A month passes in silence.
Not peace. Not recovery.
Just… silence.
You exist.
You breathe.
You eat when told.
You sleep when you're tired.
You answer when spoken to—barely.
But you're not living.
You're just… not dead.
Your quarters have changed slightly. The Demon King had them renovated—soft rugs, mana-lamps that dim when you tremble, walls charmed to muffle sound so no one would hear you if you cried at night, not that you have the energy to anymore.
Servants have learned not to pry.
Warlocks whisper, but never come close.
The Demon King visits. Sometimes daily, sometimes less. But always in silence. Never pushing.
He leaves books. Food. Blankets. Cloaks in your size. A soft robe that smells faintly like him.
But you barely touch any of it.
You sit by the window most days.
Staring at a world you didn't choose.
You haven't smiled.
You haven't asked questions.
You haven't discovered your powers. Or chosen a class. Or even left your room for more than a few minutes.
Some days, you wonder if you're already dead. Just another soul that fell into this world and got stuck somewhere between.
But you're not.
You're still here.
One gray morning, there's a knock. Different than usual. Firmer.
And then—his voice.
"Ryuu."
A pause.
"I know you don't want to speak. But I need you to come with me today."
Another pause. Then, gentler:
"You don't have to talk. Just… come. If you can."
You hear the door unlock magically.
And stay closed.
Waiting.
You say nothing.
Not a word.
Not a nod.
Not a sigh.
You just… stand.
Feet moving on instinct. Shoulders slack. Expression unreadable.
Not resistance. Not acceptance.
Just obedience.
You pull on the soft outer robe he left for you—dark violet, lined with silk—and slip out the door.
He's waiting just beyond the threshold.
The Demon King turns when he hears your footsteps.
He looks down at you—his expression unreadable, as always. But there's something softer in his eyes. A flicker of relief, perhaps.
He says nothing either.
Instead, he simply starts walking.
And you follow.