Chapter 2: A Modern Day Demon King

Wiping the nonexistent sweat from his brow with a hand, the young man’s beady eyed face faded like a dissolving mist upward. He had dispelled the spell, False Face.

His current face was vastly different from the previous one by leaps and bounds. Pale skin, the kind that would make a person think he never stepped into the sun, but still healthy looking.

Sharply trimmed features that would conjure the image of some model from a beauty magazine. Eyes so sharp that his glare could threaten to cut whatever his gaze fell upon.

The hair on his head was the only thing that remained the same. Black. Indescribably black. His hair had that messy ruffled aesthetic, but not to the point it came through as unkempt.

If anything, it appeared healthy and rich. The kind of hair people invested tons of cash on hair products to achieve.

But, the most striking thing about his face, were his irises.

Like his hair, they were completely black. Normally, it wouldn’t be an uncommon feature—his case was peculiar.

They did not reflect the light that filtered into the alleyway. It was as if, in place of eyes, they were voids that merely acted like them.

And yet—

“That sure was something, huh?” he muttered in a somewhat reflective tone to himself. “Of all the people to run into, The Hero.”

He gazed upward, toward the direction he had sent her flying, and pondered, Looks like she survived. Thank God—wait, I’m a Demon! ...But she sure was cute… Gargh! What’s wrong with me?!

After scolding himself for his jumbled up thoughts, he made his way back to a main street in Asakusa—after being chased there all the way from Shinjuku; for nearly a minute.

Before blending into the crowd, he used an ability, Aura Sense, to sweep through the passersby. It extended like purple ripples of water from where he stood, radiating outward to cover buildings, people, and pretty much everything surrounding him.

After confirming the absence of any more Heroes, he joined the sea of pedestrians.

His name was Kuro Kurosu, the current Demon King.

Deciding he’d had enough of magic for one day, he opted to take the subway back to Shinjuku. The whole run in with The Hero did start because he got carried away using it after all.

A few train rides later, he had finally arrived at Shinjuku, where he ambled lazily along—doing his best to ignore the blatant stares from those around him—until he reached the place in Waseda he called home.

It was a humble abode—a typical 1K apartment.

It had a built in closet across from his bed that housed his few—near identical—clothing. And a thirty-two inch flat screen TV sat on a desk in an adjacent corner.

Kuro plopped onto his bed that lacked both a headboard and footboard, but made up for it with its amazingly soft mattress.

He raised his right hand, and in a whispered voice, ordered, “Come to me, Silent.”

A black mist gravitated into his palm, swirling into a sphere before stretching out into that same all-black Odachi from earlier.

“You did good out there, Silent.”

“…”

Of course, as the name implied, the blade did not respond. It was completely… Silent. He had named it based on that very fact.

This weapon was the primary manifestation of his magic—

SLAM!

The sound of his closet’s door forcefully slamming against the frame made him abruptly sit up, the Odachi dissipating immediately as he did.

The space in his closet appeared distorted, like a rippling prismatic surface, and out of it stepped forward, a man.

“Talmarius?!” Kuro asked with a slight hint of annoyance, followed by exasperation.

“Yes, my Liege,” the man curtly replied. “Time for your surprise mandatory training.”

● ● ●

The man called Talmarius, was clad in a standard three-piece suit, with a tie firmly knotted around his toned neck.

It was black, but compared to Kuro’s eyes staring at it, it paled in comparison. The jacket clung tightly to his broad shoulders, held together by three golden buttons.

Golden spherical cufflinks lined the sleeves of the jacket, glinting with the light coming from a window across.

Inside was a plain white dress shirt, completely spotless. And his legs were covered in pleated trousers, reaching all the way to his shiny polished Black Oxfords.

The hair on his head was a neatly trimmed silver. An English mustache on his face twitched ever so slightly.

His crimson eyes gleamed as he looked down at Kuro with his upright, six foot stature. Talmarius then said, “Here I come, my Liege!”

The next instant—

WHUMP!

A distorted noise filled the room as Talmarius’s fist was now elbow deep in the mattress, where Kuro’s stomach would’ve been.

The movement was so quick it might as well have been instantaneous.

Kuro had rolled to the side of the bed. He was glad there was a delay before Talmarius winded up the punch he threw after teleporting right in front of him.

Kuro flipped off the bed, raising both his hands in a combat stance vaguely reminiscent of a boxer’s.

Talmarius smirked as he quickly stepped toward him, but grew wide eyed when Kuro scooped up a tissue box with his right foot off the floor, then kicked it—it was heading straight for Talmarius’s face.

The tissue box halted mid-flight, changing its trajectory acutely to the left of Talmarius who closed in a beat later. He threw two quick jabs, both of which Kuro skillfully blocked.

Miniature shockwaves coursed through the air with each strike. Their shins clashed as the two swept at each other’s feet.

Talmarius suddenly leapt back, bringing his hands together behind his back. His chest puffed out, and his eyes gleamed crimson with a command, “Spatial Subjugation!”

For a few seconds, Kuro was completely frozen in place mid-punch, but…

“Ragh!!!” Kuro struggled against it with a small war cry, and his fist soared toward Talmarius’s face as he broke through the unseen constraints with a sound similar to shattered glass.

Kuro’s fist kept travelling while translucent shards of magic fell around him, pushed away by the black aura emanating from his entire body—

SWISH…

His hand wooshed right through his butler’s face, like it was some kind of hologram.

WHUMP!

Kuro winced at the sound. He’s behind me isn’t h—!

A Black Oxford, connected to the side of his face. The force sent him spiraling helplessly through the air until he splatted on the wall above his bed. If not for his tough body, he would have been a Kuro shaped stain on the wall.

He slid down to the soft mattress below him unceremoniously.

“You have improved greatly, my Liege. Your reaction time was stupendous.”

“Says the one who cheated with magic!”

Talmarius chuckled heartily, “And you also resisted my Spatial Subjugation, with a little help from your…inherent power, my Liege.”

Kuro found the last part of his compliment a bit condescending.

“Seriously, Talmarius. How long do you plan on doing this…?”

“Until you’ve fully mastered aikido, systema, judo, karate, taekwondo, ninjutsu, kickboxing…”

As Talmarius droned on about the plethora of martial arts he would instill in him, Kuro glanced at his clenched fist and thought, He must’ve come the second he sensed my magic. The big ol’ softy coming to check up on me.

“Oh, and let’s not forget swordsmanship. That sword you inherited won’t swing itself now, my Liege.”

Kuro once again glanced at the fist he clenched, reflecting on what Talmarius meant by… “Inherited.”

● ● ●

Somewhere in the Sahara Desert…

In a tent, the young woman—The Hero—was served a clay pot of hot, steaming, tagine stew. The air was filled with the smell of cumin, saffron and other delicious spices.

The nomad’s dark brown, smoky eyes gazed expectantly, as he urged the strange female—clad in armor—to have some, from under his tagelmust.

She was still in a daze, completely entranced by the absolutely dominating power she faced yesterday. She couldn’t remember how his other face had looked, then her cheeks reddened at the realization that she was trying so hard to remember it in the first place.

“Was that…the Demon King…?” she muttered low to herself. She then noticed the pair of expectant eyes fixed on her. “Oh…”

She looked down at the carefully prepared meal, and smiled. She ate the meal quietly, using pieces of flatbread to scoop up the rich stew. Then she gave a smile of approval to the nomad, who nodded excitedly at her actions.

When she was done—with the unexpectedly satisfying meal—she thanked him. “Спасибо за еду—oh!” She had meant to say, “Thank you for the food.”

It dawned on her that she had spoken in her native tongue, for she was Russian. She tended to do that whenever she was relaxed.

She then cast a spell on herself with a low chant. “Omni-Lingual.”

Then, she turned and thanked the nomad once more. “Tanəmmert ɣef ugosˇti.”

The nomad was visibly shook as he stiffened and his eyes widened. And his surprise grew the more as the strange woman got up, and walked out of the tent—

BOOOOOM…

Stepping out to the night sky, the only thing he met was the swirling dust, and a deep crater in the sand.

The woman, was gone…