Theorad Who Wants to Live (3)

I don't particularly like the idiomatic expression that it feels like time has stopped. I've never experienced that sensation, nor do I think it's even possible.

Likewise, I've always dismissed the common phrase "I wish time would stop forever" as mere poetic whimsy.

"……."

But right now, I get it. I get it so deeply that I can feel in my bones why such sayings even exist.

Locked in a gaze with the Elf, I was thinking it more desperately than anyone else in the world: I wish time would just stop.

Because if I couldn't seize this flowing time, it felt like I would die….

What do I do.

My thoughts froze. I was desperately feigning a blank expression, but inside, I was gripped by primal terror, like a condemned criminal awaiting the ax.

To escape execution, I had to prove my innocence to the judge—the Elf—by any means necessary.

But at a point where my blunder was crystal clear…?

Hold on. Blunder?

I don't deny that I screwed up. But does the Elf even know that? No. She's probably just pissed because the direction of my sexual torment didn't match what she craved.

Then there's no need to scratch at a scab. I had to reframe this act—not as a "blunder," but as "intended from the start"—to turn guilt into innocence.

"Annoying."

The opening salvo of my defense: raw emotion. If I came on strong, the Elf would have to back down. Sure enough, her sharp scowl softened into puzzlement. Halfway there.

"I clearly told you to hold your breath, so why the hell are you still breathing? Does my writing look sloppy to you?"

Next: asserting legitimacy. Scrap the idea that I sneezed and accidentally jabbed her with the quill. Replace it with: she breathed during the writing process, annoying me, so I stabbed it in. The first is a lie; the second is "truth." Now, hammer in the final nail to make her buy the illusion.

I yanked irritably at the brooch at my throat, furrowing my brow.

"Answer me, you piece of trash."

Closing argument delivered. Now, just the verdict from the judge.

I held my breath, staring at the Elf. She ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠gaped blankly, then dropped her gaze and let out a low sob. Her pointed ears drooped slightly with it.

"S-sorrrryyy… B-but holding my breath h-hurts so muuuch…."

Verdict: not guilty!

The thrill of survival sent my heart pounding wildly. I swallowed the urge to cheer inwardly and snorted instead.

"A lowly tool like you, fretting over your own pain. Pathetic. Doesn't the butler teach you the clear hierarchy in human society? Or did you get the education, but your pea brain can't grasp how absolute a master's command is?"

"H-hngguk. S-sorry for being a d-dumb slave, M-Masterrr…."

"A fitting response from vermin. I'll praise you for grasping your place—but repeated blunders despite knowing it? ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Unforgivable. So don't test my patience, unless you want punishment."

I glared icily, and she bit her lip hard, nodding frantically. Those trembling eyes, on the verge of bursting into tears, pricked at my conscience. I wanted to pull her into a hug and whisper it was all a joke. But if I did, my bones would snap like twigs.

After all, it was just the Elf's act—playing with me.

"Then we'll resume the writing. Hold your breath. The instant you inhale or exhale because it's 'painful,' I'll deliver worse punishment. Remember that."

The Elf nodded silently, drew a deep breath, and tensed her stomach. Breath held.

Now it was a battle of endurance. I had to finish the sentence while she held out. If she cracked midway? Total disaster. I hadn't planned any "worse punishment" at all.

"Let's begin."

I gripped the quill and rapidly scrawled across her belly. I condensed the original sentence as much as possible, dotted the period (gently, just in case), and lifted the quill.

Hastily scribbled, but a convincingly condemnatory sentence. I let out a secret sigh of relief and set the quill on the desk.

"You can breathe now."

At my permission, the Elf—who'd been holding her breath—gasped in air. Hek, hek. Tongue lolling like a dog, desperately gulping oxygen. It made me grimace. Vulgar was the word. My doing, sure, but not a pretty sight.

I cleared my throat once—a cue—and lifted the melting spoon. The sealing wax, left over the candle too long, had fully melted, steaming hot.

"Letter's done. Time to seal it with the family crest."

Her eyes went wide.

"N-nooo… Th-that's too hot, m-my body'll b-burn u-up…."

"And? It's your body, not mine."

"M-Master…."

She clutched my wrist, pleading ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠upward, but I had no intention of stopping. That was as good as a signal for more.

"Let go."

I shook off her hand and tilted the spoon. Couldn't cover the writing, so lower belly. The thicker, dripping wax splattered onto her lower abdomen and flowed. Heat spread evenly, faint smoke wisping up.

"Hagyaaat—!"

Unable to endure, she let out a scream-like moan, nails raking the desk. Watching her writhe in agony unsettled me too. Meanwhile, the wax trickled along her curves to her groin.

Before it fully cooled and hardened, I pressed the family crest stamp firmly into her lower belly.

"Hngut!"

She twitched, then exhaled calmly. The pain had faded as the wax set.

I still didn't get it. Why did she like this?

Puzzled, I peeled away the stamp. Inside the round seal gleamed the Deharm phoenix, head held stiffly high. First time on skin, but the shape came out nicely.

Anyway, it was over.

"All done."

I slapped her plump rear, signaling the end of today's torment.

"Punishment's enough. No more business—crawl back to your hovel and read the letter I so graciously wrote."

"Y-yesss…."

Seemingly satisfied, she rose wordlessly and headed for the door. Meanwhile, I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and wiped my hands with utmost sternness—as if disgusted by touching a filthy slave. Insurance, in case she glanced back.

Only when her juicy ass vanished through the door and her footsteps faded completely did I slump into the chair like a corpse.

"I'm gonna die…."

Playing psychopath wasn't a daily thing. Forced to torment her in clothes that didn't fit the role—mental exhaustion like no other. One slip, and that psycho Elf would've taken my head. Just my life? If word got out about this shameful act, our family honor and my reputation would drill straight to hell.

Too many worries. Sighs piled up endlessly.

The Elf slave I imagined wasn't like this….

When I first bought her, I'd pictured something gentler. Offer to eat together across the table, and she'd beam, touched: Can I really? Dress her nicely, give her a room, and she'd tear up: Master's too kind… One day, she'd approach quietly, crown me with a handmade flower wreath, grinning ear to ear….

I wanted an innocent, adorable slave who'd melt at my smallest gestures, her flower-like smile alone enough to make me happy….

But this Elf? Shatters an expensive vase on day one, insists on punishment. Now demands sexual torment nonstop, gnawing at my sanity in real time.

Why me….

Why me, of all nobles, who bought this Elf? Regret flooded in, but dwelling on past mistakes was pointless now.

Not the time.

I snapped the ring on my finger. The Surveillance Object activated, revealing the Elf's room.

She entered with leisurely steps, shut the door, and stroked her chin.

What was troublesome? I watched quietly. She shrugged, then sauntered to the mirror. Her wax-covered breasts and lower belly were starkly exposed. Drawing closer, she read the text on her stomach.

She covered her mouth and chuckled softly. Not the fake smile she'd shown me—a genuine one from the heart. Her already stunning face, lit by moonlight from the window, struck me as beautiful despite myself.

Snap! She flicked her fingers, and that familiar wind whirlwinded through, cleaning her body spotless. The burned skin healed too.

I watched that far, then deactivated the Surveillance Object and leaned back against the chair.

'Not bad,' huh.

Should I be glad? Did she hate the blood but like the torment itself? Or….

"……."

Hold on. Why was I riding this emotional rollercoaster over the Elf's opinion? Whatever that devil thought wasn't my problem.

Right. Stay cold. I was her master. Expelling a slave from the mansion was my prerogative, not hers.

Decision made, I opened the desk drawer, pulled out the territory map, and spread it.

There was definitely a relevant shop near the mansion….

If I couldn't overpower the Elf with my own strength, I needed another way. Something explosively effective—even an archmage couldn't ignore.

Aha. Here it is.

Finding the shop's location at last, a satisfied smile crept across my lips.