43: Of Contracts and Trust
“My master. It seems Liz-sama has eliminated two of the three intruders. …One is approaching.”
“Liz… what?”
“I cannot say for certain. Even during combat, Liz-sama almost completely suppresses her magical signature… At this distance…” Samarkand shook his head.
“I see.” I tightened my grip on my staff.
Samarkand, wielding his jet-black scythe, gestured for me to step back.
“Please take cover behind me.”
“Alright…” Samarkand’s broad back obscured most of my vision. Long, black fur. Powerful muscles. My… servant.
My vice-commander… might be… gone.
I put on my mask and activated the voice alteration.
“If Liz is defeated… can you defeat this opponent?”
“I will use all my power to eliminate my master’s enemy, and if that is impossible, I will be your shield. That is all.”
A dull metallic clang echoed through the room. They’d tried to break the lock with a sword and failed.
Of course, they wouldn’t give up so easily. A thud, thud, like an axe striking wood, followed. They were hacking at the door with a sword. Even with strengthening and defensive enchantments, it was still a wooden door. Repeated blows from a similarly enchanted sword would eventually break it down.
“Such unrefined guests. —Reminds me of my younger days.”
“You were a bit more refined, Samarkand. At least you didn’t break down doors.”
Samarkand’s joke eased my tension slightly, and a faint smile returned.
A chunk of wood, what was once part of the door, fell to the floor, revealing the tip of a sword. It retreated, then continued hacking at the door.
It was only a matter of time before it gave way, and that time was fast approaching.
“My master. …As expected of my master. Even her assassin is first-rate.”
“Then I’ll leave this to you. You’re first-rate as well, aren’t you?”
“It would be my honor.” Samarkand turned, his crescent moon eyes meeting mine.
“My master. —Just one word, by the name of our contract. Command me to ‘win.’”
“Yes. By contract and by trust,” I placed my hand over my heart.
“Win.”
A rapid pulse throbbed beneath my hand. Mine, or Samarkand’s? The blood flowing through my veins felt incredibly hot. Exhilaration, excitement. And… joy?
A tremor ran through my entire being.
Samarkand’s eyes glowed red, his muscles bulging further, the tips of his fur fading into the air like wisps of smoke. His short horns twisted and lengthened, solidifying into a grotesque, menacing shape.
Born without origin, without parents. That was why he craved a mark on this world, a connection during his lifetime. That was what it meant to be a demon, he’d said.
The being before me was truly demonic. A grotesque figure worthy of human fear.
And yet… I understood.
I, too, had lost everything.
I, too, craved connection.
Did I understand his feelings because I was demonic enough to be called the Lord of Disease? Or… was it because he was… human?
The door shattered.
The knight, clad in white, gold-trimmed armor, pushed through the wreckage, splintering the remaining wood. Blood streamed from beneath the left slit of his visor, like tears. The moment I realized his armor was also covered in blood, my blood ran cold.
Whose blood was that?
Even as I froze, Samarkand moved. He closed the distance in an instant and swung his scythe horizontally.
The knight blocked the blow with his sword, shattering the scythe’s blade. But Samarkand didn’t stop. He spun the now bladeless shaft, striking the knight’s helmet, sending it flying.
The knight stumbled, about to fall… then a pale green light enveloped him. As he regained his footing, Samarkand’s massive hand, having discarded the scythe’s shaft, closed around his face, helmet and all. The discarded shaft and the shattered blade dissolved into black particles.
The knight thrust his sword, but Samarkand swayed slightly, dodging the blow. He grabbed the knight’s wrist, his grip like a vise. The metal armor groaned under the strain.
The knight’s free fist slammed into Samarkand’s stomach, but the demon didn’t flinch. He chanted,
“[Flame Pillar].”
A pillar of fire erupted from beneath the white knight, engulfing him. Even at this distance, the heat was intense enough to make me gasp. The defensive magic woven into my Lord of Disease attire protected me from being burned.
No, it would have definitely burned me. The air shimmered with heat, and the curtains, the least magically protected item in the room, ignited, bursting into flames. They were consumed in an instant, the ashes drifting onto the carpet. The remaining hooks on the curtain rail swayed slightly, a faint metallic clink echoing through the room.
Smoke rose from the knight’s burning body, filling the room with a horrific stench. …A fleeting hint of something… almost pleasant… mingled with the sickening smell, intensifying my disgust.
The smell of burning flesh—flesh, blood, organs, skin, and hair, all burning together.
Suddenly, the magic lamp on the ceiling cracked and vanished with a pop. The room was eerily illuminated by the blazing pillar of fire and the moonlight streaming through the now curtainless window.
The knight’s struggling fist went limp. It twitched slightly—probably a muscle spasm. He was likely dead.
But Samarkand maintained his grip, the flames still engulfing the knight.
“Samarkand! Stop!” I cried out involuntarily. His right hand, still clutching the knight’s head, was also being burned, the flesh charring and blackening.
“Do not be concerned. —One arm is a small price to pay for this.”
He smiled, a fearless grin. I couldn’t bring myself to scold him.
He was literally putting his body on the line… for me.
“Impressive armor. …Even the leather straps resist the flames?”
Despite the intense heat, which was scorching the walls and ceiling, despite their own defensive enchantments, the white armor remained almost unscathed. Even the non-metallic parts, the leather straps and gloves, were similarly unaffected.
“But flesh and blood cannot withstand it.”
But that was true for Samarkand as well. A chunk of charcoal fell to the floor.
On the carpet, what had once been Samarkand’s fingers crumbled into a pile of ash.
The pillar of fire vanished as abruptly as it had appeared. The sudden loss of light, leaving only the moonlight, plunged the room into near-darkness.
Samarkand’s charred right hand crumbled, and the knight’s body—what was once a knight—slumped to the floor, his wrist still clutched in Samarkand’s grip.
“Cough…”
Samarkand coughed up blood.
A flash of pale green light, and the knight, drawing a dagger from his hip, had plunged it deep into Samarkand’s stomach. He twisted the blade, ripping it sideways, spilling the demon’s entrails.
Then he thrust the dagger upwards, piercing Samarkand’s neck.
Leaving the dagger embedded in his neck, the knight broke Samarkand’s vise-like grip on his wrist, snapping the charred fingers.
Ignoring Samarkand’s collapsing body, the knight tested his sword, swinging it a few times.
He slowly turned to face me.
His white armor was stained with the charred remains of old blood and the fresh blood of Samarkand. The blood that had been flowing from the slit in his visor was now blackened, burned onto his helmet. He looked like a demon from hell.
“So, you’re the Lord of Disease.”
A clear, male voice. A human voice, the first I’d heard in a while.
“…………”
I didn’t answer. He was clearly far more resilient than I’d anticipated, but he’d foolishly turned his back on me.
A pool of blood was rapidly spreading around Samarkand’s body.
But Samarkand wasn’t dead yet. The blood flowing through me, the beating of my heart, was our connection.
He was still alive.
The connection snapped.
“Samarkand?”
A chill, like the sudden loss of a blanket on a winter night, ran through me. I involuntarily looked at Samarkand, whom I’d been trying to avoid looking at.
He wasn’t dead.
Lying in a pool of blood.
Drawing a magic circle on the floor with the blood on his fingers.
Propping himself up slightly, his torso nearly severed.
Tilting his head back, the dagger still embedded in his neck, his gaze meeting mine.
“Even if every drop of blood is gone… you are still my master.”
He smiled.
The corners of his mouth curved upwards.
His crescent moon eyes narrowed.
Like he was looking at something precious.
“Stop! That’s an order!”
“I cannot obey. For this body, every drop of blood, is your shield.”
He’d refused my order for the first time.
That was impossible. Not as long as the blood contract remained. —If it still held, he would obey any order, no matter how foolish.
Ah, right. He had said, hadn’t he? That the blood contract was a curse, and as long as blood flowed through his veins, I had absolute command over him.
Samarkand, who seemed smaller now, pressed his hand against the blood-drawn magic circle. Instantly, the blood on the floor—all the blood that had been within his body—writhed and surged, wrapping around the white knight, constricting him.
Thinking back, the blood loss had been far too rapid. But that didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was that my black goat was now beyond my reach.
That he was about to go somewhere I could never reach him.
“My beloved master. Though our time together was short, serving you… has been my greatest joy.”
“Samarkand…!” I reached out, my voice a choked whisper.
Samarkand clenched his bloodied hand.
“[Blood Grasp].”