Ending Conditions
1. The average Affinity of the Jalsen Village adventure party must be 30 or higher. 2. Dantalion's Infamy must be 100 or lower.
"No. There's no way I can win this."
I gritted my teeth. There was nothing I could do. The only monsters I could hire were two goblins at most. No matter how hard I struggled, that wouldn't be enough to defeat fifteen adventurers.
"Maybe… wouldn't it be better to beg them for mercy?"
It was far better than putting up a futile fight and losing all the Affinity I'd painstakingly built up. Come to think of it, there was no reason to guard the dungeon. Most importantly, what mattered was survival. As long as I could stay alive, what was wrong with clinging pathetically to the enemy's goodwill?
I desperately drew out their favor. When I surpassed five hundred gold, seeing them cheer, I figured at least I wouldn't die a gruesome death. Thankfully, they didn't kill me—they captured me alive and dragged me to the city. The city official commended the adventurers and purchased my body at a high price.
"Hey there, sir."
"Hm? What is it?"
"So what happens to the Demon Lord now?"
Leaf asked cautiously. I could feel his concern for me. Over the past few days, the adventure party and I had grown considerably close. Even though they'd sold me off for a livelihood, perhaps out of guilt, they seemed worried about me.
"Will you be publicly executed, perhaps?"
"Well… If your infamy had been a bit higher, they might have made an example of you."
The sharp-mustached official looked at me. My hands were bound with heavy iron shackles.
"Truthfully, you may be the Demon Lord, but you're not exactly a well-known one, are you?"
"Th-That's right. So I'll be spared execution immediately?"
"Most likely, yes. Ultimately, it'll be the Mayor's decision."
Leaf let out a sigh of relief. I felt at ease as well. I'd surrendered to survive—dying anyway would have been putting the cart before the horse. On the other hand, I was somewhat grateful to Leaf for risking the official's displeasure to ask about my well-being. Of course, the adventure party was the very group that had captured me. But when it came down to it, the blame lay with whoever had dropped me into this kind of world, not with them for diving into a dungeon trying to survive their own hard lives. How could they possibly have known I wasn't really a Demon Lord?
The adventure party filed out of the office in a crowd. We exchanged farewell glances. For people who'd spent about a week together, it was understated—but we'd shared a proper farewell the night before over drinks. Afterward, the official had the soldiers lock me in a solitary prison cell.
For about three months, I survived on rock-hard biscuits and a little dirty water. My stomach gave me trouble, but it cleared up quickly. Since becoming a Demon Lord, my recovery had improved. My mangled right foot also healed on its own when I left it alone. It was remarkable.
"Hey, get up."
A soldier spoke. I struggled to open my eyes. Through the iron bars, a grimy, gaunt face glared down at me. That was the first human voice I'd heard in three months. There had been a boy who brought bread and water daily, but he was mute.
After spending a few days in prison, I learned that this was where traitors and conspirators—those who'd committed serious crimes—were held. Many carried secrets no one else should know. That was likely why the mute boy had been specially assigned as the provisioner. The little runt was practically king in the prison—whether you received the bread and water sent from above depended entirely on him. Inmates, regardless of status or age, had no choice but to treat the boy like a master. The prisoner across the hall, probably of noble origin, had initially cursed at the boy and thrown tantrums. It took less than two days before he was calling the boy "Young Master." In this underground prison, perpetually damp and musty with barely any sunlight, you had to eat those disgustingly hard biscuits just to keep from dying.
"I'm ready."
I spoke. But what came out was a hoarse rasp. It had been so long since I'd last spoken that my throat burned. I coughed dryly several times before I could barely form words.
"Where… am I being taken?"
"How should I know where you're going? Just get out. Unless your hobby is rotting in there for life."
I pushed off my knees and stood up. My knees nearly buckled several times, but I held on. I didn't know what hell was like yet, but I doubted it could be worse than this underground prison. I was led away by the soldier. Just before leaving the prison, I spoke to him.
"The boy who delivers bread and water to the prisoners. He's been embezzling the provisions on his own."
"What?"
"He arbitrarily withheld bread and water that was supposed to go to the prisoners. Quite often, too. Mr. Frank, who died last week, starved to death because of that."
The soldier's expression crumpled like newspaper. I left the prison and was loaded onto a carriage. As I climbed into the pitch-black carriage—not a single window in sight—I silently rejoiced at having gotten my revenge on the mute boy. He'd been embezzling government supplies, so at the very least, he'd lose both eyes. The girl would live her life as a mute and a blind person in a prison-like existence, no doubt about it.
Where I arrived was a slave market. Slave trading was legally sanctioned by the state, and the bourgeoisie and nobles—short on labor due to a recent large-scale epidemic—were busy buying slaves every day. As a result, this slave market was thriving. When demand outstripped supply, slave prices had skyrocketed two- to threefold in just one week. Among them, the market where I was exhibited was an exclusive auction house for rare slaves, reserved for nobles.
"I don't know when anchovies started walking on land like beasts."
The auction house manager grimaced.
"This won't do. Those noble types always know what's valuable but have no idea how things come to have value. Ignorant lot. Hey, make that one presentable within a month."
From that day on, I was given good food. To increase my value as merchandise. To put my feelings into words, it was like a goose eating while knowing it was about to become foie gras. But for someone who'd been surviving on nothing but biscuits on the verge of spoiling, my eyes practically rolled back. A month passed. The auction house manager looked at my properly filled-out frame and nodded with satisfaction.
"The slave we present to you today is, amazingly! The second-in-line to the inheritance of the Farnese ducal family, which once wielded absolute power in the Kingdom of Sardinia!"
The auction house had been built by purchasing and renovating the remains of a defunct opera house. Nobles sat in seats and opera boxes, watching the stage. Apart from the fact that slaves were being sold on stage, and that all the customers wore masks, there was little difference between an opera and an auction house.
"Laura de Farnese, Ducal Princess!"
A blonde girl stood at center stage. She wore nothing but a loincloth that showed every inch of her pale skin, yet the girl stood tall. Rather, she lifted her chin and looked one by one into the eyes of the nobles judging her from across the stage. The murmuring of the nobles reached my ears waiting behind the stage.
"During the last Chrysanthemum War…"
"So the temple's excommunication order really is fearsome. The great Farnese…"
"She's even lovelier than the rumors."
Laura de Farnese.
A name that remained in my memory. A key figure of the Human Realm faction that opposes the protagonist in Dungeon Attack. Thanks to her, the protagonist has to fight demons while simultaneously dealing with political conflicts among fellow humans. She appears as a military officer of the Bretagne Kingdom, which is hostile to the protagonist's Frank Empire. She tormented the protagonist so often that she earned enormous resentment from gamers, but her beautiful appearance combined with a tragic family history allowed her to secure a devoted cult following.
So that's how it was. I knew she'd been sold at a slave market in Sardinia during her childhood—that was part of her backstory. So this was that slave market… Memories related to Dungeon Attack flowed through my mind on their own. I let out a dry, incredulous laugh. What good was knowing a game inside and out when there was nothing I could actually do?
Laura was sold for a handsome price. A full two thousand gold. Considering that even the highest-quality sex slaves rarely exceeded five hundred gold, it was a remarkable sum.
If there was one thing I'd realized since being sold to humans, it was that the monsters you could hire in a dungeon were insanely expensive. How could a single worthless goblin cost upward of two hundred fifty gold? If this world also had difficulty settings like a game, the developer who set this difficulty should bite their tongue and dive straight into the waters off Incheon. If they were unwilling to throw themselves in, I'd gladly push them from behind.
Laura maintained her proud bearing until the very end as she exited the stage. Laura didn't know it, but she'd just been sold to a Court Count of the Bretagne Kingdom. For the next ten years, she would be violated by the Court Count day and night. The Court Count intended to use her—as the second heir to the Farnese family—politically to seize territories that once belonged to Farnese, while simultaneously indulging endlessly in her beautiful body. In the end, after ten years of sharpening the blade of revenge, Laura would betray him and he would die a stranger's death.
"Please, torment that Hero kid for me."
Now that I'd become the Demon Lord, the Hero was my worst enemy. And Laura, who tormented that Hero until the very end of the game, was practically on my side in a way. I watched her back for as long as I could.
"Now then. Ladies and gentlemen."
The host spoke in a somewhat excited voice. He rubbed his hands together like a fly. His voice, amplified by a magical device, reached every corner of the opera house.
"The highlight of today's auction is finally here. Some of you may have already heard the rumors. I dare say many of you visited our auction house specifically for this item. That's right. This item is an unprecedented rarity. Welcome it with thunderous applause!"
An attendant slapped me on the back. I let out a low moan and stepped onto the stage. A deafening roar of applause filled the entire opera house, capacity three thousand five hundred.
"The great demon who terrorized the Human Realm! The fearsome name that proudly ranks seventy-first—Demon Lord Dantalion!"
What followed was fragmented. The host kept raising the price, shouting who knows what, and the nobles, drawn to me like moths to flame, clamored to buy me.
"The starting price is ten thousand gold!"
Ten thousand gold. It stung. If I'd had that kind of money, I never would have ended up here. I wouldn't have spent a month in a solitary cell dissolving rock-hard biscuits with saliva, nor been raised like a pig at a slave market. Lost in regrets I couldn't undo, the price soared skyward. Twenty thousand gold, twenty-five thousand gold, forty thousand gold… Finally, when someone bid a hundred thousand gold, the frenzy ended. The host excitedly shouted a hundred thousand gold over and over. A hundred thousand gold! Any more? A hundred thousand gold! Very well! Sold!
The one who purchased me was the imperial household of the Habsburg Empire. The Habsburg imperial family used me to entertain distinguished guests or to enliven masquerade balls. A permanent magic brand was engraved on my back. A slave brand.
"Hahaha! The wine Your Majesty the Demon Lord graces us with tastes truly divine!"
"I am honored, Your Majesty!"
"Your Majesty, please forgive my insolence!"
A jester.
A toy.
Sometimes, a sex slave.
Time passed. The Demon Lord apparently didn't age. No matter how much time went by, my face remained unchanged. This characteristic of mine seemed attractive to the imperial household. You could say they'd acquired a toy that never broke no matter how much you played with it.
The imperial household didn't just have elegant, bright masquerade balls. Behind the scenes, there was another kind of ball. Unlike the court ladies composed of noble daughters, at these behind-the-scenes gatherings, demi-humans and elves from various regions served as attendants.
Among them was an elven couple. When the wife was raped, the husband couldn't hold back and attempted to escape. At first, he'd endured. They fully understood what situation they were in. But it wasn't just rape… When his wife's body was defiled in every conceivable way, the husband could no longer endure. The rule of the masquerade that "clothing must not be worn" was, to a noble elf, the ultimate humiliation.
"Don't run."
I advised. I had become something like a spokesperson for the court slaves. As the slave who'd survived the longest, perhaps that was only natural. The average survival period here was less than fifty days.
"I appreciate the advice. But I cannot endure it."
"Don't they know the ways of elves? They're doing it on purpose. They're counting the days until you try to run—I'd bet my life on it."
"I know."
"And yet you still intend to flee?"
The elf nodded.
"There are things in this world more precious than life."
"…Never head south when you escape. Go north if possible. I'll show you the way."
The elven couple escaped.
They were caught within six hours.
Should I admire the fact that they'd broken through the imperial household's tight security and lasted six hours, or grieve that the result of a death-defying effort was a mere six hours? I couldn't quite tell. The wife had been publicly raped at the behind-the-scenes masquerade. The husband died right there. The wife, witnessing the scene, bit through her tongue and killed herself.
I was interrogated as well. Managing the sex slaves was my responsibility. A slave had escaped, so I couldn't be safe from blame. Furthermore, they suspected that I had been the one to reveal the escape route. I swore I absolutely hadn't, but they had no reason to believe me. Then again, in their position, I wouldn't have believed me either.
"How pitiful."
A voice. Was it the first voice I'd heard in days? I struggled to open my eyes. Dried blood on my face made it hard to lift my eyelids. Only a dim vision was revealed.
"Even if I apologized, you wouldn't listen. This is a rotting country, and a rotting imperial family. But."
I couldn't see the other person's face. I could tell it was a woman's voice, and that her hair was silver despite the blur—the sigil of the Habsburg imperial family.
"Even one of rotting blood like me can at least kill someone."
I see.
This woman—
"One slave who committed insolence against me, I have dealt with personally. After that, there would be no one left to voice complaints."
"…Thank… you."
"I have never done anything deserving of thanks. Demon Lord, do you have any last words?"
Any last words.
If only—just if.
If I hadn't surrendered to the adventurers back then.
If I'd fought back, even at the risk of my life, would things have been different?
"…Be careful of the Margrave of Novgorod. The one who assassinated His Late Majesty the Emperor was that man."
"…!? How do you know His Late Majesty was assassinated—no, more importantly—"
"That is all."
The other party fell silent.
She let out a quiet sigh.
"How foolish I was. I should have saved you sooner."
The sound of a blade sliding from its scabbard rang in my ears.
"May you rest peacefully in the world beyond."
The world beyond.
If I died, what would happen?
Would I return to my original world? Or would I truly—
Consciousness faded.
─ Ending No. 01 (Dead Ending): "Jester of the Imperial Household"
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