Author: 年终 / Nian Zhong

Translator: Kinky || https://kinkytranslations.com/

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Chapter 5: Dream of the Past

Sepanti, the Karns estate.

Queenie Karns stood in the center of the entrance hall, admiring the painting before her.

It was the only surviving portrait of “Saint Salaar”. No, strictly speaking, it was a replica of that portrait.

The original was small, not much bigger than a diary, and had long been kept under tight guard in the underground vault. The moment the Karns family obtained it, they commissioned a large version and hung the replica in the very center of the great hall.

Three hundred years later, everyone took the copy to be the original itself.

In the painting, Saint Salaar had blond hair and blue eyes, strikingly handsome features, and a completely blank expression. He sat on a dull wooden chair, staring fixedly toward something outside the frame, as if waiting for it.

Such a portrait was unusual. Normally the subject should be smiling and looking at the viewer.

Queenie disliked the painting. She always felt it was unfinished. The Saint Salaar in it was cold and hollow, though the guests all explained that as “compassion” or “humility”.

“Queenie.” A voice interrupted her thoughts.

She turned, the curls of her black hair sliding over her shoulders. “Brother.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked with a smile. “It looks like our little lunatic isn’t dead. The manor in Ring Town burned to ash, no one saw him leave, yet his status crystal doesn’t have a single crack.”

“Grandfather was explicit. Whoever kills him first gets his share of the inheritance. You’re really not tempted?”

“Not interested,” Queenie said coolly.

The Karns family was flourishing. This generation had eight heirs. Queenie was the seventh. Kendrick Karns was the youngest, two years her junior.

They had tried to set him straight once, but Kendrick was an exceptional fanatic. When he was young the elders still hoped for the best and merely sent him to the border. Now he was nearly twenty-one, and far from restraining himself he had only grown more violent.

So the elders now had to choose between “family honor” and “Kendrick Karns”.

“I inherited enough to keep me comfortable for life. I don’t need more,” Queenie said. “It’s Kendrick I am thinking about. He slipped away too cleanly, which may mean he had help.”

She paused, and her tone turned meaningful.

“If he has colluded with someone he shouldn’t have, hunting him won’t be easy.”

“Opportunity always comes with risk.” Her brother shrugged. “Forget it then. It’s fine if you don’t get involved.”

“Mm. Be careful, all of you.”

Queenie ended the topic without much interest and turned her eyes back to the likeness of Saint Salaar.

In the dim background, the Hero wore gray and still gazed toward a vague, far-off place.

……

Salaar quietly looked up at… Him.

Gravestones surrounded Salaar—some rough stones, some planks, some swords and shields carved with names. They were tidied spotlessly and stood silent on the earth.

Salaar, clad in battered armor, lifted his head in silence, and seemed almost like one more grave marker among them.

It was a dream. He suddenly realized that a human body dreams.

This was the first dream Myss had ever had, and He dreamed of long ago.

Back then Salaar hadn’t been so unruly, and back then some of his people were still alive.

Yes, when Salaar sealed Him, he had brought over a thousand elite warriors. In the eternal darkness they had built a crude settlement and lived on mushrooms, salt, and clear water.

Salaar was the strongest among them and aged the slowest. The other humans couldn’t live that long. In only a hundred years they died one after another, leaving the ground littered with bones.

In the end, Salaar carved everyone’s headstone, everyone except his own.

Myss watched it all in silence.

His countless eyes hung high above, their black pits hidden in an even deeper dark. Yet Salaar seemed able to feel His gaze and would always lift his head and look back.

What expression had Salaar worn then? He couldn’t remember.

In those days His feelings had been faint, not enough to sustain an emotion like curiosity. He simply looked at him and only looked.

The dream wavered and drew away. Myss blinked awake, dazed, and found himself facing Salaar’s face.

The man was sitting by his bed, observing Him…him, with the spirit of a researcher. That face was very close, close enough that Myss could feel his breath.

Myss jerked upright and loosed a streak of black light. He moved too fast and yanked his long hair hard, letting out a cry of pain.

His attack slammed into a golden shield; Salaar had clearly prepared for it.

“Good morning, Myss,” Salaar said, straightening his collar and greeting him with mock solemnity.

“What is wrong with you?” Myss threw the pillow at Salaar again. The latter snatched it out of the air.

“You never slept before. I was curious, that is all.” Salaar tossed the pillow back. “It seems the human body affects you a great deal.”

“How do you know I never slept before?”

Even though Salaar was telling the truth, Myss couldn’t resist snapping at him.

“I prodded you at different times on purpose, and your reaction speed never changed.” Salaar tidied up the sheets and blanket. “Back then you never tired, or at least that was how you seemed.”

So this man had been studying him and had never stopped.

From Salaar’s standpoint it was not edifying research. It meant that from then until now, Salaar had been looking for a way to eliminate him.

Myss didn’t want to pursue the topic. He grimaced and took stock of his surroundings.

Last night Salaar had ridden at full speed. Myss’s backside was sore from the jolting, and his head was so sleepy he felt like dying. Once he dismounted, the ground still seemed to buck like a saddle, making him stagger along. His mind and body were in a state of semi-shutdown.

So the moment Myss found a bed, he fell onto it at once. Salaar seemed to have said something like “take off your shoes first,” but the words slid past his ears like the wind.

Now he was surprised to find himself in a cozy little cabin.

There were two single beds, each against a wall. His shoes had somehow slipped off by themselves and were neatly placed by the bed, and his coat was draped over the headboard.

The morning light was growing stronger and bathed the whole room in a bright golden glow. In the middle stood a small round table already set with fried eggs, hot milk, and oatmeal cookies.

Myss’s nose noticed them before his eyes did, and his stomach answered with an enthusiastic rumble.

“Pain, drowsiness, and hunger, you have experienced them all.”

Salaar spoke around a cookie held in his teeth. “It is a bit late to say this now… Welcome to the human world, Myss.”

Myss sat at the table without ceremony and grabbed a cookie. He stared at Salaar for a moment, then said suddenly, “So this is your plan?”

Salaar showed a politely puzzled look.

“You want me to empathize and see how pitiful humans are, maybe even develop some fondness for the human world, then go to my death willingly… or something like that.” Myss snapped the cookie in two with a crack as if it were Salaar’s skull.

Humans seem to love this kind of redemption script. At the very least, bards love it.

Salaar blinked, then burst out laughing, almost to the point of tears. Myss had never seen him laugh so hard.

“So you mean… ahem, sorry.”

Salaar coughed twice from laughing and wiped the corners of his eyes. “You mean I am begging you for mercy?”

Was he not? Myss stopped chewing.

“Good heavens, of course not.”

Salaar said it with his face still smiling, yet there it was devoid of laughter in his tone.

“I would never do that, Myss. Never.”

Myss watched him quietly. He suddenly remembered last night’s dream. For a brief instant Salaar seemed to turn back into that man who stood among the gravestones and looked up into the dark.

“…Very well,” Myss replied.

He lowered his eyes with a sigh, then noticed that Salaar had taken all the fried eggs from the plate.

Yes, Salaar wouldn’t beg for his pity, but he had better beg for his forgiveness. Myss bit the cookie with hatred and added another mark against him in his heart.

For a while the only sound in the room was the crunch of chewing.

While they ate, Myss took stock of his body.

Magic flowed through his new shell and methodically refashioned flesh. Given time, he could recover a little power.

This was a good sign. His magic was flowing freely, which meant his true body was intact. It still lay in the deepest dark and waited quietly for his return.

Myss ate while spacing out and suddenly bit into something dry and tough.

Oh, hair. He had been thinking too hard and had sent a strand of hair into his mouth along with the cookie.

To be honest, the long hair was a nuisance. It was nothing like the tentacles he once had and refused to obey him. Myss pinched the ends and kept gesturing, thinking about how to deal with it.

“Keep it,” Salaar said with interest as he watched. “Unless you can find a professional barber, for example me.”

“Right, having you stand behind me with scissors would be so reassuring,” Myss snorted.

Salaar brushed the crumbs from his hands. “No scissors needed.”

He walked behind Myss and gathered the hair with quick motions. Then he pulled off his cravat and tied the ends neatly. The whole process took less than half a minute.

“Done.” Salaar sat back down.

Without the cravat, his shirt collar sat slightly open and looked less formal.

Myss reached back to feel it. The top half of his hair still hung loose, while the lower half was loosely braided, the end tied with a cravat the color of lapis lazuli.

The hair did stop wandering, but the color of the cravat displeased Myss. It felt as if Salaar had marked him.

He suspected Salaar had done it on purpose. Taking it off now would look childish yet leaving it on was irritating.

Myss quickly talked himself around. Better to keep it than let the hair make trouble. It was behind him anyway and wouldn’t be in his line of sight.

Things went smoothly after breakfast.

Salaar sold the horse to other guests at the inn and switched with Myss to a carriage.

A caravan happened to be heading for the city of Rosha and had taken on quite a few passengers. According to them, they would reach Rosha before sunset today.

Salaar paid extra, and the two of them were assigned to the last, upscale carriage. The space was small but clean and quiet, with pretty good privacy.

Unfortunately, besides Myss and Salaar, there was one more person in the compartment.

A slightly suspicious person.

---

The author has something to say:

Their looks are finally locked in. ☆

Myss: feels like I got marked.

I support the Archdemon making one back.

Also, “Sweet Trap” is basically an over-the-top gag. We won’t actually do the content. In our canon we cannot accept single-gender reversal (…) 

At most it is a pure hero seducing a Chaos Witch (♂).

---

<<< || Table of Contents || >>>

Author: 年终 / Nian Zhong

Translator: Kinky || https://kinkytranslations.com/

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Chapter 4: New Destination

“If ‘my’ memory is correct, there are also dwarves, goblins, and centaurs who claim to be descendants of Saint Salaar.”

Salaar spoke in a tone that was hard to describe. “Salaar’s preferences are truly astonishing.”

The mage was unsure how “Lord Karns” felt about this. “Uh, the Karns family also has Saint Salaar’s token.”

“Oh? So a ‘token’ is all it takes?”

Salaar casually plucked a button from the mage’s clothes and tossed it to Myss. “Look, your token button. This guy is now your grandson.”

Mage: “…”

Myss, who instinctively caught it: “?”

He stuffed the button back into Salaar’s collar. “You are the grandson.”

Salaar’s neck was warm and solid, brimming with life. Myss barely held back the urge to curse him to death.

Letting Myss fuss with his collar, Salaar kept threatening the mage. “In short, you had better cooperate and throw away those unrealistic fantasies.”

The mage fell silent.

……

The bandits’ base wasn’t far from town and looked like an abandoned farm.

A single horse stood alone in the stable. The sheep pen was heaped with junk. Insects shrilled in the shrubs. The cabins were in decent repair; the largest one had a light on. The smallest served as a storeroom, and a duty roster was nailed to its door.

It was late summer turning to autumn. The night still held humid heat, and the air felt like fog even though there was none. In the clear moonlight, everything was plain to see.

Myss, however, smelled cold soup, wastewater, and rotting blood. He knew they lurked in the shadows.

The sharpest stench came from right under his nose. He tugged at his clothes, face full of distaste.

Before leaving the manor, Salaar had made him change out of the ritual robe and stripped a set of clothes from a bandit’s corpse for him.

The outfit was bulky and filthy, the fabric soaked with blood and sweat, clinging to his skin like a slug. The hat was a size too big and reeked of rancid scalp oil.

Salaar, for his part, had wrapped himself in four full layers and at a glance looked like a clumsy burly man.

The mage led the disguised pair over the fence and stopped before the storeroom. He fished a key from under a flowerpot and handed it to Salaar with shaking hands.

“As long as you spare my life, I…”

Before the mage could finish speaking, a flash split the night, and a ritual dagger was plunged into his heart.

A clean, decisive execution. The mage collapsed on the ground with a look of bewilderment still lingering on his face.

Salaar stood with his back to the moon; his features steeped in shadow. He drew the dagger back, his breathing perfectly steady.

Myss stared at the wound that kept welling blood.

Something crawled out of the mage’s chest. It was a half transparent weasel with exaggerated fangs. It twitched atop his chest, its eyes rolling, cursing feebly.

In a few seconds the weasel dissipated like mist, as if it had never existed.

“What are you looking at?” Salaar asked gently, still holding the bloody dagger.

“Nothing.” Myss pulled back his gaze. “Why the rush to act? I thought you would scout for information first.”

Salaar: “Do you want the pleasant reason or the unpleasant one?”

“Pleasant? From you?”

“All right, I will give you a buy one get one free.”

Salaar wiped the dagger with practiced ease. “First, he saw your special magic and might leak it. Second, there are many ways to get information, so why would I keep a villain like that at my side?”

He shot Myss a meaningful glance, and their eyes met.

“Fair point. One of you is trouble enough,” Myss said with a sigh.

Salaar: “……”

Smiling, he turned the key. The keyhole gave a brittle protest.

Just as Salaar had expected, the bandits’ base was well stocked.

Cash and jewels went without saying. The storeroom held plenty of everyday clothes and even a few passable old formal suits.

Food was stacked by the door, including cheese, jerky, and light wine. Myss dug into the back of a shelf and came up with sugar and butter as well.

Salaar picked up a sharply scented red rind cheese, and a hint of nostalgia crossed his face.

“What is that?” Myss had no memory of this type of cheese.

“This one is good grilled. When you eat it, you should dip it in plenty of sugar or honey. It is quite good plain too.”

Salaar sliced a piece with the freshly cleaned dagger and chewed with care.

Then he gagged and spat it out, which gave Myss a start.

“Quite good plain,” was it?

How terrifying. When this brat gets ruthless, he lies even to himself. Myss immediately backed away from the cheese as if it might launch an attack.

“The taste is a bit off.” Salaar weakly wiped his mouth. “…Maybe I remembered wrong.”

Even so, he tucked the cheese away.

His scavenging technique was unusually practiced. He stacked a large amount of supplies neatly into the packs, so tidy it was as if those shabby bags had spatial magic. They swallowed all the cash and jewels, the lighter foodstuffs and daily necessities, and several carefully chosen sets of clothing.

Unfortunately, these bandits didn’t care much for reading.

As for paper documents, aside from a world map, Salaar found only a pile of erotic novels, several of which even starred him as the lead.

Myss picked up “The Goblin Queen’s Invitation” and deliberately rustled the pages, one step short of reciting the contents on the spot.

Salaar lowered his head and dutifully played the deaf man. He patiently opened each book, read a few pages, and checked whether the cover was a misleading disguise.

Suddenly the sound of pages turning stopped without warning.

Myss glanced over on instinct and found Salaar studying a book titled “Sweet Trap”. His expression was subtle, and his eyebrows climbed higher and higher.

Did he find something? Myss hurried over to take a look, and his smile vanished at once.

In that slim booklet the author explained in two or three lines why a “pure hero” would seduce a “Chaos Witch”. Everything else was details of the “seduction”. The prose was vulgar and showy, and the content was unfit for the eyes.

Of course, no names were mentioned. Who it was about was so hard to guess.

By the time Myss realized what he had just read, it was already too late.

For a second Myss even hated the fact that the slave was “literate”. He snatched that damned book, black magic surged out at once, and “Sweet Trap” was reduced to nothing.

“What a pity,” Salaar said with a tease.

A pity? Remembering the last part he had read, Myss felt a chill over his whole body, as if that passage had taken a bite out of his mind. In three hundred years of trading blows with Salaar, he had never been hurt this badly.

“How can humans be this crazy,” he muttered, then suddenly realized something. “Hey, don’t tell me you really did it with the goblin queen…”

“If you insist on knowing, the only beings I have ever had carnal relations with are the mosquitoes of the Crimson Marsh.”

Salaar barely held back a laugh. “I must say, it was a night to remember.”

Myss shot him a glare and rummaged even louder.

Half an hour later they had gathered the necessities. In “Common Treatments for Injuries and Illnesses”, Salaar found several identification papers. The bandits had used those parchment slips as bookmarks, all tucked into the chapters “Knife Wounds”, “Snakebite”, and “Plague”.

Salaar chose two with the most suitable birth dates, uncorked a bottle of alchemical ink, and neatly altered the names.

When they left the storeroom, they looked completely refreshed.

Salaar picked a simple dark blue suit. The fabric was nothing special, yet he wore it with a hint of refinement. Myss donned an overly loose dark gray cloak with a few belts cinched at the shoulders and waist, a look both elegant and uninhibited.

Their packs bulged with essentials and their freshly minted identities—

Scholar Salaar and Ranger Myss.

“Let us swing by the manor first,” Myss calculated. “There are still plenty of things we didn’t take, and I need a bath…”

Bits of Old Aiken were still on him. Compared to that, a bath didn’t seem so bad.

Salaar slung the packs onto their only horse. The white horse snorted in impatience.

“I already burned it down,” he said lightly.

“What?”

“A little delayed magic.”

Salaar waved it off. “Have you thought about why those bandits knew I was ‘Lord Karns’ and still dared to go for the kill?

And Old Aiken knew very well what status the Karns family holds. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to suddenly murder his master.”

Myss frowned in confusion. He truly didn’t understand the complexity of human hierarchy.

Salaar saw his puzzlement. “Long story short, killing ‘me’ had to have been done with the family’s blessing.”

Kendrick Karns had been too deranged. It was no surprise if the family wanted to erase him.

From what Salaar knew of nobles, they would never leave everything to Old Aiken. They would certainly investigate afterward. So he had burned the manor to the ground and killed the mage in the bandit base’s storeroom, creating the look of a bandit raid followed by an internal dispute over the spoils.

It was only a stopgap, though. The Karns family might have other means of inquiry, and he had to prepare for the worst.

Dawn was near. Returning to town would only invite complications. They had to leave as soon as possible.

Route planning, disguise techniques, the noble way of doing things… The thoughts crashed through his head like a collapsed dam.

Amidst the faint ringing in his ears, Salaar pressed his temples.

Two steps away, Myss gave a loud grumble. The sound scattered the suggestive ringing, and Salaar turned his head.

“In short, the manor is gone, so no bath,” Myss concluded, still wearing a puzzled look.

It was the puzzlement of someone not personally concerned. The Archdemon clearly didn’t care about the schemes of human nobles, just as a giant beast of the deep sea didn’t care whether it would rain tomorrow.

“Yes, no bath. Which means we need to find the next bathtub.” Salaar patted the white horse’s newly set saddle.

Myss looked him up and down and didn’t move. “Destination?”

“The northern mountain city of ‘Rosha’, not far from here,” Salaar said. “The young lord has a pen pal there. They once had an enthusiastic discussion about how to put a human soul into a corpse.

Want to read the letters? I have them on me, since you know how to read.” He couldn’t help laughing at the last part.

Never mind human souls, that “Sweet Trap” clearly refused to die, Myss thought darkly.

Salaar mounted first, leaving space behind him. He tapped the saddle to signal Myss to hurry up.

Truth be told, Myss was extremely reluctant. Yet compared with running after the horse, or sitting in front of Salaar—the thought of that damned book made his hair stand on end—sitting behind Salaar felt less awkward.

Fine.

Myss climbed on properly, gripped the edge of the saddle with both hands, and didn’t touch Salaar at all.

Salaar gave a casual wave. A warm breeze swept past, and the flecks of flesh stuck to Myss vanished without a trace, leaving Myss feeling clean and fresh.

“Didn’t you say your magic was low and you needed to conserve it?” Myss frowned.

Salaar shook out his new clothes. “I’m afraid you will smear mine.”

Myss drew in a sharp breath. He had been careless. How had he not thought of that move just now?

…Next time for sure. He clenched the saddle and silently resolved himself.

---

The author has something to say:

Myss: How can humans’ kinks be this crazy?

They can, my friend, they can. That’s exactly what being into non-humans is like.

“Sweet Trap” is only disreputable gossip not worthy of public release. For the official version, read “A Contract Between Enemies”.

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<<< || Table of Contents || >>>

Author: 年终 / Nian Zhong

Translator: Kinky || https://kinkytranslations.com/

---

Chapter 3: Escape

At midnight, the two men, each holding a candlestick, sighed in the secret chamber.

Myss didn’t understand human magical theory, but he could gauge the residual strength of the magic at the scene.

As he had expected, the strength was nearly zero. A minor noble who couldn’t do magic could never yank his spirit out of his body. It would be like an ant trying with all its might to move an elephant.

Yet here they were, which meant Lord Karns had definitely done something out of the ordinary.

Wonderful, Myss thought through gritted teeth. He had found no clues at all, so he would have to tolerate Salaar living to see tomorrow’s sun.

Salaar frowned and tried to decipher the scattered arrays. He cocked his head this way and that, looked left and right, then turned to Myss in frustration. “See anything?”

Myss’s reply wasn’t especially friendly. “Take a guess.”

“My guess is no, because you don’t look happy in the least,” Salaar said. “Cheer up, because I haven’t found anything either.”

From Myss’s expression, it told him the Archdemon didn’t believe a single word.

“Is it so hard to be straightforward? We have known each other for more than three centuries, and I have never stabbed you in the back,” Salaar said, giving the candlestick a wag.

Myss: “That is because you cannot tell where my back even is.”

Salaar: “…Fair point.”

“Do you have any clues in his memories?” Myss paused and forced himself to ask patiently. “You inherited that guy’s body, after all.”

Salaar shook his head. “I only know his experiences. I don’t know his thoughts and feelings.”

“Besides, he tried all sorts of quack remedies and ruined his brain. His memories are riddled with hallucinations.”

As he spoke, he crouched to examine the bones in the chamber. Corpses in varying states of decay were piled in a corner like garbage, emitting a grotesque stench that filled the air.

Sacrifice a beautiful virgin to summon a demon, and the demon will grant your every wish.

All for an absurd rumor, Lord Karns had beggared himself and sacrificed slave after slave. The former owners of their bodies had been one of a fool and one of a lunatic. In a way, fate had been quite fair.

In the end, Salaar dug a handful of incomplete letters out of the bone pile.

Most were orders and receipts exchanged with slave traders, and a few were from the young master’s pen pal. Those were filled with wild magical theories and read like patients swapping notes.

“Ridiculous,” Salaar concluded helplessly. “The little lord’s memories are a mess, the ritual site was wrecked by our fight, and even these letters are incomplete.”

“If we want to figure out the so-called summoning ritual, we will have to visit his deranged pen pal.”

However, there was still a hard fight waiting for them outside the chamber—

A few minutes later, the two stood on opposite sides of the bed, glaring at each other on guard.

Yes, they were both tired and both wanted to sleep on the soft bed. Even if it was covered in clutter and its comfort level was highly questionable, it still beat a floor full of dust and hair.

“Since you like bathing so much, you should sleep in the bathtub,” Myss said, feeling very justified.

Salaar: “And you won’t even take a bath. I thought you didn’t care about such trifles.”

“I care about whatever I choose to care about, and right now I care about the bed more than anything in the world.” Myss plopped down on it and shooed Salaar away with a flicking gesture.

“Fine, if you insist.”

Salaar thought for a moment and replied with sincerity.

“But when I don’t sleep well, I tend to sleepwalk, and when I sleepwalk, I like to splash people with water. You will understand, right?”

Myss: “You bas…” 

He had begun to speak when he suddenly looked toward the window in confusion.

Hostility.

A group of people was approaching fast, brimming with hostile intent.

“I will go outside and check. You go wait in the butler’s room,” Salaar said, having sensed it as well. “Move!”

……

In the butler’s room, Old Aiken ladled out a fragrant creamy stew and opened a bottle of red wine for himself.

The day had finally come.

He had been sent out to buy food, and the moment he stepped outside he received a message from the Karns family. They wanted him to get Kendrick Karns killed as soon as possible, preferably by hiring bandits so the whole thing would look like an accident.

If Old Aiken did a clean job, he would be recalled to the royal capital.

He knew it. That little madman would be abandoned sooner or later.

Old Aiken immediately took out a few gemstones he had skimmed to pay for wine and went to a bandit gang near Ring Town.

There were twelve bandits in all, and among them was a mage with a modestly nasty reputation. Poor Young Lord Karns couldn’t do magic. Killing him would be easier than wringing a chicken’s neck.

Afterward they would burn the manor and destroy all evidence, and Old Aiken’s task would be complete. Thinking of the bright future awaiting him in the capital, he didn’t even plan to ask for a share of the loot.

“Good heavens, you really hate your lord.”

After accepting the commission, the mage lamented. “I have heard the rumors… Seems he’s not ‘a monster who bathes in blood’, just a boring lunatic.”

That was right. Tonight the little lunatic would die screaming.

By the look of the time, the bandits would be arriving soon. Old Aiken decided to fetch a bit more cheese to go with his wine and celebrate properly.

As he stood up, a prickling sensation ran across the nape of his neck. He felt as if a beast had fixed him in its sights. He turned his head slowly and saw a pair of blood-red eyes.

It was the slave who should have been dead.

The slave wore an ill-fitting ceremonial robe, his gray hair hanging loose. The face was still stunningly beautiful, but Old Aiken had no mind to admire it.

Something was wrong.

Those blood-red pupils stared at him, and that wasn’t at all how one looked at one’s own kind, or even at an ant. When humans look at ants, they feel some curiosity or some arrogance, and at the very least there is a sense of appraisal.

But those eyes held nothing. It was as if… he was nothing more than a speck of dust floating in the air. Old Aiken shuddered.

The slave from before had reminded him of a gentle lamb. The being before him now, wearing a lamb’s hide and baring a mouthful of fangs, was something else entirely, completely alien.

The excessive beauty of that face only deepened the sense of estrangement, making one’s whole body go cold.

Old Aiken tried to say something, but no sound came out. He collapsed to the floor with a thump and shook uncontrollably.

Myss: “…”

He had done nothing, yet the old butler already looked half dead. And that wasn’t even the strangest part. On the butler’s left shoulder Myss saw a hamster.

Yes, a hamster. A half transparent, sparsely furred, fat hamster. It was larger than normal, and a strange fleshy growth bulged on its head like a cork.

“No…” it squealed in a thin voice, trembling so hard it almost left afterimages. “No… don’t…”

There had been nothing like this in the slave’s memories.

Myss instinctively reached for it. It felt like a lump of warm water, and it was as solid as such. He hadn’t even applied force before it broke apart between his fingers.

At the same time, Old Aiken shattered as well.

The old butler’s face flushed purple red, a gurgling sound rose in his throat, and thick bloody bubbles surged from all his orifices. The instant the hamster vanished, Old Aiken exploded on the spot into minced meat.

Myss wiped the flecks of flesh from his face and fell silent.

So much for that bath.

“There are twelve attackers. We…” Salaar arrived a moment later and found Old Aiken evenly smeared across the floor. He quietly swallowed the rest of his sentence.

Myss turned to look at him, waiting for the great hero’s possible condemnation or fury.

Nothing came. Salaar’s gaze skimmed over the body—if a pool of mincemeat still counted as a body—his expression stayed as calm as ever, as if a sight like this were the most ordinary thing.

“What happened?” Salaar asked.

“He had a strange hamster growing on him, and I pinched it.”

Unsure how else to respond, Myss simply told the truth.

Salaar studied him, not with the sort of inquiry that asks, “what is the mechanism,” but the sort that asks, “what nonsense are you spouting.” He didn’t dwell on it. He lifted his hand and tossed Myss a fork. Bits of sausage still clung to the tines.

Myss: “?”

“A weapon,” Salaar said.

Myss looked at the sharp ritual dagger in Salaar’s hand, then at his own fork. “?”

Salaar added helpfully, “Your magic isn’t very stable. Best not to use it if you can help it.”

No, you know that is not what I was asking.

Unfortunately, there was no time to bicker. Myss clenched the fork and turned toward the intruders at the door.

At the sight of the carnage inside, the bandit leader took two steps back on the spot. The mage swung his staff and stepped to the front.

“Who are you?” He narrowed his eyes at the two men beside the mincemeat.

Both had striking looks and solid builds, and they wore identical strange long robes. The gray-haired young man was covered in blood. The black-haired young man… The black-haired young man kept his eyes tightly shut, apparently blind.

According to Old Aiken, “Lord Karns” was as skinny as a rack of bones. Neither of these two matched the description, so they were likely outsiders.

Could that fool Old Aiken have placed the job twice, so that these people snatched it first?

But he hadn’t heard of any other assassins nearby, much less ones this conspicuous.

While the mage was still calculating, the black-haired young man took a step forward and pointed at the heap of mincemeat. “Please head back, everyone. Lord Karns has already been taken care of by us.”

“What?” the mage protested. “Fuck, we clearly agreed on a time—”

Myss almost blurted the same question along with him and barely held it back.

A look of understanding flickered across Salaar’s face.

These people were here for Lord Karns, who was hiding his identity. They had rushed straight to the butler’s room the moment they arrived. It was obvious who they had “agreed” with.

“Did Old Aiken not tell you? First come, first served.”

Salaar smiled. With that face, he looked like a real demon.

“He should have just left Ring Town. You can still catch him and demand an explanation.”

The bandits looked at each other and reached a consensus in seconds.

“To hell with explanations!” one of them shouted. “Kill them, and the manor is ours!”

The two pretty boys had odd tricks, but there were only two of them. With fat prey delivered to their mouths, why would they not bite?

Salaar let out a soft sigh. “What a pity. I did give you a chance.”

Though he said it, he didn’t sound the least regretful.

Myss blinked.

Deep in the slave’s memories, the bards’ saccharine hymns still floated into view—

[Saint Salaar is noble and pure. He will protect every living kin.]

Salaar flickered behind the shouting bandit and slit his throat without a sound. The entire motion was smooth and cold, like raindrops sliding down a windowpane.

He didn’t look as if he enjoyed killing, yet he showed not the slightest hesitation. He hadn’t even used magic.

[Saint Salaar pities the world. He will pardon every sin.]

The ritual dagger opened a third throat, and the bandits finally reacted. They surged forward, trying to pin down this “assassin renowned for his agility”.

The leader had just reached out when Salaar seized his wrist. With a crack, the bones in the man’s wrist were crushed by pure force.

[Though Saint Salaar’s body is gone, he keeps his watch from the skies.]

[The sun and moon, twin lanterns set, are his unblinking eyes.]

From start to finish, Salaar kept his eyes closed.

The mage reacted more cleverly.

Realizing Salaar was formidable, he directed several comrades to charge at Myss, who was watching from the side. Myss was spattered with bits of flesh, and they guessed he had “worn himself out in the fight”.

Maybe Salaar’s recommendation had its logic. Myss raised the fork with a sigh.

The silver tines stabbed into the first charging bandit’s shoulder. The man screamed, and only a little blood came out.

Myss: “…” What the fuck? He had been played!

He steadied his breathing. Dusky power ran down the fork and drilled into the man’s body.

It was as if black mold had infected him. Darkness raced over his skin from head to toe. In less than two seconds his body collapsed like flowing sand and vanished into the air.

Myss flicked the fork. The tip grazed two more bandits. Residual power stuck to their skin. Before panic could rise, they went through the same black infection and their bodies disintegrated entirely.

Three sets of clothes fluttered to the floor. The whole process was silent and uncanny.

The mage ripped open a spell scroll on the spot and raised a magic shield, barely saving his life. He stared at Myss in horror and even forgot to blink.

“You didn’t chant, and you didn’t use any magic weapons,” he groaned. “How did you… What are you…”

Myss didn’t care what he was babbling. He poked the shield and popped it as if it were an oversized soap bubble.

In the spray of gleaming motes, the mage stood frozen and drenched in cold sweat.

Myss lifted the fork to send him on his way, but before the bent tip could fall, a hand slapped around his wrist.

It was Salaar.

A glance toward the doorway showed that the other bandits were all dead. They lay sprawled, blood pooling into a scarlet lake. Salaar’s palm was warm and dry without a drop of blood on it.

Myss raised an eyebrow and said with a touch of irony, “What, I’m not allowed to kill?”

“That is not it. Leave one alive so we can find their base,” Salaar said.

Myss: “…Base?”

Salaar: “Yes. A base delivered to our door, perfect for robbing.”

“…Robbing?” Myss repeated blankly.

“Unless you want to wear Old Aiken’s clothes. Little Karns rarely went out, so his wardrobe holds only ceremonial robes. We also lack cash, supplies, and identification. I’m guessing their base has all of that.”

Salaar opened his eyes again. His lapis lazuli pupils glittered.

Myss lowered the fork in silence.

He could now be sure those poems about Saint Salaar were bullshit. This kid was absolutely a walking scourge.

On the other side, the mage finally came back to himself when he saw those signature eyes. “Those eyes… You are Old Aiken’s master, Kendrick Karns?”

Salaar: “Not for long. I don’t like names that are too long*.”

*Clarity: In Chinese, Kendrick Karns is (肯德里克 ·卡恩斯). Given naming convention in China, which is usually only 2-3 characters long, this is quite long, though by western standard, it isn’t.

“That old bastard lied through his teeth.”

The mage licked his dry lips and tried to curry favor. “He wanted to use us to murder you. I knew it. How could a descendant of Saint Salaar kill indiscriminately…”

He pretended he had not heard the part about “robbing”.

How does a menace like this still have living descendants? Myss immediately looked at Salaar in curiosity.

Salaar’s smile faded.

---

The author has something to say:

“What does it feel like to be slandered in front of your future partner?”

---

Kinky Thoughts:

The title of this chapter is “The golden cicada sheds its shell” (金蝉脱壳). It’s an idiom referring to creating or using a false appearance to escape, so that the other party can’t detect you in time.

---

<<< || Table of Contents || >>>

Author: 年终 / Nian Zhong

Translator: Kinky || https://kinkytranslations.com/

---

Chapter 2: The Nameless God

Not long ago.

At the sound of knocking, It mercifully shifted Its position and stopped pressing down on Salaar. It had no interest in dealing with other humans and preferred to leave the trouble to the great hero.

Salaar finally stirred.

Ever since It had called him by name, the man had gone completely rigid. For a moment It had hopefully believed he was dead.

“…You have intelligence?” Salaar slowly sat up, his voice hoarse.

Wow, what a thing to say.

In truth, It did not know how to define “intelligence”. For example, It was quite sure that at first It didn’t care about Salaar, the way mountains didn’t care about a flying bird.

But that foolish bird pecked at the rock day after day until It was thoroughly annoyed, and thoughts began to multiply.

In other words, It originally had no need to do the troublesome work called “thinking”; Its “intelligence” was cultivated by this human’s constant harassment. Now the culprit was the one surprised. It snorted in disdain and didn’t answer.

“I didn’t know,” Salaar said in an odd tone. “I thought you…”

He didn’t finish. The sentence ended in a cough.

Perhaps it was an illusion, but for the first time It heard unease in Salaar’s words.

Did this man think It was brainless, and that was why he had sung and danced like a lunatic inside the seal? How embarrassing.

Salaar stopped talking. He stood up unsteadily and soon felt his way to the exit.

The secret chamber was crudely designed, separated from the bedroom by only an oil painting. Once he left the chamber, he opened the bedroom door at once.

“Lord Karns?!” Old Aiken’s eyes went wide.

The young lord wore ritual robes and was covered in blood and grime. His collar had been yanked open, revealing bite marks on his neck and collarbone, and there were several scratch marks on his shoulder.

Lord Karns was very skilled at controlling offerings and never did anything unnecessary. He had never been injured before.

But given the remarkable looks of the new sacrifice… Old Aiken gave his young master a meaningful once over and waited for him to speak.

“Lord Karns”—no, Salaar—paused for a moment, then showed a thoroughly dark expression. “I succeeded.”

“You what?”

“I succeeded in summoning the demon, fool. It’s willing to help me restore my magic.”

Salaar’s made a long face, like he was possessed by Lord Karns. “Don’t order the next batch of slaves. Use the money to buy the finest ham and bread. I need high quality offerings.”

Old Aiken froze on the spot.

Everyone knew that “summoning a demon” was a pipe dream with no basis in magic. What the young lord had just said wasn’t much different from “I have successfully summoned a rainbow candy unicorn.”

“May I meet the honored demon?” he asked cautiously.

Salaar rolled his eyes at him.

Under that look Old Aiken’s scalp prickled. He hunched his neck. “Y-Yes. I will go buy offerings right away.”

Salaar picked up the supper tray without expression and slammed the door. The panel nearly smacked Old Aiken on the nose.

Damn it, Old Aiken spat at the door.

Whatever, buying food cost less than buying living people. Who cares what kind of fit the brat was throwing now.

On the other side of the door.

Salaar set the tray down and rubbed his face vigorously. Then he saw the Archdemon slip out of the secret chamber using both hands and feet, on four limbs—no, three—crawling all over the bedroom and smearing blood everywhere.

The demon’s joints bent at unnatural angles, and the deformed right leg dragged on the floor like a strange tail. Aside from that, His movements were uncannily smooth, as if humans were born to move that way.

It was, frankly, a terrifying sight that made his skin crawl.

When the Archdemon climbed to the ceiling like a spider, the eeriness intensified. Salaar sighed. “Hey, let’s talk.”

The other party didn’t even look at him.

Salaar fixed his gaze on It. “Do you not have anything you want to ask me, such as about this strange situation?”

“Would asking you help?” the Archdemon said with mockery.

They both knew that if all this were Salaar’s plot, he would be delivering a victory speech now rather than asking to talk.

Salaar scratched his head and flinched at the feel of his filthy hair. “Fine, I will make it clear.”

“We have almost no power. For some reason we cannot kill each other. We both know nothing about the situation. How about a temporary truce?”

“No,” the demon said. “Just wait. I will find a way to kill you.”

“Are you sure?”

Salaar answered mildly. “Magic is a very unreasonable thing. Look, it sent the two of us over at the same time. What if going back also requires both of us to be present… Just a thought. In any case I do not want to go back.”

The demon fell silent.

Damn it. Since It had no grasp of the situation at all, It couldn’t deny Salaar’s speculation.

“True,” It said unhurriedly a few seconds later. “Magic is indeed unreasonable. It is also possible that if this body dies, my consciousness will return to its place by itself.”

Of course, It didn’t plan to test that with His life for now.

This time Salaar was the one who went silent.

Not long ago the two of them had been hot blooded and intent on killing each other. Who had the energy for such consideration.

In the awkward air, the two finally reached a consensus: Before they figured out the cause of it all, they had to ensure the other stayed alive and stayed within sight. The matter was too serious for either of them to take risks.

“What’s your name?” After a while Salaar spoke first. “I cannot keep calling you ‘Hey’.”

“I have no name, and neither did this slave,” It said. “Let me think…”

The moment It tried to think, It faltered.

With annoyance It discovered that the slave’s vocabulary was pitiful. Most of it was names of objects and a few common commands, such as “Stop”, “Do not move”, or “Shut up”. There was nothing good to pick.

But the name Chaos Archdemon was far too stupid; It would rather call Itself “Stop”.

They faced each other in silence for a full ten minutes.

“Shall I give you one?”

Salaar tried the question gently. He suspected that if he didn’t interrupt, this guy could think in place for ten hours.

Those red eyes turned over with sharp wariness.

“I wouldn’t disgust you with something like this,” Salaar said. “Honestly, I already gave you a name in my heart. Are you not curious?”

“…”

It narrowed Its eyes and permitted him to continue.

“Myss.”

Salaar spoke softly. “In my homeland it means an ‘unsolved mystery’.”

It rummaged through Its barren store of words and confirmed that it wasn’t an insult.

Besides, it was short and easy to pronounce. At worst He could change it later.

“All right,” It said. “Then call me Myss.”

The corner of Salaar’s lips curled upwards. Those blue eyes turned over again, and the look in them was even clearer.

……

After that, they had a rare stretch of peace.

Right before Myss, Salaar pulled off a dramatic transformation.

Washed by the gold light of magic, his body recovered quickly. The dark circles and stubbles vanished on the spot, leaving smooth skin. His sunken cheeks filled out, and the gaunt frame grew tall and muscular.

Seen now, Salaar’s new face was quite handsome, yet it was a haunted kind of beauty, shaded with a gloom that bordered on wickedness. If he stepped on stage as an actor, the audience would guess at a glance who the villain was.

Salaar gasped at his reflection, then slowly let out a sigh.

“Good thing it’s not Old Aiken’s body,” he consoled himself.

“That butler is more than two hundred years younger than you,” Myss pointed out mercilessly. “Before this you looked like a rotten plank and couldn’t even straighten your back.”

“You were watching me pretty closely,” Salaar exclaimed in surprise.

“If a cockroach was crawling around on your bed, you too, would watch very closely.”

“So I troubled you that much. I’m quite honored,” Salaar said with genuine satisfaction.

What are you so pleased about, kid? And how do you switch moods that fast?

He snorted and imitated the “treatment” on his right leg. A streak of black light went down, and his entire right leg was gone, leaving behind only a terrifying blackness that was as dark as tar.

“Nice technique,” Salaar praised.

Myss: “…”

A human body was truly fragile. Luckily his destructive force was great enough that the wound brought no pain, only a blanket of numbness.

Stepping around the one legged Myss, Salaar set the tray on the desk. “Wash yourself before dinner. The room smells too strong.”

“Use magic to clean.”

Myss didn’t want to touch water. It—now that he had a human name, perhaps “he” was the right word—refused to imagine himself soaking in anything. The thought was a little nauseating.

But he didn’t dare use magic on himself either, for fear he would accidentally clean himself off the face of the world.

Salaar grabbed his arm. “My magic hasn’t recovered. I have to conserve it.”

“Then you go wash yourself.”

“If you agree to wash yourself, I will heal your leg,” Salaar whispered. “You can also choose to keep limping and let me control your wheelchair. I recall there is a cesspit on the south side of town…”

What’s so “Saintly” about this guy? He’s a damned scoundrel.

Myss wilted and let a certain someone drag him into the bathroom and press him into the tub.

The water was cool, cold and slick. Myss hugged his knees and curled up tight, as if that could keep the surface from swallowing him.

Salaar sat on the rim of the tub and helped wash his long hair matted with blood.

Those hands pressed along his back and felt especially warm against the cold water. Given that the same pair of hands had attacked him for more than three hundred years, Myss kept his spine taut.

“Do you know the Night Scourge?” Salaar asked suddenly, very softly.

Myss thought back for a moment. “I do.”

Legends weren’t all nonsense. For example, the Night Scourge really had been triggered by him, and Myss didn’t intend to deny it.

“Many people died in the Night Scourge,” Salaar said, as if making small talk. It was hard to know whether he meant to provoke him or something else.

Myss tilted his head back, his face blank. “The Night Scourge is my ‘breath’. As long as I live, it will not disappear.”

“So what, for the comfort of humankind I should obediently die? Forgive me for being blunt, when I began to breathe, humans didn’t even exist yet.”

“Well, that was not what I meant.”

Salaar’s hands paused. His fingertips brushed the wet gray hair. The gray was reminiscent of an approaching storm.

“It’s just… I had always taken you for an unconscious natural disaster, since you never attacked me first.”

“Because there was no need. Human lives are short,” Myss said stiffly.

No, back then he had very much wanted to crush Salaar to death.

In terms of raw power, Salaar was no match for him. Yet the man’s power was strange and could leave marks on him. If Salaar were pushed into an outburst, his precious body might be damaged.

No one likes getting hurt. When a mad dog blocks the road, even if it is a Chihuahua, people usually do not provoke it. They wait for the dog to leave.

Myss adopted a similar strategy and waited for Salaar to die of old age. A few hundred years under the seal was like holding his breath; he could just endure it, and it would pass.

If he had known it would come to this, he should have eaten Salaar alive back then. Myss sulked and curled up even tighter.

If Salaar dared preach to him about mercy and virtue, eating him alive right now wouldn’t be out of the question.

“I see,” Salaar mused. “So in the end it’s not much different from animals competing for territory.”

Myss turned his head. “?”

“Everyone is trying to survive. There is no right or wrong to it.”

Salaar gave a chuckle. “So you do not have to feel guilty, and I will not feel apologetic.”

Which meant they could openly dislike each other. For once Myss agreed with him.

Once the back and hair were clean, Salaar unfolded the tightly curled Myss. Brilliant gold magic wrapped his chest and the missing right leg.

Myss looked down. The stab wound at his heart closed swiftly. The healing felt like a warm breeze with no discomfort at all.

Then came the vanished right leg. The bones appeared from nothing, wrapped by muscle and skin. His new right leg was long and straight, a perfect match for the left, without the slightest deformity.

When the treatment ended, Myss was very satisfied. Given their “friendly” relationship, he had half expected Salaar to return the deformity or give him a leg even more cumbersome.

In a good mood, he stretched and stopped resisting the flow of water.

“Back to the point, what exactly are you?” Salaar picked the moment to ask, his tone lighter still.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know…?”

“If you were the only one in the world, would you be born knowing you are ‘human’?” Myss scoffed.

Even “thoughts” had only appeared for him within the last three hundred years. Myss remembered only that he had lived for more than ten thousand years, along with some vague things tied to instinct.

For instance, he rested in a boundless darkness and had to leave every so often to get some air. For instance, he was in a critical growth period and shouldn’t let his precious body be injured, or else… or else something terrible would happen. That was how instinct warned him.

As for his species, the nature of his power, or any deeper knowledge, Myss truly didn’t know and didn’t care, and he certainly didn’t want to explore it together with an enemy.

“Maybe I am not a Chaos Archdemon. Maybe I am a true God about to be born,” Myss said sternly. “And you, you self-righteous prick, are destroying the future of the world…”

“Yes, yes.” Salaar raised both hands and stepped out of the tub. “All right. Wash your lower half yourself.”

“Why?”

Myss balked. This guy had dragged him here by force, so how could he leave halfway through.

“Because your hands aren’t disabled, and this counts as human etiquette, for now” Salaar said, folding his arms.

Ah, the etiquette of touch. That was in the slave’s memories.

The slave trader strictly forbade slaves from touching women, not even a strand of hair, unless they were given explicit permission. There was no such taboo for men. The trader even hinted they should “take the initiative and cozy up to others so they could find a good buyer.”

The slave hadn’t understood the hint then. The Myss of now understood everything.

“We are both men, so etiquette doesn’t matter,” Myss concluded with confidence.

Salaar was standing close, so Myss reached out and gave a hard squeeze, confirming he hadn’t mistaken the enemy’s sex.

The corner of Salaar’s mouth twitched twice.

“Wash your lower half yourself,” he repeated through gritted teeth and walked away with steps that didn’t quite coordinate.

……

Far away in the royal capital, the city of Sepanti.

Night had fallen over the Karns estate. Among countless windows, one shone especially bright.

“Kendrick Karns is still carrying out live sacrifices, and the frequency is rising. In the past six months he has killed twenty eight slaves.”

In the glaring light, the adjutant delivered his report with diligence.

“I gave him a chance. I gave him a full four years,” said a weary male voice.

“You mean…”

“Dispose of him. He cannot be allowed to go on defiling the honor of Saint Salaar.”

“Understood, sir.”

---

The author has something to say:

Our honored Archdemon now has a name.

In English it is spelled Myss, derived from “Mystery”, which sounds similar to “Myth”. This can be seen as a blend of the two.

On reflection, these two may be the fastest meeting in history. By the end of chapter one they have already been in each other’s presence for more than three hundred years (though they never spoke).

---

<<< || Table of Contents || >>>

Author: 年终 / Nian Zhong

Translator: Kinky || https://kinkytranslations.com/

---

Chapter 1: Failed Unsealing

The human was about to die. The one who had sealed It here at the cost of himself had finally reached the end of his life.

This was the moment It had waited for more than three hundred years.

Eroded by Its power, the man’s limbs had twisted and deformed, his whole body was covered with pitch black sores. Age had gnawed his flesh away until only bone and thin skin were left.

Now even holding himself upright left him gasping for air as if he was on the verge of death. Yet those dark blue eyes were locked on It, his gaze steady, just as when they first met.

On the brink of death and still that hateful.

It turned Its gaze to the seal. As the caster neared death, the seal was collapsing. Three more heartbeats, and It would be free.

Three.

It counted down with delight.

Two.

The man’s body stirred, as if he had felt the chill of death.

One.

The instant stretched so long that It had time to let Its mind wander. At the thought that It would never again hear that person’s cries, It actually felt a trace of regret… only a tiny bit, yes.

Hm?

A crushing pressure suddenly washed over him. Something forced its way into Its body and went nosing around inside Its thoughts.

Instinctively It tried to grind it down with power, only to strike emptiness. The strange magic had no clear source and was tangled with Its own, leaving nowhere to strike.

Everything burst like foam. Excruciating pain and emptiness surged together and engulfed It in an instant.

It felt… cold.

It quickly realized It had been stuffed into a weak tube of flesh—in other words a human body.

A moment earlier It had been on the verge of freedom. In the blink of an eye Its power was gone, exchanged for an even more frightening prison. Its joy vanished, leaving only anger and grievance.

Why?

It forced Its eyes open, then discovered things could be worse. Someone was sitting on Its hips and squeezing Its throat hard.

It was that same human. It recognized him by his breath. That killing intent was as vigorous and familiar as ever. The man felt glued to It, impossible to pry off.

The strangling darkened Its vision. It tried to fight back with these human hands but left only shallow scratches.

Just as It was about to lose consciousness, the man’s body shuddered, and his strength inexplicably drained away.

In a fury, It flipped the man and clamped down on him with Its teeth. Kill him, It thought in a frenzy. As long as It killed this accursed human, this nightmare would surely end…

Yet the moment It bit into his throat, Its own body went limp and wouldn’t obey, no matter how It tried to exert strength.

The two bodies tangled together, and the fight became indescribable.

Once upon a time Its tentacles had met with this man’s longsword, and magic had crashed against magic. Wherever they went, dust and stones flew, and the shock waves blasted out terrible craters.

Now they were raking at each other with nails and teeth and fists that couldn’t keep a hold, rolling across the grimy floor and knocking the scattered junk into a clattering racket.

Two hours passed. To their distraught, they found that for some unknown reason they simply couldn’t kill each other.

Panting, they stopped. As their strength ebbed away, their fight had looked more and more like two puppies gnawing at each other, and neither of them had the heart to go on.

Once It calmed down, It was sure It had won by a hair. It was using that hateful human as a cushion, after all, instead of lying on the cold stone tiles.

Now It finally had the energy to sort out the situation.

From the memories of Its new shell, this body had once belonged to a slave.

The slave had been astonishingly dull, with only basic common sense and language in his head. He lived for nineteen years and yet never even had a name.

The first, and last, gift he ever received was a ritual dagger that pierced his heart—on the day after he was sold to a certain noble, he died upon an altar.

The fatal wound still lay open in Its chest, deep enough to show bone, showing no sign of healing.

It raised Its head and looked around the place where “It” had died.

It was an unusually cramped secret chamber lit by only a few pitiful candles. The flames flickered. In the shadows, the outlines of bones appeared from time to time, along with a magic array painted with fresh blood.

It sniffed the musty air and sneezed onto the man beneath It.

The human serving as a cushion squirmed twice and grumbled in protest.

Speaking of which, this guy was quite famous in the human world. Even captive slaves had heard of him.

People called him “Saint Salaar”, a great hero known in every household, whose greatest deed was sacrificing himself in mutual destruction to defeat the Chaos Archdemon.

Never mind that the name “Chaos Archdemon” was stupid. Mutual destruction? What a joke.

During the three hundred years of Its seal, Salaar had come every day to challenge It. He always stopped short and slipped away as soon as things turned dire. His shamelessness was unparallelled. Clearly, for Salaar, maintaining the seal was what mattered most.

The problem was that besides bodily challenges, Salaar was just as fond of mental torment. He would often come right up to It spouting nonsense, abrupt remarks, or little provocative songs he made up himself.

It was convinced that Salaar was far from the definition of a “hero” and much closer to the definition of “scourge”, at least closer than It was.

It could not help lowering Its head to study said “scourge”.

Salaar had changed skins too. He had become the young nobleman who had sacrificed the slave; apparently his name was “Karns”.

The young noble was thin like a dried corpse, with black hair so filthy it had clumped into cords. The skin under his eyes was blackish-blue, his jaw bristled with stubble, and his breath reeked of medicine.

The Salaar in Its memory had shining golden hair and a strong body—quite muscular before he aged—that bore no resemblance to this pile of sticks.

No, that wasn’t right. They had the same deep blue eyes.

Now It knew how to describe that blue; it was the color of lapis lazuli. Sadly, It still couldn’t read the emotions in them. Obsession, fervor, or hatred, these emotions were too similar.

He only knew that in the shadows those eyes seemed to burn.

…Fine, let them burn. Now It had hands. It shifted an arm and clapped a palm over the human’s eyes. Out of sight, out of mind.

“Sa-laar.”

It worked Its tongue with difficulty and squeezed out the first word It ever spoken.

Salaar’s body went rigid all at once.

……

“Salaar, Salaar again.”

Old Aiken let out a tremendous boozy belch.

A few steps away, a bard sang with gusto, nothing but stale lines about “Saint Salaar”.

Since the birth of the world, the Night Scourge had followed like a shadow.

According to legends, the Night Scourge was a curse from the Chaos Archdemon. At intervals, the world would plunge into darkness. In those long nights with no moonlight, the human realm knew only bitter cold and desolation.

More than three hundred years ago, Saint Salaar perished together with the Archdemon, and the Night Scourge ended.

Compassionate and pure Saint Salaar, the very embodiment of human virtue, that sort of nonsense had callused his ears since childhood. Only children like such frivolous tales.

The Night Scourge was three centuries in the past. Whether the Chaos Archdemon even existed was doubtful. Those ballads sounded like lullabies for little kids.

Old Aiken belched again. The lady beside him glanced over and edged farther away.

The old man did not care. He wasn’t there to be liked.

Weekend gatherings were a Ring Town tradition. The only reason he showed up was to prove that his master, Lord Karns, hadn’t run off.

It was their fourth year since moving to Ring Town, and they had become the least liked people in town. This wasn’t some kind of xenophobia; it was simply because Lord Karns was a lunatic.

Lord Karns had inherited the lapis blue eyes that symbolized the family. As a child he was rather likable. Sadly, he suffered from an extremely rare disability. He had been born unable to use magic.

The Karns family had rank and power, so supporting him for life wouldn’t have been a problem. But the young lord lost his senses and insisted on playing with magic, trying every kind of bizarre method.

In the end, the young lord resorted to human sacrifice.

Unable to tolerate this, the Karns family banished him into this godforsaken Ring Town, to live his life in obscurity and hardship. Poor Old Aiken was bundled along as the butler. He had to count coins to get by and could only drink the cheapest wine.

Old Aiken patted his money pouch and let his gaze drift to an elderly couple. Their picnic basket held a full bottle of table wine, fennel sausages, and fresh baked white bread.

Ever since the Karns cut the household allowance, their meals were much worse than that.

Yet the young lord didn’t stop. He ordered Old Aiken to purchase slaves on a regular schedule, to use in his research on human sacrifice.

Live offerings had to be young and beautiful virgins, and they were expensive whether male or female. To save money, they cut all social expenses. The townsfolk never saw the young lord. They only knew that slaves kept streaming into the manor and never came out again.

Rumors spread like the wind. Some said the outsider was a lecherous fiend who spared neither men nor women and had sadistic taste. Some said he was a monster wearing human skin who bathed in the blood of the young.

Whenever he heard those tales, Old Aiken felt a vicious satisfaction.

The Karns claimed to be descendants of Saint Salaar and took pride in their lapis blue eyes. These bumpkins always praised Salaar, never knowing how brutal Salaar’s descendants were.

Dusk was falling. Old Aiken had had his fill of free wine and had also filched jam tarts and several sausages. The young lord should be finished by now, he thought lazily.

Come to that, the newly bought slave was truly beautiful. Even back in the royal capital he had never seen such a beauty…

The slave had long hair the color of ash, and eyes redder than garnet. His features blended delicacy and softness with great skill. The outer corners of his eyes slanted slightly down, making him look tame and innocent, like a lamb upon the altar.

“Pity the child is slow witted and lame in one leg.”

After taking the money, the slave trader had said this with regret. “If not for so many flaws, I could have sold him into the palace.”

Calling the slave “slow witted” was putting it mildly; Old Aiken preferred to use the term “stupid”.

The slave’s manner was timid, his reactions frighteningly slow, and the deformity of his right leg was quite alarming. Furthermore, he was already nineteen years old. His frame and his voice were no longer delicate, and noble lords didn’t like features that were too obviously male.

As a noble’s plaything, those faults were fatal. As a live sacrifice, they were trivial. That face alone was worth a sack of gold.

…By the time he counted it out, the slave’s blood was probably cold already.

What a waste.

Old Aiken staggered home to the manor, dumped the cooled sausages and tarts onto a silver platter, and carried it along. The platter was greasy and still sticky with lunch scraps, but the young lord never cared about details.

“Supper, Lord Karns.”

Old Aiken rapped hard on the young lord’s bedroom door, making sure the sound would carry even into the secret chamber.

Then he set the tray at the threshold and prepared to leave. He had quietly kept the best sausages back and was eager to cook himself a pot of creamy stew.

Before he could turn away, the door creaked open.

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The author has something to say:

A brand-new Western fantasy story begins

Some long-winded notes for use:

★ The two leads have returned to a “noob village”. They do not begin at the power ceiling and there will be some level up elements.

★ Please help with catching typos. During serialization, as long as I see them, I will send a red envelope to the bug catcher.

★ This share the same universe with my previous two Western fantasy books, but the world is completely different. Not having read them will not matter at all.

★ Important, please do not post remarks about breaking up or reversing the CP. I have lock the key and welded it into my stomach.

Happy reading~

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Kinky Thoughts:

I have been waiting for this novel to start serialization since it was announced. When it comes to western fantasy, Nian Zhong can do no wrong. What’s even better, it’s an enemies-to-lover trope which I have been obsessed over.

According to the author’s note, this novel shares the same universe as Stray and Full Server First Kill. Both have been fully translated by me. I highly recommend you read them if you haven’t already, with Stray being first as it’s the first book (and the first novel Nian Zhong had written), and also, in my opinion, is her best novel to date.

You can also check out Nian Zhong’s other works that I have worked on as well: Happy Doomsday, Access Denied, Sendoff, Evil As Humans, Help.

Just a note, Nian Zhong tends to put spoiler information in her author notes. To prevent such things, I elect to omit some of them since I believe it will make the reading experience much better. You can view the full author’s note by going to the raws.

Happy reading.

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