TBR CH186

For a moment, a spine-chilling cold crawled up Roland’s back.

Facing the Demon Lord’s scythe felt like something from a past life. He’d lived in peaceful, harmonious reality for so long that peeking through a screen felt unreal. It was only when the scythe’s “Demon Eye” truly pressed against his neck, and the iron-gray demonic flames seemed to blaze, that the Archmage realized Kriesmeier could simply move a finger, and his head would roll to the ground.

“Even I didn’t account for this,” Roland murmured, “My God, you’re still alive… you’re still alive. It wasn’t that I hadn’t thought it possible, but it would require an irreplaceable miracle—and you are that miracle. I should have known.”

It wasn’t the Demon Lord’s habit to keep his scythe lingering before his prey for long. Roland smelled the cold, metallic scent of rust behind him. Without turning, he knew blood was dripping onto the ground, and his life hung by a precarious thread.

The Archmage in the real world was unarmed—unless he planned to fight the Demon Lord with a fruit knife—so now, the young man simply sat upright in his chair, a faint smile curving his lips.

He felt… a long-lost excitement.

“You still think I won’t truly kill you?”

A low voice echoed from behind him. The Demon Lord controlled the weakness in his tone well. He forcefully pressed the scythe tightly against Roland’s neck, avoiding the human’s magical, amber eyes. However, the fingers gripping the scythe were lightly touched by the audacious human, then gently squeezed.

The tip of the Demon Lord’s wing trembled imperceptibly.

“You were just a hair’s breadth from dying in front of me,” Roland’s thoughts were on a completely different wavelength. The young man’s amber eyes shifted from disbelief to a strange, sated satisfaction, like beautiful, sweet honey candy. He said with urgent, genuine excitement: 

“It’s alright, Kris. I just feel… incredibly happy. It’s truly unbelievable. If you decide this is the end, I promise I won’t resist, but you don’t need to exert much effort; I don’t want to worsen your injuries. Oh! If you allow me one last dying wish, could I see what you look like now with my own eyes?”

“Generally speaking,” Kriesmeier’s voice was as grim as a blade, “a dying wish is a wish that isn’t granted when a person dies.”

Roland blinked, saying sweetly, “I just feel it’s a bit of a waste to be killed by you from behind, because I can’t stare into your eyes as you swing the blade; they must be incredibly beautiful—are you correcting me instead of acting immediately?”

At the same time, he released his grip on Kriesmeier’s right hand. The Archmage’s hand, renowned for precise spellcasting, continued to grope backward, gripping the Demon Lord’s wrist. To maintain the blade’s steadiness, Kriesmeier allowed the human’s slender fingertips to wander carelessly over the small area of skin with the most veins. The demon’s dark golden eyes flickered.

“You’d better stop,” he said in a low voice.

The Lords of the Abyss Demons were quite familiar with their monarch’s attitude, as it usually meant they were about to have a terrible time. They would cautiously curl into a ball, then scurry away from the Demon Lord’s presence.

But the human apparently lacked the ability to read the room.

“But if you don’t kill me soon,” Roland declared, “I won’t be able to resist kissing you.”

The phone screen in front of him lit up quickly. White text hastily appeared on the black background, as if the Black Book felt it necessary to intervene in the current situation.

The human picked up the phone with minimal movement, then, without even looking, pressed the power button, turning it off in front of the Demon Lord. The screen was placed face down on the desk by Roland.

“I’d like to know how you plan to act,” Kriesmeier scoffed, his offended mood somewhat soothed by the action. “You don’t seem to understand your current predicament.”

He abruptly stopped speaking, frowning and swiftly moving the scythe away, but it still left a thin red mark on the young man’s tilted neck. The “Demon Eye” seemed particularly fond of the Archmage’s blood; the blade flashed with a bloodthirsty gleam, regretting the brief taste. It craved a slaughter, just as it craved a new rib.

Roland felt not a shred of guilt for his adventurous behavior. He simply tilted half his face, his dark hair brushing his eyes, and those amber eyes finally met a dark, sharp glint.

In that instant, Kriesmeier could barely perceive the shadowy premonition that flickered through his blood. He only saw Roland withdraw his hand from his wrist, smiling calmly, a smile sweet and sharp: “I’ve given you many chances. I truly meant what I said, prepared to be killed by you here and now. But Kris, I regret to say you can’t bring yourself to do it now, otherwise you wouldn’t have moved the scythe away at the last moment. Of course, I’m willing to wait, but in the meantime, you should allow me to fulfill my obligation first.”

Appearing before Roland was a greater demon. He had black wings, too cramped for the wooden cabin, and certainly not much better on the upper floor of an internet cafe. Even though his wings were messy, broken, and mixed with dust and blood, the visual effect was still terrifying.

The Demon Lord was barefoot, his silver-gray hair extending to his waist, concealing a bloody broken horn. The bloodstains of the young man on his scythe had long since been devoured.

And Roland slowly raised his head. Blood seeped thinly from the wound on his neck, like a small, crimson necklace.

“Your eyes have turned red,” he whispered temptingly, extending a hand. “Shh—Kris, I know you want to lick my blood.”

His voice was soft, his movements unobtrusive, until the human’s fingertips touched the withered white rose on the Demon Lord’s chest, then skillfully plucked it, holding it like a ring on his fingertips, and naturally placing it on the table. It was only then that Kriesmeier slowly realized something.

The Demon Lord abruptly swung his scythe horizontally. A vivid red gleam flashed before the young man’s amber eyes; this time, there was no holding back.

But in the very next second, the “Demon Eye” fell to the ground with a heavy thud. Kriesmeier was slowly but surely pressed onto the room’s bed by the human. His disheveled wings struggled twice, almost knocking over the cabinet in the room, so Roland soothingly used his fingertips to gently brush away the sharp feathers. Then, he leaned down and kissed him.

The room was filled with bright starlight. Even the Demon Lord, no matter how slow, realized what was happening.

“You,” Kriesmeier said slowly, “you were just pretending…”

He saw the faint glow gradually appearing in Roland’s hand. The Moon Essence undoubtedly radiated an overwhelming pressure. Since the magic circle left behind by Saint Roland had transported Kriesmeier and his scythe, the “Demon Eye,” to the real world, it made sense that the Archmage’s staff, “Nova,” which also exerted power in the circle, would appear here as well.

But Roland still displayed a uniquely human way of communicating. “I missed you,” he said gloomily. Then he paused: “But that doesn’t mean you can show up in front of me looking like this. Twice.”

Even severely wounded, the Demon Lord, a symbol of destruction, was still an existence beyond ordinary humans. But the situation had suddenly reversed; ordinary humans weren’t actually ordinary, so facing a battle-damaged, broken Demon Lord, the Archmage basically held an overwhelming advantage. Roland lowered his eyes to kiss Kriesmeier’s wing, and the other was clearly unable to move.

“The first time was my fault,” Roland said softly. “I left without a word, but you shouldn’t have risked your power; and this time—I was only gone for half a night, did you need to risk your life to find me? Kris, you couldn’t possibly have missed my notes where I wrote ‘unfinished draft’ and ‘extremely dangerous.’ If I hadn’t arrived in time…”

He stopped speaking, raising his amber eyes to look at Kriesmeier. The Demon Lord’s pupils had now turned into bestial slits. His silver-gray long hair was spread out beneath him, like moonlight made of silver. He remained silent for a long time, then slowly and clumsily tried to lie: “…I wouldn’t truly die.”

“Hah.” Roland’s lips curved into a sharp, knowing smile. “Look at you now; that statement has no credibility left. You knew you were about to run out of life, so at that moment, you truly wanted to kill me. How could an abyss demon, who still hasn’t distinguished between love and hate, be willing to abandon even the last shred of obsession with killing their enemy?”

“Since you knew,” Kriesmeier’s pupils burned with dark flames. The Demon Lord was not the type to conceal out of embarrassment in such moments. He simply stared at Roland without blinking, feeling an incomprehensible confusion. “There was no need to say those things to me.”

“I actually think dying together is a pretty good option,” Roland’s tone was sweet, but his gaze was condescending as he looked at the Demon Lord, then reached out to touch his broken horn. A sharp pain shot through the broken horn when the human touched it, a pain beyond human endurance. Kriesmeier had endured such pain for a long time; occasionally, the pain would numb him.

But most of the time, the pain couldn’t be numbed. Unless, at that moment, the Archmage’s eyes, still lingering with lingering fear and anger, finally leaned down and pressed the Demon Lord onto the bed, kissing his somewhat pale lips. Kriesmeier only struggled at first, pressing down his long hair, then slowly quieted down.

It was a deep kiss, thorough, like seizing a position. As their lips and teeth mingled, Roland tasted blood. He didn’t leave Kriesmeier any room or time to think.

The Abyss Demon’s eyes deepened considerably, and the ferocity and obsession in them were slowly stimulated as the kiss deepened, including the demon’s inhuman, bestial habits. Pain and the pleasure Roland gave were mixed together, blurring their boundaries.

…It didn’t hurt as much now.

When the human and the demon finally separated, Kriesmeier lowered his eyes, his silver-gray hair disheveled, and finally gasped as he leaned close to Roland’s neck, as if unable to bear it, and pressed his sharp teeth against it. He slowly licked away Roland’s blood, just like a beast licking the blood of a prized prey, his ragged breaths washing over Roland’s neck like waves.

A slight sting came from the human’s neck. The wound wasn’t deep initially, but it had been torn open again.

“For everything that happened,” Roland said, using his fingers as a comb, slowly stroking the Demon Lord’s long hair, “I’m sorry. This is human etiquette in such situations, Kris. I apologize to you first. I’ve hidden things in the past, I’ve been forced to leave without a word many times, I’ve put you in terrible situations. But you should do the same; you should say ‘sorry’ to me.”

The Demon Lord, truly like an unfeeling, inhuman being, raised his god-like golden eyes, his lips and teeth stained with human blood, his tongue also crimson. He stared at Roland, slowly imitating: “…Sorry.”

“Good,” Roland subtly clenched his fingers. “Also, in case you think you’re beyond saving. I won’t let you die. But you must listen to me, don’t doubt what I’m doing, and don’t try to stop me. I promise it will be a good ending. But I don’t want you to suffer, and I don’t want you to continue like this… waiting.”

The dark-haired Archmage spoke with an air of complete certainty, but his expression was shrouded in an invisible gloom, and many details remained vague.

He was thinking about what he should explain next when he sharply heard footsteps thudding on the stairs. Clearly, the commotion they had just caused had attracted the owner’s attention. Roland quickly glanced over. Kriesmeier’s scythe lay on the ground, seemingly burning with flames—it looked very unfavorable for fire safety.

The Demon Lord had also knocked over several books from the bedside table when he attacked him just now, which was already minor damage. In fact, the room was filled with a strong smell of blood; the Demon Lord’s blood was scattered on the floor, mixed with black feathers. The bloodstain on Roland’s neck clearly indicated an attack by some non-human creature. Both of them were disheveled, their breathing uneven, and Kriesmeier’s wings occupied a large portion of the room.

Shan Sheng stood at the door, carefully listening to the commotion inside. He worriedly asked, “Xiao Luo, I heard some noise in your room. Did something happen?”

Roland swiftly reached out and covered Kriesmeier’s mouth. The Demon Lord’s golden pupils seemed to darken a little. He swallowed the last drop of Roland’s blood, still unsatisfied, like a muzzled beast. Before a more dangerous and violent aura ignited around him, Roland’s warm breath brushed his earlobe, and he whispered something to him.

About a minute later— Roland opened the door. The young man looked a bit tired. Shan Sheng looked past his shoulder into the room, which was quiet. All the furnishings were normally in place, and the computer screen was still lit.

“Were you talking to someone just now?” Shan Sheng asked, puzzled.

“I forgot to put on my headphones,” Roland replied without changing his expression. “It was an online friend. We talked a little loudly and didn’t turn off the game sound effects, but nothing else happened.”

“Is that so?” Shan Sheng looked into the room again with lingering concern. The room was unobstructed; besides the bed and the computer desk beside it, there was only a wardrobe against the wall. The bedding on the bed was messy, looking like someone had just slept there. He hesitated, thinking the loud bang he heard earlier must have been something else falling.

But just as he decided to leave, he found something remaining on the bed, puzzling him—a black feather.

Everything that had just happened was basically a test of whether the Archmage could still skillfully use a cleaning spell. This was naturally no problem for the most outstanding magic user on the Mirar continent. The bloodstains on the ground and the remaining feathers were all swept away. The wound on his neck was covered, and his staff disappeared from his hand according to its master’s will.

Roland calmly picked up the stray feather: “A crow flew in through the window just now. It must have been injured.”

It was just a feather, not anything more suspicious. Shan Sheng hesitated, accepted the young man’s explanation, casually advised him not to get addicted to games like Dan Bin, and then closed the door.

Roland breathed a sigh of relief. The amber-eyed young man stood before the wardrobe, pulling it open with relief. Kriesmeier first swung his scythe in front of him, silently glancing at him, then awkwardly retracting it. Keeping the Demon Lord in a wardrobe wasn’t as simple as keeping a crow in one. Fortunately, Kriesmeier had retracted his wings, otherwise every piece of clothing would have been pierced by feathers.

No one else on the Mirar continent would dare imagine His Majesty the Demon Lord in a closet.

The Archmage pulled the Demon Lord out, then gently kissed his forehead. “I told you it’d be easier to kiss you this way,” he murmured, soothingly stroking Kriesmeier’s earlobe, which had begun to flush. He had whispered many endearments to the Demon Lord before stuffing him into the wardrobe, and the other might have taken his bold human declarations to heart while inside. Around them hung the young man’s recent shirts; Roland’s scent permeated the dim, confined space.

The Demon Lord feigned a cold and arrogant glance at him.

Roland sat on the edge of the bed, gesturing for Kriesmeier to sit beside him. The cold and arrogant Demon Lord didn’t object and sat down, and the human naturally leaned his shoulder against Kriesmeier, sighing softly with fatigue and satisfaction. “I wish time would stop here, so I wouldn’t have to think about what happens next.”

The Archmage always carried the scent of herbs and mineral powders. Kriesmeier knew this in the other world, but the scent he smelled in the dark wardrobe earlier, without those distractions, was uniquely human. Now, he felt the human’s warm body heat through his clothes, and he felt those fabrics were utterly meaningless. He remembered most of the Archmage’s belongings in the Demon Palace, which he had destroyed in a rage.

Those things ultimately couldn’t represent him—nothing could represent him.

The Demon Lord’s body gradually relaxed. He silently tilted his shoulder slightly, letting the human lean on him. Roland gave a blurry smile; the indoor lighting made his eyes even warmer.

He quickly became happy again. “At least now we can be together and spend as much time as we want.” Roland said, “If there’s anything you want to know about me, I’ll tell you everything. We haven’t been in love for long.”

Kriesmeier didn’t realize he had tacitly agreed to the term “love.” The Lord of the Abyss Demons truly drew strength from his partner’s kisses.

Concretely speaking, the pain in his body seemed to miraculously lessen. Although it still burned his bones, this change was enough for him to cast an arrogant and disdainful glance at the pain. His dark golden eyes stared unblinkingly at Roland: 

“I regarded you as the enemy destined to die by my hand,” Kriesmeier said, “I still cannot understand the difference between that and love. When I thought I was about to die, my first reaction was to kill you; when I pressed the scythe to your neck, I couldn’t make the decision immediately.”

Roland and the Demon Lord sat on the edge of the same bed. He nudged the Demon Lord’s wings, which had somehow reappeared, coaxing them to retract, then smiled easily: “Whatever the emotion, I am the most deeply imprinted human in all your memories, isn’t that good enough?”

“Why do you dislike blonde hair?” Kriesmeier suddenly asked. Roland was a little puzzled: “Huh?”

“The Elf Elder told me he once saw you in the kingdom. You were very young then.”

“Oh,” he didn’t deny it, “…that’s true. Although I don’t think I’ve ever told you, that place didn’t leave a good impression on me, even though my bloodline is there, but their connection to me is actually very weak. Occasionally, the king would ask me to do things, mainly through the Holy See and the Mage Alliance.”

The Demon Lord recalled the scene the Elf Elder described to him. The first time he saw the Archmage, the latter was still young. The blonde boy hid in the shadows of the palace corridor; his platinum-like hair was striking even in the shadows, a hair color only born from royal and noble bloodlines.

But the boy’s hair was long enough to cover his eyes, clearly unkempt, and his eyes were dark, making everyone present uncomfortable. He held a doll in his hand. A maid from the palace saw it and immediately snatched it from his hand, smashing the doll on the ground.

“This is a sacrilege,” the maid’s face was pale. “The Duke and Duchess ordered that this child not be seen by anyone.”

The Abyss Demons had always lacked imagination; there had never been painters or poets among them, unless you were referring to art born from the corpses of their own kind.

But Kriesmeier imagined this scene: in the ancient, deep palace, a ghost-like boy grew into the young man beside him, his dark hair the same color as his wings.

“I wasn’t particularly optimistic when I was young,” Roland deliberated on his phrasing. “It’s like… have you ever heard of the ‘found child’ trope? Cultists who worship evil gods kidnap the children of important figures, fill their minds with terrible ideas, and then return them. But they don’t consider that important figures often have many children and sometimes don’t care about one of them. Because of this, my living environment was particularly bad.”

“Someone bullied you,” Kriesmeier said slowly, stroking his scythe, looking extremely dangerous.

“That’s certainly true,” Roland picked an example. “I had a cousin who put glass in my food, scattered nails by my bed, and once secretly abandoned me deep in the dense forest, then returned home as if nothing had happened. Although I almost got eaten by wild beasts, I eventually walked back myself. No one even realized I was missing when I came back.”

Kriesmeier looked so grim, it was as if he was preparing to go to the kingdom immediately and kill the person.

“It’s alright, he’s gone now,” Roland stroked his long hair. “After I gradually became known as the Archmage, the kingdom invited me as a guest. That’s when he simply vanished. Most children are expendable to them; it’s all about who they’re compared to… he wasn’t actually much better off than me.”

The Demon Lord still seemed to be harboring the thought, his eyes gazing darkly at Roland, so much so that the Archmage worried the kingdom might soon suffer misfortune… but that was impossible; what would happen next remained unknown.

Roland dismissed the thought and actively changed the subject: “Compared to the kingdom, aren’t you more interested in the cult that kidnapped me?”

“There are no true gods on the Mirar continent,” the Demon Lord said.

“That’s what they say.” The Archmage smiled; now, even with his bangs covering his eyes, he didn’t seem gloomy. “At that time, it was normal for others to ostracize me because my state was indeed affected. I very devoutly believed that one day evil would destroy the world. Before that, it would, of course, destroy those who bullied me. I used to pray sincerely every day. And then, guess what?”

The Demon Lord raised his eyes questioningly. It had to be said, Kriesmeier had become remarkably quiet after Roland’s wound healed, at least no longer keen on violent behavior. Roland sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, stroking from his wings to his hair, like taming an arrogant beast.

The young man’s amber eyes were like a winter bonfire, dry and warm. They seemed to have not been so tacitly intimate in a long time.

“I continued to study their findings until I finally understood that no god would descend. I was devastated at the time. It was like other children finally realizing their parents filled their Spirit Festival candy bags. But later, I discovered that even though they went in the wrong direction, they inadvertently explored the secrets of the world.”

“…Your manuscript.”

“Exactly, that’s what was left from that time.”

Roland fell into thought. For the Abyss Demons, the sight of a human thinking was incredibly captivating, as if countless thrilling shadows flowed within the depths of his eyes. Kriesmeier’s wings stirred restlessly, and finally, he suddenly attacked the human, heavily encircling him, pulling him into his domain.

“I just needed to find something to cling to,” he let the wings envelop him, “like finding a reason to live. Is that a cliché reason? I placed my hope in truth, trying to hold the switch to destroy the world in my own hand. Sometimes I feel this wish sounds very evil.”

“Haven’t you dealt with the lords of the Demon City?” Kriesmeier said, “After meeting them, you’d think this isn’t evil at all.”

Roland tried to recall, only remembering the Lord of Gluttony, who was forced to make him lamb chops for dinner, and the Lord of Lust, who packaged him as a gift for the Demon Lord: “At least their desires are all… instinctive. I once thought I could do anything for the sake of truth. Kris, the craving for knowledge is one of the most noble desires in this world, and it allowed me to disguise myself as the good guy. Even though I was just satisfying myself out of boredom, looking for suitable materials to sacrifice for magic circles.”

Archmage Roland Xavier maintained a remarkably consistent cycle of exterminating evil creatures; even the Kingdom’s Knight Order felt inferior.

“This life continued until I met you.”

Then, perhaps we should recall that final battle. Kriesmeier glided through the velvet-like night sky, chasing the Archmage until they both plunged into the miraculous sea of flowers that had appeared beside the abyss. Before the Archmage’s gardening experiments, this was a rare miracle in the barren scorched earth.

Crimson, full-blown flowers seemed to compete in blooming, their stems broken, scarlet branches staining the human’s skin. Both felt utterly exhausted, almost driven to despair by the other. But they also both felt that today was their last chance for victory; neither human nor demon would let the opportunity slip away.

Forced into the flowerbed, the Archmage was clearly at a disadvantage. His exquisite spellcasting required him to maintain a safe distance from the Demon Lord at all times. How could human flesh and blood compare to a demon’s? Kriesmeier understood this. He would never let this opportunity pass.

The Demon Lord finally throttled the human’s neck, kneeling in the flowerbed, pressing tightly against his chest until his dark golden pupils blurred and overlapped with the lighter eyes. The human’s staff fell some distance away. He was dragged a short distance on the ground by the Demon Lord’s force, leaving behind a swathe of shattered petals with a bruised, almost raw appearance.

The Demon Lord cautiously didn’t immediately celebrate his victory, but rather, while not releasing his hand, he menacingly swung his scythe across. In a sea of scarlet flowers, a pair of black wings slowly unfurled.

“You lost,” Kriesmeier said to Roland, his pupils excitedly contracting into vertical slits. His cruel and bloodthirsty nature roared, yearning to tear the human to shreds, but for some reason, he didn’t immediately cut off the other’s head. Perhaps it was because the Archmage was smiling at him at that moment, or perhaps there was some other secret.

“You’re still not killing me?” The human lay weakly on the ground, unable to reach his staff, his amber eyes, however, showed no panic like any other creature Kriesmeier had battled before.

The Demon Lord looked at him with arrogance and confusion. He didn’t understand why he didn’t make the move; he only felt an irreplaceable excitement and satisfaction. At that moment, Kriesmeier suddenly decided to spare the human’s life. Since he was already his defeated opponent, then he should also be his property. This feeling spread through the Abyss Demon’s heart like ink.

“Human,” the Lord of the Abyss leaned close, his hot breath accompanying his burning eyes, “you can live.”

“The condition is—” Roland said with a light, joking tone, then winced in pain as Kriesmeier leaned down and bit his shoulder. The Demon Lord’s tongue, like that of a large feline, was perfect for licking the blood of its prey. His eyes turned red, and something drove the Demon Lord, unable to distinguish love from hate, to fulfill Roland’s unspoken words.

“Say it,” Kriesmeier’s aura surged, his obsessive desire swelling in that moment, like the sweet, bloody scent that erupts when flowers are crushed, “You belong to me.”

The Archmage closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. He murmured, “Demon Lord, do you know how beautiful you look right now, especially the sky behind your wings, like it’s been burned… falling like your blood.”

Kriesmeier tightened his grip on his throat, forcing the human to consider his demand. Roland struggled to breathe, but a smile appeared on his pale face: “You…” he said slowly and arrogantly, “do you truly think I would lose?”

In that instant, a dangerous shadow lingered at the Demon Lord’s chest. Kriesmeier slowly released his grip. A simple-looking dagger was pressed against his heart, but it was imbued with a scent that made the Abyss Demon shudder. It must have countless radiant runes attached to it. It rested just outside the Demon Lord’s skin; a slight movement would tear through his core.

“People always think mages only have staffs at their side, but truly excellent mages never forget to carry their knives.” Roland’s expression held a hint of madness. He slowly, irrevocably, allowed the blade’s chill to penetrate Kriesmeier’s senses. Both had their weapons at the other’s most vital point; it seemed everything would be destroyed simultaneously.

Roland understood the Abyss Demon’s nature, never believing that emotions higher than instinct could exist within them. But at that moment, he, too, was probably a little dizzy. He and the Demon Lord remained in a long standoff until the rose-colored clouds gradually dissipated in the sky, and then suddenly, rain began to fall, the fine threads of rain in the weary night dampening both their hair.

Standoff with a wild beast in the wilderness—that was probably the feeling. Roland suddenly smiled. He stared into Kriesmeier’s eyes, even more arrogant than the Demon Lord, and whispered, “—Say it, you belong to me.”

The words sounded like revenge. But the next second, he dropped the blade in his hand and, taking advantage of the fleeting confusion in the tyrant’s eyes, leaned close. The demon instinctively reached for his scythe, but the human was faster, grabbing his collar, then, in turn, kissed him from above.

He pressed Kriesmeier into the flowerbed, the kiss sweet, intense, and prolonged. Kriesmeier’s scythe, which was meant to slice through the audacious human’s neck, inexplicably fell to the ground. Although in his territory, the Lord of Lust seemed fond of all things related to desire. He still didn’t understand the meaning of a kiss.

When the human finally looked up, his eyes in the dark night were like a bright wine. “Don’t you understand?” Roland said, “Demon Lord, you’ve fallen in love with me.”

Only at the moment of separation did the demon’s rationality finally resurface. Kriesmeier re-gripped his scythe. The human’s words had undoubtedly shamed the Lord of the Abyss, in a contemptuous way. He had laid bare his desires. He instinctively resisted admitting his strange emotions, the feeling identical to resisting exposing weakness to a human.

Kriesmeier said in a low voice, sounding like a roar: “You…”

“And I found that I love you too,” but the human said gently, his eyes bright. He smiled: “In that regard, we’re a perfect match.”