Maxwell stirred awake, his head pounding and the bitter taste of last night's excess lingering in his mouth. Fay's voice called out to him, cutting through the haze. Slowly, he opened his eyes, greeted by a blurred vision of her face framed against the dim light of the bar. She was standing over him, her expression caught between concern and frustration.
"I hope you drank all your sorrows away because we're about to be late," Fay said, her tone sharp and scolding.
Groaning, Maxwell pushed himself up from the ground, the sticky scent of spilled beer clinging to his clothes. The fragments of the previous night began to surface in his mind—a mysterious man, a cryptic conversation—but he brushed the memory aside. Probably just another illusion born from too much whiskey, he thought bitterly.
The two stepped out of the bar into the crisp morning air. As they walked, Fay reached out, her fingers catching the edge of Maxwell's robe. The subtle tug brought him to a halt.
"You know," she said softly, her voice losing its usual edge, "we don't have to go. We could leave... find another group, another purpose."
Maxwell turned to face her, his eyes heavy with exhaustion and something deeper—resignation. "We don't abandon family," he replied firmly.
"Family?" Fay shot back, her voice rising with incredulity. "They're not your family, Maxwell. You have a family. Your parents... do you even remember them?"
He sighed, the weight of her words pressing against his chest. "I love my parents, Fay, but they can't understand me like the party does. We're the same—all of us. We share the same pain. We're... outcasts."
Fay's lips tightened, her frustration giving way to anguish. "You think they understand you? Is that why Arthur beats you half to death every other day? Or why Hana won't even look at you because—"
"Because I'm weak?" Maxwell cut her off, his voice sharper than she'd ever heard it. He let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and self-loathing. "But that's the truth, Fay. I am weak. This is all I can do. I'm just the side character. It's my job to make sure Arthur defeats the Demon King."
Fay froze, her heart aching as she watched the flicker of hope fade from his eyes. His words hung in the air, a stark reminder of the burden he carried. She wanted to argue, to shake him free from the cage he'd built around himself. But her voice faltered.
"And who decides who the protagonist is?" she murmured, the words slipping out almost unintentionally.
Maxwell heard her, and for a moment, something flickered in his gaze—curiosity, maybe defiance—but it was gone as quickly as it came. He shrugged and started walking again.
"Whoever it is," he said over his shoulder, his tone flat, "it sure as hell isn't me."
After regrouping with their party, Maxwell and Fay followed Arthur and Hana out of the city, heading toward the mountains where the dungeon awaited.
Maxwell glanced at Fay, guilt prickling at him. Despite her efforts to cheer him up earlier, she still seemed burdened by the weight of his despair. Hoping to lighten the mood, he decided to spark some small talk.
"Well, on the bright side," he said with a wide grin, "thanks to the eyes of yours, at least I know I can't die now, right?"
Fay raised an eyebrow but smirked. "My eyes show lifespans, not your exact time of death," she replied, chuckling softly.
Their laughter mingled with the rustling of leaves, a brief reprieve from the tension that had settled over the group. But the moment shattered as Arthur and Hana suddenly stopped in their tracks, their eyes sharp and alert.
"Multiple footsteps," Arthur muttered, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade.
Out of the shadows emerged a troop of soldiers—fifty strong, clad in gleaming silver armour, their eyes glowing a malevolent red. The uniformity of their appearance and the sinister aura they exuded left no doubt: these were soldiers of the demon clan.
"What are demon soldiers doing this far from their territory?" Hana asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.
Arthur's lips curled into a wicked grin. "Demon clan soldiers, huh? They're stronger than the dungeon monsters. Killing them should give me a solid boost."
Before anyone could respond, Arthur vanished, appearing in the midst of the demon soldiers. His movements were a blur as he tore into the nearest soldier with his bare hands. "Come on, give me a real fight!" he taunted, blood splattering his armour.
Hana joined the fray, her attacks precise and brutal, leaving chaos in her wake. But as the battle raged, one soldier broke free from the carnage, charging straight at Maxwell.
The soldier's crimson eyes locked onto him, the glint of its blade promising death. Maxwell's pulse quickened as he raised his staff, conjuring a fireball that streaked toward the advancing enemy. The spell struck the soldier squarely, but it merely slowed for a moment before barrelling through the flames, unscathed.
Maxwell's breath hitched as the demon soldier closed in, but before it could strike, a flash of light sliced through the air. Fay stood beside him, her laser gloves glowing fiercely as the soldier collapsed in two halves.
"You'll need more than basic fireballs to take these things down," she said, her tone teasing but firm.
Maxwell nodded, swallowing hard. "Noted."
Meanwhile, Arthur and Hana finished the last of the soldiers, their expressions unreadable as they surveyed the aftermath.
"They didn't even put up a fight," Arthur muttered, spitting on the nearest corpse.
"It's strange, though," Fay said, her gaze scanning the bodies strewn across the ground. "Why are demon clan soldiers here of all places?"
Before she could voice another thought, an oppressive force washed over the group. The air grew thick, pressing down on them like an invisible weight. Maxwell gasped, falling to his knees as his vision blurred. His chest felt like it might collapse under the strain.
The oppressive force suffocating the group was unmistakable—a massive surge of mana radiating from deep within the blizzard. Through the swirling snow, a dark silhouette approached, its movements deliberate and calm. The figure came into view, a man clad entirely in black, his crimson cape billowing behind him.
On his chest was an insignia engraved with the number "10," glowing faintly against his dark armour. His eyes burned like crimson moons, their piercing light a testament to his demonic nature.
Arthur, normally cocky and fearless, froze under the stranger's overwhelming presence. His voice faltered as he spoke. "Y-you there… just who the heck are you?"
The man turned his gaze toward Arthur, a polite smile curling on his lips. "Ah, where are my manners? I am Lord Tadesse, the 10th Demon Lord."
The weight of his words sank deep into the group's hearts. This was an encounter they surely would not survive.