Demons and War

Hearing that there were souls trapped inside the Paladin’s sword, the Fleur’s body went rigid with shock. It was bad enough that they massacred monsters on their way down and killed a giant centipede in such a violent fashion. However, to prevent souls from moving on, it was another level of horror that the Fleur never knew existed.

“That sounds more like an evil sword than a good sword,” the Fleur said. She could not imagine trapping another’s soul, which sounded like a cruel story, a myth, rather than truth.

“The sword was forged when the humans still went to war with the demons,” the Scholar said. “Because demons were much stronger than humans, we needed a way to fight them without being at such a disadvantage. The sword was forged near the battlegrounds where demons and humans died every day. The smith used the souls of the demons to imbue power into the sword. Whoever wields the sword would also have their power increased manifold, thus being able to fight on a somewhat equal footing with the demons.”

The Scholar also knew that the war was a golden age of experimentation. Researchers experimented on how to make the arcane artificers stronger. The methods they employed were not always humane. In one of the experiments, a whole battlefield, friend and foe alike, died. Even though that carnage signaled the end of the war, it was not a sacrifice that the Scholar would have condoned.

The researchers responsible for that experiment were later found dead on the battlefield. They died to the very weapon they created.

Many arcane artificers, experimented upon to increase power, went mad after the war. To think that the researchers not only used demons on swords but also used them on—

“You’re saying they used the power of the demons to fight demons?” the Fleur asked. It was a ridiculous idea, the Fleur thought. It was underhanded and low.

The Scholar blinked as the Fleur snapped him out of his thoughts.

“Ah, yes,” the Scholar said. “However, not anyone could use the demon-slaying swords. Wielding the sword when you’re not qualified will drive the person insane. The power of the demons inside the sword was strong. It was also full of anger and resentment.”

The Scholar couldn’t imagine how hate infused the sword. However, he didn’t want to tell the Fleur that sword masters had willingly carried the swords, even at the expense of their sanity and death.

“The only way to suppress them was to be protected by a strong Holy Power. The demon-slaying swords are bequeathed to the strongest paladins. If none of the paladins could handle it, they would rather keep it hidden, away from prying eyes and thieving hands.”

“The Witch did say that humans are complicated. I’m not sure if I’ll ever come to understand humans,” the Fleur said.

“It’s alright. There’s no need to understand humans,” the Scholar said. “With your looks, however, you must learn how to protect yourself. It’s a good thing you have a cloak that covers your face. Try not to get involved with humans. If you sense danger, run away.”

“I’m already involved with you lot,” the Fleur said, their light laugh ringing like bells through the air.

“Paladins are OK, but don’t trust other scholars,” the Scholar said. “They might drag you to their experiment room and cut you open to see what’s inside.”

The Fleur’s eyes widened in surprise and horror. “Why would you do that?”

“Because it’s rare to see one of you,” the Scholar said. “They want to see how you work, if you’re vegetation on the inside, how different you are from humans, etc. Not all Scholars care about the pain they inflict. You could be kept alive in a cage or on a table with your stomach open for months.”

The Fleur turned pale. Before they left the forest, they were warned that humans could be dangerous. They never thought it would be to this extent.

“Since you are beautiful, they can kidnap you and sell you to the slave market or to a brothel where you’ll service people daily,” the Scholar said.

“Servicing people is nice. What’s wrong with that?” the Fleur asked, a look of innocent confusion on their face.

“It’s sexual service, not doing-helpful-things kind of service,” the Scholar said.

“Oh, you mean reproducing. What’s wrong with that?” the Fleur asked, their face mounting with confusion.

The Scholar was taken aback. He narrowed his eyes, wondering what was wrong with the Fleur, but realized he needed more information.

“When you’re at a brothel, it’s a place where men pay to have a woman do the act of reproduction with them. However, they don’t actually reproduce. It is purely for pleasure. And the woman has no option to decline.”

“Oh,” the Fleur said, “How strange, purely for pleasure. That’s pretty pointless. Why can’t they decline if they don’t want to?”

“That’s the point of a brothel, the women are slaves to the brothel owners. The owners sell the women’s bodies to the men who visit the brothel. They don’t treat women like people. If a woman declines, she’ll be punished,” the Scholar said. He should have felt awkward about explaining this to someone else, but he didn’t. “Do you understand why you must be careful around humans now?”

The Fleur nodded. “I understand. It seems like there are a lot of bad humans out there who force other humans unwillingly. Since I’m not human, they might even treat me worse,” the Fleur said, their tone sad like a child who had just lost something important. “Thank you for telling me.” The Fleur, grateful, put their hand on the Scholar’s hand and gave it a light squeeze. “I want to thank you, so I’ll give you this.”

From the Fleur’s hand, a seed emerged. It was the size of a thumb’s nail, its surface shiny brown and pink.

“It’ll grow a flower that gives off a scent that can heal and calm you,” the Fleur said. “Make sure it gets plenty of sunlight and warm air. It’ll also help other plants in the same room flourish. If you pick off a petal, you can carry it and eat it when you’re hurt.”

The Scholar stared at the seed in amazement as if it was a miracle pill. “Are you saying that just the scent alone can heal physical wounds? Or do you mean it’s mentally healing?” It sounded too good to be true, so the Scholar had to ask.

The Fleur grinned. “Yes, it can heal physical wounds. It’s considered a treasure among us Fleurs, so please take good care of it.”

“Goodness, I can’t take a treasure from you. I haven’t done anything,” the Scholar said, closing the Fleur’s fingers around the seed and pushing their hand away politely. As curious as he was about the flower, he’d feel bad if he took it. He was grateful, but he didn’t deserve something like this.

“You tried to protect me, and I’m grateful. Why shouldn’t I give you something in return?” the Fleur said, opening their hands and reoffering the seed to the Scholar.

“I only said what the others would have said. It was nothing,” the Scholar said, shaking his head at the offering.

“It wasn’t nothing. If you hadn’t made things clear, I would have gotten myself in trouble without even realizing,” the Fleur said. “Besides, you want the seed, don’t you? You’re curious about it.” The Fleur smiled.

When the Fleur smiles, their beauty is like a weapon or a curse, depending on which side you’re on.

The Scholar sighed, rubbing the heel of his palm on his forehead. “I can’t believe you’re using me against me.” For someone so naive, the Fleur could be surprisingly cunning at times. Even someone as academic as him had trouble resisting the Fleur.

The Fleur leaned forward, gently bringing the seed closer to the Scholar. “Here, it’s yours. Please take it.”

“Since it’s a treasure, you should bring it back to your people,” the Scholar said, turning his head away and scooting back.

“But I made it because of you, so you should take it. If it weren’t for you, the seed wouldn’t come out,” the Fleur said.

“What are you talking about?” the Scholar said. Then again, if the seed really was a treasure, that must mean it was rare, and the Fleur shouldn’t be able to produce it willy-nilly. But as confused as he was, he still declined.

“This seed can only come about when a fleur has strong emotions. I was feeling so grateful to you, so moved, that my body created it. If it weren’t for you, it wouldn’t have happened. Traditionally, we give it to those who elicited those feelings within us,” the Fleur said, smiling at the Scholar and nudging their hand at him again, urging him to take the seed.

The Scholar looked at the seed, then at the Fleur. If that was the tradition, then perhaps it was alright to take it. “Can I give it to someone else?” the Scholar asked.

The Fleur tilted their head in thought. “Usually, we plant it as soon as we receive it,” the Fleur said. “But I supposed there’s nothing that says we can’t give it to someone else. I would be a bit sad if you did, though. This is a fruit of my heart, after all.”

Hearing that, the Scholar’s own heart softened, and he reached out his hand and took the seed.

“Thank you,” the Scholar said softly, holding the seed carefully in his hands, gazing at it with wonder. “I’m almost afraid I’ll lose it.”

“Hmm… well, if you lose it, then that’s fate,” the Fleur said. “It’s not intentional, so it’s fine.”

The Scholar couldn’t help but shake his head lightly at the Fleur’s carefree attitude.

The Scholar opened one of the pouches on his waist and carefully put it into the deepest part of the pouch. He couldn’t wait to go home and plant it. He wondered what kind of flowers will bloom and the scent it’ll give off.

The Fleur seemed satisfied. “How is the wound from earlier?” They touched the Scholar’s arm where they had inserted a piece of mana plant skeleton into his body.

“Let’s see,” the Scholar said. He adjusted his lenses and looked at his arm. Through the lenses, he could see into his body. The plant skeleton wrapped crudely around one of the thicker mana channels.

“There seems to be no change so far,” he said.

“I suppose only time will tell,” the Fleur said. “Since we finished using the skeletons, let’s go back and resume experimenting with the live plants.”