Am I just nervous? Belric wondered. Sure, he was dying—nerves were expected. But this felt like more than that.
He took a few deep breaths, steadied himself, and asked,
"Is dying anything like a woman's first time?"
Caitlyn nodded solemnly.
"Of course. It's a first, it hurts, and it's never really voluntary. So many similarities."
"Let's not go there. Yours wasn't voluntary?"
"Not at all. I wanted to save it for my husband."
"Did it hurt?"
"Of course. Oh, you're not a woman—you wouldn't understand that kind of pain."
Belric waved weakly to interrupt.
"No, I meant—does dying hurt?"
"Probably. I was strangled. Right here." She pointed to her neck. "The suffocation is strange. First it's unbearable, then oddly euphoric. You only get one shot at it, so savor the experience."
Belric groaned. Gods, I must be losing it. Why does that actually sound useful?
"Feeling down? Let me cheer you up. After death, you'll never worry about your weight again. You'll be thinner than any runway model. And your hair? Gone. All of it."
Why do I have to endure this walking corpse before I die? Maybe not just before—maybe even after. The thought made Belric mutter:
"I don't want to die. Not yet. Is there any way out?"
Caitlyn shrugged.
"Who wants to die? But no—there's no way."
"Can't I hire a healer? Or an alchemist?"
"You couldn't afford one even if you sold everything you own. And this isn't a common illness. No one would treat you. Even if they could, they wouldn't."
"Is the plague that strong?"
"Seems like someone tampered with it. Yours is ten times stronger than the usual strain. You could wipe out an empire just by coughing in a crowd." She gave him a scornful look. "It's just death. Don't be so dramatic."
Belric sighed deeply. He couldn't bear her voice anymore.
"Leave me alone. Let me die in peace."
"Sorry, I'm paid to stay. Unless…"
"Unless what?"
"Unless you want to die alone. If I leave now, I won't come back. Tomorrow's the Day of Ten Thousand Deaths—we're throwing a massive parade. Skeletons, ghosts, even some handsome vampires. If I stay here, I'll miss it. But if solitude's what you want, I'll grant it. Just promise not to snitch on me after you die."
"Isn't the saying 'only the dead keep secrets'?"
"That was before necromancy. Now it's a joke. So, can I trust you not to rat me out?"
"Fine. I won't tell anyone. And yes, I want to die alone. Also, good luck seducing a vampire." With that shriveled chest? Or the maggots in your eyes?
Caitlyn stood frozen, staring at him. After a long pause, she said:
"You're so cold to me. Like winter itself. My heart was already frozen, but you've shattered it."
Belric said nothing. What could he say? If those words came from a beautiful young maiden, they might've been touching. But Caitlyn was a corpse. A dried-up husk.
She sighed.
"I get it. You're just like the others—only care about appearances. I thought you were different. I'll take my broken heart and enjoy the parade. You'll get what you want: a lonely death."
And with that, she left.
Belric was alone.
I don't want to die.
He lay weakly on the bed, memories flooding in. He missed his father. His mother. The one from Earth, and the one from this world. He missed the internet. He missed women in jeans.
I don't want to die.
Life's just a joke? Bullshit. Only fools believe the cult's nonsense.
But death was coming. Inevitable. Belric had no choice but to accept it. So he began organizing his belongings—just in case they'd be useful after death.
Maybe dying wasn't so bad. Maybe becoming a lich would be cool.
He picked up the core he'd taken from Demon Bird. If only this were the Soulstone holding my father's soul…
He missed his father. The one from this world.
Before his fall, his father had been a kind priest. But after his wife died, he lost his mind.
Or maybe he didn't. Maybe he just wanted revenge—on the world that took her.
Belric remembered his father's gentle smile. His mother's golden hair.
Then came the coughing. Violent. Blood gushed from his mouth, soaking his clothes.
He tried to move the black-bound book off his lap, but the coughing pinned him down.
Blood splattered across the book's cover. And something strange happened.
The blood didn't soak into the leather. Instead, the demonic face embossed on the cover opened its mouth—and drank.
It drank greedily, as if a starving demon were feasting.
The more it drank, the redder the cover became. Until the black leather turned crimson. Three black words remained:
The Demon Book
Belric, blood dripping from his lips, watched the transformation.
He opened the book. The dark magic inside had vanished. Every page was blank.
What the hell? Did I break it?
Then, words appeared on the empty page:
I can answer any question you have about demons.
Belric's eyes widened. It can read my thoughts? Is this a demon encyclopedia? Or a search engine?
He tested it. What's this core in my hand?
A colorful diagram appeared, followed by detailed text:
Demon Core The central essence of a high-ranking demon or devil. Contains the majority of its power. Can be used as a magical reagent. Can be consumed by mortals. Consumption results in demonic corruption—partial or full transformation. Extremely dangerous.
Belric laughed.
Maybe life really is a joke. I'm dying anyway—what do I have to lose? Die twice?
He popped the core into his mouth and swallowed.
It was like swallowing fire.
Flames scorched his throat, poured into his stomach, and exploded. His blood boiled. His heart, once feeble, now pounded like a war drum. Even his breath felt hot.
Belric thought he might explode.
Power surged through him. His skull throbbed. His back felt like it was being torn open. Dark, cruel thoughts flooded his mind.
The evil was pure. It came from the core—and from within.
Demonic power is dangerous—not just physically, but mentally. Most bodies can't withstand it. But the real threat is spiritual. Evil corrupts. If your mind breaks, you'll become something else. Something that acts on instinct alone. Pure malevolence.
Pain gnawed at every inch of Belric's skin. Blood seeped from his pores. He regretted everything. Maybe dying of disease would've been easier.
Every second felt like a year. He wanted it to end.
Then, deep within his soul, a voice stirred.
Belric knew who it was.
"Hey, looks like you bit off more than you can chew. Need help?" Mars spoke inside his mind.
Like a dam breaking, the power—and its darkness—rushed into Belric's soul.
Mars absorbed it.
To him, evil was nourishment.
"Much better now," Mars said.
But Belric's torment wasn't over. Though the danger had passed, the corruption had left its mark.
Blood sprayed from his pores, forming threads. In the center of the shack, they wove together into a massive cocoon—pulsing like a heart.
This was how demons and devils evolved.
Belric was evolving.
Waiting to emerge.
※※※
Mark City had no sun or moon, but it still had day and night.
In its sky floated a cold light. It dimmed slowly, then rose again when darkness peaked.
At night, if you looked up, you wouldn't see stars—but you'd see thousands of lights. Like constellations.
It was in this deep night that the blood cocoon unraveled. The threads dissolved, flowing back into Belric's body.
He stood up with a loud thump.
He'd punched a hole in the roof.
The shack was small, but still—he shouldn't have hit it. Then he realized: he had a new horn. A spiraled one, curving backward like a knight's crest.
The pain in his back was gone. But something new was there.
He tried to move it.
Whoosh—giant black wings unfurled behind him. Bat-like. Bony. Sharp.
His skin was pale and smooth. His nails had grown long and sharp—like daggers.
His whole body radiated power.
Belric plunged his hand into the ironwood table beside him. The ancient slab—centuries old and untouched by wear—crumbled like rotten bark. It felt like punching through tofu.
Clearly, these weren't just long nails.
He flexed his wings. A rush of air lifted around him. He could almost take flight. I'll need to learn how to fly soon.
And this body—this new form—surely held more secrets. Hidden abilities waiting to be discovered.
Belric nearly laughed.
Not dead. And with a few… upgrades.
The only downside?
He had a tail now.
"Not bad. I feel alive again," Mars said.
"Same here. Escaping death feels amazing." Belric inhaled deeply. The air in Mark City was still foul, but he didn't care. His tail twitched with excitement.
"I think it's time I taught you a few things," Mars continued. "Can't have you dying again. You're the last Earthborn, after all. Last time I burned too much power at once—nearly passed out. This time's different."
"Perfect. But first, I need to leave. If the Ten Thousand Dead find out I survived, they might act."
"So what? Just blast that black-robed bastard's head off."
"Wouldn't work. I suspect he's just a projection. A 'plane-casting' spell. He's probably not even in this realm. His power is absurd. And he's lived far too long. The leader of the cult… he might be a lich."
"So? What's a lich?" Mars asked, unimpressed.
"…"
Belric didn't bother explaining.
He gathered his belongings and headed for the Lower District. By the time he arrived, night had deepened.
The Lower District was a ruin—flattened by divine wrath. Legend said a god once challenged the Pain Lady's authority here. She responded… decisively. Their battle leveled the entire quarter.
Now, it was considered cursed. Only one group dared build here: the Temple of the Broken God, headquarters of the "Divinity-Not-Divine" cult. Aside from them, no one came willingly.
On the other side of the district stood the Grand Foundry—a sprawl of warehouses and towering smokestacks. Nearly every iron item in Mark City came from there, from nails to chains.
Belric's destination lay between the two: a tavern called The Styx Oarsman.
The owners were two elderly abyssal demons who shared one bloated body. When Belric entered, they were busy playing rock-paper-scissors—left hand versus right—over the last mug of dwarven malt.
"Welcome! What'll it be?" A waitress greeted him. She had feline eyes, delicate wings folded across her smooth back—one tied with a blue ribbon. Her figure was explosive: bouncing curves with every step. She also had goat hooves and horns.
She was a succubus.
The tavern owners finally settled their game. One hand won, and the last mug was downed in a single gulp.
"Oh, sorry! No more dwarven malt. But we've got human-brewed ale. Not as rich, but still good."
"I'll take a pint."
Belric dropped onto a barstool. But the succubus didn't leave. She ran a finger along his folded wings, leaned close, and whispered:
"Handsome… those wings are gorgeous. Want something a little more exciting?"
"Like what?"
"We've got Painwater, Lonely Lover, and Devil's Grass. Tempted?"
"Those are drugs," Belric said, frowning.
"Of course. What did you think they were?"
"No thanks. Just the beer. Also… I'm looking for someone. 'Threefold Everything.' Can you introduce me?"
He slipped her a silver coin.
Demons and devils hated silver. Holding it felt like being pricked by needles. That's why they called silver coins "venom fangs."
"Ouch. That stings. But I like it. You naughty thing." She ran her hand down Belric's tail, tracing it to his backside.
"Got plans tomorrow morning? That tail's delicious."
Belric slid an arm around her waist, letting his hand drift lower.
"Then tell me—where's 'Threefold Everything'?"
"See that table over there? Between the dawn angel and the devil? The old man with the big nose? That's him. If you want answers, bring three related items. He won't talk otherwise." She handed him his beer. "Someone's calling me. See you in the morning, handsome."
She swayed away.
"Morning it is. Hey—what's your name?"