To You, From Me.
I scorn the many and cherish the few, idly counting the time that refuses to wait for me.
I live by counting falling grains of sand. I pass my days watching flowing water.
—To you, from me.
This meaningless monologue is my very first memory.
And even now, I still don't understand.
I don't know what this poem means, what it's trying to say.
I sit upon the throne.
Or rather, upon the lap of the Demon King who sits upon the throne.
His arms wrap around my waist, erasing even the faintest pretense of distance that remained until just moments ago. I've stopped resisting. No matter how embarrassing, no matter how suffocating the thick, saccharine air becomes, escape is not permitted.
As I slump back against him, I hear a soft chuckle. His breath brushes my ear. The low, rumbling sound of his voice is strangely alluring, and I—still unaccustomed—jolt slightly.
"Humans again. Don't they ever learn?"
He speaks.
It seems he's sensed intruders in this castle.
I murmur a vague "Yeah" in agreement.
"You'd think they'd give up by now."
"Status?"
"Hold on."
I bring my hands together at eye level, and a crystal materializes before me. Peering into it, though distorted by the sphere's curvature, a clear image appears.
A group of humans, freshly infiltrated, cautiously advance through the castle's entrance. They occasionally stray into side passages—those are just storage rooms, you know—but of course, I can't tell them that.
One man, four women.
—So, this time's "hero" is the man.
As I watch them, status screens flicker into view.
This is something only I can see—even the one behind me cannot. A power meant to aid the Hero, now wielded for the Demon King's benefit.
"The man's class is 'Paladin,' Level 89. HP 8365, MP 5200, max resistance to all attributes. Immunity to poison, petrification, and silence. The red-haired woman is a 'Martial Artist,' Level 87, HP 8600, MP 0. The blue-haired one is a 'Healer,' Level 81, HP 6000, MP 7000, silence immunity. The black-haired woman—"
"Enough."
"…Yeah."
He's already bored.
As if to console my deflated mood, a large hand strokes my head. I love the sensation of his fingers combing through my hair. His touch is gentle, soothing.
I shift slightly, pressing my forehead against his collarbone like a cat.
Acting spoiled like this puts him in a better mood—so even if it's embarrassing, I'll do it.
I was once a modern-day human, once a fairy meant to guide the Hero. Watching the upcoming party of "heroes" get torn into bloody scraps just because the Demon King is in a bad mood… Well, even I can't bear it.
"What's wrong?"
"Mmm. Another weak-looking bunch. It's boring. Can I sleep?"
"Sure. I'll wake you when they arrive."
The Demon King is kind to me.
His golden hair is soft to the touch, his crescent-moon eyes sharp and golden, his face coldly beautiful. Arrogant, domineering, overwhelmingly strong—and above all, beautiful.
Who would ever guess that this princely figure is the same one who has slaughtered countless humans?
—He used to be so much cuter back then.
How did things end up like this?
His hand covers my dead-fish eyes, and obediently, I let my eyelids fall shut.