Prologue
The dead have no voice.
They feel only an endless thirst.
In my previous life, I was a runaway. I fled school out of fear by dropping out. I fled my parents out of dread by striking out on my own. And in the end, unable to bear the weight of living any longer, I fled into the cold sanctuary of nitrogen gas—a coward through and through.
When I opened my eyes, I found myself neither in the purgatory I had expected nor in some flower-strewn harem, but in a strange forest.
Whether it was a punishment from the gods or a cruel twist of fate, I had been reborn, and once again I had to live.
I wanted a peaceful life. One without demon kings or heroes, where war was someone else's story. Certainly, there was no demon king here.
Instead there were only haughty long-eared elves, greedy and stubborn dwarves, and an undead empire that wandered in search of liquor, dragging their rotting bodies behind them.
"The value of a thing is decided by the one who buys it."
I no longer run away.
To the living, steel. To the dead, poison. Whether it becomes the medicine that saves them or the toxin that destroys them makes no difference. If there is demand, I sell.
Even if that thing is Formalin, the chemical that keeps a corpse from rotting.
This is the story of how I, once a runaway, came to trade every race on the continent in the palm of my hand.