TBR CH208

The Demon King leaned back on his throne, his face impassive as he overlooked everything from the foot of the steps.

The silver candlelight flowed like cold water throughout the demon palace, casting a dark, gloomy blue over everything within sight. But all light vanished the moment it touched the Demon King’s pupils.

Kriesmeier refused to admit he had weaknesses.

However, as the meaning of his dreams gradually became clear starting last night, the nightmares grew rampant. Something sealed within his heart quivered, sprouting dense, continuous wings, as if about to break free the next second. Now, His Majesty the Demon King no longer obsessively questioned; he could not bear the fleeting apparitions of the past appearing before his eyes, even for just a moment.

Kriesmeier’s fingertips touched the white bone scythe.

He coldly swept the blade horizontally. The nightmares with amber eyes that stood on the steps smiling at him shattered into dust under the black assault of “Demonic Eye,” becoming the shadows lurking in the corners of the demon palace.

The demon palace fell silent once more.

Kriesmeier lowered his eyes, a little weary. He was tired of endlessly fighting these counterfeits, even though they were easily defeated.

Perhaps he was just tired of being forced to react to that person and the fragmented words that occasionally surfaced in his mind.

At times, shards of memory infuriated him to the point of almost destroying all the furnishings he could see in the demon palace. Those dark golden eyes burned incessantly in their sockets. When he slowly reached out to cover them, he felt them as cold as a handful of snow on an icy lake.

The black cat was nowhere to be found, and even the witch Hilda was out of contact.

The sharpness of the white bone scythe always afforded this tyrannical ruler of the demon world a moment of peace. Kriesmeier’s fingertips moved down little by little. He stroked the bone-made handle of the scythe almost gently, like a musician caressing an instrument.

The Demon King slowly closed his eyes.

But in the next second, a knock echoed, breaking the congealed air of the demon palace.

Kriesmeier’s ears were keen.

“Why are you making noise!” It was a demon’s furious, gritted-teeth voice. It seemed to want to tear apart and swallow its presumptuous accomplice for a second. Then, a somewhat muddled, drowsy voice:

“Can’t I knock?” the human asked, bewildered.

Kriesmeier’s movement on the throne froze, his gaze falling heavy and somber.

He tightened his grip on the scythe, destructive power swirling blackly at his fingertips. Anyone who dared to trespass on his territory would seemingly be burned to ashes the next second.

“Your Majesty,” the Abyss demon’s judgment of danger was sharp; it immediately decided to retreat, “This is a gift from Lord Lust. Please allow me to take my leave first—Damn it, what are you doing!”

The door was quietly pushed open.

Kriesmeier saw an amber eye. Then, this human, bold enough to directly push open the demon palace door, finally noticed the Demon King’s gaze and shrank back his hand, appearing very obedient.

The demon beside him had already made a hasty retreat, disappearing as quickly as possible, leaving the human alone to walk a few steps inside.

His footsteps echoed softly in the gloomy demon palace.

Whether it was the human’s warm-toned eyes, his light golden hair, or the sweet scent of roses and amber oil emanating from him, everything felt out of place here, like another, even more real nightmare.

He was very weak. Kriesmeier thought, he was very dangerous.

“Do you still remember me?”

Seeing no reaction from the Demon King, the human pressed his advantage and took another step forward. The human’s solitary footsteps were clearly audible in the dark palace.

All other colors in the demon palace were dim, only black and white were vivid. The demon’s silvery-gray hair seemed like a part of the white bone throne behind him. Kriesmeier remained motionless, gazing at him as if he were a dangerous trap.

It’s best to stay far away from traps.

But this trap had hands and feet, walking brazenly towards him, gently calling out: “Your Majesty.”

The human did not stop on the steps but stepped onto them, completely disregarding the increasing danger in the surrounding air as he approached. Was he a part of a nightmare, or some lord’s boring flattery?

Kriesmeier’s fingertips rested on the scythe. For some reason, he couldn’t swing the blade cleanly as he usually did. But the Demon King’s clemency had its limits; he wouldn’t remain this way forever, he knew that himself.

Just as the human was about to step onto the last stair, the Demon King no longer indulged. He looked down coldly into the human’s eyes and asked:

“Who are you?”

Roland’s pupils sharply constricted, as if something he knew was teetering finally shattered.

In that instant, he couldn’t even control his expression.

The cruel Demon King scrutinized him before him, his gaze cold and distant, like a dark mirror reflecting his bewildered and lost expression, making his steps falter involuntarily.

He didn’t remember.

Roland felt as if he had fallen into an ice cavern; he couldn’t remember.

How could he not have anticipated this possibility? No, he had considered this scene a thousand, ten thousand times, so much so that he even used all his strength to force a slight curve to his lips. It was very ugly, and it simply wouldn’t work.

Kriesmeier’s expression didn’t even change.

The Demon King’s black wings hung down to the ground, large patches of feathers submerged in shadow, revealing only a faint glow. His moonlight-like long hair cascaded from his chest, scattering over the bleached bones that formed the throne, a few strands winding down almost to his ankles. He merely gazed at Roland with a strange and unfamiliar look.

Roland felt a heavy heart.

From the moment he returned to Mirar Continent, everything he experienced felt like a dream, and impossibly smooth.

He was swiftly teleported here, then ceremoniously chosen as the “first beauty.” Now, freshly groomed and presentable, he stood in the demon palace, gazing at his long-lost beloved. His Majesty the Demon King, enthroned, seemed both a deity and a beast.

“I don’t have the patience to ask a second time,” Kriesmeier said flatly.

The closer he got to the Demon King, the more his human instincts urged him to turn and flee, as if approaching the terrifying essence of the abyss.

“As you can see,” the human’s voice visibly deepened, his amber eyes also somewhat dim, “I am a gift from Lord Lust. Lord should have mentioned me to you.”

The Demon King silently watched him for two seconds, then extended his hand, and black flames appeared in his palm. It seemed this lord had indeed not specifically informed Kriesmeier.

Or perhaps, in his eyes, a human was merely a form of entertainment.

A parchment gift list materialized at the Demon King’s fingertips. Without deviation, the last line contained an entry related to the human.

Kriesmeier’s fingertips traced across the lines of text, confirming it.

Instantly, the parchment turned to ash.

Kriesmeier asked, “You’re not afraid of me?”

“I have admired Your Majesty for many years,” Roland said, feeling he wasn’t exactly lying, his voice still a little hoarse. “Actually, we… met a long time ago. Meeting today, for me, is like seeing an old friend. If I were to die for Your Majesty, I would do so willingly.”

Intense emotions surged in the human’s eyes.

Kriesmeier silently stared at him, then suddenly averted his gaze.

“I don’t need imitations, nor things used by others,” he said. “Now get out. Tell your lord, if he sends more of his filth here again, I don’t mind devouring another powerful demon.”

“I don’t—” Roland urgently began, “I have no connection to Lord Lust, nor do I belong to his territory.”

Kriesmeier cut him off, seemingly unable to tolerate it further: “I said, get out.”

The Demon King’s fingertips restlessly hovered over his scythe. He was almost losing control of his fantasies. Whether the human before him was an evolved version of a nightmare or a gift sent by some ignorant demon to please him, he could not, for a moment, accept the other party appearing before him with that face.

He absolutely refused to be foolish enough to mistake a phantom for reality again.

“Why?” the human said softly, still not leaving. “Your Majesty, why am I an exception? Didn’t you accept everyone Lord has sent before?”

“Who told you I,” Kriesmeier paused, his voice laced with threat, “—accepted everyone.”

Frankly, the human’s words did restore a bit of his sanity, replaced by rising annoyance.

But Roland’s eyes suddenly brightened again, and he genuinely curved his eyelashes: “Did Your Majesty not let anyone into the demon palace before? Am I the first human? I thought… never mind, as long as you’re not angry.”

In Lord Lust’s territory, low-ranking demons had once guided him.

The palace was utterly decked out with low-hanging curtains, exuding a sensual and ambiguous air, with silk and gauze everywhere. The emblem that had glowed in the Archmage’s hand, eventually leading him here, was visible at every turn. Passionate roses adorned every corner, and the attending demons were all beautiful. Roland’s steps halted before a steaming hot spring.

“Nothing,” he had mused at the time. “I was just wondering, who was the last person sent into the Demon King’s chambers like this?”

The hot spring emitted sulfur-scented steam.

Roland only then realized that the surrounding demons weren’t unwilling to answer this question; they truly couldn’t.

The total number of contestants who registered for the Demon King City Beauty Pageant could be counted on one hand.

Among them, the only one who didn’t pass the review was a five-meter-tall giant monster. Two others chickened out, one at the hot spring and one at the demon palace, crying and claiming their enemies were trying to harm them, preferring to kill themselves on the spot rather than face Kriesmeier. One fainted when teleported by the summoning circle. The black cat was their last hope.

In short, after the human’s foolish remark, Kriesmeier’s expression clearly turned grim.

“Your name is—” he asked, and the human quickly supplied, “Roland Xavier.”

Kriesmeier’s dark golden pupils looked down at him, only a step away.

Hearing this name didn’t surprise him; rather, it would be strange if someone who looked like this wasn’t named that. He wasn’t the type to give a final warning but rather a direct and concise ultimatum.

“You no longer have a chance to leave alive.”

“Okay,” Roland said. Looking at the Demon King’s expression, he decided it was best to keep quiet for now.

“Roland Xavier,” Kriesmeier’s voice was slow, an unusual contemplation making each word heavy. “I hate two things most in my life: one is a resurrected nightmare, and the other is a lying deceiver. Don’t waste my time. Tell me, are you the former or the latter?”

“Why must I be one or the other?” the human with amber eyes said softly, his eyes shimmering as if melting, bright as the sun.

Kriesmeier closed his eyes, unable to bear it. Such eyes were not suitable for the demon palace; they would destroy all known things.

His Majesty the Demon King was the only documented case of misusing a dreamcatcher to induce hallucinations.

Because he was exceptionally powerful, the illusion was exceptionally unyielding, clinging to him like a horsefly, sucking his blood.

In that moment of distraction, besides the human who had ascended the last step before him, many identical pairs of eyes seemed to appear behind him, reflected on the obsidian floor, like numerous ghost lights.

The nightmares originating from his dreams would tell him many things.

He couldn’t distinguish the truth from falsehood in these matters, nor could he remember if anyone had truly said such things to him.

Before Roland, Kriesmeier remained silent for a long time. He was like a marble statue, even his lips were pale, as if moving them would affect his stony joints. Roland didn’t speak rashly. He saw the Demon King’s fingertips nervously caressing the white rib on the scythe, and felt as if his own chest was about to bloom.

“Why don’t you come closer?” Kriesmeier suddenly asked.

There was no logic to this question at all; it was completely unreasonable.

If the human had come any closer just now, he might have already had his head severed by “Demonic Eye.” But His Majesty the Demon King apparently didn’t feel there was any contradiction in his words.

“Closer?”

“He sent you here to please me, didn’t he?” Kriesmeier said coldly, as if his words weren’t very shocking, “Now you can begin.”

Roland didn’t doubt that the Demon King would soon take his life, as he would have to silence anyone who had heard that remark.

He was now on the highest step of the staircase, one more step up would take him directly to the throne, or even simpler—he could reach out and touch the noble and arrogant Demon King. The Demon King was tightly wrapped in a dark cloak, his high boots revealing not an inch of excess skin. Kriesmeier had indeed given him a difficult task.

To come closer… in such a situation, it could only mean one thing.

Kriesmeier was indeed one of the most difficult creatures in Mirar Continent. He finished speaking abruptly, like an arrogant monarch commanding his subject, then simply waited for the other party to obey, not even moving a fingertip.

The human sighed.

Although he didn’t understand the situation, the other party had spoken, so doing so should be fine.

Anyway, even if Kriesmeier didn’t remember him, he would still try his best. He wasn’t the type to obediently retreat behind the scenes, or rather, he was the complete opposite of difficult. Since he had an opportunity—

He gauged the distance between the two, then ascended the last step.

Generally speaking, no visitor could reach this position.

Even the lords would only kneel on the lower steps to report.

The Demon King seemed uncomfortable with such proximity. He raised his dark golden eyes to meet Roland’s gaze directly, and because of this, a thin veil of displeasure appeared in his eyes.

To stand erect before the throne, wouldn’t that be disrespectful?

Roland, ever compliant, knelt down. The human’s slender back remained straight, appearing neither servile nor arrogant.

Nightmares couldn’t truly touch him.

Kriesmeier thought, his gaze passing over the human’s shoulder, looking at the many “Rolands” standing further away, staring at him. These virtual parasites only dared to act aggressively when he was most vulnerable, but he always found it hard to decide to expose them while there was still time.

Roland extended his hand.

Kriesmeier didn’t realize he had almost held his breath.

The demon palace seemed to have known no such silence for a hundred years. Around them, the silver candlelight flowed like mercury.

Was it an illusion? Kriesmeier thought. The human in front of him touched his hair.

The movement was too subtle to be noticed.

It was the strand that hung down to his ankle, following his kneeling posture. The human gently cupped the Demon King’s long hair, so light and cool, like dim moonlight.

He lowered his eyes and kissed that silver strand of hair.

He thought of a long time ago… when he was a blonde boy with an uncertain future, he used to believe he would become a hero or a knight. He would use his sword to overcome many difficulties, kill the most evil monsters in Mirar Continent, save the entire world from peril, and then kneel at the princess’s feet—there was always such a princess in stories—and kiss her hair.

The story’s version and reality always differed.

For example, though he truly saved the world, he was now kneeling before the most evil monster in Mirar Continent.

And the other party had completely stiffened at his actions.

Roland knew this because he then released the hair, grasping the Demon King’s ankle. Through the thin fabric, the sensation of his fingertips was still clear. A tense body, muscles fluid and beautiful.

The last thought Roland could summon was the one from the dream when he first saw the Demon King.

“But I want to kiss you first.”

The human began to kiss the demon’s ankle, moving upwards little by little.

Kriesmeier stared at him in astonishment, seemingly trying to resist, but the thought of resistance was just a fleeting shadow. He didn’t actually do so; even his fingertips almost loosened from the scythe.

In the Demon King’s eyes, everything behind this human remained dim, while only the human himself was vivid. The nightmares turned to ash one after another, as if dwarfed by reality, dissolving at the sight of sunlight.

When the kisses reached slightly above the knee, the Demon King, unable to bear it, reached out and gripped the human’s chin, forcing him to look up, gazing into those bright, star-like eyes, and murmured:

“You are real—”

“I am real, and I want to kiss you first.”

But he didn’t finish, because Roland took the opportunity to steady himself by holding his hand, announcing this as he stood up, and then, taking control, he touched Kriesmeier’s shoulder, pressing him onto the throne, and then kissed Kriesmeier’s still-shocked lips.

Kriesmeier’s “Demonic Eye” once again truly kissed the human’s neck, just as Roland devoutly and resolutely kissed the demon’s cold lips.

It didn’t taste good, nor did it have the honey and flower scent of lovers’ kisses. But from the sensation of living on the edge, like kissing the sharp edge of a blade, a faint bloody taste permeated their mouths, and he could taste the shudder of a soul.

He bit Kriesmeier’s lip, and the demon’s scythe grazed his neck. Kriesmeier’s fingertips trembled slightly on the bone handle, seemingly deeply interested in continuing the cut.

Then he loosened his fingers. The scythe fell to the ground.

The kiss was lingering and long.

Before anything else began, they kissed passionately, until both were breathless.

Both of them were cold, the demon palace was cold, their lips were cold, but warmth rapidly spread from the point of contact, then almost searingly burned away all their sanity.

Roland’s hand pressed on the Demon King’s shoulder. The metal embellishments of the cloak dug into his palm, causing a sharp pain.

They soon weren’t just kissing but trying to plunder everything from each other with all their might.

The Demon King bit the human’s lip. Roland hissed softly, wondering if demons always found pleasure in such acts.

He retaliated by biting the Demon King’s lip back. This slight pain wasn’t enough to make the other party frown, but the Demon King’s golden eyes, like a fallen twilight, melted into boiling gold by a higher temperature.

The human hopelessly thought, Damn it, I actually liked that very much too.

The Demon King’s collar came undone in their entanglement. He wasn’t content with the human’s control, constantly wanting to take the initiative. He wanted to knead this human into his own flesh and blood. The scent of blood permeated between their lips and teeth.

Kriesmeier’s hand moved downwards, his cold fingertips touching the human’s chest. His heart vibrated strangely beneath the skin at his fingertips; there seemed to be a large hollow in his chest.

Bone. Kriesmeier thought. He already possessed the human’s bone.

He kissed more fiercely. The Demon King’s kiss was as if he would shatter the other party, bones and all, the next second. He clamped down hard on the human’s shoulders, not allowing him to retreat an inch.

Roland, as if to soothe, moved his free hand to touch the wings on Kriesmeier’s back.

He touched precisely the deepest and most vulnerable spot where the wings connected to the Demon King’s spine.

The feathers there were smooth and fine, brushing against his palm with a tingling sensation. Kriesmeier involuntarily arched his body slightly, unable to completely restrain the human. But Roland had no intention of escaping.

“Kris,” he murmured indistinctly, then leaned in closer, seeming delighted, “My dear.”

The kiss was too deep, and too long.

Most importantly, both the human and the demon were utterly unhinged.

So much so that when they finally separated, breathless, the usually composed and restrained Archmage’s ears were flushed, and his amber eyes emitted a bright, gentle glow.

Although—

Roland looked at the scythe, “Demonic Eye,” which was eerily pressed against his neck.

He slowly blinked: “You remember me, my dearest Demon King.”