"……."
Recently, the line between waking and sleeping has grown increasingly blurred.
Just moments ago, I couldn't even recall what I'd been doing. It felt as though my cerebrospinal fluid had been replaced with gasoline. Even when something seemed to cling to the edges of my awareness, it evaporated almost instantly. Whether to call it stepping stones, or something far more wretched than that.
The sensation of walking through a dream.
The sensation of being exposed to the violence of dreams.
According to one theory, the human perception of time is ultimately rooted in survival instinct.
When faced with mortal peril, some people experience time stretching to an almost absurd degree. A truck barreling toward you seems to approach in agonizing slow motion. A building collapsing, each brick falling at a speed that feels different from the last. A single moment stretching out like taffy. In the instant danger makes contact, the brain rummages through past memories, searching for anything that might help it survive.
But what about the opposite?
This body has no possibility of dying.
What happens when that judgment becomes firmly set?
No nutritional intake of any kind. The only thing that enters my stomach is alcohol. The minimum activity required to maintain muscle, the essential movement needed for digestion—all of it has stopped. Bodily motion has deteriorated to the point of approaching a vegetative state.
And yet, I don't die.
Despite doing almost nothing at all, I keep on living.
Wouldn't the brain, at this point, begin to perceive its situation as something akin to a dream?
In ages past, monks would deliberately enter states of extreme fasting to achieve enlightenment. They weakened their biological functions. Staring at the dead-end wall of a cave, they would suddenly witness it split open to either side, revealing an endless, boundless ocean stretching out before them.
Experiencing a dream while wide awake.
Perhaps that's why I suffer from particularly violent hallucinations and auditory delusions.
I was originally human. I lived with human rhythms and human sensations. But after becoming a Demon Lord, I gradually reduced my food intake and sleep. At some point, eating and sleeping stopped altogether.
Existing in a state that is half-dream.
Now that even the bare minimum of social life had vanished, my consciousness had eventually reached a point where it could no longer distinguish reality from illusion. Perhaps I should liken it to a state of constant awakening. I recalled a monk who, as a patient, practiced the very disease he suffered from.
"Unlike you, Father, I'm just an ordinary human being."
Right.
Daisy was right. Because Daisy was smart — so smart that she had found a flaw in Dantalion. She eavesdropped on Dantalion's ramblings and uncovered the truth. But Dantalion was nothing more than the measles one catches during the process of a single human being transforming into a single Demon Lord. Dantalion was the name of a disease.
I had gone too far to turn back to being human.
I had walked too long and too distant a road to become a Demon Lord.
That was precisely why it was a disease.
A malignant tumor that feeds on its host, gradually gnawing it away.
Daisy gave a small snort and turned her gaze to her book. That chic gesture was adorable. She practically radiated the aura of a cold city woman. A perfect performance — imitating someone to perfection. Bravo. C'est si bon. I couldn't help but applaud.
So what do you all think of our wonderful daughter?
"I'm telling you I popped your cherry, you bastard!"
Barbatos erupted with a shout. She sounded deeply wronged. On top of that, her face flushed red with shame and embarrassment.
Sorry, but honestly, I don't think that's the case.
Barbatos. It's not that you haven't slept with a man — you're the second-greatest pervert in all of existence, having already explored every possible and impossible deed thousands of years ago. To bring up virginity now is not merely cowardly — it is a shameless utterance beyond all shame. What is so different between a man and a woman that virginity should be judged separately?
"Then why are you rejecting me?"
Sitri tilted her head with an adorable little gesture.
"Having two is obviously better than having just one..."
Oh my. So that's the argument you're making —.
Logic based on numbers was always powerful. One virgin dedicated to the men. One virgin dedicated to the women. The total is two. Double the pain, double the pleasure. Naturally, two was vastly superior to one. A buy-one-get-one deal. A clearance sale at rock-bottom prices.
But what about the fact that the bloodshed would also be doubled?
The spilled blood stacks. No matter what wound you receive, you always have to bleed through two layers, a double membrane pierced before the blood flows out. Can you even call that acceptable too? I raise my doubts about a society where "double means automatically better" has become the prevailing sentiment, as the last remnant of conscience in the modern age.
Laura shook her head.
"The maiden wishes for His Highness to live that way until the very final moment."
A bargain sale right up until the final moment!
The feeling of liquidating inventory at clearance prices before shuttering the store!
Laura was truly tough. Her way of thinking operated on a different plane from ordinary people. She was the bold woman who had proposed that the two of them fall into hell together. The girl I had my eye on. If she was going to be a general of the ascent, then this was exactly what one would expect.
What did it feel like to sell every product you had at a rock-bottom price just to survive? Would it be wretched? It would surely be wretched. But if you insisted on holding out for the proper price, all you could do was cling to defective inventory and go under.
There was nothing to be done. I'm sorry, Laura. I've already lost all sense of pricing. But at least it's better than a double suicide, isn't it? Surely we can at least stay alive.
"In the first place, I am wealthier than Your Highness."
To Ivar Lodbrok, the greatest bourgeois in the Demon Realm, this was a pointless concern.
Ivar gazed over with those wavering eyes. The girl cradled in my arms had shoulders so delicate she seemed like she might shatter at any moment. She had worn a mask because she was weak. She had donned armor of steel because she was afraid. Once the mask and armor were stripped away, the girl was astonishingly fragile.
And so she bit down.
Hyaahhh.
The serpent cried out hyaahhh. Its tongue lapped at the wound where the venom had burrowed through. The scent of blood. The metallic fragrance shook the brain matter. It smelled as sweet as wine. The desire to conquer. The overwhelming pleasure of knowing I could wield her however I wished. If there wasn't even that much fun, how could one possibly endure?
"Lord Dantalion."
Lapis called out to me in a voice that was reproachful and somehow worried at the same time.
Don't worry. I'm still perfectly healthy. Hyaahhh. See? Am I not brimming with vitality? The serpent struck like an eagle— or the eagle struck like a serpent? Either way, it came crashing down. Once, twice. Once, twice.
Lately, counting up to three had started to feel tedious. The bird of prey soaring through the sky and the creature squirming against the rough, gritty earth with every movement made for a exquisite rendezvous. Descent, ascent. Descent. And then ascent. It was a scene worth salivating over. Never before had there been a kiss scene where the color red was so captivating. Just like all romances, the love between the eagle and the serpent left a fatal wound.
Poison, poison.
One poison cures another.
Double the Poison.
A lethal poison could be stacked twice over.
"Dantalion."
Lapis gazed at me with eyes still filled with worry. It looked like she might cry. That's right. She was crying. No—Lapis never shed tears. The one shedding tears wasn't Lapis. Who was it. Who was the woman looking at me right now——.
"From now on, please always keep a handkerchief on you. It's basic etiquette for a gentleman."
Paimon?
A handkerchief?
I blinked and looked forward. The viper had turned crimson.
Crimson...?
"Oh."
My vision came rushing back.
A violent distortion.
My right hand gripped a sharp dagger. My left hand—for reasons I couldn't fathom—had been slashed to ribbons. Not once or twice. Crimson. A blood-soaked rag of flesh lay there— I had stabbed it. Who had stabbed my left hand like this? The question and answer were reversed. Rather than the question arising first and the answer following, the conclusion had already been reached and only then did the question come surging up.
"Aaah... AAAARGH!"
Agony.
A single step late, pain tore through my entire body.
I collapsed to the floor. I crawled, and crawled again, until I reached the ceiling where the potions were stored. I raised my right hand, and the ceiling caved in. My weight was unregulated. My consciousness was clearly losing all control over my body.
Furniture came crashing down, and the glass bottles containing potions shattered to pieces. Dozens of them burst apart simultaneously. Yet a few potions remained intact in their containers. I clutched at them desperately, like a drowning man reaching for the shore.
"...!"
Through the mangled gashes in my flesh, liquid seeped in. It stung horribly. The pain informed me with exquisite precision what shape my wounds took. One spot at a time. Down to the very edges where flesh had been torn away, with obsessive detail.
But thanks to that—my consciousness returned.
I gasped for air in ragged heaves. That had been dangerous. I'd been swinging the blade in an almost unconscious state, hacking at the backs of my hands over and over. Was it the vivid pain that did it? The hallucinations and the whispers ceased all at once. The periphery of my vision sharpened.
"So it's only been—how many—years."
The first thing that leaked from my lips was rage.
My sense of numbers had gone hazy, but I knew for certain that not five hundred years had passed, let alone a thousand. Perhaps not even a hundred. The apothecary's granddaughter had gone from girl to mother, from mother to an aged matron, and her son—then his daughter—had been supplying goods to my manor.
It could have been the son of the son's daughter. One generation, two generations. Or I might have confused roughly how many generations had passed. But without question, nowhere near enough time had elapsed.
"You worthless coward."
I returned the contempt.
Drastic measures were necessary.
If my protective instinct kept hijacking my consciousness, then I would simply weaponize that same instinct. Every time my mind slipped, every time I was seized by a vision and drawn in, I carved into my own body without hesitation.
Into the backs of my hands. My forearms. My thighs. My calves. The soles of my feet.
I forced the sensation of pain into a body that had forgotten it was alive.
The effect was remarkable.
The body quickly understood what consciousness demanded. The moment pain registered, it snapped into a state of acute wakefulness. But the body was also excessively clever. It gradually figured out that no matter how violent the pain, it would never reach the point of death.
Time passed. A single stab to the back of the hand was no longer enough. I drove the blade in twice.
Time passed. There were more and more occasions when even two strikes failed to bring me back. I plunged the knife not just into the backs of my hands but into my forearms, twisting it back and forth.
More time passed, until my entire body had to scream with agony before consciousness limped its way back. Arms and legs. Every joint. My abdomen, my chest. There was scarcely a corner of me that my own hands hadn't shredded.
The terminal station.
I had been driven to a point where there was nowhere left to retreat.
My body was already in tatters.
I had no strength left.
"……."
I leaned against the wall and stared out the window. Pure white. It was winter. I had no way of knowing when the seasons had changed. It felt like it had been forever since I'd last looked out a window.
Just desperately.
Simply, desperately.
I was enduring myself.
I tilted my head slightly and looked down. My forearms, submerged in blood. My ruined body hung limp.
I smiled deliberately. My nerves were twisted just enough that when I smiled, I had to smile deliberately. It was a gesture that held no meaning beyond what I showed to myself. But without smiling, I couldn't keep going.
"The state of a dog that lost the fight……."
How much longer could I hold on?
Ten years? Five years? One year?
Maybe only six months.
But, I'd given it my all.
For a lazy bastard like me, I'd put up a pretty decent fight.
"I really, truly hated losing to me……."
I smiled again.
I was a strategist. A strategist was supposed to be able to predict not just victories, but defeats as well. I'd cut away at my limbs, pushed myself to the very brink of death, resisted however I could—but now the end was in sight.
Then I would charge ugly all the way to the finish.
I'd mock the ending that suited me.
I figured I at least had that much right.
"......"
When had I closed my eyes?
I heard knocking at the door. I snapped back to consciousness instinctively and grabbed the cloak draped over the chair. Even now, the shop owner or his daughter would sometimes come looking for me. To hide my wounds, I always went out wrapped head to toe in that cloak.
The shopkeepers seemed to have their own way of understanding me, never prying into my circumstances or situation. Though once I overheard a small child ask whether Painter was really an elf, and from that, I could fully imagine how they had resolved the mystery.
Elves are mostly good-looking, after all.
Sometimes their ignorance was a blessing.
Knock, knock. The visitor rapped again. I checked my appearance in the mirror. Not a single gap. Aside from my face, I was swathed entirely in pitch-black cloak. As long as they didn't venture inside the mansion, there was no risk of anyone noticing that one corner of my studio was soaked in blood. I always burned incense to mask the smell.
Another round of knocking.
"I'm coming."
I dragged my heavy feet into motion.
Because my wounds were so severe, even the walk from here to the door felt endlessly far. The person on the other side must have thought I had collapsed. They knocked at regular intervals. By the time that had repeated six or seven times—
I finally opened the door.
Wind blew in from the other side, making the door a little heavy. I shoved it open with all my strength, putting my body weight into my hands. Cold winter air rushed through the gap in a bright, icy rush.
"Hi."
And there, in the doorway—
With a field blanketed white in snow stretching out behind her, stood a girl.
"I was deliberating on what kind of greeting to give, you know. Turns out this is harder than it sounds. Hm. I'm feeling the truth of 'the simplest things are the hardest' right down to my bones."
"—————."
My lips parted.
And parted lips did not close again.
"So I figured—the more situations like this come up, the more you've got no choice but to keep things simple."
A girl.
A maiden as white as the endless snowfield stretched out before her beamed at me with a wide smile.
"You still have the most god-awfully unlucky face I've ever seen. Dantalion."
There.
Right there, Barbatos was standing.
============================ Afterword ============================
[Reader Comments]
NineBreaker// That's right. I was laughing.
Marionette// Responsi... what even is responsibility? Let me go ask Dantalion real quick.
An Ho// Pizza makes up 33% of my reason for living.
Ukilpuhat// I declare without reservation that pizza is the greatest invention in human history.
Fishman// (pupils trembling)
no name// Well, he *is* Dantalion.
Game Master// There was one pillar here, rotting and crumbling away.
NovelsAreTheFirstArt// The genre of Dungeon Defense is actually romance.
Su Cheon Cheon Sa// There probably won't be any side stories.
sprtmxj// Yes, 10th place.