#082
Catherine whispered back in a secretive tone. "Can you help me?"
"Of course."
The Demon King's reply came neither too hastily nor too sluggishly, drawing the listener into trust.
'Is he using that clever mind of his to mesmerize people?' Catherine thought. If she hadn't died and come back once already, she might have fallen for it easily. Having lost her life to Mars, whom she'd trusted deep down, she'd learned not to believe anyone. Was that a blessing in disguise?
"But you're imprisoned here. How exactly do you plan to help me in your state?"
"I'd appreciate it if you understood that while my power is sealed, my knowledge is not."
"Do you know where the other five archdemons are?"
"Not in precise detail, but roughly, yes."
"How?"
"Most of them poured all their effort into sealing my demons."
In other words, the other archdemons, including Mars, had joined forces to subjugate the sixth Demon King.
'Why?' Was there bullying even among archdemons? She wondered what had driven such elusive beings to unite for a single task.
"However..."
The Demon King trailed off, drawing in a slow breath. He savored the inhaled scent as if tasting it, then spoke in a tone of utter bewilderment.
"I'm curious who the archdemon contracted to you is. It's been ages since I've encountered another 'Demon King' besides myself."
Catherine froze for a split second but kept her composure, calmly turning her mind to the situation.
'So that's what he meant by waiting for me.'
Contractors of archdemons sensed each other's presence through some unspoken instinct. She'd learned that truth the hard way during her encounter with Percival in Beaton Blue.
Catherine felt a deep relief in her chest. It meant her connection to Chezare still lingered, however faintly.
"What's this about me being a 'Demon King'?"
"Don't you know what a Demon King is? How isolated must your life have been... Now I'm really curious about your face. A Demon King is the term for contractors like us archdemons."
Had the meaning of "Demon King" shifted in the 600 years? As Catherine understood it, history had dubbed the most horrific mass murderers—grand wizards who unleashed unprecedented slaughters—as Demon Kings. In short, the man before her was one of history's notorious killers.
Even with good reason, it felt oddly uncomfortable to be lumped in with such a being.
The Demon King pressed again. "So, which archdemon are you looking for?"
Persistent, isn't he?
"The demon I'm seeking is..."
Of course, Catherine had no intention of revealing it just yet.
"Ah. Oops. I've stayed too long with you. The knights will get suspicious. I'll tell you tomorrow."
In times like these, you had to leave them hanging. Before the Demon King could respond, she swiftly covered the bars with cloth and slipped out of the prison.
It was the same in high society. Word spread that someone held juicy gossip, and noble ladies would flock, fawning and pretending familiarity. The impatient ones even bartered their own rumors for the desired tidbits.
When the thirsty dug their own well, if the Demon King truly wanted to lure her in, he'd spit out valuable info on his own.
As she stepped out of the carriage, the waiting knight scolded her sternly. "You were in there far too long."
"Sorry. He was trying to pull some tricks on me."
Well, it was just talk, but tricks were tricks.
The knight's face twisted in anger at her words. "Tricks? That silver-tongued murderer tried to seduce you again!"
"Yes. But don't worry. I'm the mage with the strongest mental fortitude handpicked by Commander Mars."
The knights here overreacted dramatically at the mere mention of Mars' name.
The escort knight fell for Catherine's boldfaced lie hook, line, and sinker, sighing in relief. "Truth be told, a few have fallen to that snake's tongue lately. I'm glad you're handling this."
"I'm pretty reliable, right?"
She hadn't succumbed to the Demon King's sly tail-wagging, after all.
Catherine brazenly brushed past the knight and headed for Mars' tent.
The guard who recognized her didn't hide his annoyance. "What now?"
You're sick of me, huh? I'm sick of you too.
"I'm here to report on the commander's mission."
"Mission? You mean that one? No need to report every little thing."
This escort's real job seemed less about protecting Mars from suspects and more about shooing away all tent visitors.
But Catherine had no intention of being dismissed so easily. She rapid-fired to cut him off. "Something really dangerous happened today. If we don't alert the commander right now, who knows what shady scheme the Demon King might pull? This is for continental peace, not just me. So let me in."
And before he could block her, she darted inside.
Every time she entered Mars' space, the illusion hit: just one layer of fabric, and the world transformed.
Aside from a single beam of light slipping through the entrance gap, the tent was pitch-black, like floating in the ocean depths. The suffocating silence sharpened Catherine's senses.
She spread a spot inside and sat demurely.
'What opener will let me ramble long enough to leave on good terms?'
After a tense silence, Mars' irritable voice cut through. "What now."
Too much. Even if he found her annoying, did he have to react like that? It wasn't like he'd coordinated with the guard.
Pushing aside her hurt feelings, she reported her successful mission completion to Mars. To earn trust, she needed to show competence.
"I fed the Demon King a good one."
"Don't report every damn thing."
"This is nothing for me. Got anything else for me to do?"
Whoosh. Then, a blue flame flickered to life in the darkness.
It was just a small candle, but enough to illuminate the entire tent. Seeing the full interior for the first time, Catherine forgot her tension and scanned around.
The space was spartan. Furniture amounted to a small drawer, desk, table, and bed. Mars lounged half-reclined on a makeshift bed piled with thick leather and cloth layers, his upper body bare as yesterday.
He asked outright, his expression openly displeased. "What do you eat to be so shameless?"
Did he not know how shameless his future self became? What face would he make if she told him her future self had barged into someone's home uninvited, nearly getting reported for trespassing? Compared to Chezare, Catherine's thick skin was mere fledgling stuff.
"I'm not that shameless."
Mars nodded curtly. "Get out."
But Catherine stayed put. He glared, rolling his right shoulder, then his left. The marble-smooth muscles shifted fluidly, but the motion seemed more uncomfortable than threatening.
Come to think of it, he'd said he lived with constant pain.
"...Want me to give you a massage?"
He twitched one eyebrow, but Catherine pressed on, promoting herself. It wasn't about ingratiating herself into his good graces. Was it because she kept equating him with Chezare? Seeing him unable to hide his pain left a bitter taste.
She wanted to ease his suffering, even a little.
"Back home, they called me the magic hands. A few hours, and the pain vanishes like poof. Professional masseuses got nothing on me."
She even invented a nickname to convince him.
Mars eyed her suspiciously for a long moment before finally accepting. "Try it."
Thank goodness. She approached cautiously, and he turned, presenting his back.
Up close, his body was far thicker and more solid than she'd imagined—pure, rugged muscle. The line of his skeleton from nape to lower back stood sharp and clear. As his shoulders moved, sun-bronzed back muscles rippled slowly.
Watching the sight strangely heightened her tension.
'Why does this feel embarrassingly intimate?'
Raw, unadorned flesh kept drawing her eyes. Panya knights stripped freely around her, but they'd never stirred this stifled feeling.
"Stop spacing out and get to it."
"Ah, right."
She boldly placed her hands and began massaging. Catherine kneaded his back and arms with utmost sincerity, pressing firmly between the hard muscles to alleviate the pain.
About ten minutes in, Mars suddenly turned. "Where's your hometown?"
A twinge of unease hit her. Did he hate the massage? Not planning to burn it down, was he?
"Why do you ask?"
"Feels like a den of con artists. Might need to raze it."
Mars had a remarkably clear head. As nobility-raised, massages were something she'd only received, never given.
Catherine lowered her arms quietly, making excuses. "Guess I'm rusty. I'll do better tomorrow. Promise."
"At that skill, you'd need a thousand years of practice."
Tsking, he turned away again and rolled his shoulders broadly. Seeing the long scar shift with the motion unsettled her.
"Does it hurt a lot? I figured an archdemon would heal wounds like that easily."
She expected dismissal or his usual curt brush-off, but a surprisingly calm reply came.
"Even I don't get immortality."
"I know that."
"Then why ask?"
"Not like that. I meant, with the pain and scars, when will they fully heal?"
"About a century."
Fast? Slow? At least far shorter than the millennium she'd need to hone her massage skills—small mercies.
"Now get out. Dealing with a scatterbrained wench like you tires me out."
This time, she stood obediently. She needed his trust, not to torment him. Lingering beside someone in pain would just stoke his ire.
"I am good with my hands. A bit more practice, and I'll be back to top form..."
"What you're good at is pushing my patience to the brink. Shut your mouth."
Yes, sir. As Catherine exited the tent, she left an evening greeting. Even after being told to shut up, basic courtesy mattered.
"See you tomorrow."
"Don't push it."
His response was ice-cold, but it eased her mind somewhat. At least he hadn't ignored her—he'd replied. And he hadn't explicitly told her not to come.
That night, Catherine practiced massages on other laborers before drifting off to sleep.