The Rusty Katana and the Demon Lord’s Act

The sky was a canvas of clear blue. A gentle, refreshing breeze swept through the air.

Roland felt as though he had awakened from a profoundly satisfying dream. In it, he wielded a holy sword, effortlessly slaughtering the Demon Race’s seventy-two Demon Generals as if they were mere vegetables. Afterward, he ascended to the Demon Lord’s throne, commanding the Demon Lord to massage his shoulders and back.

Well, it was *just* a shoulder and back massage.

Stretching languidly like a cat, he arched his back and rotated his neck, loosening his muscles. His morning ritual was complete.

He recalled the pitiful sight of the little Demon Lord from the previous night. It was truly difficult to bring himself to harm her.

Hadn’t she originally been male? How could she possibly make such an expression…

Could other aspects of her also slowly change after transforming into a woman?

He admitted to himself that his mouth had been rather crude at the time. Even after all she had endured, his first words to her were still utterly worthless.

Pondering this, he felt an inexplicable sense of indebtedness toward her.

No, no, that wouldn’t do. He simply had to compensate her somehow.

‘Right, a vampire, was it?’ The Hero would remember this; he would avenge her in the future.

Following the familiar aroma of cooking, Roland entered the kitchen. There, he saw his nominal wife, Freya, carrying dishes to the table.

Since he had forbidden her from cooking last time, she had obediently refrained from preparing her ‘dark cuisine’. Today’s meal had been prepared by old Jenny.

The meal consisted of Lanxi Flower Soup, scrambled eggs with red tomatoes, and the leftover black bread from the previous day.

Regrettably, there wasn’t much meat, a clear sign they were not a wealthy family.

“Let’s eat,” Freya announced, meticulously setting out everyone’s bowls and chopsticks. She then turned to wash the pot, a task she now approached with extreme caution, ever since accidentally damaging one previously.

Roland settled onto the old wooden bench, clutching a piece of leftover black bread in one hand. His eyes, however, were fixed intently on the bustling Freya, his mind awash with a myriad of thoughts.

‘Her acting was no longer merely superb; it was utterly flawless, a natural masterpiece.’

‘Hadn’t she been heartbroken last night? Yet today, she appeared perfectly normal, with the words ‘virtuous wife and kind mother’ practically glowing above her head!’

‘Ah, no, not ‘kind mother’.’

‘She hadn’t yet fulfilled a wife’s most crucial duty, after all.’

‘Still, she truly was qualified. If only she weren’t acting, how wonderful that would be.’

‘To kill him, was it truly necessary to go to such lengths?’

For some reason, Roland found the food utterly tasteless.

“Freya, why did you return so late last night?” old Jenny finally burst out, unable to contain herself. “Did something happen?”

“I forgot to complete the paperwork, and a clerk confiscated the bag of goods,” Freya explained to old Jenny, her face etched with apology. “I tried to reason with them, but they wouldn’t budge. I’m so sorry…”

It was a rather flimsy excuse, yet it was enough to reassure old Jenny. Her greatest fear had been that Freya was in danger, and a persistent unease had settled in her heart.

“That bag wasn’t worth much anyway, so it’s fine if it’s gone,” old Jenny said, her expression relieved that Freya was safe. “Let’s eat first. Afterward, you can accompany Roland on his trip; he’s heading to the Elvin Front today.”

“Ah, we’re going out today?” Freya asked, a hint of surprise in her voice. She frowned, glancing down at the torn hem of her skirt, which revealed a glimpse of her upper thigh. “In that case, let’s wait a bit after eating. I need to mend this.”

“Let Roland help you,” old Jenny suggested, winking at her son. “He’s quite skilled with needlework.”

“Him?” Freya narrowed her eyes, regarding him with a touch of suspicion.

“Yes, I’ll do it.”

****

In truth, Roland was indeed quite adept at needlework. Such simple skills were essential for commoners, though certainly not something the pampered Demon Lord would have ever practiced.

Roland carefully threaded the fine cotton through the needle’s eye and tied a small knot. With one hand, he held down the hem of Freya’s skirt, while the other skillfully guided the needle and thread through the torn fabric.

The dress was made from Green Village’s blue hemp, a common plant that produced extremely coarse fabric, uncomfortable against the skin. This patched-up long skirt had originally belonged to old Jenny, who had given it to Freya after her arrival.

Though his fingers registered the rough texture of the fabric, he could also faintly perceive the softness and delicacy of her thigh beneath.

‘The little Demon Lord, unaccustomed to hardship, must suffer greatly wearing this every day.’

As Roland thought this, his hands continued their work, while his eyes subtly darted toward the little Demon Lord.

She wasn’t looking at him; instead, one hand propped her head against the bedframe, while the other rested idly on her hip. Her eyes gazed absently out the window, lost in thought.

“Finished,” Roland announced, feeling quite satisfied with his handiwork.

“Thank you,” Freya said, reaching out to touch the mend. The cotton thread was neatly stitched and remarkably sturdy.

“What exactly happened yesterday?” Roland asked, putting away the needle and thread. He sat beside Freya, then, after a moment’s hesitation, leaned in a little closer.

“Yesterday… it was just as I said at the dinner table,” Freya replied dismissively. “What else could have happened? Did a bandit appear and ‘do that’ to me?”

Roland hesitated, pondering what a good man should do in such a situation. He then reached out and gently placed an arm around Freya’s shoulders.

Freya stiffened, trembling as if struck by lightning, a fleeting expression of disgust crossing her face. Yet, she did not pull away.

After another moment of thought, she formulated a more elaborate answer: “The clerk who collected my wool tried to take advantage of me. When I resisted, he hit me, and then I ran away.”

‘No vampire then.’ ‘It seemed her story was half-truths, half-lies.’

Seeing that she didn’t wish to elaborate, Roland didn’t press further. Instead, he offered a gentle reassurance: “I’ll remember that. Next time, I’ll teach that fellow a good lesson for you.”

“You… *cough*, with your current strength, I’m afraid you wouldn’t be able to,” Freya said, forcefully stifling an instinctive scoff. She then adopted a sorrowful expression. “It’s better if you don’t go. Your safety is most important; I’ll be fine.”

To complete her act, she discreetly pinched her waist, forcing a glimmer of tears into the corners of her eyes.

Roland found her expression almost unbearable, and a profound sense of guilt welled up within him. It was the guilt of a husband whose wife had been wronged, yet he was powerless to help.

“Oh, right…” Freya said, pulling a small red pill from her bosom. “This is a magic pill I’ve been refining these past few days, using the alchemy methods I recall. It can greatly increase your magical power. If you take it now…” Freya tilted her head, considering. “It should boost your level quite a bit.”

“A small pill?” Roland took it, examining it from all angles. ‘He wondered if it was poisoned, deciding to have the Philosopher’s Stone inspect it later.’ “Alright, I’ll take it later,” he said aloud.

“It’s not poisoned,” Freya insisted, her wide eyes brimming with unshed tears as she gazed at him. “Don’t you trust me?”

‘I somewhat don’t trust you… After all, you ultimately want to kill me.’

Roland forced a smile, feeling a distinct awkwardness holding the object in his hand.

[Eat it. It will benefit you,] the Philosopher’s Stone’s voice resonated in his mind.

“I trust you,” Roland said, his words imbued with a subtle meaning, as he placed the small pill into his mouth.

The pill dissolved instantly upon entering his mouth, and a faint, metallic taste spread through his stomach.

‘What a strange thing…’

Freya smiled, casting a satisfied glance at Roland, then rose to her feet. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go see the Elvin Front.”

****

“You two want to buy weapons?” Linus asked, casting a suspicious glance at the young couple before him. “With those scrawny arms and legs, you couldn’t even swing a hammer! What would you buy weapons for? Go on, go home.”

“Uncle, I can’t use heavy weapons,” Roland replied, “but perhaps we could buy something more ordinary?” He surveyed the array of weapons displayed on the shop walls: warrior shields, maces, great hammers, and two-handed swords, alongside assassin daggers and short swords—a vast collection. “Do you have any swords?”

“Swords?” Linus paused his hammering. “How much money do you have?”

“Around thirty copper coins.”

“You can’t afford one,” Linus stated, resuming his rhythmic hammering. “Go home.”

“Are there truly no cheaper options?” Roland asked, clinging to a sliver of hope.

Linus chuckled, then plunged the hot metal blank he was working on into the quenching liquid. A hissing sound erupted as steam billowed upwards.

Once the quenching was complete, he looked up, surprised to find the two still standing idly by the doorway.

“With that amount of money, you won’t get anything good,” Linus said, shaking his head. He turned and went to the back of the shop, returning a moment later with a rusty katana in hand. “Here, take this. Twenty copper coins. Take it or leave it.”

‘This… a rusty katana. It’s truly a bit shabby.’

Roland hesitated for a moment, then paid for it.

Witnessing the foolish Hero’s predicament, Freya couldn’t suppress a laugh. She quickly covered her mouth after the sound escaped, but the mirth in her expression remained undeniable.

“Just laugh if you want to; don’t hold it in,” Roland said. He lightly swung the weapon, a distinct feeling that it might snap at any moment unsettling him.

“Hahaha…” Freya laughed, bending over with mirth, and it took her a while to compose herself. “The Hero is actually using a broken knife as a weapon! You don’t look like you’re going on an adventure; you look like you’re going begging, hahaha…”

[It is indeed quite shabby,] the Philosopher’s Stone’s voice resonated in his mind. [However, it’s fine. You can envelop the blade with magic. This way, the weapon won’t break until your magic is depleted.]

‘Magic envelopment? Can I do that now?’

[You can,] the Philosopher’s Stone affirmed. [Did you forget what you just ate? That was an essence refined from a vampire’s heart’s blood. Consuming it greatly increases your magical power. Your current level… is already LV17.]

‘Then why don’t I feel anything at all?’

[Fool, you haven’t even used your magic yet, so how could you feel the difference? Quickly, try enveloping the blade with magic!]

Following the Philosopher’s Stone’s instructions, Roland began to visualize his magic encasing the blade. Slowly, a faint yellow glow emanated from the katana.

Freya froze, staring at the yellow light, a flicker of fear and disgust appearing in her eyes.

‘It was this holy light that allowed human weapons to inflict special damage upon the Demon Race…’

‘Hmph, had the foolish Hero finally recalled something? It seemed increasing the Hero’s strength was a necessary step in her plan after all.’

Roland found a random stone and swung the katana at it.

The blade rebounded, yet it left a deep gash in the stone.

He checked his status, noting that a sliver of his MP had been consumed.

“I see,” Roland murmured, tucking the katana into his waistband. Mentally, he asked the Philosopher’s Stone, ‘What should I do next?’

[Have that Demon Lord take you to Loran Forest and see if you can find some goblins to practice on,] the Philosopher’s Stone instructed. [Don’t forget to pick up quests nearby first; goblin ears and hand bones are common objectives.]

Roland silently nodded his agreement. He glanced at Freya, who stood beside him with her hands clasped behind her back, watching him with a docile expression, and felt a strange pang of sympathy.

‘Forget it. To think you can act so well…’

“Um… my dear…” Roland said, taking her hand and striving for a gentle tone. “Let’s go to Loran Forest together and vent some frustration on those little goblins.”

Freya’s face stiffened as the Hero took her hand, and a faint, embarrassed blush bloomed on her beautiful cheeks.

‘Filthy, so utterly filthy!’

‘The foolish Hero’s hand is all sweaty. Couldn’t he wipe it before holding hers?’

‘She truly wondered which idiotic woman would ever fall for him!’

‘Idiot!’

‘Pervert!’

‘She hated him the most!’