[Now... I just want it to hurt Hellix.] The Goddess expressed coldly to the Archdevil. [Maybe it will break him. Maybe not...]
She paused for a moment before continuing.
[But will your protégé finally listen to your orders? The Wretch is drawing near the Capital, after all. Time is of the essence.]
{...}
{He is near breaking.} The Archdevil rasped, exhaling a weary sigh as his gaze darkened. {Even the mightiest break after enough... nudges.}
[Good. Make it happen.] The Goddess turned away. [I have to prepare for the childbirth... If you'll excuse me.]
----------------------
"Lord Belial." Mirias' voice was soft, but insistent.
"I'm sleeping. Leave me alone." He grumbled, waving her off without opening his eyes. The apartment above Galdo's tavern where they resided was dark and moody.
"I know you said we shouldn't return to the Demonic Realm. That you want to stay here, but—"
"But shut up. It's final." Belial spat, shifting to bury his face deeper into his pillow. "I'm not going back to that place. Everything here is just... so bright. So full of color. I'm not going back to a realm filled with puppets like you."
A pause. Then, quieter—almost swallowed by the fabric of his sheets—"Even she will become a puppet. I know she will."
Mirias hesitated. "...My lord. I hear the Archdevil's voice. Surely, you can't ignore—"
"I CAN." His growl cut through the air. "That bastard will quiet down eventually."
But the voice in his head didn't quiet. It pulsed, distorted, commanding him—
Return to the Demonic Capital.
"Why the hell is he so insistent?!" Belial clenched his teeth, rubbing his temples as if he could crush the voice out of existence.
Mirias sat beside him, her presence unwavering. "Lord Belial..."
He tensed.
"I don't know what the Archdevil thinks, or why he says what he does. But if it's about the people… won't Van Hellix be enough?"
Belial inhaled sharply.
"He has to return eventually, doesn't he? When he's done here?" She hesitated, then placed her palm lightly on his shoulder.
"Then, you won't be alone. You'll finally have a friend you see as an equal. Someone you actually like… Won't you?"
She pursed her lips, swallowing the words she truly wanted to say—
'I wish, Lord Belial… that I could be that friend for you. That you would gasp and sob this way over me.'
"As for the Demon Lord," she continued, steadying her voice, "she is married now. And more than that—she's no longer the love-sick child she once was."
"She won't drool over you the way she did before. Not anymore. Surely she knows you two are just cousins by this point."
"...." Belial inhaled deeply, exhaling through his nose.
"Fine. Just... fine." He sighed, rubbing his face before pushing himself off the bed. "My pops is in the city, right?"
Another deep sigh.
"I'll drop by before I leave."
He stepped out of the apartment. The sun was setting, casting long shadows over the streets. For the first time in what felt like forever, the voice in his head fell silent.
'Man... it's even more beautiful than before. This sun. This city…' He swallowed hard, his lips pressing into a thin line. 'These people.'
He let his gaze linger on the passing crowds, as if trying to etch the sight into his memory.
"Alright, Mirias."
"Lead the way to where my pops is staying."
----------------------------------
"You're really something, ain't ya?" Marcy remarked as she and Van followed behind Michael and Melanie, exiting the Von Brayle estate. "Peeling off a brand like that... You crazy bastard, just how strong have you gotten?" She gave him a playful shove.
Lalyn and Amoria stood outside, waiting. The moment Melanie appeared, Lalyn nearly sprinted toward her, her usual mask of cold detachment nowhere to be seen.
"Right..."
Van's gaze swept over Marcy, Amoria, and Melanie—but lingered just a moment longer on Amoria.
"Wait a second." He stepped toward her, Marcy tilting her head curiously as he passed.
"Amoria."
"...Hey, Van." Her voice was hesitant, reluctant, as her eyes drifted toward Melanie, still clinging to her mother.
Van studied her for a beat. "I need to tell you something. Can you wait until I'm done inside the mansion before you leave? I understand you have to report to the bishop, right?" His tone was steady, but beneath it, there was something… softer.
Amoria blinked in surprise. "Yes, of course. I'll let you escort me to the church, then." She offered a small, delicate smile.
"Great... Great." Van nodded, but his eyes lingered on her—longer than they should have.
Amoria tilted her head. "Is everything alright?"
"Ah, nothing." He shook his head, pushing the thought aside. "I'll go back to Marcy before she decides to handle things herself."
"...Alright." Amoria nodded slowly as he turned. Then, almost too quietly, she asked—
"Are… are you sure this is the way?"
Lalyn and Marcy both snapped their heads toward her, sharp eyes narrowing at her words.
'That damn priestess...' Marcy clenched her fists. 'Her daughter was a slave... What do you MEAN, 'is this the way'!?'
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
But Van didn't react with the same heat. Instead, he turned back to Amoria with an expression so soft, so unreadably calm, that her breath caught in her throat.
"Everything is going to be okay, Amoria. Just wait for me, alright?" His words came out slow, smooth—measured.
'Why are everyone so tense...?' Melanie thought, 'Isn't he just going to wait for The Royal Guard and arrest them like aunt Marcy said?'
Amoria's fingers twitched, subtly clenching the fabric of her gown.
'Haah... The way you say it. Why are you saying it like that…?'
Van reached Marcy's side.
"You're really soft on that girl," she muttered. "Even she needs reprimanding from time to time."
A silence stretched between them before Marcy finally sighed, rolling her shoulders.
"Say... are you sure you want to handle this yourself?" She cracked her neck, her fingers twitching at her sides. "Honestly, I'd feel good killing them myself."
"Why risk getting branded?" Van replied, his tone even. "Just leave it to me. My resistance is too high for them to do anything to me."
Without another word, he turned back toward the mansion.
"Oh, and..." His gaze flicked toward Michael.
"Yeah?" Marcy raised an eyebrow.
"There's something I need to talk to the kid about once I'm done. Take Michael to the Guild, please."
"Yeah, yeah, I got it. Just go and get it over with." She sighed.
Van nodded and started walking away when—
"Oh, Van." Marcy called out, making him pause. "Just wanted you to know that—"
"VAN!"
A voice cut through the air.
Melanie.
She sprinted past Marcy, straight toward the armored man.
"Melanie." Van greeted as he turned, his gaze meeting hers. Marcy and Michael watched the exchange in silent curiosity.
Melanie stepped closer, her voice soft yet steady. "I want to thank you. Please… this is the second time you've saved me, and I don't even know who you are or what you look like."
Her expression remained neutral, but her half-lidded eyes carried that same detached, uninterested gaze her mother always wore.
Van tilted his head slightly, amused.
'Huh.' He let out an internal chuckle. 'More forward than her half-sisters, that's for sure. Even more than Anne. I guess she's the brave one.'
"My face ain't that impressive, kid. And if I remove my helmet here, someone might figure out who I am—"
Before he could finish, Melanie moved.
With swift, deliberate hands, she lifted his helmet just enough to expose his mouth. Van barely had time to react before she leaned in, pressing her lips against his—calm, controlled, resolute.
Marcy whistled in amusement. Michael turned away awkwardly. Lalyn almost smiled in quiet triumph as Amoria just smiled warmly, but faintly.
Van's eyes widened in sheer surprise. 'Is she… serious!?' His mind scrambled, momentarily thrown off balance. This wasn't reckless impulse or flustered hesitation—this was a choice.
Before he could even think to pull away, Melanie was already stepping back.
"There. Now I didn't see your face. No one will know your identity. And I got to thank you… crudely." Her voice was even, but there was a quiet warmth beneath it. A light nod. A controlled retreat.
"I'd say I got what I wanted... Good day, Sir Van."
She turned gracefully, but as she walked away, the faint blush on her cheeks betrayed her composure. A single sideways glance, fleeting yet unmistakable.
Van watched her go, his gaze unreadable—until the corners of his lips twitched, a faint smirk forming.
And then—
"And from what I did see of your face, youdiddntlookthatbadokay!"
She blurted it out all at once, voice dipping into barely-audible embarrassment before vanishing into the distance.
Van blinked. Then exhaled, shaking his head in amusement.
'Yeah… definitely the bravest.'
'Now then...' He turned once more to the mansion.
'Let's end this.'
The Duke sat alone in his office, seething. His son, Doyle, sat beside him, silent.
"Unforgivable… UNFORGIVABLE…!" His fists slammed against the desk, his breath ragged, his body trembling with rage. "They think they can just walk out after KILLING BERNARD?! After EMBARRASSING ME LIKE THIS?!"
His voice grew hoarse, but the fury inside him only burned hotter.
"HELLIX… VAN HELLIX… YOU MOTHERFUCKER…!" His teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. "I'LL MURDER EVERYONE YOU CARE ABOUT… I'LL CHASE AFTER YOU… I'LL DESTROY YOU!!!"
Doyle said nothing. He simply watched his father unravel, his expression unreadable.
Then—
The door creaked open.
"I knew you'd do that."
The Duke's body stiffened. His breath hitched.
"..!!!"
Van stepped inside.
Slowly, effortlessly, he closed the door behind him. Click.
His voice was calm. Inevitable. "They always do that."
A slow exhale.
"That's why..."
His eyes glowed—a deep, piercing crimson.
"That's why we always kill enemies like you."
The room seemed to shrink. The air grew heavier.
Van's voice remained steady, too steady.
"That's another thing we learned on our journey to defeat the Demon Lord." His words carried no malice, only certainty. "That someone like you will never stop. That someone like you has to be completely crushed."
He exhaled through his nose, his gaze dropping slightly—not at the Duke, but at himself.
"Because even I'm not strong enough to have the luxury of letting you live."
A flicker of something passed through his expression. Regret? Resignation? It barely lasted a moment before it was gone.
His voice remained the same.
"You have to die. Don't take it personally."
"GUARDS!!!"
The Duke sprang up, his chair screeching against the floor. His face twisted in rage and desperation.
'ALL AT ONCE. WE MUST FIGHT WITH EVERYTHING WE HAVE, RIGHT NOW!' The Duke resolved.
Doyle flinched, recoiling in fear, his hands gripping the arms of his chair as if that would somehow steady him.
Van didn't move.
"They're all dead." His voice was quiet. Absolute.
The Duke's breath caught.
Van stepped forward, the trail of crimson behind him stretching from the doorway—a silent testimony to just how many had already fallen.
The Duke's pulse thundered in his ears. A cold sweat ran down his spine.
'No way… I… I didn't NOTICE HIM KILLING THEM ALL?!'
His eyes darted to the corpses behind Van, to the still-wet blood that had yet to fully settle into the carpet.
'WHO… WHO IS THAT MONSTE—'
His thoughts were abruptly cut short.
Van vanished from his sight.
Before he could blink, before his body could even register the threat—
A hand gripped his skull.
CRACK.
His neck twisted sharply, snapping in an instant.
His body collapsed lifelessly onto the desk, his mouth still frozen mid-scream.
Doyle's stomach churned. A sharp, acidic nausea surged up his throat, but he couldn't move—he couldn't even breathe.
His father's corpse lay just inches away. Van was already turning toward him.
A cold dread seeped into Doyle's bones.
His vision blurred. His body trembled uncontrollably.
A warmth spread beneath him.
The sharp stench of urine filled the air.
He had soiled himself.
And yet, he couldn't even feel ashamed.
Van exhaled softly. His gaze fell on Doyle.
"I'm sorry."
He took a step forward.
Doyle's body trembled violently. His breath came in short, desperate gasps.
He knew.
Even if he ran.
Even if he threw himself out the window.
Even if he fought with everything he had—
It wouldn't matter.
Nothing would matter.
Van would always be faster. He knew it by flesh as he clutched the shoulder Van had pierced earlier with a rock when he used his ability.
Doyle swallowed, his throat dry and raw. His lips quivered, trying to form a word, a plea—
Van reached out.
"I hope you're born into a warmer family next lifetime."
A flick of his wrist.
CRACK.
Doyle's head twisted sharply to the side. His body slumped, lifeless, onto the chair.
Silence.
And then—
A wet, shuddering cough.
Van's eyes flicked sideways to the Duke's table.
The Duke was still alive.
His broken, mangled form barely clung to life, his twisted neck forcing his gaze toward his son's lifeless body. His lips trembled, but no sobs came—
He couldn't cry.
Only watch.
Van stared at him.
A pause. A breath.
"...I'm sorry." He expressed. He wasn't really sure if he meant it.
"I should've known that wasn't enough to kill you."
He took the Duke's head between his palms, lifting it up to meet his face. Looking at him in the eyes. His palms pressed against the Duke's skull.
"I guess, like Marcy did with your other son… I'll have to be sure."
CRUNCH.
His skull caved in under Van's grip.
Bone. Blood. Flesh.
It splattered across the desk, the walls, and Doyle's corpse—painting the room with the final remnants of a dying house.
Van stepped over the mess, his crimson gaze shifting toward Doyle.
One final inhale.
His fingers flexed.
He pressed Doyle's head down the same way he did his father's.
Another sickening crunch.
Blood. Tissue. Bone.
Gone.
Van straightened. Without a word, he turned to leave—then stopped.
His eyes flicked toward the Royal Bathroom just down the hall.
A pause.
'I'll clean myself first.'
He stepped inside.
The silence stretched as warm water ran over his hands, washing away the blood, the fragments, the final traces of the early evening's work.
His reflection in the mirror stared back at him, expressionless.
Van stepped out, his footsteps muted against the marble. He had taken a fresh set of clothes from the mansion, while his bloodied armor rested in a leather bag slung over his shoulder.
A lone figure stood outside, waiting.
"Hey."
Amoria.
She stood by herself, hands clasped lightly in front of her, her gaze unreadable.
Van met her eyes. "Sorry for making you wait."
She hesitated. "...It's alright."
A breath.
"Let's walk?" He suggested as he extended his arm gently toward her.
For a moment, Amoria simply looked at him. Then—a faint, fleeting smile.
She then, in return, gently placed her arm through his.
And together, they walked toward the church.