The Red Demon Who Held the Stars

Demon King Virdel.

The sovereign who reigned over every demon of the Abyss, a demon revered as a God of War. The one who single-handedly held back the Hero Party — a slaughter engine that drew blades on civilians and soldiers alike at a single glance — and the Hero himself, obsessed to the point of madness with sabotage and terror, and in doing so shielded the entirety of the Demon Realm.

Demon King Virdel.

To defy her in the Demon Realm was an impossibility; the brave souls who once dared raise a hand against her had long since become cold spirits of the past.

She possessed a talent for the sword that even the heavens would envy, and she was a named legend acknowledged far and wide by the countless users of the community.

Of course, her rise to the Unofficial Blade-Debate Ranking, No. 3 had been a rocky road indeed.

A sword duel conducted entirely in words. Anyone overhearing it might have laughed themselves silly — or been lucky to get away with mere laughter.

But the reality was different. The Interdimensional Integrated Community was home to innumerable martial artists and knights, and drawing on experience and data accumulated over long lifetimes, they could conduct duels of astonishing accuracy.

Blade debate.

It was the flower of the Interdimensional Integrated Community — the very essence of the keyboard warfare forged by furious argument. Who was stronger than whom. Who stood at the very summit. The debates raged so relentlessly that the community grew too congested, and no sooner had a new administrator taken office than the [Blade-Debate Arena] tab was created. One could well imagine the fervor.

And it was not swords alone that fought there. With inner energy, aura, and even magic factored into the measurements, the debates could be waged on any battlefield of power.

A stage of genuine contest where pride itself was on the line — that place was the Blade-Debate Arena.

To claim the unofficial No. 3 spot in the swordsmanship division of that arena was an achievement as monumental as any she had ever wrought. Standing within three fingers' reach of the finest swordsmen across every dimension was no mere matter of being decent with a blade.

A heaven-blessed talent for the sword. That, precisely, was the community's DemonKingVirdel.

Crack—

In an instant, stars burst before her eyes, and the head of the girl known as DemonKingVirdel snapped sideways.

Crack— Wham—

"Khh—ugh!"

The girl, her slender frame barely reaching one hundred and fifty centimeters, curled herself into a tight ball.

Wham— Thud— Slash—

"I told you, freak — stop staring into empty air and acting possessed. It drops your market value."

By now the man had produced a whip, and with every lash a suppressed moan broke from her lips.

Slash— Crack—

"Look at you, stubborn as ever. Hah. A shame about your backbone, girl."

Slash—

Slash—

"Hah... hah... Your body is tough as leather, I'll give you that. Cut every tendon in your limbs and you still look fine on the outside. I do love that about you."

The hulking middle-aged man wielding the whip made no effort to hide the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sadistic smile curling across his face. Only when the girl's skin had turned a freakish, burning crimson did he finally draw the whip back, satisfied.

"Filthy demon-breed bitch."

With that, he spat on the floor, sealed the iron bars with a heavy padlock, and left. Once he was gone, the crimson light clinging to the girl's body began to fade.

"Cough. Cough."

She coughed up flecks of blood and leaned against the cold stone wall, forcing her emotions back down. Slowly, the reddened skin returned to its original pallor.

She smiled bitterly. Here she was, live in the community as a Demon King — and reality, it turned out, was cruelly, brutally cold.

A demon... of all things.

The place where she had been born and raised was a tiny village of northern border tribes. Her homeland was a barren land of bitter winter winds and wasted soil, but its people pooled their strength to guard the smiles of their children — people who had nothing, yet knew how to share what warmth they had with one another.

The only peculiar thing about her was that her skin flushed crimson whenever her emotions ran too hot.

And there was a reason that a girl like her — no demon at all — came to be branded as subhuman, a child of "demons."

"...Hkk."

She gazed up at the moonlight seeping between the bars and let the past wash over her.

'Virdel. I am placing a burden far too heavy for one so young upon your shoulders. Forgive me — forgive me for being unable to make any other choice.'

The grief of her grandfather, the chieftain, had bled through his eyes even as his voice held steady. And her mother, wailing until she collapsed, remained vivid before her still.

The reason she had shed no tears even as an imperial knight seized her by the hair and dragged her away was that this was a path she herself had chosen.

"—I will spare every soul in the village. What say you? Will you walk the road to hell for your people's sake?"

"...I will."

She bore the imperial knight no grudge. No — she was grateful to him, because she knew he had offered her the bargain precisely to stop the massacre of her people.

"—The Empire stands at the brink of uniting the continent beneath its banner. An ocean of blood has already been spilled to reach this point. And the bitter truth is... far more will yet flow. Though it will not be the blood of men."

The policy of demon-race extermination.

Back then, the imperial knight's eyes had carried something achingly human — pity, wretchedness, sorrow, guilt. An endless shifting of emotions she could not measure.

"—What are you doing, wearing a face like that, Sir Knight of the Empire?"

"...You're right."

The knight smiled bitterly and went on.

"—The long war has stirred no small discontent within the Empire itself. Victory or no, the dead do ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠not come home."

"..."

"—So those above want propaganda that can absorb the fury of the Imperial citizens. Something they can dress up as..."

"—'A war to annihilate the demons,' you mean. That's why you chose me. My skin turns conspicuously red. And so long as my people are held hostage, you know I won't simply throw my life away."

"...Yes. You're right."

"I understand."

"—It won't be easy."

The Imperial Magic Tower subjected her to procedure after procedure of bodily reinforcement — the body of the vessel that would absorb the wrath of a billion Imperial citizens had to be made unbreakable. That was why her body would never grow again. On top of that came the sclera surgery: whites and blacks of her eyes reversed. The price was nearly all of her sight.

And to forestall any contingency, the sinew-channels of all four limbs had to be severed as well.

Neither more nor less than a living doll made to receive the Empire's rage.

That was where Virdel stood now. And when the invitation to the Interdimensional Integrated Community arrived, it was a gift of a second life — the first thing to grant meaning to an existence too wretched even to die.

'There's no need to be gloomy here too, is there?'

And so she donned the mask called a "concept," imagined countless worlds, listened to their stories, and dreamed. Their adventures glittered like so many stars.

But she, who could neither move nor be free, could never become a star herself.

So instead, she resolved to become the night sky that let the stars shine.

To become the night sky, and cradle the stars against her heart.

She packed the things most precious to her, one by one, into her chest. Because she possessed nothing, there was room for anything at all.

Into one star, she placed her grandfather — the memory of his rough, calloused hand stroking her head.

Into one star, her mother — the memory of a kiss pressed to her cheek and a smile as warm as sunlight.

Into one star, her father — the memory of sitting on his shoulders, the two of them gazing up at the same sky.

Into one star, her dream — the free girl she might have been, the one who perhaps would never come, not in all her days.

And her neighbors. And the mischievous imaginary friends who had welcomed her in.

Her vision had clouded so badly that even looking up at the night sky, she could barely make out the moon. But she did not mind.

Her chest held countless stars, after all.

She could hold the whole world inside her chest.

And that was how she went on living — truly living.

Tap.

And when a small gift arrived for such a girl as her — perhaps it was a new star, and its name was Hope.