architecture—every book she had read had seemed to contain nothing but facts, so she had never questioned the discriminatory aesthetics woven into them.
“Writers who fancy themselves clever love to smuggle their own values into what they claim is truth. True literary masters write works anyone can recognize as great, but authors who produce such biased drivel are third-rate at best—even second-rate if we’re being generous.”
“……”
“Cowards, the lot of them. John, James, Emily, Leah, Maylen… They slap together fake names and churn out discriminatory works. In reality it’s all the same person with twisted ideas, trying to make it seem as though the majority shares those views. Such people never even reveal their real names; they live and die as nothing more than kindling. A shameful life for any artist.”
For some reason, Nella felt an immense sense of relief. What she had believed to be painful truth had turned out to be nothing but worthless lies. Hearing it from the Demon Lord herself made the words all the more trustworthy. And everything she had seen of Neromeltia only deepened that trust—the absolute ruler who sacrificed even her own safety for those she cherished, without calculating gain or loss. Beyond the title of Demon Lord, it was Neromeltia di Isis herself who earned Nella’s deepest faith.
Neromeltia retrieved an old book from her Dimensional Storage. After flipping through a few pages, she cleared her throat and began to read aloud.
“Ahem. The Demon Lord visited an orc castle and encountered a woman in work clothes.”
“…Isn’t that page blank…?”
Nella had glimpsed the content and found the situation eerily familiar. Though it was only a single line, she recognized it instantly—it described her very first meeting with Neromeltia. The worn book in Neromeltia’s hands was nothing more than a volume of blank pages bound for note-taking; it contained no novel at all. Yet Neromeltia read it as though it were real literature.
“Fresh from her bath, the woman’s appearance held a radiant beauty.”
“Ugh…”
“Her skin was filled with the freshness of a wildflower opening its leaves to the sun, and the fangs peeking from her charming lips were small and adorable.”
Neromeltia gazed at Nella with passionate eyes, crafting each sentence on the spot. She wove poetic praise around Nella’s green skin and prominent lower fangs. Nella, now the subject of such direct compliments, could not lift her head for shame. Neromeltia paid no mind and leaned closer, continuing to invent the story.
“One deep night, the Demon Lord slipped through the window into a beautiful girl’s room. The girl’s slender cheeks, long lashes, flawless smooth skin, and clear brown eyes—her flushed, embarrassed expression was utterly captivating.”
“Eek…!”
In that moment Neromeltia finished the line and gave Nella a gentle push. As Nella’s body sank onto the bed, she felt a brief relief that the teacup she had been holding floated safely in midair rather than spilling. But when Neromeltia climbed over her, tension returned at once.
“Lips sweet with the scent of chamomile. The Demon Lord asked the girl—”
Neromeltia pinned Nella’s arms so she could not move and brought their faces close. Their breaths mingled as Neromeltia’s soft voice became a honeyed whisper against Nella’s ear.
“Nella, may I kiss you?”
Then Neromeltia fell silent. Nella realized the pen of the story had been passed to her; her single word would become the next crucial page.
Crimson, noble eyes gleamed like jewels. The chest pressed against her own was soft and pleasant. The hands that had restrained her wrists now intertwined with hers, gently caressing. Hot, feverish breaths carried sweet desire.
With a shy yet clear voice, Nella took up the pen.
“Yes.”
As though she had been waiting for that single word, Neromeltia’s lips covered Nella’s. What began as a light touch deepened into something far more intense, and Nella found herself utterly captivated by the sweetness of her first kiss. Their tongues entwined, the kiss growing sticky and rapturous. A flame seemed to spread from deep within her chest; heat began to rise.
Nella knew it was lust.
“Ah…!”
Before she knew it, the top of her battle uniform had been flung open. Nella’s breasts, usually hidden beneath the tough, rough fabric, were now fully exposed. Neromeltia’s fingers began to trace teasing circles around them.
“So soft… and lewd……”
“Your… Your Majesty……”
Neromeltia’s fingers brushed down from Nella’s collarbone, tickling the upper curves before gliding along the rounded sides and down to the undersides. The light, fleeting touches were maddeningly stimulating. The flames of desire within Nella’s chest flared higher, quickening her breath.
Smack.
“Eek…!”
A light kiss landed on the upper swell after gentle caresses along the side. Nella’s increasingly sensitive body let out a moan at even that small sensation. She had never imagined her sturdy frame—capable of rolling across gravel without a single scratch—could react so strongly to such delicate touches. Overwhelmed, she turned her head slightly.
Neromeltia’s kisses did not stop at one. They came again and again, each one more tormenting than the last.
Nella’s body burned hot. Normally, such rapid arousal would have been impossible, yet her body had already completed every preparation for intimacy and was now struggling under the weight of unfulfilled desire. Only moments earlier she had been comforting herself in front of the guest room, fleeing to her own chamber without reaching climax. That unresolved longing had never faded; it had simply continued to smolder quietly beneath the surface.
Neromeltia knew this as well.