Chapter 23: He’s creating an opportunity for them to [do something]!

Creak——

Ankira gave the rickety wooden door a symbolic knock, then pushed it open without any effort. The hinges groaned piercingly. A wave of stale, smoky hearth air rushed out to greet them.

Rosie stood with arms crossed, watching the scene with cold detachment. Her silver brows arched slightly, her tone dripping with undisguised sarcasm:

“Oh my. Didn’t expect high-tier demons to be so polite. You actually knock before barging in?”

Her words were thick with mockery of the very concept of “politeness.”

The sarcasm wasn’t baseless.

Back when she served as a priestess on the front lines—as Perse—she had witnessed far too many horrors left in the wake of war.

She still remembered clearly how the villagers—those who had lost everything, sobbing heartbrokenly as they fled in panic from under the demons’ very noses—described the scenes.

According to them, enormous goblins had simply kicked down their fragile doors with savage force. Grain stores were looted bare. Young daughters were dragged away screaming. Strong men were hauled off to serve as forced labor.

And when Makar led the counterattack into those monster-infested lairs, the overwhelming stench of blood and the scattered, ghastly white human bones everywhere had been enough to shatter the minds of anyone whose resolve wasn’t ironclad.

Ankira acted as though he hadn’t caught the sharpness in her words.

He stepped casually into the dim cabin, responding in an almost elegant tone:

“High-tier demons like us rarely set foot personally in human frontier territories. As for kicking doors down—” He gave an graceful little shrug, as though flicking away an invisible speck of dust.

“That sort of crudeness is simply ungentlemanly. Beneath our dignity.”

As he spoke, he casually unloaded the still-unconscious, thoroughly soaked Lester from his back and dropped him onto the thin layer of dust covering the dry dirt floor with a heavy thud—showing zero pity.

Then those sharp purple eyes began scanning the entire room under the faint light, like an experienced hunter searching for traces of prey. He paced slowly, rummaging through the place.

Rosie remained standing where she was, tilting her head to survey the low-ceilinged cabin.

Her juvenile dragon stature limited her line of sight; she couldn’t even see what was on the stove without standing on tiptoe or using something to boost herself.

Things she used to do effortlessly now required extra effort.

She glanced at Ankira’s figure as he searched the room, then remembered the casual yet distinctly class-contemptuous tone he’d used earlier when mentioning “eating people.” The memory of those pale bones sent another chill racing up her spine.

She pressed her dry lips together. Her voice came out tight, almost imperceptibly strained.

Finally, she couldn’t hold it back any longer:

“Do demons… really eat people?”

“Of course we do.”

Ankira’s answer came so fast it was almost reflexive. He didn’t even turn around, continuing to rummage through a dilapidated cabinet.

“But I’ve never eaten any.”

He finally turned, his face wearing the detached disdain of a noble discussing peasant fare—drawing a clear, obvious line of separation.

“That’s something only goblins, ghouls, or certain low-grade mutant beasts would do. Gnawing on human flesh? Far too primitive. And nutritionally worthless.”

He quickly finished his sweep of the cabin.

The wardrobe still carried the faint scent of mothballs. The stove was stone-cold. The grain jar was empty. Even the rat holes in the corners looked unusually silent.

“No one’s here anymore,” Ankira said with certainty as he dusted off his hands and returned to the center of the room.

“And they left not long ago—very hurriedly, but also very thoroughly. They took every scrap of poultry and dried provisions they could carry.”

As an afterthought, he pulled a set of clothes from the wardrobe—rough but reasonably clean, sized about right for Lester.

“They must have retreated along with the main force that was stationed here earlier,” Rosie murmured, her gaze sweeping the now-empty interior and confirming his judgment.

At that moment, a heavy sense of reality pressed down on her.

If Makar’s subjugation force had pulled back, it meant the demon vanguard could now advance unchecked.

This quiet lakeside woodland would soon become the next bloody battlefield.

The thought made a sudden, bright spark flash through Rosie’s silver eyes.

If she stayed here… there was a chance she might encounter Makar and the others during their retreat.

Her heart pounded fiercely with that sudden burst of hope.

But in the very next instant, an even colder realization doused it like ice water.

At the same time, she would inevitably run into the demons who were sure to follow close behind.

Rosie’s gaze drifted uncontrollably toward the figure lying motionless and drenched on the floor—the Demon King Lester.

Right now, the scales in her heart tilted and swayed violently.

On one side: her long-awaited comrades and sense of belonging.

On the other: two unpredictable demons—and the potential catastrophe that might follow in their wake.

Could she really go back?

Rosie sank into deep confusion.

She lowered her head and tugged at the cheap, mud-stained gray dress clinging to her body. A strong wave of bitterness and grievance surged in her chest.

Returning to Makar’s group would be ideal… but in this form, how could she possibly prove she was Perse?

How long had she been gone? Had Makar and the others searched for her? Or had they already forgotten her?

These questions piled up in her mind like a suffocating weight.

And if Makar’s group were to stumble upon her now—standing side by side with the Demon King they had sworn to exterminate?

Just imagining that scene made her shudder.

Now that hope had taken root, Rosie desperately wanted to rush back to Makar’s side, back to the familiar human camp.

She wanted nothing to do with these two demons. The intense longing and urge to escape grew wildly in her heart, threatening to overwhelm everything else.

Just as her inner turmoil reached its peak and she was on the verge of deciding to throw caution to the wind and search for Makar no matter the cost—

Ankira’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts, dragging her back to reality.

“I’m going to scout around outside—see if I can find something to eat.”

Using his silk-spinning ability, he could at least catch tonight’s meal no matter what.

But before leaving, he walked over to Rosie and stuffed the set of coarse clothes he’d found into her arms—casual as though tossing her something trivial.

“Here. Put these on him.”

He jerked his chin toward the drenched, unconscious Lester on the floor, then pointed to a smaller side room nearby.

“There’s an old wardrobe in that room—looks like a few children’s clothes inside. Find something that fits you and change. While you’re at it, change his clothes too.”

“What?!”

Rosie’s head snapped up. Her silver eyes blazed with disbelief and fierce protest.

Her—help Lester? That Demon King? That bastard who turned her into this freakish thing? Change his clothes?!

She had never changed clothes for any man in her life—let alone for the person she hated most!

“Why don’t you do it yourself?!”

Her voice shot up an octave, thick with furious accusation.

“You could change him before you leave—it wouldn’t take that much extra time!”

Ankira raised one brow. His face took on an expression of perfect innocence mixed with wicked teasing—as though to say, “What are you even talking about?”

“What are you saying?”

He dragged out the words, emphasizing them in an exaggeratedly matter-of-fact tone:

“He’s your husband. Isn’t helping your husband change clothes part of a wife’s basic duties?”

He completely ignored the murderous fire practically shooting from Rosie’s eyes.

He was simply creating an opportunity for them to “bond,” after all.

As the Demon King’s subordinate, Ankira had taken Lester’s word as truth. If this was his wife, then surely a wife changing her husband’s clothes was only natural?

Watching Rosie tremble with rage, cheeks flushed crimson yet speechless, a sly glint flashed in Ankira’s eyes.

He leaned down deliberately, bringing his face close to hers with devilish temptation in his voice:

“What’s wrong? Worried I’ll have it too rough going out to hunt food? Fine then—we can divide the labor.

You go find something to eat. I’ll stay behind.”

Ankira paused meaningfully, casting a deliberate glance toward the unconscious Demon King on the floor.

“—I can change his clothes for him instead?”