If there is one thing more dangerous than the wrath of a dark overlord, it is a Demon King who is head-over-heels in love but possesses the social skills of a garden rock.
Zerad Arthropoda—or Zer, as he preferred—was currently marching beside Beatrice with a body so stiff it looked as though a high-level wizard had cursed his joints into solid oak. Every stride was perfectly symmetrical and brimming with misplaced majesty, as if he were leading a legion of death knights to the gates of doom, when in reality, his only destination was a toast stall at the edge of the market.
Zer stole a glance at Beatrice from the corner of his eye. She was walking with a face so expressionless it was as if she were watching a snail attempt ballet. No smiles, no sparkles of admiration; only a blank stare that made Zer feel more intimidated than if he were facing ten dragons at once.
"Zer," Beatrice said, her voice as cold as mountain ice. "Why are you walking like you're squeezing dragon eggs in your armpits?"
Zer flinched. His brain's automated defense system scrambled for a logical excuse. He came to a dead halt, struck an exaggeratedly upright pose, and spun 180 degrees before answering. "This is... a breathing technique through footwork," Zer replied, his face as flat as a tombstone. "In my homeland, walking too casually is seen as an open invitation for evil spirits to possess one's heels. I am merely guarding the sanctity of my heels."
Beatrice stared at him for five seconds without blinking. Her expression shifted into something bizarre, like she'd just seen someone try to eat soup with a fork. "You... really are a troubled individual," she muttered flatly. "Hurry up. I'm hungry."
Zer nodded rapidly—so fast a *crack* echoed from his neck. He tried to match her pace, but fearing he might violate his self-invented "heel ethics," he began to walk with tiny little hops while still trying to look gallant.
"What are you doing now?" Beatrice asked without looking back.
"Avoiding negative energy from the pavement," Zer replied, breaking into a cold sweat.
They arrived at the "Sunside Toast" stall. The place was packed, but the atmosphere turned abruptly silent when Zer entered with a dark aura he was suppressing so hard he looked like he'd been holding in a bowel movement for three days.
"Sit there," Beatrice commanded, pointing to a wooden chair that looked very tired of living.
Zer sat. But he didn't *just* sit. He performed a "tactical landing" that made the chair groan hysterically. He slammed both hands onto the table like a general ready to declare a world war, even though the only thing in front of him was a nearly empty bottle of honey sauce.
Beatrice leaned her chin on her hand, her strange expression deepening. "So, Zer... what exactly is your job? You look like someone ready to demolish this building just because the chair is uncomfortable."
Zer swallowed hard. "I am... an Asset Manager."
"A financial manager?"
"More like... ensuring that every individual is where they belong and pays their taxes... forever. In the underworld," Zer replied with an entirely inappropriate, threatening tone.
Beatrice just blinked. "So you're a debt collector. No wonder you smell like a graveyard."
The toast arrived. The aroma was heavenly, but Zer didn't dive in immediately. He produced a small fork from his cloak, featuring a skull engraving at the tip. He sliced the bread with surgical precision, as if the world would explode if he missed by a single millimeter.
As he took the first bite, an explosion of honey-sweetness hit his tongue. Zer's eyes widened. He began to chew with such dramatic jaw movements it looked like he was performing a bread-sacrifice ritual.
"Why are you eating like that? You look like you're interrogating the toast for a confession," Beatrice remarked flatly.
Zer stopped chewing, his cheeks puffed full of bread. He noticed a smudge of honey on the corner of Beatrice's lip. His "perfectionist overlord" instinct flared. He stood up abruptly, making the table rattle.
"Beatrice, there is... a logistics distribution failure of honey on your facial region. Coordinates 0-2 on the right lip. Dangerous," Zer declared with absolute gravity.
Beatrice stared back, her face a total void. "There's honey on my lip?"
"Yes. It is severely disrupting the aesthetic balance." Zer snatched a napkin with the motion of a ninja drawing a shuriken, then thrust it toward Beatrice, his hand trembling with nerves.
Beatrice took the napkin with a truly bewildered look. "You... you are the most magical creature I've ever met, Zer. And that is not a compliment."
The peace was shattered when the door swung open violently. Three immigration officers from the Holy Temple marched in. Beatrice tensed, though she kept her face neutral. "Bad timing, Zer. Don't act weird. They hate foreigners."
The officers reached their table. "Identification."
Beatrice showed her badge. The officer turned to Zer, who was sitting so perfectly upright his back formed a 90-degree angle. "And you? Why do you have no mana? Are you a rock?"
Zer stared at the officer. He felt he had to look "normal." Thus, Zer began what he believed was "acting like a regular human." He started whistling a terribly off-key tune, then pretended to be deeply preoccupied with inspecting his fingernails as if they were the most fascinating things in the universe.
"I... am but a... corn farmer," Zer said in a forced, raspy voice.
The officer frowned. "A corn farmer? Your hands are too soft for that. And why are you whistling an ancient funeral march?"
"It's... a pest-repellant song," Zer replied, then began to perform a "seed-planting" motion on the table with his bare hands. "Look, I am planting. Very normal. Very farmer-like."
Beatrice closed her eyes, looking like she wanted to vanish from the face of the earth. "He's... he's a bit unhinged from spending too much time sunbathing in the fields," she cut in with a flat, desperate tone.
The officer pulled out a detection crystal. "Place your hand here."
Zer obeyed. He suppressed his mana with everything he had. He imagined himself as a blank sheet of paper with no future. The crystal remained clear. It even looked a bit sad, having found absolutely nothing inside Zer's body.
"Completely empty. Just a talentless, weird human," the officer grumbled before walking away.
Beatrice stared at Zer, who was still "planting imaginary corn" on the table. "Stop planting corn, Zer. They're gone."
Zer instantly snapped back into his death-knight posture. "Success. High-level infiltration strategy."
"That was incredibly embarrassing," Beatrice replied coldly.
The true disaster began when the bill arrived. Five silver coins. Beatrice checked her pockets, her flat expression twitching. "My wallet... it's gone."
Zer stood up, his cloak billowing despite the lack of wind. "Fret not, Beatrice. The Asset Manager shall handle this minor complication."
Zer reached into his pocket and pulled out a gold coin the size of a dinner plate. The engraving was a demon's face screaming in agony, with eyes that could glow red in the dark.
The waiter saw the coin and dropped his tray. "AAAH! A CURSED COIN! HE'S A DARK WORSHIPPER!"
Zer was shocked. "Wait! This is the highest quality gold! Look, the demon's face was carved with love!"
"WE DON'T WANT BLOOD GOLD!" the owner screamed, brandishing a rolling pin.
A crowd began to surround Zer. Panicking, Zer tried to strike a "Lazy Praying Mantis" martial arts pose to intimidate them, which instead made it look like he was suffering from severe muscle cramps.
Beatrice looked at the mob, then at Zer, who was posing awkwardly with a cursed coin in his hand. Her expression transcended the word "strange"—she looked like she was regretting every life choice she'd made since sunrise.
"Zer," Beatrice called out flatly.
"Yes, Beatrice?"
"Run."
"Huh?"
Beatrice didn't wait. She grabbed the leftover bread, seized Zer's collar (not his hand), and dragged the Demon King out of the shop. "Run, or I'll leave you here to be turned into a museum exhibit!"
Zer, the invincible ruler of darkness, was now sprinting for his life with a ridiculous gait—knees lifted way too high as he still tried to maintain his "heel ethics" to avoid the road's evil spirits.
"WAIT! I DIDN'T GET MY COIN BACK!" Zer yelled in panic.
"FORGET THE CREEPY COIN!" Beatrice shouted back without turning, her face still flat even as they were chased by a mob with brooms and pitchforks.
They hid in a dark, narrow alley. Zer panted, trying to fix his messy hair with a "cool" gesture, only to get his hand caught in his own cloak.
Beatrice stood before him, giving Zer the weirdest look he'd ever received in his immortal life. "You... you are a walking disaster, Zer."
Zer tried to smile, but it looked like he was nursing a toothache. "At least... we didn't pay any silver, right? Significant asset savings."
Beatrice just stayed silent. She stared at Zer for a full minute. "Tomorrow, meet me at the city library. I'll find you a job. And please, for the love of any god... don't bring any talking coins or act like a corn farmer again."
"Fine," Zer replied dejectedly. "But... can I still walk like a Southern Wanderer?"
Beatrice didn't answer. She turned and walked away, leaving Zer standing there with one foot raised—still protecting his heel.
From the shadows, a black cat with red eyes emerged. "My Lord... our dignity... it has crumbled along with that toast," General Malphas muttered mournfully.
Zer just stared at the direction Beatrice had gone. "Silence, Malphas. She called me 'magical.' That means she's interested."
"That means she wants you to vanish from her sight, my Lord," Malphas whispered, but Zer was already busy thinking about how to propose to Beatrice with an even bigger gold coin tomorrow.