Chapter 78: Even Amid Shaking and Confusion (1)
The Royal Capital of the Re-Estize Kingdom had once fallen into chaos.
The horde of demons that assaulted the capital, the Eight Fingers who summoned them, and the emergence of the Archdemon Jaldabaoth—a being whose power far surpassed the realm of heroes—shook not only the kingdom but the entire world.
A threat greater even than the Evil Deities of the Evil Deities War two hundred years ago had appeared. With the arrival of such an enemy of the world, all could do nothing but despair.
But the gods were not merciless. When the Archdemon Jaldabaoth appeared, so too did a hero who could stand against him.
The Dark Hero, Momon.
A warrior clad in jet-black armor, wielding twin greatswords, with a crimson cape fluttering behind him—an invincible and undefeated champion.
Only months earlier, he had appeared in E-Rantel with his partner, the mysterious Beauty, Nabe. Registering as adventurers with no known past or origin, in just a short span he had risen from the lowest rank of Copper Plate to the legendary rank of Adamantite Plate, accomplishing countless quests.
His might and abilities seemed limitless, and in the end, he even drove away the Archdemon Jaldabaoth, who had threatened the kingdom. Though he could not destroy the fiend outright, to repel him alone was an achievement beyond measure.
Neither the soldiers defending the capital, the King's personal warrior division, the Adamantite-ranked adventurer team Blue Roses, nor even the mighty house of Dragon's Dream, guardians of the capital, had been able to withstand Jaldabaoth.
That was how great Momon's deed was. His renown soared ever higher, while the fame of Dragon's Dream plummeted. For even in the turmoil of the capital, the man who had been called the strongest in the world—the sixth head of the great house, Monkyspanner El Dragondream—had fallen, a fact the entire world knew.
Though no body remained to bury, his funeral was held, with only his cherished weapon, Clumsiness Slayer—mockingly tossed back by Jaldabaoth—laid in his coffin.
With the patriarch gone, the family, which had endured for one hundred and fifty years, could not remain unshaken. Its central pillar destroyed, its main forces scattered, Dragon's Dream inevitably faltered.
And in that moment, the two heroes of Darkness, along with their followers, entered Dragon's Dream. Though opposition was great, many argued that absorbing them was the only way to preserve the house's honor. Thus, Darkness became part of Dragon's Dream.
And then—
"…Haa…"
Rot set down his pen, exhaling deeply. His forehead wrinkled with fatigue as he pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose, weariness etched across his young face.
He was too young to already bear wrinkles, but recent days had brought him no rest. Since the death of the patriarch, all the matters of the house had fallen upon him. The late lord had entrusted him with the authority to summon and lead the party before his passing.
Handling everything alone was breaking his back, even with his hardy body and stamina. And worse, the comrades who should have borne the burden alongside him—the senior members of the party—were absent.
Yet that too was his own doing. He had been the one to prevent their return.
"…What a headache…"
His hand trembled as he rubbed his face.
A month had passed since the lord's death, and in that time, Dragon's Dream had changed greatly.
First came confusion. The house had been held together not just by its century and a half of history, but by the transcendent might and charisma of its patriarch. With his passing, all reverence collapsed. Already, several subordinate parties had demanded independence. Rot barely managed to hold them back, but the unity of the house scattered like flour spilling from a sack.
He was no Monkyspanner. Nor was he a Dean. Though he had knowledge and ability, he lacked the force and charisma to unite them all. At this rate, the house might splinter completely.
So, in desperation, he accepted Darkness into the family. When the famed warrior of Darkness humbly requested entry, Rot—parched for stability—accepted, like a dying man seizing sweet water.
But that choice would prove fatal poison. A mistake he could not have foreseen.
"…What are you writing?"
"…! It's you."
At the sudden voice, Rot snapped his eyes open, hand instinctively going to the hilt at his waist. But recognizing the speaker, he slowly withdrew it.
There had been no sound, no sign, no presence—yet a man now stood in the room. Dressed neatly in black, glasses glinting upon his long, sharp face, he bore an unreadable smile.
One of the followers who had come with the Dark Hero, Momon, when he joined the house.
At first, Rot thought little of him. But at some point, this man had risen to prominence, suddenly holding influence over all matters of the house, as though he grasped everything in his hands.
"…What is it this time, Lord Demiurge?"
"It's nothing serious. Lord Momon has been rather concerned about you, so I came to check on your well-being."
"There's no need for concern. I am… quite healthy."
"You say that, yet you look rather worn down… Hmm."
The man stepped closer, drawing something from his breast pocket. A small vial of violet liquid, which he placed upon the desk, his smile unchanged.
"…What is this?"
"A newly developed restorative potion. Please, drink it. Though, of course, I won't force you."
"…My thanks for your consideration. I'll drink it if I need it."
He bowed his head slightly, lowering his gaze from the vial. A recovery tonic—it seemed a harmless enough claim. Surely this man wouldn't bother with petty tricks.
And yet, the sweat dripping down his body was unstoppable. In this man's presence, his body betrayed him—sweat poured as if it could not be hidden. Tension, fear, unease, dread—all surged beyond control, refusing to be suppressed.
Demiurge circled behind the desk, standing behind him. Rot felt the weight of eyes on his back, scanning the papers he had been writing. A quiet chuckle followed.
"Fufu… I see. A report on the house's status. As expected, you are quite capable."
"…Thank you."
"That will do. You are doing well enough. I'll be counting on you to continue."
And then the man's presence vanished. The door had not opened, nor had the window. No sound, no trace. But Rot knew—he was gone.
Only then did Rot finally exhale a shuddering breath. Cold sweat drenched him, soaking his clothes until they clung unpleasantly to his skin. Yet he had no will to wash, slumping back into his chair as if all strength had been drained.
It had been one month since Lord Monkyspanner's death.
Two weeks since Momon of Darkness entered the house.
Much had changed since then. No—everything had changed. The house, the capital, the Re-Estize Kingdom itself. Outwardly, nothing seemed so different, yet the truth was otherwise. And only a handful, like Rot himself, sensed it.
But no one spoke of it. And even if they did, it would never be heard. Look at himself—reduced to this state.
A faint groan escaped his lips. His mind and heart were drowned in fear, vigilance, mistrust, all manner of negative emotions. Yet beneath them, another current stirred—one wholly opposite.
Joy. Ecstasy. Delight. Submission. Yearning.
Simply by hearing their words, obeying, and following them, his mind squeezed forth feelings of elation. He knew this was unnatural. And yet, he could not resist. If anything, perhaps only he recognized the dissonance at all. Others did not.
Everyone's minds had changed. Those who once mourned the patriarch, raged at his death, or held their own schemes—one by one, they had begun to praise the Dark Hero Momon, to follow him, to be swayed by him.
Only Rot retained even a fragment of awareness of the gap between his former self and his present one.
And that awareness made it all the more terrifying. His body trembled, paralyzed with fear. Still, with shaking hands, he tried to organize his papers. At last, on the corner of his desk, he scrawled a single phrase:
"They are demons."
He carved those words desperately, to preserve his current will. So that even if he were forced into submission, he would not forget that he resisted. Trembling, teeth clenched until his gums bled, Rot clung to that tiny act of defiance.
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