Arm Wrestling (1)

Dinner with the Demon King.

An unbelievable sight unfolded before my eyes.

High-level magic? Some kind of illusion?

How many years had it been since I came to this world? Sitting right in front of me was a dish I thought I would never encounter again.

"...What's wrong?"

She was calmly scooping kimchi stew, almost certainly incapable of understanding even a fragment of the rapture crashing through me.

"This... where did you get the kimchi?"

"...I made it myself? From a book."

I couldn't believe it. Who ever said demons hate garlic? The Demon King sitting across from me was living, breathing proof that the whole thing was nonsense.

I swallowed, hard. Saliva poured out of me so freely I wondered if my salivary glands had simply melted. Like a hunting dog with its leash stretched taut, I was ready to bolt at any second. Wait. Not yet.

"I'll serve you some."

The instant she set the bowl of stew down in front of me—

I slammed my face into it like a madman and started eating. No — started drinking.

In that moment I forgot everything. I didn't want to think about a single other thing. Not home. Not the Demon King. Just me and the kimchi stew. I wanted to focus on nothing but the two of us.

"Wh-what's wrong. Were you that hungry? You ate peas yesterday."

The instant those words hit me, an indescribable, volcanic rage surged up my throat. I glared at her with axe-sharp eyes.

What? Peas?

This unholy little shit. She was putting that plant garbage on the same scale as kimchi stew?

If she weren't the Demon King, I would have dumped a whole bag of roasted beans on her head then and there.

It was so, so, so good.

Even without a single piece of meat or tofu floating in it, this was the best kimchi stew I had ever eaten in my life — no, the best food of any kind. The Choco Pie I'd eaten at boot camp was going to have to surrender its champion's crown.

At first she'd been startled, but now she watched me inhale it with a look of warm, glowing satisfaction.

"Is it good?"

That same chilling question from last time. But now I could answer it a hundred times over.

"Yeah, it's fucking, fucking delicious...!"

"F-fucking...? Anyway, that means it's good, right?"

I answered by handing her the bowl I'd emptied in an instant. Thinking she'd been praised for her cooking, her eyes spun in delighted circles.

"...Want more?"

"Y-yeah!"

Was that even a question? If I could just eat more of this stew, I would kiss the Demon King's feet.

"Here."

A richly browned stew with nothing but kimchi floating in it.

In this moment — since entering this castle, no, since coming to this world — I was the happiest I had ever been.

"Eat plenty now. You'll need the strength."

The hand stuffing stew into my mouth froze. My appetite vanished on the spot.

I set down my spoon.

"I'm sorry."

Apologize first. Figure out the rest later.

"Huh? For what, all of a sudden?"

"I'm sorry. I don't know what for, but I'm just sorry for everything."

"What are you talking about?"

"I got too carried away stuffing my face, didn't I? I was wrong. Forgive me."

From experience, with a face like that, she was definitely going to propose some fantastic wager the second the meal was over.

"What are you even saying... Ah, we're gonna do something fun after we eat."

See?

"Got it."

I didn't have the right to refuse anyway, so I might as well take it in stride. It might take days. She might grind me into dust the way she had with Bubble Bobble. But now I had the paper airplane — my hope.

Getting worked up won't change a thing.

Maybe it was thanks to the paper airplane I'd sent flying earlier. My inner self had grown stronger than even I expected. Now, no matter what happened, I felt I could respond calmly. Yeah. Steadfast as a rhinoceros horn.

"We're gonna arm wrestle."

The fuck did you just say?

I'd prepared myself mentally. It wasn't as if I didn't have legs. It wasn't as if I couldn't see. It was just one arm. Why did Japanese manga characters fight just fine without an arm, anyway?

Still, I'm lucky. At least I got to eat at the end.

I thought this while watching the Demon King scrub my bowl with a thorough, squeaky-clean determination. Having finished the dishes, she wiped her hands on a cloth and came over.

"You've been waiting a while, huh?"

No.

I had one persuasion tactic prepared. If this didn't work either, then I'd really be Captain Hook.

"Hey. Arm wrestling is supposed to be done as a tournament. It's no fun with just two people."

"A tournament? What's that?"

I explained the tournament rules to her.

"But there aren't any other people."

"That's why... maybe we just shouldn't do arm wrestling? In my hometown, people who arm wrestle one-on-one are considered idiots."

That was the real point. Even if I had to lie, I needed a pretext — some kind of justification — to refuse a two-person match. Then she wouldn't have a choice.

"...Does it have to be a tournament?"

"Of course. If it's not a tournament, that thing isn't even arm wrestling. It's just cowards groping each other's hands."

"...It has to be?"

"It has to be."

"...Fine... Alright. I don't want to use it, but."

Use what?

An ominous mana began seeping from the Demon King's hands.

Six living skeletons rose from the floor. A necromancer's most basic skill. There was no way the Demon King couldn't use it. She dyed each one a different color so they could be told apart, and named them, in order: Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, and Indigo.

"...You don't remember me, do you?"

At the Demon King's question, after she'd finished coloring all of them, the skeletons tilted their heads. Skeletons couldn't talk in the first place. Darkness filled her expression.

...Why would she even ask that? Does it have something to do with not wanting to use summoning magic?

She spoke with a dejected look.

"We're going to arm ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wrestle. Everyone get ready."

Not starting at all would have been best, but I could survive this situation well enough.

The odds of dying are only one in seven.

That was right. As long as I didn't go up against the Demon King in round one, I could just lose on purpose and get eliminated.

These thoughtless skeletons looked full of fighting spirit. Blue and Yellow struck side-chest poses, showing off their muscles(?).

"Hehe. I'll go make a bracket, then."

The Demon King, who'd looked somehow depressed after summoning them, seemed to have cheered up a little. She left the room beaming.

"Click— click."

"Clacka, click. Clack-click."

The skeletons conversed among themselves in completely unintelligible teeth-clacking. The ones who'd been standing at attention without moving a muscle were, the moment their summoner stepped out, sprawling on the floor and perching on chairs. It was a barracks with the ranking officer gone, through and through.

The door clicked, then creaked open.

"I'm back. You waited, right?"

"Click, click!"

"Click, clack-click!"

The skeletons greeted her with wild enthusiasm. For fuck's sake, you ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠stupid bastards — do you even know who she is?

She'd written eight names on a large bracket and covered ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠them with stickers.

"Hehe. It'll be fun, right? There are prizes based on ranking, too!"

"Clack-click! Click!"

"Click! Clack-click! Click!"

Total Demon King fanboys, these guys.

Well — even from a human perspective, the Demon King had absurdly beautiful looks. How much more so in the eyes of demonkind.

With the expression of a father unwrapping a Christmas present, she peeled the stickers off the bracket.

The first prize is insane.

But underneath, in tiny letters you'd miss unless you looked closely, it said you couldn't leave. Cheap.

Second place was a one-way ticket to the afterlife. Third was completely fucking useless. Fourth was a ticket to hell too.

Doesn't matter anyway.

The tempting first prize was absolutely out of reach, so I'd just throw the first round on purpose, take a can of peas, and be done with it.

So "That Guy" is me.

Come to think of it, the Demon King didn't know my name. No need to tell her if she wasn't asking.

But what did she write in front of my name and then paint over?

Curious, I stepped closer to get a better look. The Demon King hastily folded the bracket.

"Y-you've seen it all, right? Let's start at the table right away."

This is a goldmine.

I wouldn't have to face the Demon King. This arm wrestling match I'd been ready to sacrifice an arm for could be treated as a rest game. I just needed to lose to Green-or-whatever in round one.

And so began the match between Red and Orange.

"Click,,,,clack!"

"Click..clack-clack-click!"

The two of them clacked their teeth, locked in a tense grip. The skeletons beside them clenched their fists and clacked along, apparently cheering.

"The heat is... incredible."

The Demon King was providing ringside commentary as if she had a scouter strapped on. She seemed able to roughly understand the skeletons' speech.

"Cla...ck!"

".....Claaack!"

Click!

The match ended with the sound of bone hitting the table.

Orange wins.

Red was so aggrieved he threw himself on the floor and went click-click-click-click. Was that bastard crying?

"Click. Clack-click! Click."

Orange, drunk on victory, basked in the spotlight. The skeletons all rushed over and tossed him in the air. Every time he came down, the sound of bones colliding rang out — click! click!

"Click! Clack-click!"

Orange had sportsmanship. Leaving the praise behind, he ran over to Red, who was lying face-down sobbing, and held out his hand. The two of them embraced and wept.

"...Sniff."

The Demon King was bawling too.

"...Are you crying?"

"...Wh—sniff.. what. Who's crying."

The Demon King, who roughly knew their situation, was drowning in emotion right along with the other skeletons. This was arm wrestling, wasn't it?

After the moving display of fair play ended, the next matchup of the Demon King and Yellow faced each other at the table.

"Let's have a good match. Let's have a splendid contest we won't be ashamed of!"

"Cla-clack! Click! Click!"

The Demon King was rattling off lines that belonged in a shonen manga with a completely straight face. The skeleton's reply was probably something like, Of course! No holding back!

"Hey, you give the start signal."

She was talking to me.

"...Then... ready... sta—"

A blur of motion.

KABOOOOOM!

Yellow, whose arm had been shattered, couldn't get up again. He now lay with a towel on his head, letting out thin, fading breaths.

Crazy bitch.

Curious that the table hadn't broken, I asked about it.

"I put Gaia's Touch and the Protection of Demeter on it, so it's fine."

In other words, this table was tougher than Rebecca.

This kid definitely had no awareness of her own strength. The skeletons were still trembling — not with the thrill of battle, but with the terror of death. That's right. Skeletons, the very symbols of death, were trembling in fear of dying.

"Heheh, I won."

She smiled bashfully, having half-killed her opponent in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠an arm wrestling match. Orange, scheduled to face the Demon King next, had a face full of worry.

"Next contestant, come out."

Green, who had only now realized the Demon King's true nature, crawled toward the table on all fours. And I, his opponent, followed behind.

...Whatever. It's not like I didn't already know she was this kind of psycho.

The parade of fucked-up situations I'd been through so far seemed to have tempered me. The thickness of the death lines I'd crossed was on a completely different level from these high-calcium lumps, who'd known nothing and were only now shaking after the fact.

I sat at the table and clasped hands with Green. The cool sensation of bone, without a single scrap of flesh on it, felt awkward.

Just lose quickly... and hit another bowl of kimchi stew.

The beaming Demon King came skipping over and started counting down. She seemed to be enjoying the situation so much that smiles hung in clusters at the corners of her mouth.

"Three, two, one, sta—rt!"

At the Demon King's signal, I slowly let my strength go.

Alright... just let yourself wi—

Fuck!

The impure intent I felt the moment it started — I hastily put strength into my arm, and desperately pulled toward my side.

...! Wh-what the hell is this bonehead doing!

This skull-face pulling the arm toward his own side seemed, just like me, to have nothing but losing on his mind.