Strekl Has Many Enemies
Strekl had many enemies. And it wasn't just nobles he had to worry about. Even fellow knights counted among them.
During his active years, Strekl had racked up countless achievements. Compared to other high knights, his record was overwhelmingly superior. There were two reasons for that.
First was the full plate armor he wore. There were fewer than ten sets in the entire duchy. Strekl had acquired his during the war by saving a single craftsman. That alone drew the envy of other knights. Plenty whispered that all his feats were thanks to that armor.
The second was his lineage's unique regenerative ability. Strekl's school already boasted superior recovery compared to ordinary knights, but it had reached its peak after he was healed by a saint. As long as he had enough food, he healed from any wound dozens of times faster than others. Quick healing meant quick returns to the front lines, which snowballed into overwhelming accomplishments.
Many knights envied Strekl. When someone of similar skill fought the same battles over the same years but earned half—or less—of Strekl's fame and glory, resentment was inevitable.
Rosano was one such knight, nursing an inferiority complex toward Strekl and channeling it into outright hostility. He was a high knight like Strekl, of comparable strength, and had fought demons just the same. Yet one was hailed a hero rubbing shoulders with the duchy's nobles, while the other honed his blade's edge by cutting down people and got chased out by his lord.
Now, that same lord who had banished him was begging him to return. But who cared? Rosano already had the power to scoff at such pleas and kick them aside.
He planned to flaunt his strength in the duchy before crossing into the empire to become the emperor's knight. But then he heard a rumor—and turned his horse around.
A knight in full plate armor has appeared.
There was only one man in the duchy who wandered the streets in full plate. Years ago, Rosano had clashed with Strekl once. He'd been utterly crushed. Strekl had his armor then, while Rosano couldn't even cut iron.
It was no contest. But things were different now. He could slice iron—and objects ten paces away.
Knights didn't need grand reasons to kill. They didn't like someone. They wanted fame through blood. What more justification was required? At least, that's how Rosano saw it.
He spotted the convoy. At its head rode Strekl, cloaked. Rosano drew his sword.
Strekl had just noticed him. Rosano swung, and Strekl tumbled from his horse.
"Yeah, dying in one hit would be no fun."
From beneath the headless, collapsing horse, Strekl rose.
"Desperate thrashing? You can't beat me. You'll just lose everything you've built. You knew that, didn't you?"
The man asked. He knew demons. He understood how their power worked. He should know there was no chance of victory.
Even the forest hermits, who devoted their lives to accumulating karma, had tried to flee upon realizing the odds. They knew a win against impossible foes would yield immense karma—but even they avoided the fight. That was his power.
What made this lone mage better than forest hermits? His relics were extraordinary. Items of that caliber? Even among the hermits, only the grandmaster had one—a bead that healed internal wounds. And that bead's karma now fueled the man's strength.
The man smacked his lips. With just that bead, he no longer feared swords. He'd achieved the feat of facing blades barehanded. If he absorbed the mystery relic that halted actions and that leather cord that moved freely and absorbed shocks... what power would he gain?
Excitement wouldn't fade.
"What's your name?"
"Gaster. The name of the man who'll devour everything you have."
"Nice, Gaster. Just answer one thing. Where'd you get that power?"
"Still clinging to such trivia? Or do you think knowing will let you kill me?"
"Maybe."
Gaster laughed. Black mist cloaked him as he cackled madly—a sight familiar to anyone who'd fought on the front lines ten years ago. The epitome of a demon.
"I was meditating. When I came to, this power was inside me."
"I see."
"It took time to realize it was demonic power. But I was certain. The world—the karma of the world—craves a new Demon King. A leader!"
"And that's you?"
"All demons vanished from the world. Then this power dwelled in me. If that's not fate, what is?"
Gaster spread his arms. Wind from his gesture scattered fallen leaves everywhere.
Marhal and the Hero Party had eradicated demons from the world. But it was like cleaning mold from a house. No matter how thoroughly you scrubbed, it sprouted anew from the tiniest scraps. Demons could reemerge from fragments.
But not from intact humans turning demonic. Only through remnants that never fully vanished.
"What a shame."
"What?"
"Someone would've loved to take you alive as a specimen, but I can't manage that."
Mar Silanatiell would've gleefully dissected him for data. Pity she wasn't here. No leisure to capture him anyway.
Gaster bristled at Marhal's nonchalance. He held overwhelming superiority. The world had chosen him. Yet a frail human blocked his path.
"Enough chatter. Curiosity sated? Die, mage."
Black mist enshrouding Gaster closed in. His speed unchanged—no, faster now.
Marhal's focus on the leather cord wavered with distraction. The Pen of Responsibility was his father's relic, steeped in Bachea imperial history. No fit vessel for this rabble.
Marhal deflected Gaster's fist with his cord-wrapped arm.
Huh. Gaster chuckled.
"Ever wonder why I set aside weapons for fists, mage?"
Gaster spun. Using the deflection's recoil, he thrust his foot like a spear.
Pen dulled speed and force. Marhal twisted aside, slapped the ankle away, aided by wind. The weakened kick still grazed his side, tearing flesh like a harpoon from a catapult.
His slapping hand went limp. Ligaments? Nerves? Both, probably.
Deflecting barehanded without the cord's shock absorption had done this.
Punching through trees with fists? Kicking boulders? That's cannon shot.
Slapping away cannonballs and only this wound? Not bad. Marhal staunched bleeding with wind. In battle, that alone helped immensely.
"See? Just a bit of sincerity, and you're wrecked. Feel the gap now? Devouring a grandmaster and a few villages did this. Ultimately, I'll surpass the Hero."
Mist on Gaster's face shifted. Eyes and nose formed; his mouth tore wide in mockery.
Digging into his past meant nothing before power. Knowing origins, history, even patricide changed no outcome. Absolute might trumped all.
Gaster drowned in dark ecstasy.
"Your karma's bizarre. I feel my power swell just touching it. Wonder what I'll become after devouring it all."
"These days, kids got no respect for the strong. Alasil!"
"Y-yes?!"
Alasil peeked from behind a tree, startled.
"Can you heal someone half-dead?"
"Uh... if they're still breathing?"
"Good enough."
Marhal drew the Pen from his sleeve. Gaster's face—his mist—convulsed.
"That! The relic that stopped me! Incredible karma. Noble, exalted, unyielding conviction!"
"You see it? Performer roots, huh. Even as a demon, you're no ordinary."
"Tell me, mage! What karma dwells in it? Who wielded it?"
"The Bachea Emperor."
Alasil swallowed. Gaster's mist roiled. Marhal's words stunned.
A Bachea relic. History buffs couldn't ignore a lost empire's artifact. Each known one held terrifying power—even those from mere nobles. An emperor's? Unheard of.
"Lies!"
"Test it yourself. Or are you scared?"
Gaster lunged, snatching Marhal's pen-wielding hand. Crunch. Bones shattered.
Marhal gritted through agony. The cord bound their arms together.
"Whatever your game, it's futile. Tricks don't work on the Demon King."
Marhal shifted winds, trapping their words. Side wind vanished; blood sprayed. Some internal too.
"Had to hold my tongue. Demon King, Demon King. Annoying. Millions hate your act right now—go chat with them."
"What nonsense..."
Marhal unleashed the dam. The history he'd sealed with his own as collateral—a demon's karma cursing the east, fixated solely on that—poured forth.
But this time, redirected. Only one could bear the Demon King title: Soila Muesilrigo.
Demons recognized her alone as true king. Half the world raged at this fool's arrogance.
Demonic curses targeted Gaster. Concentrated karma, denser than any he'd absorbed—perfectly suited.
His mist exploded outward. Alasil gasped involuntarily. The malice chilled her spine.
Marhal vanished in fog.
"Please, don't let him die."
Alasil prayed to a nonexistent god. Since learning no gods existed, she'd pitied the faithful. Yet desperation made her no different. Facing the insurmountable, humans clung to the transcendent—or crumbled.
She wished Marhal lived—but also hoped he'd hurt enough for her to tend him. Then he'd rely on her. Trust her. Like when he'd let her sever his finger, lean on her again.
In blinding fog, Alasil prayed: let Marhal live, but wounded just enough.
Flooded with karma through Marhal, Gaster felt omnipotence. Heroes cleaved skies, mages split earth. Saints healed any wound if breath remained; thieves slew hundreds in a breath.
This power could rend skies, shatter ground. Revive dead, reap thousands' heads. Surpass Hero, rule world.
Gaster was intoxicated. He'd always craved power—slaying fellow ascetics, grandmaster. No anxiety now. Godlike might fit no doubts.
Then unfamiliar voices pierced his ears.
—How dare you claim the Demon King's name?
—I curse you. Curse and curse again.
—False king. Can you bear this karma?
—Kill! Slay all eastern life! You're eastern too! Die!
One voice became two, four, countless. His head throbbed. This was the karma he'd accepted. It willed curses now. Impossible. Karma was past deeds—will-less history.
Yet past spoke, devouring him with indescribable maledictions.
Gaster looked outward. The nameless mage smiled. All this history had transferred from him.
This man bore such karma alone? These sanity-shattering curses?
Gaster realized he didn't even know his foe's name.
Enduring hallucinations, he rasped, "Who are you?"
"Marhal Muneduus."
Muneduus. Bachea imperial surname. Fit for bearing this.
Who but a survivor of demon-slaying empire could shoulder a race's karma?
"Fuck. Picked the wrong mark. But I don't know that name."
"What'd you expect from a backwater hick?"
"Planned this from the start? Knew I couldn't handle it?"
"Personally, would've preferred you take it. Headache for me too."
"Wouldn't take it dead or alive."
Hallucinations eroded his ego. Gaster's human karma dissolved.
He muttered blankly, "So this is true demonhood. Everyone misunderstood."
He'd thought himself demonic—but true demons dwarfed him. All life's karma consumed, reborn alien. Not death. Self-yet-not.
Something with his memories and will thought and acted in his stead. Human consciousness became caged spirit.
That was demon essence. Becoming one: punishment crueler than death. Better die.
Gaster reached for his throat. Not too late. He was still Gaster. No desire to become other.
Marhal wouldn't grant easy death. One hand cord-bound to Gaster, bones pulverized to liquid. Other limp from blocking kick barehanded.
Marhal summoned wind. Too weak for direct attack. He levitated his waist dagger to mouth level, bit it.
Stepping forward, he stabbed Gaster's suicidal hand.
Gaster gaped at Marhal. "You mad bastard...!"
One hand shattered, other maimed—biting a dagger, thrusting headlong? No sane man.
Confirming Gaster's grip slackened, Marhal spat the dagger.
"To be Demon King, become demon first, right?"
"I curse you. Curse and curse again."
"Curses? Drowning in 'em. One half-baked wannabe's more? Big deal?"
"Monster bastard..."
"Says who to whom."
Gaster bowed his head. Raising it, he was no longer human. Mist integrated as flesh. Eyes glowed red; fog physically constricted Marhal.
"Vanish."
The ex-Gaster demon misted away. No trace, like others.
Demons were mold. But conscious. Controlled by strong-willed few—and supreme Demon King.
Marhal inherited all Demon King Soila Muesilrigo's authority. Demons' life-and-death too. They powerless before him.
Gaster dead, stray karma howled. Marhal resealed it within.
Fog cleared, forest reemerged. Alasil peeked from tree.
Marhal waved—then winced at surging pain. Both hands wrecked, arms probably broken. Side wound? Guts spilling?
Rare to take such damage.
Alasil rushed. Marhal slumped into her arms.
"Save me."
"Leave it to me."
In Alasil's embrace, Marhal lost consciousness.