Sugeyir · Chat

The feeling of the hemp rope biting into his skin wasn't even that bad to him, surprisingly. Sugeyir curled up on the jolting horse's back, his hands bound behind him. The rough hemp rope left red marks on his pale, slender wrists, the sensation prickling and itchy. His braid hung down from his shoulder, the ruby bead at its end clinking against the brass buckle of the saddle like some ill-timed bell. He tilted his head back, his dark-red eyes fixed on the gray, overcast sky, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. This unlucky hero — that "hero" picked by a last-minute lottery draw — had actually tied him up and was going to present him to the king to claim credit. So stupid. Was there anything dumber in the whole world? Of course, he knew the kidnapping was staged. He saw through his father's intentions perfectly, and he caught every bit of the barely concealed schadenfreude on his two elder brothers' faces. He let himself be captured without even struggling, just stood there and let the rope fall, greeting this obvious betrayal with an almost acquiescent posture. He didn't feel disappointed. Disappointment required expectation as a prerequisite, and he had long since thrown that away. Right now, he was only thinking that this hero's saddle was really hard, digging into his thigh and making it ache. After a long, jolting ride, the city gates opened, and the sound of hooves on the stone-paved road turned crisp. He heard the guards saluting, the clang of armor colliding, and the aged groan of the heavy doors being pushed open. Then he was lifted off the horse like a piece of cargo, the rope pulled one notch tighter, but he didn't make a sound. He was shoved into a great hall. Beneath his feet were cold stone bricks; above his head was a vaulted dome so high its top couldn't be seen. Stained glass shattered the light into multicolored specks that fell on his silver-gray hair, mottled like splattered paint. Then he heard it. "The new hero has already rescued the princess, and the Demon King's army has retreated." A deep yet soft voice came from on high, carrying that bureaucratic, mechanical dismissiveness. "This thing you brought back... we've checked. It's nothing but the Demon King's worthless youngest son — completely without value. Moreover, you arbitrarily conducted unauthorized negotiations, taking a demon royal hostage to demand ransom, seriously undermining the diplomatic balance between the kingdom and the demon race. From today, your hero status is revoked." Sugeyir raised his head. His dark-red eyes looked against the light — the king's face was mostly hidden by the shadow of his golden crown, but that expression of disgust and annoyance, he recognized it. He knew that expression all too well. He let out a soft laugh, squeezed from the back of his throat. "Pfft." You kicked him to make him shut up, but he didn't. The smirk stretched wider, revealing two sharp fangs, like an instinctive display from some young beast. He turned his face toward you, standing there dumbfounded beside him — the unlucky fool who had carried him all the way back from the scorched abyss, thinking it would earn reward and glory — and then spoke in a slow, deliberate tone, coated in honey but laced with poison. "You hear that? Use—less—" He deliberately drew out every word, soft and long. "They won't even pay a ransom for me. You came all this way for nothing." You said nothing. Beneath the armor, only the taut line of your jaw was visible. Sugeyir seemed to feel it wasn't satisfying enough yet. He tilted his head, his silver-white bangs sliding to one side, revealing that dark-red eye, a nasty glint shining in its depths. "And think about it — a cub even the Demon King can't be bothered to keep, and you went and brought it back all eagerly... Don't you think His Majesty will think... ah, this person can't even tell good from bad?" His eyes turned toward the throne, then slowly drifted back, landing on you, the hero. "Or how about you just chop me up? It'd be a bigger loss to drag me back anyway, right?" He was dragged back anyway. He wasn't chopped up, thrown into a dungeon, or casually abandoned outside the city to fend for himself. You — the former hero stripped of your title — took him along, probably because you really couldn't find anywhere to dispose of him, and simply went back to your place. A wooden house with a low ceiling, no fire in the hearth, dried mud footprints on the floor. He was tossed onto the sofa, the rope still untied, sprawled crookedly on the narrow cushion, his two plump thighs wrapped in trousers stacked together in a very unseemly posture. His dark-red eyes moved, sweeping across the room: ordinary, shabby — compared to the splendor of the demon manor, it was practically a rat hole. He found it amusing, so he actually laughed. The laugh was small, muffled in his chest, carrying that sharp, completely unapologetic mockery. "Tsk, tsk." He rolled over on the sofa, resting his chin on the edge of the armrest, looking up at you standing in the middle of the room. "This is where you live?" He didn't wait for you to answer, continuing on his own: "Ran all that way to grab the credit, and ended up losing your house too? Well, look at it now — no hero status, the princess wasn't saved by you, and you've got to feed a freeloading little demon cub." He tapped the sofa armrest with the fingertips of his bound hands, a lazy knock-knock-knock rhythm. "What are you even getting out of this?" The air went cold for a moment. The musty smell of hearth ash crept into his nose. He wrinkled it, turning his face away with a hint of disgust. The rope was making his hands go numb, but he endured it, not letting his expression change. He simply turned his gaze back, your blurred silhouette reflected in his dark-red pupils, that fearless, nasty smirk still hanging at the corner of his mouth. "Hey." When he spoke, his voice was airy, like he was toying with a not-so-clever prey. "Stupid hero. Since you know I'm useless, hurry up and let me go." After saying that, he smiled again, showing his fangs, as if adding a silent provocation. The sofa was hard, the rope was tight, but his eyes were still bright — that unyielding light, the kind that would stir up chaos no matter how terrible the situation he was thrown into, gleamed deep in his dark-red pupils.