The man was a smooth talker. He knew how to spin a story. Enkrid found his tale fairly entertaining.
He almost felt like tossing him a few coins like you would a street bard.
Storytellers need patrons, after all.
Of course, the author hadn't come here as a storyteller by trade.
The core of what he said was clear.
In the Demon Realm, each demon had carved out a power base. Instead of revealing their true names, they bore epithets.
Those epithets served to flaunt their might, yes, but they were also titles given by those who knew them, tinged with a kind of reverent awe.
The Burning Raven, the Promiser of Plenty, the Companion That Holds Heat, the Pure-White Annihilator, the Loner of Distrust.
These were five of the six demons who ruled the Demon Realm.
"And then there's the Father of the Dead."
The merchant's graceful tongue seeped into everyone's ears.
"He is also called the Door That Ends Life. His name is the most widely spread across the continent, isn't it?"
There had once been a group that tried to gather mages into a collective called the Tower of Wisdom—and failed. Because of that failure, they were branded the Womb of the Demon.
Through them, demons and the twelve Balrogs burst onto the continent.
It was a calamity that clawed the continent as deeply as when the Demon Sanctuary Church summoned a salamander, a fire-belching beast from another world.
All six demons were now interested in humans.
Balrog was a maniac. A heretic among demons, chasing something different.
That Balrog died. By a human hand.
That was why the demons of the Demon Realm were interested in the arsonist who had set their world ablaze.
Kraiss had yanked up a handful of worst-case scenarios the instant Balrog died—but this one was on the milder side.
Kraiss spoke, looking toward the merchant whose eyes were half-squashed by the flesh fattening his cheeks and cheekbones.
"So you came here to make the Captain a sweet offer, is that it?"
The merchant nodded at once, quick on the cue.
"Yes, that's correct."
His nodding was almost jaunty.
Kraiss drew his brows tight. He scowled. A man doesn't say things like that unless he's half mad.
'Why?'
If imagination had become reality, then it was time to grasp the substance of it. He had to infer the other side's intention. He had to understand why a being called a demon would move.
'Even if they're something beyond human cognition…'
There would still be reasons. Kraiss recalled the initial reason these people had come this far.
'Balrog's death was a shock even to the demons holed up in the Demon Realm.'
The Demon of Strife, the battle-maniac who collected souls.
Those were the sorts of names Balrog was called.
A freak who split off parts of his own power to cleave souls apart, scatter fragments of self, wander, and harvest souls.
That was the implication wafting from the merchant's words.
'And that Balrog died.'
Though Enkrid hadn't spread the news, what hadn't traveled widely across the continent had, by some means, spread far and wide within the Demon Realm.
'A shocking event.'
Even so, was this a normal reaction for them?
No.
'Even if the one who kindled the blaze is formidable, is that reason enough to court him?'
He turned it over and over. What he'd heard from the merchant, what he'd inferred, even the edges of what his imagination could reach.
He wove it all together to guess at the before and after. All of that happened in an instant.
'At war.'
Demons in the Demon Realm didn't get along just because they were neighbors.
'Each has its own domain, and each rejects the others.'
If they were fighting the way Naurillia and Azpen did—
And in the middle of that, if a powerhouse they hadn't bothered to notice in some small city suddenly emerged, someone who could sway a battlefield—
'If the Captain had been on Azpen's side rather than Naurillia's…'
The outcome might have been different.
A war among demons wouldn't be much different from the continent.
What decides the tide of a battlefield is a few elites—outliers who don't fit the usual mold.
"Mm."
Kraiss nodded. His thoughts had clicked into place.
For these reasons, they had come to propose recruiting Enkrid.
They meant to take the slayer of Balrog into their ranks wholesale.
'Maybe not just the Captain—they might want the entire Order.'
While he drifted in that thought for a moment, the merchant spoke.
"Human life is finite. According to my master's will, you will be granted immortality. There's a saying: even rolling in filth beats the heavens. Immortality—I believe it's a tempting offer."
He spoke of the reward before speaking of duties and what must be done.
Under ordinary circumstances, you'd snort, but if the price is beyond imagining, people waver. The merchant knew that—hence the pitch.
The mage judged it time to add his piece and was about to open his mouth, but Kraiss beat him to it.
"That all?"
The heat stoked by the merchant's tale went out with a pop. Kraiss doused them with cold water.
Immortality, and a promise to put them at the fore of some demon-on-demon war?
Granted, the merchant hadn't realized Kraiss had put the picture together that far.
"...Immortality isn't just 'that all.'"
The merchant spoke. For a moment he was at a loss for words, and it came out sounding almost like a childish complaint. What he valued most was worthless to the other side. It grated, a little.
"Hm."
Kraiss's attitude didn't change. Arms folded, he gave a small shake of the head. He didn't like it.
"If you desire it, of course, there's more than immortality to give. If need be, we could fill a room with gold coins for you, but…"
The merchant's confidence frayed and his voice trailed. If he could bait them with mere krona, he wouldn't have needed to come himself.
Why do people worship beings called demons?
Because they grant what cannot be had by ordinary means.
Immortality, or a beautiful face, and the like.
Here, krona had little value. At least to the merchant. Can an overflow of krona buy time? It cannot. Therefore, it's worthless.
What he wanted was to return to the vigor of youth and live forever.
But then—
"Mm."
The big-eyed man's brow smoothed. His ears pricked.
What was that reaction?
Flustered and yet compelled to speak, the merchant let his instincts—honed by a lifetime of trade—take over.
"What's a single room? If you wish, we could even build you a house out of gold bars."
He didn't mean he'd literally build a house of ingots. He meant he could hand over that much krona.
No one fails to understand a statement like that.
Kraiss unfolded his arms, eyes widening.
"Oooh."
Kraiss's cheeks flushed as if he'd had a drink.
At that price, wouldn't it be worth joining a localized war once or twice as mercenaries?
No matter how the Border Guard had grown into a trade city and pulled in gold, there were just as many places to spend it.
The military budget alone, just to keep the army standing, was enough to make your head swim.
And the house of gold bars the kindly faced man had offered—that would be pure profit.
'A single mercenary run for a house of gold bars.'
Demons or not, a deal's a deal—worth considering, no?
Heh.
Nurat, both lover and guard, jabbed Kraiss in the ribs.
Captain Garrett, whom they had once served, was already an odd one—but their lover here was worse.
Just look at him—his eyes said he was actually considering a deal with demons.
"Ahem."
Kraiss coughed into his fist and cast a glance at Enkrid. Not a flicker of interest on his face at the mention of krona.
Kraiss found that a shame.
'We could just play along, bleed them for all they're worth, and send them off.'
Wouldn't it be enough to pretend to take the bait?
Step out as mercenaries, but hold back just enough. Even better if they could stir up a little discord along the way.
Of course, demons weren't opponents to treat lightly.
If you blundered ahead, making assumptions with a human's narrow grasp, you could pay dearly. Kraiss knew that. It was just a fleeting fantasy, nothing more—a pang of regret at a golden house collapsing in his mind.
"You know he's not the sort to move for that, so why say it?"
Abnaier had caught on to Kraiss's thoughts and whispered.
"It isn't a poor offer for you. If not immortality, then what? Land? Is it the continent you desire? Then we'll grant you the entire continent. The authority of omnipotence, to do as you please."
This time it was the man with the greatsword who spoke.
A grand proposal. If it meant the whole continent, then it meant placing him at the very summit of intellect and power—even making him emperor.
But Enkrid still showed little interest. Did becoming king mean you were a king just because they said so?
Were the demons of the Demon Realm simply that arrogant?
Or was their military might so vast that the continent could be ignored?
Both, Enkrid thought.
"What use is immortality or land?"
This time the mage spoke. He knew full well what the other two had offered meant nothing.
Those called demons styled themselves demi-gods. They were beings on the path to godhood.
'What they truly sought was Truth.'
And to reach it, they yearned for godhood itself—for omniscience and omnipotence.
"They will show you the path to becoming a demi-god."
The mage spoke. There could be no greater offer. Power on that scale, the nerve to put down Balrog—all of it pointed to the same conclusion.
'That man will climb higher.'
The higher he climbed, the more thirst he would feel. And if someone whispered of a shortcut in the midst of it all…
"I come by order of the master known as the Burning Raven, the horned ruler."
The mage's voice thrummed with resonance, giving it a solemn weight. A parlor trick, but used well it could shake hearts.
Enkrid turned his head toward the man with the greatsword.
"One is Burning Raven, that one there said he followed the Worshiper of Gold, and you?"
"The Companion That Holds Heat is with me."
Enkrid nodded, then asked again.
"Why should I let you live?"
The implication behind those simple words was only one.
"…A refusal?"
The mage was shocked. At the very least, shouldn't he be hesitating?
And what of Esther? She was a mage; surely she thought differently. But Esther was simply running her own thoughts over and over, not even sparing them eye contact.
They didn't know Enkrid. They didn't know what he sought, nor his dream.
To become a knight.
To be the sword and shield that guards the backs of his own.
And in doing so, to end war and erase the Demon Realm.
Even in endless repetition of the same day, his spirit never wore down. That unyielding resolve—that was the human standing before them.
And they did not see it.
Enkrid heard a ferryman's mocking laugh from somewhere.
"Immortality? Demi-godhood? Ah, this is when you'd say 'a bumper crop of bullshit,' isn't it? A Western phrase."
The laugh of a beastman living true immortality—endless repetition of the same day—was, naturally, tinged with rage.
"Can I kill them now?"
Unable to hold back, Dunbakel asked, and the mage cried out.
"I am not the original! What you see is only a fragment. Killing me means nothing. You will regret this all your life!"
He spoke, about to cast a spell—then froze.
A beastman had drawn close without anyone noticing. With a grin, he whipped his heel up and cracked the mage's jaw.
Palm hit the ground, body flipped in a natural sequence of motion.
Bang!
The head burst above the neck. Black blood sprayed, only to morph into wriggling vermin.
It had all happened the instant Enkrid gestured permission.
—I'll make you regret it!
The mage's voice still lingered. Another trick.
Esther waved her hand absently. She had scattered many things across this land beforehand.
Among them were arrays laid to keep other mages from pulling such stunts.
One of them flared now, cutting the mage's mana. A bracelet on Esther's wrist shattered, crumbling to dust.
'Her skill is still as sharp as ever', she judged.
—You, Child of the Stars. Don't forget how many seek to find you and tear you apart.
A threat, but little more than another cheap trick.
As the mage's body scattered like dust, the greatsword-wielder raised his weapon high—but to no purpose.
Pel and Lawford had returned in the meantime, standing at his sides.
"See, told you he was off."
"Who said otherwise?"
Pel spoke first, Lawford second. Then each slashed an arm from the man. One strike from below upward, the other from above downward.
Two strokes, drawn alike yet different. Their skill showed in the subtleties—and the man with the greatsword had no answer.
While Enkrid and the others had fought Balrog, these two had fought monsters and the souls the demon had gathered. They too had staked their lives, fought, endured, and arrived here.
Of course their strength had changed.
The warrior, arms cut away, coughed blood. That blood surged like fire into the air, sketching out eyes and a mouth the size of a man's body.
—You… are you serious?
Enkrid's insight caught a glimpse of the presence. This wasn't the cheap trick the mage had used.
It was pressure of a level one expected only from demons. The air grew heavy, as if a single breath could ignite everything in range—whether man or building.
A truly exalted force. Worthy of the name demon.
"Yeah."
Enkrid answered brightly, cheerfully.
—Fine. See you again.
The demon scattered and was gone.
The merchant glanced around, the corners of his eyes twitching, then his gaze changed. Muttering words no one could understand, his body began to smoke, black soot rising from him.