“Ugh.” Deroville was bumped, taking two light steps back.
Something soft and warm had wrapped itself around his calf—sticky and annoying. The child’s excited, somewhat shrill voice was particularly piercing, especially in a place like the desert, making it all the more grating.
Deroville lowered his eyes slightly, scanning the child who had suddenly lunged at him with a cold gaze, his eyes flashing with a hint of annoyance at such over-familiar behavior.
“Let go.”
He was a bit tired. The wounds on his back, which had already gone numb, had torn open again under the violent movements, bringing a dull ache. He wasn’t comfortable; even though he had just slaughtered a swarm of sand bandits, his mood wouldn’t brighten. His fingers lightly rubbed the hem of his robe, two fingers pressed together, seemingly ready at any moment to cast a spell and attack the next person.
Celoia felt a bit wronged by the reprimand, and a bit dazed. His hands remained tightly clutched to the hem of Deroville’s robe as he cautiously peeked up at the man’s expression.
He was very alert, his movements small. His eyes narrowed slightly as he peered diagonally upward, trying hard not to let the other see his true intent.
Celoia even felt a bit proud of himself, thinking his disguise was quite good. If he hadn’t been intimidated by Deroville’s icy gaze, he certainly would have wiggled his toes and tried a few soft, sycophantic words.
He silently pleaded with his eyes.
Deroville narrowed his eyes, feeling inexplicably uncomfortable under the stare. He jerked his leg back and lowered his voice: “If you don’t let go, I’m making a move.”
Celoia let go without hesitation. He moved so fast that he fell backward. Combined with the weakness in his limbs from being tied up, he wobbled a few times and landed flat on his butt on the sand.
A bolt of magic that Deroville had casually flicked out missed him by a hair’s breadth.
The magic slammed deep into the earth, kicking up a cloud of dust. A distinct shwoosh could be heard—one could only imagine the scene if it had hit a person.
Deroville frowned, looking down at Celoia. Celoia looked back up at him with innocent eyes.
A truly witless, pitiful look; he deserved to be caught, Deroville evaluated coldly. His lips curled slightly in a mocking sneer as he dropped a single, chilly word.
“Stupid.”
With that, he turned to leave, seemingly intending to abandon Celoia right there and ignore him.
Celoia’s eyes widened instantly. The pitiful, “make-your-heart-soft” posture he had been faking to avoid punishment crumbled. He pressed his hands into the sand, sprang up, and followed closely behind Deroville, muttering.
“Wait for me, wait— Thump.”
Deroville stopped abruptly and turned his head back. Celoia, failing to react in time, couldn’t stop his momentum and slammed right into Deroville, his head throbbing with pain.
He let out a low whimper and looked up, complaining with a hint of grievance: “You didn’t tell me you were going to stop. My head hurts now.”
Deroville found it somewhat absurd. He stared at Celoia, unable to understand how this child could speak to him so naturally and shamelessly. He tilted his chin slightly and pointed Celoia toward a different path, speaking succinctly.
“That way leads back to the Human Realm. Get lost.”
He considered this to be the extent of his limited patience—not killing the child on the spot was already a mercy.
After all, in the few days since he’d come to the Demon Realm, he hadn’t exactly been a stranger to murder and arson. The corpses of the sand bandits lying nearby were proof enough.
Celoia, however, looked around in surprise, then pointed at himself with a face full of bewildered helplessness. “Are you talking to me?”
Is this person an idiot? Deroville hadn’t felt this “too-speechless-to-even-laugh” sensation in a long time. He glanced at Celoia lazily and sneered, “I’m talking to whoever answers me.”
Celoia dazed for a moment. He focused his gaze on Deroville. As the crisis of near-death faded, the sense of familiarity also began to slip away; the person before him was slowly becoming different from the one in his memory.
Not Deroville, he thought secretly. Did I mistake him for someone else?
But the person before him was exceptionally familiar. Celoia compared them carefully; he was just a bit thinner than Deroville, a bit shorter, and a bit more… childish.
Thinking of this, Celoia wrinkled his face with a hint of distaste. His whole posture slumped. The adult Deroville was occasionally childish and loved to tease him—could this person be even worse?
Despite not understanding exactly what had happened, Celoia reached an answer easily: he had gone back to the past, and the one standing before him was the teenage version of Deroville.
Deroville was reaching the end of his patience. He hooked his finger, and Celoia suddenly felt his neck tighten. His collar was yanked up, and he was hoisted into the air, dangling. With all four limbs unable to touch the ground, he could only flail awkwardly, kicking wildly in the air.
“Hurry… hurry up and put me down,” Celoia said, putting on a pitifully wronged expression and surrendering decisively. “I’m afraid of heights! If I stand somewhere high, I want to throw up, and then I’ll throw up all over you.”
Deroville frowned, but he didn’t put him down as Celoia expected. Instead, he gripped tighter and warned flatly: “If you dare throw up, I’ll finish you off.”
Celoia shut his mouth immediately. He felt that this teenage Deroville was much harder to deal with—the Great Demon King was usually so gentle.
Near tears, he tried to flip himself over in that position, eventually wrapping his arms around Deroville’s arm and hooking his legs around it as well.
Deroville felt his arm grow heavy as an entire Celoia latched onto him. He couldn’t help but fall into deep thought.
Is this child a turtle spirit?
He casually peeled Celoia off of him, determined to rid himself of this mysterious person.
Fragile, ignorant—taking him along would be nothing but trouble.
Deroville never made a losing trade.
Celoia had no idea what Deroville was thinking. After steadying his body, he very actively tried to sell himself: “Look at me! A world-class cute kid is standing right in front of you. Don’t you feel even a tiny bit tempted?”
He puffed out his small chest with effort, then reached out a hand to try and hold the other’s hand.
Deroville gazed at him with a subtle expression, wondering where the boy’s confidence came from. He leaned down, picked up the weapons scattered on the ground, weighed them casually in his palm, and then tossed them diagonally backward. The weapons flew with perfect accuracy, landing squarely in Celoia’s palms.
His palms suddenly grew heavy.
Celoia’s body tipped forward, and he stumbled to his knees, his head burying into the sand. He got a mouthful of grit, spitting it out with a series of ptui-ptui-ptuis. Yet, his hands remained tightly gripped around the weapons, trying with all his might to pull the sand-embedded steel out.
Deroville watched him work with amusement, asking airily, “Mm. So this is the ‘useful’ part you mentioned? I can’t deny that you are indeed cute in your stupidity, but cuteness can’t put food on the table here.”
Celoia pulled and tugged for a long time but couldn’t budge them. Instead, he broke into a heavy sweat, his hands and feet growing weak. Seeing that success was impossible, he gave up trying. He sat on the ground with a sigh of relief, wiping the sweat off his face with his dirty little hands—instantly turning into a “painted-face” cat.
“Who says cuteness can’t put food on the table?” Celoia argued solemnly. He wagged a finger at Deroville and said, “Look, I can rely on my cuteness to cling to your leg. You’re so powerful, you won’t miss a single mouthful of food for me. Then I’ll act cute for you, and your mood will be better every day you look at me. We both get what we need, and my meals are guaranteed.”
Deroville was curious: “Why do you think I would keep you?”
Because you’re lonely, and you have a soft heart. Celoia almost blurted it out, but he swallowed the words back. He clasped his hands over his chest and bowed to Deroville, whined and acted spoiled: “Please? Pretty please? I’ll be very good. Maybe one day you’ll even have a use for me.”
A flash appeared in Deroville’s eyes. He seemed to think of something, and his voice of refusal became hesitant. He squinted as he sized Celoia up, revealing a faint smile. He murmured softly, “If used for that matter…”
Celoia stared at him expectantly, and then he was scooped up. A familiar scent mixed with the smell of blood washed over him, making him wrinkle his nose. He couldn’t help but stick out his tongue.
He asked softly, “Are you hurt?”
Deroville didn’t seem to care. Holding Celoia with one hand, he walked into a nearby open tent and casually picked up several items, including water skins and a bulging coin pouch. Only then did he answer leisurely, “It’s nothing, just a minor wound.”
Celoia looked on greedily. He couldn’t help but reach out to touch them, making a bold request despite having no leverage: “I want a coin pouch too.”
Deroville didn’t speak, letting out a light “Hmph” from his nose. Celoia thought he’d been rejected and let out a dejected moan. But the next second, a blur appeared before his eyes, and the largest coin pouch was tossed into his lap, pressing heavily against his chest. He looked up at Deroville, only to find himself looking into eyes filled with a teasing light.
The man laughed: “You’re living off my charity, so why are you more self-righteous than me? Greedy and insatiable… you’re a bit much, little kid.”
Celoia hugged the pouch tight, puffing out his cheeks, and suddenly spoke in a muffled tone.
Calling me greedy, but you gave it to me anyway.
Where did all these bad habits of his come from? Weren’t they all pampered into existence by Deroville? And now, the man himself remembered nothing.
Bad Deroville! Mean!
This outing had easily solved Deroville’s food and water issues for the next few days, and he’d brought back a “little trouble” as a bonus.
The bonfire continued to burn brightly. Silence surrounded them; those sand bandits who loved midnight ambushes had all vanished without a trace, as if they all knew the person here was not to be trifled with and were intentionally hiding.
Yet, despite being the feared Deroville, there were still people he couldn’t handle.
He glanced helplessly at the person who, while sleeping, had crawled back into his lap. With a blank expression, he pushed the boy off his legs again.
Celoia was sleeping deeply. Even after being pushed and rolling away, he didn’t wake up. His limbs were spread out, belly up, sleeping quite peacefully. His mouth was slightly open, and occasionally he would raise a hand to touch his nose or cheek, mumbling a few words, turning over, and continuing to sleep.
Originally, the fur cloak had been laid out beneath them. After Celoia rolled around a few times, it was now wrapped around him in a tangled mess that couldn’t be pulled away. Deroville was only a light sleeper; when his warmth was suddenly gone, he woke up. He stood up, his head still a bit dizzy, and looked down at Celoia. He felt a long-lost urge to wake the boy up just to annoy him.
He felt a momentary pang of regret. Even for his future plans, there was absolutely no need to prepare a child by his side this early. It was nothing but trouble.
He took a deep breath.
A cold wind blew by. Celoia began to shiver. When the source of warmth beside him left, he reached out his hands, searching everywhere. When he couldn’t feel anyone, a surge of anxiety woke him from his dream.
He sluggishly raised a hand to rub his eyes, sniffled, and began searching for the person before he was even fully awake.
Deroville watched coldly for a moment before suddenly speaking: “I’m over here. Stop looking blindly.”
Celoia looked toward the sound and saw Deroville standing nearby, fully dressed and arms crossed.
He let out a tired yawn and asked, “Dero, why aren’t you sleeping so late at night?”
Deroville almost laughed out loud. He softly repeated the words: “Yes, I’d also very much like to know why I can’t sleep so late at night.”
He hinted: “My little friend, don’t you feel like you have something extra on you? Wrapped in so many layers, don’t you feel hot?”
Celoia gave a light “Ah,” touched the cloak on him, and silently widened his eyes. “So many! Dero, don’t you want it?”
Deroville leaned down and started casually pulling at the blankets on Celoia. As he pulled, he said, “I’d like to, but I have to be able to actually pull it away. You really sleep like a little pig—couldn’t wake you by calling, couldn’t wake you by pushing. Your sleep quality is truly excellent.”
At this point, his voice trailed off. He stared at Celoia’s pink, sleepy face for a moment before adding:
“I don’t want to know your name, and I don’t need to. But since you love sleeping so much, I’ll just call you Mianmian (Sleepy).”
Celoia’s eyes rounded as he protested in anger.
“I don’t want that name!”
Deroville rubbed his chin and said hesitantly, “So you want to be called ‘Little Pig’? Actually, that’s not impossible.”
Celoia buried his head in the blanket and screamed Aaaaah for a while, then popped his head out again. His gaze was resentful, clearly still dissatisfied with Deroville. But after a moment, he became bashful again. He tilted his chin up reluctantly and said:
“Then… then you can call me Mianmian. Since you gave me the name, I… I actually quite like it.”
The words Deroville was about to say to change the name got stuck at his lips. He looked at Celoia in surprise, seemingly not expecting him to accept the name so easily. But since Celoia had agreed, there was no need to say more, so he simply nodded.
After this commotion, Celoia was completely awake. Children have high energy; once awake, it’s not easy to go back to sleep. He untied the fur cloak, struggled up from the ground, and huddled by the bonfire, his entire face illuminated red by the flames.
“What should I call you?” Celoia asked, pretending not to care. His tone was casual, as if it were just a follow-up to the naming topic, but in reality, his ears were perked up and his heart was thumping wildly.
Deroville hesitated for a rare moment. He looked up at the blood moon in the sky, a flash of confusion appearing in his eyes. He murmured, “My name… my… you can call me Dero.” He finally told Celoia this name.
Celoia couldn’t help but let the corners of his mouth turn up, his eyes jumping with joy. He sidled affectionately up to Deroville and asked excitedly, “Dero, where are we going next? Is your destination the center of the Demon Realm?”
Deroville poked at the firewood and gave a flat “Mm.”
Celoia became inexplicably excited. He thought about the heroic tales he’d heard from Celine about Deroville slaying demons, and his eyes lit up. He clenched his fists. Could it be… could it be that I’m participating in this adventure too? It would be wonderful if he could see the moment Deroville took the throne as Demon King. Without a doubt, Deroville must have been incredibly handsome then.
He caught the faint scent of blood in the air again. Celoia sniffled, feeling a tickle at the tip of his nose. He looked up curiously, trying to find the source of the smell, and happened to see it.
A drop of blood fell down the man’s back, silently soaking into the sand.
Celoia’s eyes widened, and he stood up abruptly. His instinct was to lunge toward Deroville, but he stopped immediately before reaching him. He switched to walking over cautiously, terrified of touching the wound and causing secondary trauma or more bleeding.
A wound like that must hurt so much, Celoia thought with a heavy heart.
He gently touched Deroville’s face. Deroville turned his head casually to look at him, his tone still calm: “What is it, Mianmian? What are you trying to do now?”
Celoia licked his lips and gritted his teeth. He stared into Deroville’s eyes and asked softly and slowly, “Your back is bleeding. Does it need to be treated?”
Deroville dazed for a moment, and then his gaze suddenly turned cold. He instinctively grabbed a cloak from nearby to cover his back, stood up, and took two steps back to distance himself from Celoia. He answered stiffly: “Thank you for your concern, but it’s nothing major, and there is no need to treat it.”
“But it’s bleeding constantly.” Celoia looked up at Deroville, his tone persistent. For some reason, he just couldn’t stand seeing the other bleed. The image of the full bottle of blood Caesar had brought out flashed before his eyes.
He didn’t dare think about how much blood Deroville must have lost back then for so many bottles of his blood to be circulating in the Demon Realm.
Deroville frowned. He reminded him: “We’ve known each other for less than a day. I don’t think you have the right to tell me what to do.”
“Especially not this self-righteous ‘concern’ of yours.”
Celoia pursed his lips and didn’t speak. It was true; Celine hadn’t mentioned much about Deroville’s situation back then when they chatted—perhaps she thought he was too young, and plus, everything was in the past.
But he was unwilling to back down. He just tilted his head up and stared at Deroville stubbornly, refusing to yield.
Deroville felt a strange sense of awkwardness. The numb wound on his back seemed to ache again, identical to how it felt when he was first punished. He couldn’t help but say in a low voice: “Don’t pity me.”
the wound tore open again rapidly. More blood slid down his back, seeping into the sand. Deroville narrowed his eyes and couldn’t help but let out a muffled groan. Sweat broke out across his forehead. His internal energy was being rapidly depleted. He could barely stand, so he sat down, hands on his knees, closing his eyes to recover.
But even so, he still wouldn’t allow Celoia to approach, even giving a flat warning: “If you truly feel bad for me, then try your best to forget this matter. That is what’s best for both you and me.”
Celoia was frantic with worry, but he didn’t dare defy him at this moment. He could only stand there, anxious.
He puffed out his cheeks, feeling as though his own body had begun to hurt. He tried hard to keep the tears from his eyes, but his voice was still raspy and choked: “Why? Why does it suddenly feel worse? Just a moment ago it was only a little bit of blood.”
Deroville remained silent. He felt it—those few pairs of rotting wings were still unwilling to give up any chance of survival. Even though the roots were destroyed, they were still trying to drain energy, wanting to grow again.
Dense demonic energy and the remnants of Holy Water began their struggle once more within this body of flesh and blood. The familiar, searing pain made him frown.
He took a shallow breath, intending to endure it as usual. But the wings inside seemed to have been provoked by something; they refused to stay dormant like they normally did, insisting on a fight to the death.
A sizzling sound, like roasting meat, came from his back.
Celoia squatted piteously by the fire, staying quietly with Deroville. Hearing that sound, he looked terrified. His panicked expression almost made Deroville want to laugh.
He comforted Celoia in a warm voice: “There’s no need to make that face. I’ve been through this many times. It hurts for a bit at most; it won’t kill me.”
There was one sentence he didn’t say.
Except today seems more serious than ever. The pain is exceptionally abnormal.
He slowly cleared his thoughts, pondering the reason for this anomaly. His routine was exactly the same as before—he hadn’t overused his power, nor had he come into contact with high-density demonic energy.
The only difference was… Deroville’s gaze shifted to Celoia. He happened to meet the boy’s watery eyes, which were filled with pure concern and love.
Concern? Love?
Deroville dazed for a moment in a stupor, unable to understand why Celoia would develop such strong feelings for him so quickly.
But he still reminded him instinctively, in an exceptionally cold voice.
“Don’t look at me like that. You are not allowed to care for me, and you absolutely must not love me…”
Because it would cause him injury.