The Demon's Regret

The corpse of Bael, impaled through the heart by the Holy Sword, had been left abandoned in the hideout. When the Eight Protection Army grew anxious after losing contact with their lord and searched the area, what they found was Bael's body, reduced to nothing but shriveled, dried leather. There was no need to describe the despair and thirst for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠vengeance his loyal subordinates felt upon seeing the lord they had sworn eternal allegiance to lying there in such a wretched state. They simply burned with the desperate need to know exactly how their lord had met his end. How could someone so powerful have died? And who could possibly have killed him?

Fortunately, their questions were answered quickly. The demonic crystal orb that Bael had carried as a lucky charm had recorded his final movements in perfect detail. In the footage, Bael had spent nearly a hundred days torturing a single man before exhaustion finally claimed him, allowing the prisoner to launch a surprise attack while he slept. The Eight Protection Army knew all too well about Bael's unique vulnerability to becoming completely defenseless while asleep, so they could accept that their invincible lord had been slain by a mere human. Yet no matter how many times they rewatched the recording, there was one thing they simply could not understand: the regenerative ability of the man named Werther.

Those were remarkably brave words to utter while having one’s still-beating heart chewed apart by the hounds of hell. Or, to be more precise, it was less bravery and more the exhausted, utterly worn-down tone of someone pushed beyond all limits. In any case, Werther’s durability was anything but normal. Even a zombie would have stayed dead after being killed that many times. In the end, even Bael had fled in sheer terror.

It had been a retreat born from a slight misunderstanding, but from Bael’s perspective at the time—someone who knew nothing of the Rune of Immortality—it was a perfectly reasonable assumption. After all, returning from death without mastery of the highest dark ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠magic should have been impossible. The members of the Eight Protection Army who watched the recording also concluded that Werther must ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠be an unknown master of forbidden arts.

The battle-hungry Mapharlok spat flames as he spoke. “A dark mage of that caliber should’ve been famous even on the Demon Continent. Why have I never seen his face before? What about you, Morphino? You’re close with the humans, aren’t you?”

“Watch your tongue, Mapharlok. It’s not that I’m close with humans. It’s that they unilaterally fall for my performances and court me. Yes, you could call it the relationship between an artist and his fans.”

“Cut the bullshit and tell me if you know anything about this guy.”

“I don’t. But dark mages are usually eccentrics, so it’s not strange. This one probably trained in seclusion and achieved enlightenment on his own. Still, it’s surprising. Dark mages typically lose their human emotions during their training, yet I sense a wide range of feelings from Werther.”

The agony of having one’s body torn apart. The fear of torture that might ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠never end. The belief that his comrades would come to save him. The sense of betrayal toward comrades who never arrived no matter how long he waited… loneliness… self-loathing. And the longing for the family he could not see. Morphino, whose ability to read emotions was exceptional, found himself unconsciously empathizing with Werther’s heart, which flickered and shifted like musical notes. It didn’t take long for the genius musician to complete a score that perfectly captured Werther’s emotions.

“Hey, why the hell are you doing that?”

“Obviously, it’s for revenge. For Lord Bael.”

“If it’s revenge, I can just devour him with my fangs. I’ll swallow Werther whole and digest him.”

“You might end up with your stomach ripped open and die instead. Besides, as you saw, the one who directly killed Lord Bael was the Hero.”

Morphino began playing a melody that stirred the emotions. Listening to it made one’s fighting spirit surge and fear melt away. “In other words, the true target of our vengeance is not Werther, but the Hero. Let us make use of Werther’s infinite regenerative power instead.”

“Use? What do you mean?”

“We will make the Hero experience the same suffering Werther endured. If we simply kill them, it ends with a single moment of pain. But if we recreate the hundred days of torment Werther suffered, we can inflict more than a thousand times the lethal dose of agony. Don’t you think that’s the appropriate price for killing Lord Bael?”

The entire Eight Protection Army agreed with Morphino’s suggestion. It would be far more entertaining than simply killing them quickly and being done with it. That consensus was what eventually led the Hero Party straight into Bael’s chamber.

Teresa, Jeanne, Sharon, and Cynthia were each confronting Bael alone within their own unique bounded fields. Only the Hero, who had fainted and lost consciousness, had miraculously avoided the disaster.

Teresa broke into a cold sweat the moment the Bael she had believed dead appeared before her eyes. He was far too powerful an enemy to face alone. She asked about the whereabouts of the comrades who had been with her just moments ago, but the answer that came back was completely off-topic.

“Where is the Hero? Answer me.”

-What are you saying?! I asked first! My comrades—

“If you were just going to spit it all out like an idiot, why did you let them run away in the first place? You really are as stupid as you look.”

A familiar voice rang out from behind her. Teresa turned around with a sinking feeling. There stood Werther, his hands and feet tightly bound in chains. It was Werther from the days when they had adventured together. The nostalgic tunic caught her eye first. He had always worn that single tunic, washing it repeatedly, and Teresa had occasionally mended it for him when it tore. She remembered that garment clearly. It was supposed to have been shredded to pieces during his torture at Bael’s hands. After that, he had bought new clothes. Which meant this was the Werther of the past.

What is this? What am I looking at right now?

Her words didn’t reach Bael, and Werther showed no sign of recognizing her. It didn’t feel like he was ignoring her. It felt like he couldn’t see her at all.

“Who the hell are you? What’s your role in the Hero Party?”

“Can’t you tell just by looking? I’m obviously the porter.”

“Well… you do have the face for it.”

“Hmph. You’re hardly in any position to talk about faces.”

What was this? Teresa held her breath like an audience member watching a one-act play unfold before her eyes. She was right there, so close, yet neither of them could see her. Could she be witnessing Werther’s past? It certainly seemed to be the moment when Werther had been kidnapped by Bael. She had no idea why she was seeing this, but that was the only explanation that made sense.

“Hey, hey… If you’re just the porter, stop acting tough and quietly tell us where the Hero Party is. We lost the Hero because of you.”

“If I was going to obediently answer just because you told me to, I wouldn’t have volunteered to be the bait in the first place, you idiot.”

“Hmm… You’re going to protect your comrades out of loyalty? Humans always do that. At least in the beginning.”

“GAAAAAAAH!!!”

Bael casually struck Werther in the side. Considering Bael’s power, it wasn’t a serious blow at all, yet it was more than enough to twist a human’s internal organs. Werther collapsed to his knees. So did Teresa.

It felt as if Werther’s pain was being transmitted directly to her. It was hard to breathe. Since combat had usually been Jeanne or Cynthia’s role, Teresa had almost never taken a direct physical hit. To be honest, it was safe to say she never had. Born the daughter of a wealthy merchant and raised within the church in an environment overflowing with refinement and compassion, Teresa had lived her entire life far removed from violence. This was the historic first moment she experienced the pain of being struck by someone.

Bael slipped his long fingernails under Werther’s eyelid and casually scooped out the eyeball as if pulling an object from a pocket. Teresa clutched her eyes and rolled across the floor.

Teresa felt a lump in her throat as tears welled up in her eyes. Not because she was grateful that Werther had believed in them. It was because Werther’s emotions at that moment were flowing into her as if they were her own. Even families that bickered constantly would help each other in a crisis. At that time, Werther had still held genuine trust in the Hero Party. That was why he had willingly offered his body. Teresa felt like she was losing her mind as Werther’s thoughts and feelings kept pouring into her head.

The trust and expectation he held toward his comrades flooded Teresa’s heart like a river. It was as pure as a child who still believed in Santa Claus. Teresa felt a sense of sacrilege and guilt, as if she were forcing pornography onto an innocent child, and slammed her head against the ground. She recalled what the Hero Party had done at that time—something Werther himself did not know.

Even though they knew full well that Werther had been taken, even though they knew he had become a hostage alone to save them, the moment their own safety was secured, they had all breathed sighs of relief.

“Phew… We’re finally safe.”

Leonhart had been the first to speak, his face refreshed as if he had returned from victory. Anyone looking at his expression would have thought he had won a great battle.

“Just to be safe, let’s get far away from here. We should change our travel route and never come near this area again.”

Someone had probably asked what they should do about Werther. The mood grew awkward for a moment, but Leonhart was already walking in the exact opposite direction from where Werther had been taken, gesturing for them to follow.

“Hey, hey. Werther’s already dead. What do you mean, what should we do? It was just his fate. Let’s say goodbye to the porter here and continue our journey. The porter gave his life to save the Hero, so he probably has no regrets. We’ll at least leave his name in history. Hahaha!”

At the time, Teresa had also secretly assumed Werther was already dead. She had offered him a silent farewell in her heart and neatly moved on.

‘Farewell, Werther. Goodbye. We’ll continue our journey. May you rest in peace in heaven…’

Teresa curled into a ball on the floor, trembling uncontrollably.