The Hero Gets His Ass Kicked
To briefly explain the command structure of the Demon King’s army, the Demon King naturally sits at the pinnacle. Yet she rarely steps onto the front lines. She remains in the rear, issuing orders like any other general. The true nightmare for humans is the rank just below her—the Four Heavenly Kings. Meeting one means death. Each is a monster capable of erasing an entire nation alone. History records several occasions when a single attack from one of them redrew the political map of Pangaea.
Every Heavenly King commands loyal subordinates who serve as extensions of their own will. In Bael’s case, those were the Eight Protection Army. The eight demons who guarded him had once been nothing more than back-alley thugs and delinquents, each swaggering around claiming they would one day become the Demon King. They possessed nothing but hot blood and excessive strength. After causing endless trouble and being crushed by Bael, they heard his offer: “If you want revenge, grow stronger beneath me.” They joined on a whim. Similar souls gathered, grew close, and before long the proverb about rain hardening the earth proved true—they had forged an unbreakable lord-retainer bond.
United by the common vow to repay “Lord Bael, who elevated us from one-hit-wonder thugs into proper pillars of the Demon King’s army,” the Eight Protection Army became a shining exception within the demon forces. In a world rife with betrayal and kin-slaying, they wielded the rare weapon of genuine teamwork and loyalty, producing results far beyond their individual strength.
Buoyed by his subordinates’ feats, Bael grew confident enough to launch a surprise attack on the hero’s party. He would kill them and set the stage for humanity’s extinction. Once the hero was dead, he would summon the Eight Protection Army and transform Pangaea into a living hell. The army trusted their lord’s victory without question and simply waited for his call.
What arrived instead was news of their master’s death.
“Uwooooooo!! The hero killed our lord!!”
“Let’s avenge Lord Bael!!”
“Death to the hero!!”
“We don’t need the Demon King’s orders! To Pangaea!!”
The Eight Protection Army’s only target had always been the hero’s party. Avoiding friction with other nations, they flew straight to the Lydorphia border. Their first objective was obvious: the hero. Leonhart. The hateful bastard who had slain Bael with the Holy Sword. The rest of the party would die too, of course, but Leonhart—who had struck the killing blow—could never be forgiven. Only by torturing him with every demonic technique available, making him suffer in the most miserable way imaginable, would their rage be sated.
The question was how to grant him the most brutal death possible.
“Bite his throat out! Kill him before he even knows what’s happening—that’s the best!”
“Then he dies before he can even repent, you idiot.”
“I’ll torture the hero. Leave it to me.”
Beneath a twilight sky veiled in dusk, the Eight Protection Army located the base camp hidden behind a mediocre stealth spell. They argued heatedly, each proudly displaying their personal expertise in tormenting humans. Suggestions flew back and forth—severing limbs and hanging them from the walls, burning victims alive, drowning them—each method more gruesome than the last. A long-haired man who had been listening quietly finally clicked his tongue and criticized his comrades’ amateurishness.
“You people really don’t understand humans. The hero is a foolish yet brave creature who opposes the Demon King. He’s an annoying lifeform armed with a sacrificial spirit that ignores his own pain.”
Morphino, the Fourth Commander of the Eight Protection Army who had studied heroes through books, began to expound his philosophy in theatrical tones.
“Their real agony arrives when they fail to protect the people they cherish. Tormenting the hero’s companions will be far more effective than targeting the hero himself.”
“What kind of bullshit is that! We should kill the hero immediately!”
Mapharlok—the Second Commander who most closely resembled a classic demon in his balrog-like form—flapped his eagle-like wings in furious protest.
Morphino, whose long hair and flowing cloak made him look more like a court musician than a demon, extended his arm like a conductor. Dark clouds gathered in the gloomy sky.
“Oh, Mapharlok. It would have been wonderful if you possessed wisdom equal to your courage. But that is why the gods grant nothing in full to any being. Even our lord Bael was born with the tragic fate of a short life, perishing at a mere twelve hundred years. Yet all of this is a grand motif bestowed by the heavenly director… In that case, should we not repay the divine with a magnificent requiem!”
When Morphino spread both arms like the parting of the Red Sea, demons poured from the clouds like hail. They were ugly, low-intelligence lesser monsters—goblins and orcs—but their numbers approached a hundred.
“Kek. So this is your black magic. But those small fries won’t even faze the hero’s party.”
“Worry not, Mapharlok. I am ten times more meticulous than you. Their purpose is not the hero party, but the ordinary soldiers who foolishly joined the fray without knowing their place.”
Sure enough, the soldiers on watch panicked at the monsters suddenly raining from the sky and scrambled into battle. The desperate clash between low-tier monsters and elite troops was quite the spectacle. After all, a fight between weaklings is always the most entertaining to observe. Of course, for those actually fighting, it was anything but fun—their mouths went dry with the constant terror that their heads might fly off at any moment.
“What the hell are these things?! Where did they come from?! What were the sentries doing?!”
“They fell from the sky!!”
“The sky?!”
“If you have time to yell, kill another goblin!”
“Damn it… these bastards are stronger than they look?!”
“They’re demons, of course they are! Urgh!”
“Hero… call the hero! Hero!! Herooooooo!!!”
Though the hero had lost every ounce of goodwill after last night’s disgraceful behavior, at a time like this the knowledge that he was sleeping in the same camp felt like a godsend. The soldiers shouted his name with one unified voice.
“Lord Leonhart!! Please help us!!”
“Hero! The demons have attacked!!”
“We need the hero party’s power!!”
The sudden battle that erupted at dawn proved that even those hailed as elites among humans—and called geniuses or monsters back home—became utterly ordinary the moment they crossed blades with demons. A soldier whose armor was pierced by a goblin’s axe, shoulder torn away. A mage whose skull was shattered by an orc’s hammer. A saintess struck from behind by a blunt weapon while praying. A female knight whose neck snapped from a single blow. It was pure pandemonium.
This is dangerous.
Staff Officer Atlas activated his appraisal skill and scanned the goblins and orcs. Goblins ranked D, orcs C. Bottom-tier trash by Demon King’s army standards, yet more than enough to overwhelm ordinary humans. The base camp’s personnel were skilled, so they weren’t being completely overrun, but the battle remained deadlocked.
If these people get wiped out fighting mere goblins and orcs instead of the Eight Protection Army, it’s meaningless. We need the hero after all!
Atlas, whose detection abilities could pinpoint the hero’s exact location, rushed to wake the sleeping hero and drag him from his tent. During the process, he couldn’t help but suspect the hero had actually been awake the entire time, pretending to sleep while ignoring the desperate calls for help. The man showed zero signs of drowsiness, and his body seemed to flinch the moment Atlas entered. Still, Atlas dismissed it as his own misunderstanding. No matter how bad the hero’s personality was, he couldn’t possibly be that much of a worthless piece of trash.
Cynthia, Sharon, Teresa, and Jeanne also woke from the commotion and stepped outside. The hero’s party had finally entered the fray in earnest. The imperial soldiers breathed audible sighs of relief, as though they had been saved.
“It’s the hero!”
“Ahhh, Hero! At last!”
“Please annihilate the Demon King’s army with that divine sword you spoke of last night!”
“These punks aren’t even worthy opponents for you, right?! Right?!”
“You said goblins and orcs wouldn’t even be worth a single punch!”
“The hero is here! We’re saved! Aaaah!!”
They had confirmed last night that Leonhart was rude, ill-mannered, arrogant, and even had a drinking problem—completely unlike the hero they had imagined. Humanly speaking, he was impossible to like. But still… he was the hero, wasn’t he? The one who fought the Demon King and the Four Heavenly Kings. The very hero who had slain Bael, one of the Four Heavenly Kings. Surely he would crush goblins like mere ants beneath his boot.
“Everyone fall back!! Clear the area so you don’t interfere with the hero!!”
Even the battalion commander—who had been deeply disappointed in the hero the previous night—ordered his men to create a wide open space for Leonhart to fight in. Deep in his heart, he cheered with genuine sincerity.
Please, Hero. Your personality is garbage, but as long as you properly slaughter the demons, we won’t complain.
At the hero’s appearance, the cunning goblins grew visibly tense. They ignored the fleeing soldiers entirely and circled Leonhart like hyenas, slowly rotating around him. None dared strike first.
“My, my… How dare the likes of you challenge me, Hero Leonhart? Behold! This is the Holy Sword Exode, wielded by the first hero Johan a thousand years ago! With this blade he slew every one of the Four Heavenly Kings. I, too, am a hero! Leonhart, the one who shall surpass the first hero and save all of humanity! How dare mere lackeys of the Four Heavenly Kings—the Eight Protection Army—presume to challenge me! Your names shall be carved into history as the most foolish demons of all time—Puhuk!!”
“Talk… too long… Head hurts, orc.”
Unlike the sly goblins, the orc—whose intelligence was barely above that of a beast and who was practically an outcast even among the Demon King’s army—grew nauseated by the long speech. He swung his club from behind and smashed it straight into the back of Leonhart’s head.
“Puhak!! Kheuk! Uugh!”
The hero, struck by an orc whose only redeeming feature was his size, rolled across the ground three times before collapsing in a heap.
“Ow, ow!! It hurts! My head hurts! Healing magic! Someone cast healing magic! Aaaargh!!”
Leonhart clutched his bleeding temple and began to sob uncontrollably.
“Hic… It hurts, fuck… It hurts, fuck… My head… it hurts…”
And then, as if that weren’t enough, the hero
“………………..”
simply fainted.
If that dramatic sprawl was an act, the Imperial Theater Society would have no choice but to award him the grand prize for best actor.
““……………………….””
No one made a sound. A heavy silence blanketed the entire camp.
Atlas was the first to lower his head as realization dawned. The battalion commander followed. Then the regular soldiers. Though none spoke aloud, the same thought rose in every mind.
Don’t tell me… this hero bastard is actually insanely weak?
They waited, just in case, but Leonhart remained unconscious. He showed no sign of waking.
What the hell is that guy? Why did someone that weak act so high and mighty?
If I’d known he was this pathetic, I wouldn’t have bothered serving him last night.
Fuck, I bowed and scraped for nothing.
What was the point of all the tax money we poured into sponsoring him?
Expectation curdled into disappointment. Disappointment blossomed into betrayal. And betrayal ripened into pure, seething rage.