The Demon King's Guide To Not Getting Defeated By A Paladin-Chapter 40 - 39: Rules Are Meant To Be Broken

The tavern was loud and Mikhail was thriving in it.

He was slouched at the same table, boots on the wood, a mug sloshing half-empty in one hand. His cheeks were flushed from the alcohol, but his grin? Still sharp. Still cocky.

Gold glinted in piles on the table. More than enough for a warm bed, food for days.

But Mikhail wasn’t interested in any of that.

He was interested in winning.And he had. Over and over again for the past few hours. The last guy had cried.

Actually cried.

Mikhail had laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair.

On the other side of the tavern, Medusa leaned against the bar, sipping something strong and trying her best to pretend she wasn’t traveling with a demon who was becoming a local legend for snapping wrists.

She was flushed too — but not from drink.

No. She was flushed because there were three men around her, all leering and laughing like she was some prize up for auction.

"Red looks good on you," one of them drawled, his breath warm and way too close to her neck.

"Back off," she snapped, eyes cold.

"Aww, come on, sweetheart, no need to be—"

"Touch me," she warned, "and I’ll shove that mug down your throat sideways."

He looked at his friend like he wasn’t sure if she was serious.

But she was and she hoped they could just see it. She didn’t want to use magic of any sort. Mikhail was already causing enough troubles than she intended. These guys weren’t worth the risk.

But then, she was disturbed when a chair slammed down somewhere behind them. And that was when the night took a sharp, beautiful turn.

Mikhail had stood up. Swaying slightly. Mug still in hand. The torchlight from the lamps outlined his features, and it was hard for her not to notice that he was still catchy.

"What did you just say about my hair?" he slurred at a man standing nearby — a thick, bald brute with too many teeth and a smug grin.

The man blinked. "I said, you look like a drunken strawberry whore."

Medusa didn’t even get a chance to reach him because Mikhail jumped at the man. The punch landed so hard the man flew backward over a table. Mugs shattered. People screamed.

It was already chaos.

Pure, beautiful chaos.

One guy grabbed Mikhail from behind. But he just didn’t know it was a wrong move. Mikhail spun and with a sick, wet rip, tore the man’s arm clean off. Blood hit the floor like a waterfall.

And then there was silence. And then? Hell broke loose.

Chairs flew, fists cracked against jaws, tables overturned. It was just screaming and swearing.

And Mikhail? Laughing. Laughing like this was the best day of his life.

"I missed this!" he roared, dodging a bottle and slamming his foot into someone’s gut. "You little humans suck at fighting! Come on, try harder!"

Medusa, meanwhile, had had enough.

The guy who’d flirted with her grabbed her arm in the noise.

She turned and cracked her forehead against his nose with a satisfying crunch. He dropped like a sack of potatoes.

Another one tried to grab her from behind.

She spun, her rod appearing in her hand with a hiss of magic. With one clean arc, the man flew into a wall where he landed with a rough thud.

She glanced over at Mikhail, shirt half-untucked, blood on his knuckles, laughing like a lunatic. Oh demons, she hated how good he looked like this.

"IDIOTS!" someone suddenly screamed.

Everything stopped.

Even Mikhail paused, arm cocked back to punch someone else. From a door behind the bar, a woman stepped out.

Tall. Muscular. In her late thirties. Dark-skinned, with braided hair, arms folded, and the kind of glare that could burn through steel. She didn’t look angry — she looked ready to kill.

"WHO THE HELL IS BREAKING MY RULES?!"

Mikhail blinked, then pointed at himself with his mug. "Uh... Me?"

"AND WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!"

Mikhail tilted his head, squinted and said, loud and slow: "Who the fuck are you?"

Half the tavern started running. No, not running but fleeing. Some were diving through windows, bolting for the door. Some didn’t even grab their shoes.

Medusa backed up instinctively. "Mikhail..." she warned.

But he was too far gone.

Grinning. Sweaty. Bloody. And thoroughly entertained like always.

The woman stepped forward, rolling her shoulders. "I’m the owner, idiot. And I’m the one who’s going to teach you a goddamn lesson."

Mikhail’s grin widened. "Oh. Finally," he said, tossing the mug behind him. "Someone fun."

She charged at him.

And it was quite impressive how fast she was.

Both her fists came down with enough force to split a man’s skull clean open. But Mikhail, excited out of his damn mind, flipped back, palms slapping the ground as he cartwheeled into a flawless handstand, laughter bubbling from his chest. He didn’t even hesitate.

While still upside-down, he kicked out with both legs toward her face. But she ducked, quick as lightning, and grabbed his ankle mid-air. "Oh, shit—" he barely got out before she spun him like a rag doll and threw him straight into the tavern wall.

The wood cracked, and dust exploded.

He left a dent.

Medusa, across the room, didn’t even blink. She crouched, calmly collecting gold coins off the floor, sliding them into a stolen satchel.

One. Two. Three. "Idiots," she muttered, plucking another coin from beneath a limp body. "All men do is bleed, grunt, and punch walls."

Another clink.

Behind her, Mikhail laughed, a hoarse, savage kind of laughter. The kind that belonged on a battlefield. He pushed himself out of the wall like it had barely inconvenienced him.

"Now that’s what I’m talking about," he growled, blood trailing from his mouth. "Lady, I think I’m in love."

The tavern woman didn’t even smile. She just cracked her neck, stepped over a shattered chair, and beckoned him with one hand.

Medusa rolled her eyes as she dragged another coin out from under a broken bench. "Honestly. Children."

Mikhail didn’t care.

This, this trouble, this madness, this woman trying to break his bones—this was better than drink. Better than gold. Better than sex.

"Come on, queen of rules," he spat, spitting out a tooth. "Show me what you’ve got."

And she did.

However, for Medusa?

She sat down calmly on the edge of a tipped table, crossing her legs like a lady at court, watching as Mikhail got backhanded across the room again.

Clink.

She flipped a gold coin between her fingers. "I give him five more tosses before his ribs crack."

Another man groaned nearby, and she leaned over to politely take his bag of coins, tucking it beside her.

"Thank you kindly," she said sweetly.

Behind her, Mikhail was howling with laughter again, his body slamming into another wall, more bottles shattering in his wake.

He didn’t care.

He loved this.

And the tavern woman?

She wasn’t even tired yet.