Terms of Negotiation
The contents of the coming-of-age ceremony had changed, but the role of the demons who guarded a single house had not.
Cull the useless.
Select only the finest timber.
Somewhere in the Demon Realm, before the weathered headstone of an old grave, Glen drew a battered dagger from his coat.
Is this truly the right thing to do?
He stepped closer to the monument. Carved across its face were the names of every Prien who had failed to achieve their purpose, and at the very end, etched in relief, were the names of Shiron, Lucia, and Siriel.
And then—
Skrrrt—
Glen dragged the blade across Shiron’s name. The guardians of Dawn Castle who had witnessed the ceremony had spoken with one voice: Shiron was unfit. Even though the boy had put up a far from disgraceful fight, their verdict had been cold enough to raise gooseflesh on Glen himself.
I don’t understand what happened…
Swallowing his regret, Glen turned his back on the Prien graveyard and left.
The God’s Origin that dropped when an Apostle was slain looked, at a glance, like a worthless black marble. Keep it near you and a tingling miasma crawled over the skin—an ominous trinket that even a demon steeped in demonic energy would refuse to approach. Hand one to anyone and they would treat it as something to throw away on the spot.
Who in their right mind would call such a cursed object a bargaining chip? You would be lucky if people merely dismissed it as junk.
And yet—
To the right person, a God’s Origin could be worth more than all the gold in the world.
Yuma, and the other allies besides her.
On the road to the giant’s forge, Shiron walked the arid desert and sketched out, in rough strokes, the events that were about to unfold.
Atmos. The giant who hammered stars, one of the Prien family’s long-standing collaborators. Like Yuma, he was a turncoat who had once stood on the Demon God’s side and then turned away.
But unlike Yuma, whose reason for betrayal was plain—she had been abandoned by the Demon God—Shiron had never understood why Atmos cooperated with the Priens.
It’s strange.
He was aware of Yuma walking a few paces behind him.
Atmos had never been used as a sacrificial pawn the way Yuma and the other demons had. No one had dragged his family onto the battlefield as hostages. And on top of that, the previous hero, Kyle, had left him barely able to speak. Wasn’t that odd? The Priens were the house that carried Kyle’s bloodline. Atmos had no reason to help the descendants of the enemy who had shattered his jaw.
Anyway.
Shiron turned around with a sour look.
“Hey—why is everyone following me?”
“Is that not allowed?”
“It’s not that it’s not allowed. I’m asking why the whole pack of you is tagging along.”
He peered past the tilting Yuma. Behind her, a crowd of several dozen pressed forward in a tight cluster.
Siriel and Glen had not come. This was supposed to be a journey to present proof of the Apostle’s death and collect a weapon for her from Atmos—but after the brutal fight, the accumulated fatigue must have caught up with her. She had returned to the castle with Glen.
In their place, every last demon, Yuma included, had begun to trail after Shiron.
“It’s not like we’re going to swarm in and tear the place down. We’re about to meet someone for the first time—we should be trying to make the best impression possible, and yet… no matter how you look at it, this picture does not look good.”
“Please consider this an extension of the coming-of-age ceremony as well.”
Dorothy stepped forward from the head of the pack. She was not wearing her maid’s uniform, and the expressionless mask she maintained pressed down on Shiron like a physical weight.
Lucia asked, puzzled,
“Wasn’t it already over?”
“My apologies. Even if the Young Master claims he has no attachment to the title of house head, there are still those among us who wish to observe him a little longer. Another reason is that we simply cannot decide to whom the title of heir should be granted.”
Dorothy bowed as if she were the spokeswoman for the entire company. Faced with that formal courtesy, Shiron found he could not tell them to turn back.
“…Do as you like.”
So once isn’t enough, is it.
Clicking his tongue, he shifted his gaze from the crowd to Yuma.
“Yuma.”
“Yes, Young Master.”
“Come here a moment.”
Ever since their return from the giant’s forge, the unfamiliar pouch clutched in Yuma’s hand had been tugging at Shiron’s attention.
A coming-of-age ceremony that could easily have cost him his life. He had kept quiet until the fighting was finished, afraid that any talk might be taken as some kind of foul play—but at this point, he figured it was finally safe to ask.
Shiron tilted his chin and pointed at the pouch in Yuma’s hand.
“What is that. Don’t tell me it’s what I think it is.”
He narrowed his eyes as he spoke. After the visit to the forge, the pouch had never left Yuma’s grip, and guessing its contents was not difficult. Timing alone made it suspicious—she had made a sudden trip the day after he had mentioned Dolby and Atmos. Suspicion had hardened into near certainty.
“It is nothing of consequence. Merely an old acquaintance of mine.”
Yuma thrust her hand into the pouch. A trembling fairy appeared, pinched between her fingers.
“Allow me to introduce her while we are at it. Dolby, greet the Young Master.”
At Yuma’s almost threatening whisper, the one-eyed fairy wordlessly bobbed her head.
Shiron did not return the greeting. He merely fixed a pitying stare on the fairy dangling from Yuma’s hand like a toy doll.
“Wh-why… why are you staring at me like that?”
Sensing something less than polite in that gaze, Dolby spoke up even as she shook from head to toe.
Shiron did not answer her.
“Yuma.”
“Yes.”
“Why is this one here.”
“…Is there a problem?”
Yuma tilted her head at his unexpected reaction.
“A week ago, Young Master, you said you intended to negotiate with the blacksmith. I therefore took it upon myself to prepare a few measures that would make those negotiations proceed more smoothly.”
Shiron was having trouble following what she was saying.
“To put it briefly… I have always personally believed that what one needs in a negotiation is the initiative.”
Her manner was subtle, but she was all but preening for praise.
“As it happened, that thick-headed fellow responded in a rather inconvenient way. When I requested a sword, he refused me outright. I was somewhat irritated, and I did not care to return to the Young Master empty-handed, so I was forced to choose a slightly more aggressive approach.”
“Slightly… aggressive?”
Dolby’s voice cracked with disbelief, and Yuma’s eyes turned cold.
“Dolby. I have yet to inflict any harm upon you. Are you dissatisfied that I have not been aggressive enough? If you wish it, I am perfectly capable of treating you with far greater severity.”
“N-no! I’m fine!”
“Then kindly remain quiet, as befits a bargaining chip. I nearly put strength into my hand just now.”
Watching the two of them bicker, Shiron scrubbed a dry hand over his face. He had received such special treatment for so long that he had forgotten—Yuma was not human to begin with, and her kindness was fundamentally biased.
Is this really happening?
He could feel the ideal negotiation he had sketched in his head drifting farther and farther from the situation in front of him.
The original plan had been simple: show Atmos and Dolby the God’s Origin—proof that an Apostle had been slain—and receive the desired item in return.
The weapons Atmos provided changed depending on the player’s growth. But Reincarnation Sword God was an unusual game without a level system. Players proved their strength to the blacksmith by collecting the tokens of a wicked god, or by delivering the byproducts of specific magic beasts.
Aside from special venues like labyrinths or auction houses, this was how a player generally obtained weapons.
And with good reason: even in Reincarnation Sword God, Atmos had taken one look at a God’s Origin and cheerfully forged Holy Swords, Sirius among them.
So if nothing went wrong, even that thoroughly ominous black marble should have done its job…
The negotiation is cancelled.
Shiron wiped the plan he had prepared clean out of his mind.
The volcanic zone of the Demon Realm. The giant’s forge.
Clang! Clang! CLANG!
A full week after his lover had been snatched away without so much as a chance to resist, Atmos finally heard someone pounding on the iron door of his forge.
Yuma, is it?
He braced a hand on his knee and rose with difficulty. He had known the woman called Yuma for several centuries now, and deep down he was nursing the soft hope that she would never truly harm Dolby.
She had made threats, yes—but the way she handled Dolby had none of the venom of years past. Atmos himself had been a warrior long before he ever took up a hammer. The warrior’s instinct, left to rot after so many years without a sword, had lulled him into the illusion that Yuma had not been serious.
Once his head cooled, he remembered: she had not even radiated killing intent sharp enough to prick the skin. There had almost been a playful smile on her face.
Cradling that delusion, the giant shoved hard at the iron door, praying his lover was unharmed.
Krrrrrrrnnnng!
“See?! I told you I cut it!”
“Nobody said you didn’t.”
“You keep giving me that look like you don’t believe me, so of course I’m mad!”
The door did not open. What had once been a door—fragments of steel—spilled across the floor. Atmos stared down in stunned disbelief.