The Demon King's Guide To Not Getting Defeated By A Paladin-Chapter 38 - 37: The Hunt Begins

Mikhail stood at the edge of the crumbling cliff, the wind tugging playfully at his pink hair. He tilted his head slightly, his sharp eyes narrowing as he stared at the forest stretched out below — a vast sea of green that ran until it kissed the stone towers of a distant town.

Finally.

A crooked grin split his face, excitement crackling in his veins like wildfire. "Finally, a town," he breathed out, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.

Beside him, Medusa crossed her arms over her chest, her scarlet hair whipping around her face like a living flame. She squinted at the view, unimpressed. "We are one step closer," she said stiffly, voice low and flat.

Mikhail laughed under his breath. "You sound thrilled."

Medusa just growled under her breath, her golden rod thudding lightly against the ground as she shifted her weight. "This is stupid," she muttered. "Town after town, rumor after rumor — chasing ghosts. There’s no guarantee he’s even here!"

"Oh, please," Mikhail drawled, rolling his eyes. "I know he’s here. I can feel it." He jabbed a finger dramatically toward the distant towers. "And I’m going to find him."

"You’re delusional," Medusa snapped.

"You’re cranky," he shot back without missing a beat, a teasing lilt in his voice.

Her cheeks flushed a furious red. She tightened her grip on her golden rod, the runes along its shaft flaring to life with a violet glow.

Mikhail noticed immediately. His grin faltered. "Don’t you dare," he warned, pointing at her like an exasperated brother catching his sibling about to do something monumentally stupid. "Don’t you dare—"

She ignored him completely. With a sharp flick of her wrist, she unleashed a bolt of purple lightning, sharp and fast as a whip, that speared straight through Mikhail’s chest.

There was a sickening crackle of energy, a wet sound as the bolt drilled a gaping hole clean through him.

Mikhail stumbled back, coughing violently. Blood sprayed from his lips, staining the rocky ground at his feet. He glanced down at the smoking hole torn right through his torso. And then... he laughed. A bright, boyish laugh that rang through the cliffs.

"That little trick can’t kill me, if that’s what you were intending to do!" he crowed, voice half a wheeze. His body was already knitting itself back together, muscle threading over muscle, skin reweaving itself like it was nothing more than torn cloth.

Medusa huffed, snapping her rod back to her side. "Tch. It should have."

"You love me too much," Mikhail teased, slapping a hand over his newly healed chest. "Admit it."

"In your dreams."

"You are in my dreams sometimes, you know," he said smugly, winking at her.

She turned a deeper shade of red, clearly resisting the urge to blast him again.

They stood like that for a moment — a pink-haired demon who didn’t know the meaning of fear, and a furious scarlet-haired mage who constantly questioned her life choices — staring out at the kingdom sprawled before them.

Medusa exhaled slowly, brushing hair from her face. "When we get there," she said, voice softer now, "I’m finding the nicest hotel. I’m going to take the longest, hottest bath of my life."

Mikhail wrinkled his nose. "Sounds boring."

"It’s called comfort," she said with a glare.

He grinned wider. "I don’t really give a damn about all those delicate luxuries. I want to use magic. I want to fight. I want to beat the living hell out of every bastard standing between me and what I want."

Medusa raised an eyebrow. "And what exactly do you want, oh fearless idiot?"

Mikhail’s grin softened just slightly. "I want... to prove something," he said, almost to himself.

He fell quiet for a moment, staring down at the forests like they held the answers he was hunting for.

Then he snarled, low and bitter, "Old man should’ve picked me." His fists tightened at his sides, claws digging into his palms. "I should’ve been the one to inherit the throne. Me. Not some outsider brat from the human world."

Medusa shifted uncomfortably, sensing the dangerous shift in his mood.

Mikhail spat over the cliff’s edge, voice low and brimming with hatred. "The old fool chose some nobody. Some little pest with no roots here. No bloodline. No right." His hands trembled slightly, though whether it was from rage or excitement, even he couldn’t tell.

"You’re better off without the old man’s approval," Medusa muttered, scowling. "He was a relic, stuck in the past. You’re... well, you’re crazy, but you’re strong."

Mikhail flashed her a crooked smile. "See? You do love me."

"In your nightmares," she snapped back, but this time her voice was lighter.

Mikhail turned his attention back to the distant towers, the hunger burning bright behind his eyes. He didn’t care how long it took. He didn’t care how many towns they had to search, or how many people they had to crush beneath their heels.

He would find the so-called new Demon King.

And when he did? He would take back what was stolen from him.

One way or another.

Mikhail didn’t wait.

One second he was grinning at the distant town, the next he was spinning around and grabbing Medusa by the wrist — not rough, not gentle either, just his way.

His fingers trailed down the inside of her arm as he caught her, fingertips brushing against the bare skin peeking through the slit of her sleeve. It was electric — the way his touch left a shiver racing up her spine, the way her breath caught sharply in her throat.

For just a second, her heart stuttered, wild and stupid.

He caught it — oh, he caught it.

His grin widened into something almost wicked.

"Let’s go," he said, voice low and full of something wild. 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝓮𝒘𝙚𝙗𝒏𝙤𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝒐𝙢

Medusa blinked hard, yanking herself together before she could make a fool of herself.

"Right!" she snapped, far too loudly, making it sound like she was about to charge into battle.

Without missing a beat, she spun her rod in a quick, tight circle, magic flaring from the runes like wildfire. The air around them shifted sharply, charged and heavy — before thick, soft clouds suddenly swirled out of nowhere, wrapping around them both like spun sugar.

Mikhail flinched violently, snarling, "What the fuck is this?!"

The clouds coiled tighter, lifting their feet from the rocky ground, swirling around his boots, up his legs, thick and fluffy and ridiculous.

Medusa cackled under her breath, ignoring the way he swatted at the mist like an angry cat.

"This," she said smugly, "is how we’re getting to that town."

He looked absolutely betrayed. "This is humiliating."

"It’s effective," she said sweetly, the rod humming with power in her grip. "Unless you want to walk another twenty damn miles."

Mikhail growled again, slapping away a puff of cloud that floated a little too close to his face. "I wanted fire. Chaos. Screaming. Not a goddamn pillow fight!"

"Too bad," Medusa chirped, grabbing a fistful of the magic-woven cloud and twisting it under her feet, forming a rough platform.

He watched her ascend like some smug witch on a candy cloud and made a long, suffering sound in the back of his throat. "I swear, if anyone sees me like this..."

"They’ll think you’re adorable," Medusa tossed over her shoulder, already rising higher.

He bared his fangs at her. "I’ll kill them."

The wind picked up, carrying them swiftly toward the town on a highway of conjured cloud, trees blurring beneath them, the towers growing closer with every heartbeat.

Mikhail folded his arms, sulking as the mist curled up to his shoulders, his pink hair whipping messily around his horns.

Medusa glanced back at him once, caught the sheer misery on his face, and snorted out a laugh so sudden she almost fell off her own cloud.

"You look like a wet cat," she gasped between giggles.

"Keep laughing," Mikhail said darkly, "and I will throw you off."

"Try it," she challenged, sticking out her tongue.

The clouds swirled faster, the wind howled in their ears, and for a moment, just a stupid, reckless moment, Mikhail laughed too. A real, bright sound, full of something more dangerous than hatred.

Hope.

He was coming for what was his.

And nothing — not magic, not kings, not gods — were going to stop him.

But first, he wanted to find a way to adapt to this idea of being carried with a cloud because the more he thought about it, the more he realized how much it annoyed him. He gritted his teeth in frustration, his hands balling into fists so tight, he could have sworn his knuckles whitened.

’.....Once upon a time, I was once the greatest...and once upon a moment, I have been turned into the worst...into nothing...’

Memories flooded into his mind, pictures of blood, pictures of his first kill....the sensation that prickled down his arms the moment he drove a blade through a man for the first time. It was all coming back.