Demonic Conqueror: Heroic Valor - Chapter 28.1, 28.2

No one liked being blamed for something that wasn't their fault. When a person refused to take responsibility for their own actions, then tried passing the back to you? Infuriating, to put it mildly.

So when Simon snapped out of his dissociative episode, left with his Demonic arm fully on display, claws dripping with the blood of a savaged nobleman...

He couldn't help but feel that he was passing the buck to himself.

Time seemed to freeze as he soaked in the moment. Piers Helmund had been caught off-guard, his throat torn out in one swift motion, neither him nor his guards having expected Simon's abrupt burst of speed. Realization was just beginning to dawn on their faces. Within seconds, the entire tavern would be aware of what had transpired.

This was...perhaps...a tad rash of me.

Simon was no stranger to high-risk, high-reward. He certainly hadn't reached Level 25 in three weeks by taking things at a gentle pace. However, attacking royalty in broad daylight wasn't just risky – it was tantamount to suicide. There weren't many ways that he survived the next ten seconds.

He wished he could be angry. Wished he had someone else to blame for this turn of events. Unfortunately, while he could feel like an outside observer when hyper-compartmentalizing, the transmigrator knew better than to treat it as a literal split personality.

In the end, it was still him. He'd made this choice willingly.

And even if it had been some form of split personality, Simon would've agreed with its decision regardless. What he'd seen...what he'd felt...

What he'd been made to remember...

So be it. Simon assessed the situation, noted the repercussions that would arise – and accepted them. Whatever the consequences were, he would bear them wholeheartedly.

Because Piers couldn't be allowed to return to the 'playthings' he'd hidden in the Sanctuary Grove.

Even one more day of letting him continue would have been an unconscionable sin.

Time unfroze. Blood gushed like a fountain from Piers' ruined neck. A screech rang out – someone in the corner of the tavern noticing the Fell creature in their midst.

Simon didn't bother Shapeshifting his arm to human form. They'd seen everything; no putting this genie back in the bottle.

Escaping with his skin intact was a far more pressing concern. The soldiers hadn't attacked him yet, stunned into inaction by his Demonic limb and the sudden ambush on their liege lord, but their confusion would only last a moment. Simon willed his body to move–

Then gripped the nearest table for support as his legs almost failed him.

The aftershocks of hyper-compartmentalization slammed into him like a tidal wave. An influx of sensations flooding his mind, absence replaced by substance. There was tingling skin and pumping blood and emotions that he couldn't pretend weren't his own.

Alert: 52 damage incurred!

Simon saw the system notification before he felt the sword sticking out of his gut.

A guard had rushed forward to stab him. Just one guard, braver or more foolish than the rest, who hadn't hesitated when faced with the first Demon to grace the Severed Isles in decades.

The dam broke. Spurred onwards by their comrade's act of valor, Piers' nine remaining guardsmen fell upon Simon with a maelstrom of blades. Most of them were terrified even as they struck, but that didn't make the bite of their steel cut any less deep.

Alert: 34 damage incurred!

Alert: 21 damage incurred!

Alert: 47 damage incurred!

He couldn't move. His body hadn't recovered yet from his least-favorite coping mechanism, and these new injuries...weren't helping.

Alert: 42 damage incurred!

Alert: 33 damage incurred!

Alert: 59 damage incurred!

The soldiers had surrounded him. Nowhere to run, even as his legs finally regained their strength.

Alert: 26 damage incurred!

Alert: 37 damage incurred!

Alert: 20 damage incurred!

Simon blinked with surprise as the assault came to an abrupt end.

Piers' retinue had backed off. Half of them were moving to tend to the nobleman's wounds. The other half were staring straight at the Demonic transmigrator, their gazes burning with overflowing relief – and something resembling anticipation.

What? Why did they...

Oh.

Laughter filled the tavern.

It wasn't a laugh of mockery. Rather, it was the kind that belonged to someone who'd realized a joke before anyone else – who was inviting everyone to partake in a moment of joyful absurdity.

To the soldiers, it may as well have been the sounding of a funeral bell. Those who'd gone to assist Piers went shock-still, slowly turning back around, their faces stricken with dread. The nobleman himself was aghast, barely caring about the blood flowing from his throat. Even the local tavern-goers were starting to look like they'd been trapped in a waking nightmare.

Simon met them all with a wide grin. His laughter subsided to giggles; a fading hurrah of mirth as he committed the dozens of petrified expressions to memory.

They thought I was already dead.

How couldn't they? Simon had been turned into a human pincushion. Heart, lungs, liver, face, gut, spinal cord – the ten soldiers had struck true again and again, one blow from each of them. Then they'd backed away before he could retaliate with his dying breath, believing the monster to be slain.

A logical assumption. His body was a mutilated mess. It was easier to count the vital organs that hadn't been skewered. Some of the guards' swords were still lodged inside him. Half of his right cheek was missing, the teeth exposed to empty air. While he hadn't keeled over yet, any reasonable person would've measured his life expectancy in mere seconds at best.

And none of it mattered, because he was a transmigrator.

HP: 19 / 390

As long as that little number on his Character Sheet hadn't reached 0, he was alive.

Simon drew himself up. Keeping his balance felt wonky, considering the multiple blades sticking out of his torso, but he managed. Body mangled, blood dribbling from his lips, he opened his mouth to speak.

"Is that all?"

His voice came out raspy and harsh – a consequence of his vocal chords being nicked by a sword. The soldiers stepped back, many of them scrambling in their haste to get away.

Only one person in the room appeared unimpressed. Piers Helmund was glaring hatefully at Simon, as if the Demon's resilience was an affront to his senses. He stood up, his finely-tailored shirt utterly drenched in red, then angrily hurled his seat into a wall, shattering it to splinters.

Outwardly, the transmigrator showed no concern. Inwardly, he was...less than pleased. I ripped out most of his throat, and he doesn't even have the good graces to die? To fall unconscious? To look as if I'd done worse than spill wine on his favorite shirt?

Killing Piers would've at least been a palatable consolation prize. A feather for Simon to put in his cap before oblivion took him. Not the conclusion he'd wished for his Valtian voyage, not remotely, but something. If he didn't even manage that, then...

It can't have all been for nothing.

Simon rapidly made plans. Each one ended in his demise – a small price to pay when he was dead anyway, and a fair trade for thinning the Helmund gene pool. If Piers wasn't going to take him seriously, then the transmigrator still had one opening left to exploit. Let's see you ignore a full-on decapitation.

The nobleman yelled a furious proclamation. It came out more like a wet gurgle, but his intent was made clear nonetheless. A surge of luminous mana engulfed his body, the wound on his neck healing partially–

Yet not completely.

Piers Helmund, son of Duke Helmund, scion of the Severed Isles...froze. His eyes bulged with stupefaction as he touched his still-ravaged throat. The arrogance fled his body in an instant, replaced with rising panic and the impression that something had gone terribly wrong.

Another surge of mana swelled within him. This time, the wound didn't heal at all, staying exactly as it was: torn ribbons of flesh from where blood gushed freely.

That was when Simon felt it. A chance to thread the needle. An inflection point in history.

A moment of opportunity that, if he let slip by, would never come again.

Projecting an aura of amusement, the transmigrator grabbed hold of a sword – the one piercing his heart. He pulled it loose with a nauseating splorch, the sound echoing loudly within the tavern walls. Droplets of crimson scattered across the floor as he tossed it aside.

At the same time, he took his claws and ran them down his face, royal blood smearing his forehead and left cheek. Red lines adorned him like war paint, a trophy taken from that which was believed to be untouchable.

He hunched forward. His spine arched, resembling a hungry, ravenous carnivore who'd spotted helpless prey. Silver claws tensed and twitched, brimming with energy, eager to greet tender, pliable flesh once more.

Yet his face was most striking of all. Twisted. Deranged. A poorly-constructed facade of humanity, slipping away to reveal the feral beast underneath.

With blackened Fell mana gathering around his right arm, and with his shorn-off cheek openly displaying his inner teeth, the Demon smiled and took a single step closer.

Piers ran.

With a ridiculous burst of speed, so swift that Simon could barely keep track of him, the Helmund scion leapt backwards and sprinted to the closest wall. He smashed through the tavern's reinforced wood as if it were paper, creating a hole large enough for him to escape–

Which he promptly did, jumping outside in a flash. The entire process happened so quickly that it was legitimately faster than if he'd simply used the front door.

Monster. Simon couldn't think of him as anything less – and not just because of what he'd witnessed during Sin Scry. Despite receiving an injury that would have felled any normal man, Piers Helmund hadn't seemed close to death.

If anything, before realizing that his healing magic wasn't working, he'd treated the grievous wound as a minor inconvenience. Even when his healing partially failed, he'd still had the strength to move like the wind and effortlessly break down a sturdy wall, exhibiting mana and power far beyond mortal limits.

There was no comparison between the two of them. Simon would have easily lost a duel at full HP. In his current state? The nobleman would've only needed to flick the transmigrator's forehead and be done with it.

But that wasn't what Piers had seen.

He'd seen a Demon shrug off numerous fatal stab wounds – a Demon whose claws inflicted injuries that would not heal. Simon had no idea why it wasn't healing, but neither did Piers, apparently. For a tyrant nobleman used to being on top of the world...

It must have been the most disturbing moment of his young life. When encountering a seemingly-immortal opponent, an insane creature that smiled with part of his face missing, what else could he do but flee?

Fake it 'till you make it had never felt so gratifying.

Five of the ten guardsmen belatedly trailed after their master, calling out with voices of fear and dismay. Watching them shuffle through the hole in the wall that Piers had punched open was honestly comical.

Although it would've been funnier if there weren't still five guards left behind. The annoyingly brave one was already readying himself for another charge. Simon didn't know where the Helmunds had located a decently skilled soldier with zero survival instincts, but evidently, it wasn't impossible to find good help these days.

Options. What are my options?

Landmine was tempting. Blow them to smithereens before they even understood that he was casting a spell. It had surprised the guards at the stronghold, so it would hopefully surprise these ones too.

Unfortunately, they were spread out right now. Any Landmine circle wide enough to encompass all the soldiers would hit Simon as well. And some innocent bystanders. And maybe collapse the tavern. Just a big mess, really.

Would probably be wiser to run. Fun as it was to bluff his way to victory, the fact remained that he was unlikely to defeat five similarly-Leveled enemies when he only had 19 HP and a dream. Any mistake, any mistake at all, and he was dead.

Simon had a strong feeling – more of a screaming instinct – that transmigrators couldn't survive with 0 HP. The gods' system wouldn't let him push through with a burst of willpower, or even afford him the chance for a heroic last stand.

He would merely collapse to the floor, his strings cut.

Should follow Piers' royal example, he determined. Get out while the getting is good.

Of course, fleeing wasn't the easiest thing to do with so many goddamn swords jabbed into his body. Simon was genuinely worried they would shift around if he moved too quickly, exacerbate his wounds, and deal enough damage to just straight-up kill him. Have to remove them carefully, and that takes time I don't have.

Could he escape like this? A hairsbreadth away from death, with it barely even safe for him to walk? Using expertly-timed Barriers to cover his retreat, somehow picking off the guardsmen one-by-one with Kill?

It was possible, but–

A crossbow bolt flew past his shoulder.

Katarina's red-tipped Firebolt connected with a guard's shield and detonated, sending the man flying backwards through the air. She let loose a second arrow right after, this time catching two guardsmen at once, the explosion knocking them aside like tin soldiers.

Ah, Simon remembered. That's right. I have allies.

Still not entirely used to that.

"Bastian," he said, raising his voice so that it could be heard above the guards' shouting. "Kill them."

The rebel let out a curse as he unsheathed his blade and obeyed his Contractor's command. He deflected an attack meant for Simon, then retaliated with a precision riposte that almost took a soldier's eye out.

The few soldiers who'd been preparing to charge immediately backed off. They were made of sterner stuff than the guards at the stronghold, but just from that one exchange, it was obvious none of them matched up to the Swordsman's expertise. His very presence was creating a zone of denial – a space they dare not enter lest they lose life or limb.

Simon breathed an internal sigh of relief. With Bastian on offense and Kat contributing fire support, the situation was significantly less dire than it had been several moments ago. He could protect himself with Barrier, take potshots with Kill, and Empower one of his Boon-Bearers if need be. Three versus five still wasn't ideal, especially with him on death's door, but their odds were good unless something–

He didn't even have time to complete the thought before a chair sailed through the air, colliding with a guard who'd just gotten back on their feet.

By this point, unexpected surprises weren't really...well, a surprise. Simon had grown accustomed to Valtia derailing his plans whenever it pleased. Was part of why he preferred to improvise.

Usually the surprises weren't beneficial, though – which is why he stared in amazement as Tomas dashed forward like a man possessed. The spindly old barfly grabbed another chair on his way, then set about battering the nearest soldier in a fit of rage.

"ANCIENT ONE TAKE YOU, WHORESONS!" Tomas' voice cracked as he bellowed across the tavern, his tone filling with a combustive cocktail of anger and grief. "YOU AND HELMUND BOTH! YOU...YOU ALL..."

His words began to fail him, yet his strength did not. The soldier, a warrior handpicked by Piers himself, was given no time to gather their wits as a hurricane of civilian wrath fell upon them.

Tears were shimmering in Tomas' eyes as he risked his life for this fleeting chance at revenge. More than the weight of his attacks, it was the fervor behind them that gave the soldier pause. There was a story behind each reckless blow – stories that spoke of unbearable loss, deeply repressed until Piers had arrived to dredge long-buried feelings to the surface.

And Tomas wasn't the only one.

The rest of the Caelryn city natives were staring, transfixed. Not at Simon and his Demonic arm – but at the soldiers. Soldiers who, for possibly the first time in their lives, seemed so enticingly vulnerable.

One of the bar-goers stood up. Then another. Men, women, their faces contorting into hatred, anguish, loathing. Some drew bladed weapons; others simply grabbed whatever was available, seizing dinner knives or breaking glass bottles into jagged-edged implements of murder.

Decades of resentment boiled over as half the tavern swarmed Piers' retinue.

Simon could only watch, mouth hanging slightly open, as the soldiers were practically torn apart. Calling it an 'angry mob' wouldn't have been doing the bar-goers justice. They were closer to a pack of piranhas who'd smelt blood in the water, eviscerating their prey bit-by-fleshy-bit.

Under ordinary circumstances, the crowd of low-Level civilians would've been cut down in seconds. But with the guards already in a state of shock, and still busy dealing with Katarina's Firebolts and Bastian's swordplay?

Things got ugly. Fast.

I underestimated Caelryn city, Simon admitted. While momentarily forgotten about his allies, he'd actually forgotten about the other people in the room. They'd felt more like props than anything else – awestruck witnesses to his grand performance.

It was a stark reminder that these people were, in fact, people. They had lives and stories he would never know. He might despise Valtia's nobility on principle, but each man and woman here had personally endured the Helmunds' suffocating reign for many years.

Simon would've congratulated them...if it wouldn't have distracted them from a well-deserved vengeance. If only more of you were this proactive.

The commotion gradually died down when the fifth and final guardsmen laid dead on the floor. Tomas had a nasty-looking gash on his right shoulder, but aside from that, no one had been injured beyond minor cuts or bruises.

Simon hadn't even gained much Experience from the whole affair. Bastian and Katarina wound up killing two soldiers, thereby transferring some EXP to him, but the last three were slaughtered by civilians who couldn't have been higher than Estimated Level 10.

That was about when their bloodlust started to fade – and the regret began to set in. Eyes widened as dinner knives and broken bottles clattered to the floor. One-by-one, their varying degrees of vengeful satisfaction morphed into mirror images of the exact same expression:

'Oh god what the hell did I just do.'

Someone in the back of the tavern shrieked as if they'd been stabbed. "More guards coming down the street!" they exclaimed, pointing through the large hole Piers had bashed open. "Ten! No, fifteen!"

Fifteen soldiers. Presumably also around Level 20 or higher, if they were responding to a report from a Helmund.

In unison, everyone turned to face Simon.

I'm in charge? he wondered – before realizing that of course he was. In the past, everyone had always responded with horror upon learning of his Demonic abilities. Katarina, Bastian, the residents of Springwater. That was the tradeoff he'd accepted for embracing this path.

But they'd all changed their tunes when the chips were down. When you were being threatened by slavers, a Fell Beast, or a stronghold full of soldiers...making a deal with the devil suddenly didn't seem like such a bad idea.

These tavern-goers were no different. They were people whose hatred of the nobility had exceeded their fear of Demonic legends. Regardless of the terror that his Shapeshifted right arm inspired, it paled in comparison to how much he'd inspired them to take up arms against Piers' lackeys.

Besides, he was 'immortal'. Totally not a stiff breeze away from pushing up daisies. Powerful, audacious...who else could they look to for answers when they were about to die?

The show must go on.

"Board up the hole," Simon ordered, as he wiped Piers' blood off his face. "Use heavy furniture. Leave the front door open."

To their credit, several people instantly sprang into action. They piled tables and cabinets in front of the nobleman's improvised exit, their faces a mask of grim determination.

"What if we run for it?" Katarina offered. "We can use back alleys, give them the slip."

"No time." The transmigrator gingerly pulled another sword of his torso as he spoke, sweeping his gaze across the room, giving each tavern-goer a passing glance. "We need to funnel the soldiers into a choke point. Do that, and I promise you we'll all get out of here alive."

Edward – who hadn't joined the mob's uprising – shook his head. "Even if we escape, they'll find us after," he whispered, his bulky frame shivering. "Hunt us down like dogs."

"Don't be so dramatic. You truly believe that Piers Helmund knows a single one of you by name or face? Not to offend, but you're beneath his notice. He couldn't find you even if he wanted to. They'll hunt me, sure, but that's about it."

Simon paused. "Except maybe the owner of this establishment. I recommend he goes into hiding."

A despairing sob cut through the crowd's muttering. Without missing a beat, the transmigrator produced a pouch of money from Inventory and tossed it at the tavern owner. "Compensation. Bribe your way to safety." He pointed near the front door. "Everyone gather there. On my signal, we all rush outside at once."

"What's the signal?" Katarina asked.

"When the guards start dying."

The bar-goers heeded his instructions, because what else were they going to do? They'd thrown their lot in with him the moment they assaulted a royal's personal retinue. Even the ones who hadn't participated would be viewed as complicit for sitting and watching instead of intervening.

Either this unknown Demon would lead them to safety, or the tavern would be littered with many more bodies before the day was out.

Simon meticulously removed the remaining swords from his body as everyone got into position. They were all standing behind him, which was...not optimal, considering his perilously low HP, but he'd lose their tentative obedience if he asked someone else to take point. In a world of empowered superhumans, any leader worth their salt led from the front.

At least Katarina and Bastian were standing close by, ready to defend him if necessary. Cyna too.

...Hmm. Actually, that was a dangerous look on Cyna's face. She was sending him a piercing glare out of the corner of her eye, her body tensed like a coiled spring.

Mind racing, Simon took a hurried moment to examine the situation from her perspective. She'd seen him, a Demon, give a verbal command to Bastian, which the Swordsman begrudgingly obeyed. Bastian then easily held off soldiers who should have been above his pay grade, exhibiting strength and speed well past what he'd been capable of before the kidnapping incident.

Cyna may not know the full picture yet, but she'd started putting some pieces together – and she didn't like how it was shaping up.

What was it that she'd told Bastian during their Eavesdropped conversation? "If they've threatened you, I'll kill them?"

The transmigrator suppressed a grimace. Should've realized this sooner. That Sin Scry vision put me more off-balance than I'd thought.

Mercifully, a solution came to him quickly. He knew just what to say to stop Cyna from throwing caution to the wind and shanking him outright. Her Identify description held the key:

'Hates the nobility with the passion of a thousand undying suns.'

"I'll explain everything later," Simon whispered to her, keeping his expression neutral. "Full disclosure. Promise. For now..."

He pointed at the open front door, where Piers' soldiers could be seen approaching. "We have traitors to cull."

Cyna paused, her mouth stretching into a sadistic grin. Her suspicion was still there, sharp and watchful, but now it was co-mingling with malicious savagery that would've given Armand Calloway a run for his money. "I'll hold you to that."

The soldiers formed up in a line outside. Simon's right arm was back in human form. Piers had probably ranted about it to them already, but it didn't hurt to maximize the element of surprise. The guardsmen were standing twenty feet away from the tavern entrance, situated in the middle of a now-empty street.

As expected. These were trained warriors. They wouldn't recklessly charge a mob of dozens when negotiating an early surrender would reduce casualties on their end.

Which meant that Simon didn't need to worry about collateral damage this time.

He tuned out whatever the guards were shouting and tapped into his reserves of MP. The tavern-goers let out gasps of fright as his right arm began glowing with Fell energy.

Landmine. 300 MP.

A devastating explosion tore through the street.

Several of the more mana-sensitive guards noticed what was happening a second before it went off, flinging themselves to the side. Others hastily activated defensive shielding spells. A couple were luckily positioned at the edge of the Landmine radius, able to lessen their injuries with agile footwork and downward-angled shields.

The not-so-lucky ones were turned into red confetti, their legs obliterated.

Your Level has increased!
Level: 26 → 28
Intelligence: 54 → 62

MP: 320 / 620

Simon allowed himself a satisfied grin. That's never getting old.

He didn't waste a beat. The transmigrator sprinted forward and burst outside, channeling two 100 MP Kill spells at once, firing at a pair of guardsmen who'd already sustained moderate injuries. That was enough to extinguish their life, the soldiers immediately dropping dead with hollow eyes that stared at nothing.

Momentum was everything here. He'd reduced their ranks by half, but the leftovers wouldn't go down without a fight. Not unless they were overwhelmed before they managed to recover.

Shame that I didn't gain any Vitality or Unspent Points from my kills, he mused. A bit of extra HP wouldn't have been remiss right now.

For a brief, highly concerning moment, Simon was alone. His makeshift army hadn't followed him on his glorious charge. Whether due to shock from the Landmine, or fear of his Demonic abilities, their feet were still planted firmly within the tavern.

Katarina broke their reverie by shooting a Firebolt and dashing outside. Bastian was next, joining the fray without even needing to be ordered – gold star. Cyna went with Bastian, focused on protecting her lover above all else.

The trickle rapidly became a waterfall, dozens of bar-goers pouring through the open door. This time all of them contributed to the slaughter; a communal bloodletting to air their grievances against blackguards who'd sold their souls and city to a Helmund.

Between his Boon-Bearers and the horde of pissed-off Caelryn natives, Simon only needed to handle one more soldier himself. Barrier casually blocked a desperate attack. He responded by wresting the guard's weapon away, then grabbing their neck with his Demonic arm, claws wrapping into a vice grip.

"I have to ask," said the transmigrator. "Was it worth it? Allying with Piers? Doing his bidding? Out of all the battlefields you could've chosen to die on, you opted to lay down your life for him?"

The soldier said nothing. He was frozen silent, trembling violently, face as white as a sheet.

"Figures. Fell Harvest."

Your Level has increased!
Level: 28 → 29
Strength: 39 → 41
Dexterity: 39 → 40
Intelligence: 62 → 63

A life has been Harvested!
3 stat points added to Unspent Points!

That was twenty royal soldiers slain today. A good pace, so far.

Simon turned to address the tavern-goers, wondering if they'd be expecting a rousing speech in celebration of their victory – but most of them had already scattered, vanishing into darkened alleyways. Fair enough. Their survival depended on keeping a low profile...as Piers tore the city apart in search of a rogue Demon.

Clock's ticking.

He faced the people who'd stayed. There was Kat, Bastian, Cyna – and Tomas, surprisingly, the older man nursing his shoulder wound with a pained expression.

"Where to?" Simon asked the rebels. "You know Caelryn better than me. Back to the safehouse?"

Cyna shook her head. "We go to the main Hurricane base here." At the word 'Hurricane', Tomas' eyebrows shot upwards. "Have to prepare for what comes next."

Simon tilted his head. "Didn't know you had a main base in Caelryn."

"That's because we didn't tell you. It was also empty until yesterday – our compatriots were on a mission that took them outside the city. If they'd been here a week prior, Bastian wouldn't have had to go trawling through the streets, begging the aid of whomever might help him rescue me. He...would never have met you."

Cyna frowned, seeming to come to a decision. "I'm not happy with inviting a Demon into our midst, Ancient take me, but needs must."

She said no more, beckoning him forward.

Their group was quiet as they ran. No words were spoken, but everyone was thinking the same thing – an immutable truth that had been set in stone the moment Sin Scry was activated.

By the end of the day, either Simon or Piers would be dead.

--

Author's Note:

The first book of Skill Thief is now out on Kindle and Audiobook!

We've re-edited the entire book and added some new content as well. If you're interested, please go check it out here - every bit of support helps more than you'd think!