Chapter 32: You Said That
Translated by Addis of Exiled Rebels Scanlations
Editor: Karai
After roughly recovering, the Demon King finally returned to the castle, changed into his favorite clothes, and nodded with satisfaction. He smiled a little.
Then, the marquis who was wandering around the castle got dragged into sparring practice. The reason was: “It’s been a few days since I last used my hands. I need some practice, Marquis.”
The marquis held a flower and looked at the Demon King, who had set him as a target. “…Alright,” he said. After a bit of fighting, he glanced at the slightly bored Demon King and asked, “Are you in a bad mood, Your Majesty?”
The Demon King blinked. “Am I? I’m feeling just fine.”
The marquis gave a nod, refusing to give any face. The Demon King blinked again at the firm affirmation, then lowered his head to think for a moment. Afterwards, he pulled the marquis back into the sparring ring once more. As the marquis bared his teeth and grimaced, the Demon King finally nodded slightly. “Seems like maybe a little.”
The marquis then sat down and pretended to listen intently. Once the practice was over, the Demon King looked at the marquis, who resembled a humanoid tree hollow, and asked, “What are you doing like that?”
“If Your Majesty has any troubles weighing on you, you can tell me. I’ll help ease your worries,” the marquis replied with his usual occasional eccentricity. His curiosity piqued again. “After all, I was the first subordinate you recruited in the Demon Realm. Absolutely loyal. Tight-lipped. I promise I won’t share anything about you with any other demons.”
In the demon world, strength was respected above all, and the essence of demons was their admiration for power. The marquis, who was the first to be badly beaten, was in some sense indeed the Demon King’s very first subordinate. But as for the marquis’s secrecy…
The Demon King glanced around at the walls and windows. By habit, the more promises made, the less trustworthy the person. And judging from the tragedies of other demons in the past, most of the things the marquis knew were basically known by the entire demon realm.
The Demon King looked back at the marquis. Seeing that gossiping expression and recalling why the marquis had been beaten last time, and watching the marquis shrink back in his eyes, he said, “Actually, it’s nothing.”
Then, standing beside the humanoid tree hollow, he turned his gaze back to the figures moving outside the window. Thinking about what the Hero had done, he hesitated a moment, then decided to silence the marquis first before roughly explaining—
Basically, the marquis already knew about how the Demon King had tricked the princess and about the Hero coming to rescue his lover. What the marquis didn’t know was that the beauty who had caused him to get beaten last time was actually the Demon King himself, plus…
“…How could such a brainless existence like the Hero even exist in this world?”
Picking over some objective facts and taking a jab at the Hero, the Demon King ended by once again questioning the Hero’s intelligence. He truly seemed furious. Almost livid.
After being bombarded with all this information, the marquis glanced at the clearly angry Demon King and said, “…Anyway, please allow me to calm down first, Your Majesty.” After a moment, he added, “I’m calm now. You really have it rough, Your Majesty.”
The marquis sincerely mourned for the Demon King’s taste in enemies: a dumb, naive sweet in a hostile faction, before saying, “And for that, I hereby offer you my deepest sympathy and blessings.”
Saying this, he stood and bowed, lowering his deep purple eyes with the motion.
The Demon King stared at this unserious speech and dramatic gesture and thought: …?
“Marquis, do you intend to continue saying such baseless nonsense? If so, you can leave now.”
“Received, Your Majesty. I’ll leave immediately. Also, where would you like me to go to carry out a mission? For example, intercepting that very dimwitted Hero you mentioned earlier?”
The marquis straightened slightly, his eyes glowing with that deep purple mark, embodying pure demon essence.
…
A fight would break out at the slightest disagreement—just like his subordinate.
Though he didn’t understand why the topic jumped around so quickly, in the end, the Demon King still sent the marquis off to make up for the flowers he had stolen during the Demon King’s absence. Leaning on his chin in the bedroom, he praised quietly to himself, then glanced outside—
Through the window, the marquis was hard at work planting flowers for the autumn-to-winter transition. Small blossoms slowly appeared among the leaves and vines, then spread open. Nearby, the demonic dragon lay somewhere, seeming to sleep, yet also as if supervising.
The wind occasionally blew, stirring the flowers and vines tended by the servants. The marquis planted his hands on his hips, said something in the breeze, and another flower bloomed. The dragon flapped its wings, stirring a strong gust that blew some debris onto the marquis. He protested the movement, but the dragon flapped again.
As more things twirled around in the air, the Demon King smiled. Amid the marquis’s noisy attempt to teach the dragon proper behavior, he walked over to the window.
The noisy commotion caused passing servants and guards to once again avoid the “accident scene,” altering their routes temporarily before resuming their daily duties. Sometimes they spoke, sometimes they didn’t—simply walking in the thin sunlight, or in small groups discussing unknown topics as they changed shifts or passed by.
The Demon King drew the curtains beside the bedroom window. After inspecting the castle, he returned to the suddenly quiet and empty bedroom and undressed. He looked at himself. The hand that had been injured long ago had fully healed; no trace remained. But the spot on his shoulder where he’d been shot still bore a scar—a faint pink mark on the skin…
It felt discordant. Harsh to the eyes. But even though it was obvious now, even though it hadn’t completely healed yet, with time it would fade just like any other wound or scar. Until not a trace remained. Nothing left from what had happened.
Confirming this after examining himself, the Demon King leaned over the nearby table. Thinking about how he’d gotten hurt, he gloomily tossed his mask aside. When no one was looking, he sprawled on the table without care for his image. His half-undone clothing hung loosely, revealing a wide patch of pale skin—and there it was: the scar he could see with a single glance.
His golden hair spilled down around him, strands brushing over his shoulder and cascading in waves. As his breathing steadied, the hair settled on his blood-red clothing, shining brilliantly against the contrast of white skin and red fabric.
The golden hair, the red clothes, the pale skin, and the jet-black table all contrasted perfectly. The Demon King lay there, unknowingly closing his blue eyes and drifting off to sleep.
As he slept, the room shifted from the faint daylight into the endless darkness of night. Outside the window, white clouds gave way to starlight, and dry leaves began to fall. Silence filled every corner of the room as time passed. The figure resting on the table was slowly swallowed by light and shadow, night and day in quiet rotation. The entire room seemed to be sleeping. Sleeping deeply. Very deeply.
Then, the last flower outside was forcibly planted with magic in the drifting snow. After the dragon finished supervising, it let out a roar—
Snowflakes swirled in the sound, falling sporadically outside. The Demon King woke instantly and sat upright. He stayed still for a moment, clearing the mess of hair tossed by the sudden movement. After replying to the dragon, he noticed his clothes were disheveled and loose. His mask lay nearby, gathering some dust. Time seemed to have slipped past him during his careless sleep. He blinked his blue eyes, feeling as though dust had settled over him as well.
The Demon King buttoned up his red clothes, brushed back his dimmed golden hair, then summoned the dragon and called for the servants. Quietly to himself, he muttered about the annoying randomness of being a half-blood—especially when the stronger the ability, the greater the flaws.
Normally average, at special times still average. Usually capable in battle, but during tough periods his magic was utterly depleted. He solved that with hibernation, which ironically increased his sleep quality demands afterward. Tch. So cross-species relationships never end well. After this quiet complaint, the Demon King reached that conclusion.
After confirming the dragon was on standby, he left the room. Having slept so long unexpectedly, he felt off—like he was covered in a layer of dust. Standing there, staring at the castle that looked changed by weather and time, he paused. Then he pointed at a nearby servant. “You, boil water.” To another, “You, clean.” Another arrived, “You…”
That one— Just by looking at him, you felt he deserved to be destroyed on the spot. “You, come here.”
With that feeling of disgust, the Demon King called him over after stepping outside. After glancing at the transformed castle and the lively atmosphere, he retreated back to the silent room.
The Demon King sat upright in the chair, in the familiar battlefield and surroundings. Though his magic was almost gone, he still carried an imposing presence, staring firmly ahead, chin raised. The figure opposite stood there silently, not meeting the Demon King’s gaze—just standing.
“Go boil water.” After a long silence, the Demon King finally kicked him out.
…
The Hero remembered… During that time, he had been led down one path after another, and each path seemed to lead exactly where he needed to go.
During that time, he had been coaxed into taking many pills. Whenever he took the medicine, it felt like the Demon King was the patient, and he, the Hero, was just indulging in candy.
During that time, in repeated bouts of amnesia, he had once been happy every day—after the Demon King occasionally said he came willingly to find the Hero. Those words, sometimes true and sometimes false, and the past, he had thought… every day was real.
Then, the day after that reality faded, he heard the Demon King tell the same stories of liking or disliking him again; hear him express feelings of love or disdain again; hear the Demon King say he came deliberately to find him or that it was a coincidental meeting again; hear the Demon King’s comfort and frustration after the Hero discovered his own amnesia again; hear the Demon King’s blows and anger after the Hero swore to destroy the lurking demons again…
In truth, it was all just fabrications woven by the Demon King. But the Hero had fallen into the trap. Then, on the night the Hero encountered the forest laborers, the Demon King had called the Hero an idiot for dithering so much about being blackmailed. After his memory became confused, the Hero connected the events from months ago to the laborers whose goods had been destroyed. A segment of the timeline was cut out and pieced together into a different truth.
…
“Is it because of me?” the Hero finally said when he was about to be kicked out. The Demon King, who had once fed him many scripts, responded in surprise at the sudden question: “What?”
The Hero looked up, eyes red, voice trembling at the door, “Back then, when you destroyed their goods… was it because they once lied to me using those goods as a reason? Was it because of me that you did that? And afterward…”
His tone was so faint it was barely audible. But the Demon King, reminded of the fact he’d been beaten up, lifted his eyes, looked past the Hero—who had somehow disguised himself to get here—and glanced outside.
Amid the castle’s winter decorations, he called down to the marquis, who was finally finished making amends and leisurely flirting nearby: “Marquis, your task has arrived.”
The marquis looked puzzled but quickly came up. The Hero grabbed the Demon King and barged inside amid the foreseeable chaos. Once the door shut, everything outside was cut off again. The drawn curtains and closed door made the bedroom silent, as it once had been. Then, in the quiet, the Hero said, “Tell me the truth.”
The Demon King, taken aback by the sudden grab in this moment of demon vulnerability, was shocked for a moment before deciding, after that surprise, “…The truth is, you’re going to get beaten up.”
Referring to the fact he’d once said he’d return the memory of being surrounded and beaten, which the Hero had brought up again at the worst time, he added, “Prepare yourself well.”
Then he waved his hand. Waved it again. Again. “Let go.” The Demon King frowned. “If you don’t let go, I’ll hit you.”
But the Hero gripped tighter, eyes locked on the Demon King. “Tell me.”
The Demon King: … “No.”
The marquis knocked at the door outside. The Hero, having dragged the Demon King inside, whispered firmly, “Then why?”
The Demon King: … Trapped here and realizing he couldn’t fight head-on, the Demon King sighed, then forcibly calmed himself before saying, “…You already have your own ideas. Then what do you need to ask me for, Lord Hero?”
The Hero flinched but tightened his grip and kept looking. Then the Demon King butted the Hero hard under the chin. When the Hero winced in pain, the marquis outside called again, “Your Majesty? May I come in?”
The Demon King replied sharply, “Not allowed.” Then he frowned at the still-gripping Hero, eyes fierce, “Let go, or I’ll really hit you.”
Hearing the Demon King’s unopposed response and those words again, the Hero looked over and glared. His eyes dropped as he said, “You said that—”
His voice was a little rough. The Demon King, who had said it once before, answered, “So this is the second time I’m reaffirming that — after I kissed you.”
The Demon King was momentarily speechless. The Hero smiled, though it was almost like he was crying, “Now, I remember every single day before. I remember that day.”
The Demon King: …
After recalling which day it was, he waved his hand—once, twice—without shaking off the grip, then bit his lip and grit his teeth, calling out to the castle below, “Marquis, come in.”
“Dragon!”
In an instant, wind and snow swirled outside.
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