Chapter 81 - Courage?
About a year before Tan Bantai dropped his pants.
Artifact. A magical legacy left by the ancients.
Horns sprouting in multiple directions, majestic four wings. Red skin and goat hooves. A devil with such a striking appearance that even a three-year-old would call it demonic hefted the box containing the artifact high overhead. The treasure chest rolled its purple eyeballs in every direction, clacking its sharp teeth as if ready to sever the fingers of anyone who dared covet its contents.
Even a Thousand-Mile Eye aptitude user can't detect it, and no spell-destruction magic can shatter it—a miraculous relic containing the pure, infinite mana of the ancients.
The devil approached the obsidian altar and placed the box atop it with extreme caution. At once, a violet flash erupted not just from the altar but across the entire vast chamber. The monsters shuddered at the electric thrill, like lightning striking nearby.
From now on, this will be the heart of the entire Demon Lair.
"Ahh... Directly bestowed by the Maou himself...!"
The human necromancer, lord of the Demon Lair, gleamed with excitement. The devil shot a displeased glare at the drooling old man beside him.
A Demon Lair—so-called pyramid fortress—is a multipurpose military structure summoned from the demons' home realm. It spreads the mana of the demon world to let monsters thrive in this one, checks the expansion of this world's races, and serves as a base for monster forces directly assaulting civilized lands. In short, it's an essential facility for planetary invasion, as valuable as its weight in gold.
Why would the Maou entrust such a vital facility to this old man on the verge of keeling over tomorrow? The immortal devil—unable to die unless physically slain—couldn't comprehend it.
"Hey, baldy."
"B-Baldy...? I am the lord of this Demon Lair!"
"Even if the Maou entrusted this Demon Lair to you, I am a pureblood demon with the Maou's blood flowing through me. Here's a bit of advice."
As all four muscular arms pointed accusingly at once, the necromancer regained his senses.
"You'd better not let anyone take this artifact the Maou bestowed while you're still breathing. If you ever pull it out to play with like a toy and lose it, I'll skin you alive, drag you back to the demon realm, and turn you into a toilet rug."
"I-I'll do my utmost."
"One more thing. This altar is the core that activates the Demon Lair and the weapon that spews demonic energy to purify this world's filth. If you touch it to satisfy your pathetic curiosity, we might get curious about the insides of your guts. Got it?"
"O-Of course."
"Good, that's more like it."
The devil patted the bald head in satisfaction. Stung by the jab at his weakness, the necromancer ground his teeth and vowed: if the Maou noticed his achievements and bestowed demonic transformation, he'd beg to regain his youth from the crown of his head downward.
The world paid no mind to his wicked ambition to transcend into a demon, his horrific fall sacrificing even family as offerings, or the necromantic power to rouse the dead from rest as slaves. More vicious than the necromancer himself, the world consistently called him baldy.
Ruminating on what he'd lost stirred a human's compensatory urges. As the devil departed with a satisfied air, the necromancer hurled a question dripping with reluctance at his retreating back.
"But what is the artifact in the box?"
"You empty-headed fool, have you lost your mind? Want me to hatch you?"
"No, I just... that is..."
"...Don't ask. Just think of it as supplying infinite mana to this Demon Lair's defense towers. And don't even think of pulling it out of that 'Exploitation Chest' that extracts mana from the artifact."
The devil sighed and rubbed all four hands over its face at once. A human so curious he'd delved into demon tomes to become a necromancer—that thought crossed its mind. If it left without a hint, the old man might just plop whatever was in the box onto his barren scalp out of curiosity.
"It's clothing that induces dangerous hallucinations."
"Clothing, huh. So it's the type of artifact that activates when worn?"
"Right. But unless you've got some serious perverted fetish, it won't do a damn thing for you—"
"It'll do for me."
The necromancer and devil, both glaring at the box, whipped around in shock to stare at each other. The owner of that voice, smooth as paint, was neither of them. Turning, they spotted a silhouette dropping from the ceiling. Azure hair unbound in a braid. Eyes blue and mysterious as a desert lake's mirage. White, pristine armor contrasting a pitch-black claymore like charred soot.
Having taken up crossword puzzles from collected newspapers as a geriatric hobby, the necromancer instantly recognized the hero making headlines lately.
"The Azure Tena? Tena Everlight?"
"You know me."
"Who wouldn't? Conqueror of twelve Demon Lairs! For a thing like you to show up here alone—such a perfect opportunity!"
With numerical superiority including a pureblood demon of Maou lineage, the necromancer was confident in his personal might too. He raised his necromancy staff triumphantly, grinning.
"I'll strip you of that armor and make you pay for your sins with needles. I'll offer the Maou's master a presumptuous hero who can neither live nor die—!"
"You fall short of being called a thing yourself. You only know me from the papers, huh."
But Tena blinked as if not grasping the meaning.
"What does the paper say about why I wear white armor?"
"What?"
"...A vow of incorruptibility."
The necromancer glanced at the devil. Then startled to find it gone, he looked around wildly. The pureblood demon with Maou blood had crammed its massive body behind the obsidian altar to hide.
Tena tilted her head to peer at the devil and said,
"...So it stands out that the job's done right."
"Exactly."
At that somehow eerie exchange, the necromancer blinked in confusion. Looking back, it was odd. To reach this chamber, one would have to breach countless traps and monsters. Yet on Tena Everlight's white armor gleamed no trace of battle or ordeal.
The old man began to sense something was wrong. Instinctively hostile to heroes, the devil—rather than charging to rip her apart as usual—broke into cold sweat and proposed,
"Let's talk this out rationally."
"Hand over the artifact, and I'll consider it."
"...Look, this thing's worthless. It's just the pair to 'Nenya's Women's Headband' that makes men look like women—"
"Kenya's Night Sky Corset. Just as written in the ancient tome I went to great lengths to find."
Tena Everlight. Known to the world as "Azure Tena." But in the demon world...
"That's exactly what I came for."
"But you're a woman."
"Your job isn't to question."
The devil gulped and flung the box wide open. The necromancer suddenly wanted to skin the devil himself and make a rug, just as it had threatened. The box's eye glared at the devil in utter disbelief.
As the gathered monsters hesitated and parted, Tena advanced unhindered to the altar and gripped the box's gaping lid. She ripped off the entire upper jaw of the resisting chest, tossing it aside, then drew out the fluttering translucent fabric from the lower compartment.
"...You targeted this artifact specifically?"
"I needed it. Don't ask why. It's complicated to explain."
"I see. But how did you know I'd bring this artifact to this Demon Lair?"
"Torture records."
The necromancer resolved to heed any "don't ask" from here on. The devil, face ashen, backed away even from the altar. Meanwhile, Tena gazed fascinated at the artifact's material, which turned invisible upon touching skin. Then she squeezed her eyes shut.
"I hoped the Demon Lair's lord wasn't human."
"What?"
"My apologies. What a pity."
Flustered by the sudden polite tone, the necromancer cautiously asked what she regretted. Tena pursed her lips as if pondering, then slung her massive black greatsword over her shoulder.
"No one can know about this."
Of course Tena was thorough. She'd planned it all from shoving that drunk onto the train straight to our camp.
I didn't love the plan, but the purpose of ancient artifacts—immortal magic tools—is obvious from their use. An artifact that summons rain was probably made because farming needed it. One that spits fire? To easily start fires, no doubt.
But some require a bit of deduction. Like a mysterious cup where burdensome eyeballs float up every time you try to drink from it. People thought it a mean prank until ancient records revealed its name: "Wizard Unten's Blood Sugar Control Secret for Honey Water Lovers." Medicine advanced as a bonus, learning too much sugar floods the blood.
But... why do these exist?
These two artifacts, unknown even in legend, had bizarre uses. A headband inducing the illusion that any man looks like a woman. A near-corset translucent garment creating the hallucination of a woman's body.
Headband alone? Looks fully female clothed, but naked reveals a man's body—mental dissonance.
Corset alone? Naked shows a woman's body with genitals vanished seamlessly, but clothed still looks male.
One gives a feminine impression, the other fabricates a woman's form. Why make them separate? Hard to guess. No, I can imagine. Easier than the blood sugar cup.
An artifact's desire shines through its purpose. But I don't want to know. Really don't. Like a necromancer going mad in ancient tomes, it feels like peering into a terrifying logic far from my tastes.
I'll just be grateful it was useful to me right then.
I once thought the world hated me. Not anymore. At least part of it loves me.
For that, I resolved. I dropped my pants before the world.
A weakling cast to the gutter gains speech more powerful than anyone's when innocence proves out. If that voice protects our party, I'd crossdress a thousand times over, filthy bitch-ass thing that it is.
One who hesitates to dirty hands can't be a porter.
The moment proof of my innocence emerged from my pants, the crowd plunged into chaos. Relieved parents drowned in guilt instead. Those who'd jeered me as pervert stood dumbfounded. Our party members were relieved but surged with righteous fury, shoving spectators aside.
Horrified scumbag reporters etched my form vividly into their eyes, "photographing" it onto canvases. The dragons promised to ensure accurate reporting. Even the boldest couldn't ignore a dragon lord's subtle breath.
Not everyone ignored the artifact. One noble who'd most viciously suspected and threatened to kill me cried conspiracy via artifact—insight or excuse, who knows. But evidence was thin. Citing "One Sun" made it sound as flimsy as a porter getting a crossdressing artifact no one knew existed.
Baseldenan and the elves, stretchered in, blanched and averted Nenya's gaze. Robendo knelt outright, begging death. Leni's brother might be an idiot, but perhaps not rotten to the core.
Thus, the party's honor held. But mine was flung into the mud and sullied.
The world now knows what Ran Bantai's body looks like. Dinner table that evening was solemn. All bore the shame silently for me, eyes hot upon quiet me. Some even sobbed.
But I was nonchalant. Honestly, I don't give a fuck. I'm not Ran Bantai—I'm Tan Bantai.
To some, it looked stoic. One cleared daughter rose indignantly, moved.
"...Cheers."
She raised her beer mug and shouted,
"For our comrade we failed to protect! Cheers!"
"For the comrade we failed to protect." The cry echoed beyond the campsite's sunset glow.
Nidroga, peering out the window, snorted. Onlookers departing flinched at the toast, she noted.
A twinge of guilt lingers—like coffee's bitter aftertaste—for deceiving allies for allies. But victory buzzed like caffeine in veins.
Parents purely worried about daughters? Fine if tabloids fooled them. But those who came far just to ogle a porter's naked ass? Fuck 'em.
As they boarded the express train, I flipped them the bird in my heart.
"I couldn't have done that."
While popping the beer Esen handed me for a job well done, Islune Storm sidled up, snatched the bottle, uncorked it in a flash, poured into my mug, and nodded gravely.
"I'd get hurt for friends. Die for family. But that kind of courage..."
"Courage? I just took off my clothes."
"No, Miss Bantai. In that moment, you were braver than heroes like me."
...Nah.
Guilt at the deception creeps up. Seeing sisterly solidarity in her comfort, I shifted focus.
"Truth is, they didn't mob me over my gender."
"What do you mean?"
"To them, whether I'm female, male, flat-crotched, or sporting every genital under the sun—doesn't matter. In a way."
I drained my mug mid-sentence. Islune smiled, pleased at my hearty swig. But as I slammed it down and finished,
She squeezed her eyes shut.
"Truth is, this happened because I'm a porter."