Chapter 2
Chapter 2
"Huck—!"
The first thing he felt the moment he opened his eyes was the shortage of breath.
Instinctively taking a deep breath in response, air entered his lungs and then left again.
That simple repetition was strangely vivid.
His heart was beating.
His blood was flowing.
It was on a completely different level from when he had been the Demon God, who had no need to breathe or for blood to flow.
Even as the Demon God, he had breathed.
But he had never felt grateful for breathing to this extent.
His skin felt the cold air, and his fingertips brushed and touched the rough dust of the floor.
At the same time, his shoulders ached, his knees throbbed, and his wrists bore marks and pain as though someone had grabbed them.
The Demon God felt all of it and did nothing for a moment.
He simply savored each of those unfamiliar sensations one by one.
Unfamiliar.
So unfamiliar that it made him laugh.
'I succeeded.'
He slowly opened his eyes.
He opened them, but it was dark.
That too was new.
Because darkness had held no meaning whatsoever for the Demon God.
But now he had to rely on a single faint line of light seeping through the gap beneath a door.
The air in the enclosed space was damp.
The smell of old wood, dust, dried herbs, and magic potions inside glass bottles all mingled together.
'A storage room, perhaps.'
Having estimated his location, the Demon God finally examined his own body.
The newly obtained body was crumpled as though it had been tossed onto the floor.
It had the look of someone having been forcibly and very roughly shoved in, with the door locked behind them.
The Demon God—no, he who had just opened his eyes inside an unfamiliar body—slowly parted his lips.
"Ah."
A voice came out.
Thin.
It was the soft, inexperienced voice of a young girl.
He fell silent for a moment.
And then, as if to confirm it once more, he spoke again.
"Ahh."
Still thin.
At that, not simply a voice but laughter spilled out.
"Hahaha."
The situation itself was amusing to the Demon God.
If it were the Demon God's voice, a single word would have made a legion prostrate itself, split castle walls apart, and caused the priests of other gods to cover their ears and cough up blood.
And yet what was flowing from this throat now was something thin and inexperienced—a girl's.
The resonance that had once pressed down upon the world with a single word was gone.
In its place was only a frail breath, so delicate that even laughing made his fingertips tremble.
"Extraordinary."
He raised a hand and touched his face.
A small jaw, smooth cheeks, a slender neck, soft hair flowing down past the shoulders.
The fingers were fair and long.
The skin on the back of his hand was excessively thin, and even the tendons were delicate.
The nails were clean overall, but several were broken.
He checked the sensation around his chest as well.
Not as large as the female demon folk who used to cling to the Demon God, but they were unmistakably there, gently swelling.
"This body is female."
It was truly a trivial matter.
The gender had changed.
The frame had grown small.
The body was weak, the voice was thin, and the strength was pathetic.
But what did it matter?
A body is ultimately a tool.
The throne had been a tool, the power had been a tool, and even his name had been a tool.
The Demon God had offered all of it without a second thought and came here.
This body was no different.
If it was usable, he would use it; if it fell short, he would fix it.
Within the Demon God's memory slept knowledge capable of turning the world's greatest fool into a god.
And so he closed his eyes to examine the body in earnest, gazing inward into this flesh.
The moment he closed his eyes and observed deep within, he could not suppress his laughter.
"Incredible."
The new body he observed was truly interesting.
The body itself was weak.
The bones were thin, the muscles were lacking, and the stamina was meager.
It was to the point that even a baby demon folk pushing it would knock it over.
But the vessel for receiving energy was different.
It was abnormal.
Even to him who had been the Demon God, it was abnormal.
The energy circuits had not yet been properly opened.
Yet their arrangement was intricately delicate to an uncanny degree, and the sense for receiving energy—the law of this world—was keenly sharp enough to raise goosebumps.
What was most astonishing of all was that this body could hold not only the energy of this world, but even the lingering traces of the dark arts he had originally wielded.
The remnants that had clung to the Demon God's soul had, at some point, latched onto this body and were awakening the circuits.
The circuits were gently embracing and accepting the alien external energy.
Though a body belonging to the laws of this world, it did not clash with the dark arts from outside the world.
As though it had been an empty vessel from the very beginning, meant to contain the forbidden.
This was something even the Demon God had never been able to accomplish.
Because he had been perfect from the start, he had been unable to learn other dark arts.
To the perfect Demon God, such arts had been judged as filth that would taint his perfection.
"It was worth losing everything."
The Demon God, now a girl, laughed quietly.
The power of the Demon God was gone.
The immortal body was gone.
The energy amassed over thousands of years, and the dominion that had pressed down upon the world with his name alone, had all vanished.
What remained was only memory and knowledge, and the lingering trace of the dark arts like an ember nearly gone out.
Of course, this much was enough.
He had already created laws from nothing and crossed into this world.
Living a new life in the body of a girl not yet fully grown was nothing to him.
"If anything, it's better."
The reincarnator who had once been the Demon God smiled slowly.
His shrunken chest was pounding heavily with anticipation.
"Rising from the very bottom is something worth trying at least once."
Having confirmed the body, he looked around to understand the environment.
The inside of the storage room was cramped and dark.
To eyes that had grown a little more accustomed to the darkness, a few old brooms could be seen leaning against the wall, and empty boxes were stacked on one side.
On the shelves sat potion bottles with faded labels, and scattered across the floor were torn paper, a broken quill, and dried ink stains.
"It's locked."
Trying the door with a gentle push, he could tell it was locked from the outside.
A latch had been added so it couldn't be opened from within, and a crude sealing formula was affixed on top of the latch.
The Demon God looked down at his body.
The handprint marks left on his wrists.
The bruises on his knees.
The dust and ink on the hem of his clothes.
The dried herb residue at the ends of his sleeves.
These were not the marks of combat.
Too childish to call torture, yet too deliberate to call an accident.
The word bullying was the most fitting.
For the Demon God, it was an entirely alien and new word.
"Oh?"
He tried habitually to stroke his chin while mulling over what to do about this situation.
But not yet accustomed to the length and movements of this body, his fingertips grazed his lips instead of his chin.
At that small misalignment, he paused briefly, then smirked.
"This body is quite inconvenient."
Inconvenient, but not unpleasant.
Of course—it had not been his to begin with.
The Demon God welcomed even that inconvenience, naturally.
The inconvenience too was unfamiliar, and unfamiliarity was refreshing.
He began rummaging through the body to enjoy the unfamiliarity even further.
What kind of story did the original owner of this body carry?
He was intensely curious.
In the outer coat pocket was a crumpled handkerchief.
In the small pocket inside the skirt was not a key but a flat metal tag.
Taking it out and holding it up to the faint light, he could just barely make out the words student ID card written on it.
"This much should do."
He created a very small light at the tip of his finger.
He used almost no energy.
It was a light drawn out carefully, like threading a thin strand through the eye of a needle, so as not to startle this body's circuits.
With the light shining on it, all the text on the student ID was revealed.
[Hecate Witch Academy] [Year 1] [Armea Vizère]
Beside the text was a portrait presumed to be the face of this body.
Pale skin.
Faint ash-gray hair falling below the shoulders.
Eyes that drooped downward as though deflated.
Pretty, but fragile.
An ashen gray that might be blown away and vanish in the wind at any moment.
It did not mean the face itself was weak.
The face was beautiful enough that even calling it a countenance to fell kingdoms would be an understatement.
The former Demon God could attest to that.
It was simply that the expression carrying that beauty was fragile.
The gaze pointed at the floor, and the corners of the mouth trembled.
He looked down at the girl in the student ID and curled the corners of his lips.
"Armea Vizère."
Good.
The Demon God's name had been offered as tribute.
The throne was gone, the power was gone, and the body of the past was gone.
In that case, from now on, he would use this name.
"I am Armea Vizère."
He—no, she—said it leisurely.
Declaring it in a girl's voice, like a king of some realm, was somewhat absurd, and for that very reason she liked it all the more.
"A first-year female student at Hecate Witch Academy. And currently, a bullying victim stuffed into a storage room."
Armea laughed quietly.
"A rather pathetic current life for a former Demon God."
It was quite pathetic as a present situation for a Demon God who had once commanded countless demon folk from a grand palace.
But she did not dislike it at all.
If the current position was the bottom, there were countless places to rise to.
And since the Demon God had always been in a position of looking down from above, she had dreamed more of flipping things over from the very bottom.
"What's this?"
She picked up a notebook that had fallen on the floor, now visible in the light.
It was old but carefully tended.
On the cover were small, charming drawings of stars, moons, and cat paw prints.
It was not her taste.
Too small, too modest, too cautious.
So she immediately recognized it as something belonging to the original Armea.
"Pardon the intrusion."
She sought permission from Armea, who was no longer there, and turned the pages.
A diary written in neat handwriting appeared.
I was stuck with cleaning the practice room again today. Elina put frog slime in my bag. Marietta mimicked my spell pronunciation and laughed. My name was left out of the potion group assignment. I wanted to tell a teacher, but I don't think anyone would believe me.
Armea continued turning the pages of the notebook and reading.
One page, then another, then another.
Short but unmistakably present records continued on.
The notebook was a diary.
Who, when, where, and in what manner Armea Vizère had been bullied.
It was written in full, in small and cautious handwriting.
Yet the sentences contained no anger.
No curses, not even a vow of revenge.
It was simply a record to endure.
From that alone, the Demon God immediately understood what kind of person Armea had been.
Armea read the diary through to the end without particular feeling.
It was not pity.
To her, who had been the Demon God, bullying was merely one petty form of violence.
In the demon realm, the weak being trampled was as natural as the changing of seasons, and even in the world of gods, there had been plenty of trampling dressed up in noble names.
She had thought it natural for those who could not overcome it to fall.
But when she turned to the last few pages.
The speed at which her fingers turned slowed.
The handwriting had changed slightly.
It was not the cold script of someone merely recording—it was handwriting with a vivid warmth still left in it.
I want to become a teacher. So that no child like me appears. I want to find children who have the gift of a witch but whom no one has noticed. Children who cannot learn because their families are poor. Girls who have the talent but cannot awaken it on their own. I want to teach those children magic. To the children who had no chance to learn, I want to give a better chance than the one I was given.
The sentences ended there.
And at the very bottom was one more small line.
But for that to happen, I need to become strong myself first. Keep going! Fighting!
Armea, having read to the end, closed the notebook.
The darkness inside the storage room seemed to deepen a little.
She said nothing for a while.
"Not interesting, and yet—interesting."
A trampled girl who does not dream of revenge.
She has no desire to prove her talent, nor any ambition to rise above those who mocked her.
As the Demon God who had climbed by trampling everyone, she could not understand it.
But what she understood even less was what came next.
Rather, she wanted to become a teacher who does good.
She wanted to find someone's potential.
It seemed as though she had never been on the receiving end of anyone's kindness her whole life—so how could it be her wish to give to others?
"Strange."
Armea tapped the cover of the notebook with her fingertips.
She was not moved.
She did not consider it a tearful wish.
She still did not understand it.
If one had been unjustly trampled, was it not natural to want to trample back?
The Demon God, who had done exactly that her entire life, genuinely thought so.
Perhaps because of that.
This utterly trivial wish struck her as oddly appealing.
No—to be precise, it was not that she found it appealing.
It grated on her.
It was so small, so weak, so good-natured that it was the sort of dream that, in the world she had inhabited as the Demon God, would have been crushed the moment it was born.
And so she liked it.
Deliberately propping up something easily trampled, and making it so no one could lay a finger on it.
That too was something worth enjoying, she instinctively realized.
"Alright."
Armea smiled.
On the lips of the girl who must have originally been like a fragile flower bud, the Demon God's arrogant smile settled.
"Your wish—I'll take it."
As a former Demon God, I will make sure that your wish, now mine as well, comes to pass without fail.
"I'll throw in some payback while I'm at it."
Wasn't it unfair, living your life taking all that?