The Demon King's Guide To Not Getting Defeated By A Paladin-Chapter 41 - 40: A Little Rent, A Lotta Weird

Mikhail’s body felt like one massive bruise. Which, in his opinion, was glorious. He stumbled forward as Medusa pulled him by the collar, her boots dragging his half-limp frame down the dirt path just outside the now shattered tavern.

"Careful!" he barked. "I’m a fucking warlord, not some sack of grain!"

"You’re a sack of something," she muttered, not breaking stride. "Definitely not dignity."

Mikhail’s head lolled back as he grinned at the stars overhead. A cut just above his eyebrow was bleeding into one eye, and he couldn’t tell if his ribs were cracked or just spectacularly bruised.

Didn’t matter.

He felt amazing.

The tavern fight played in his mind on repeat—every swing, every shout, every glorious punch to the jaw. That woman had been divine. Strong. Mean. Beautifully violent.

His lip split open again as he smiled. "I need to marry her."

Medusa stopped walking. "What?"

He snorted. "I’m kidding. Mostly."

She kept dragging him.

The quiet of night was pierced by the distant groan of collapsing wood behind them. The tavern—what was left of it—smoldered in its own ruins, smoke rising into the sky like a soft farewell. 𝙧𝙚𝙚𝔀𝒆𝓫𝓷𝙤𝓿𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝙤𝓶

"I could’ve taken her," he grumbled, head tilting her way. "You know I could’ve taken her."

Medusa, very calmly, slapped the back of his head.

"Hey!"

"You were about to transform," she snapped. "Right there. In front of a hundred humans. Your horns were twitching. Your skin was starting to shimmer. So yes, I hit you with a spell. You’re welcome."

"You bound me."

She hummed. "Temporary magic lock. Very elegant. You’ll be back to growling and glowing in an hour."

"I could’ve leveled this entire town." he complained.

"I know," she said proudly.

He rolled onto his back in the dirt like a scolded hound. "You robbed me of my moment."

"No, I saved you from a scene. Besides, someone had to stay smart. Someone had to think ahead."

Mikhail glared at her from his spot on the ground. "You mean while I was valiantly defending my title as the best fist in the kingdom, you were—what? Counting ceiling tiles?"

Medusa grinned.

"Oh no. I was busy picking up all the coins those idiots dropped while trying to kill each other. So... you got a couple black eyes, and we got a few hundred in gold. I call that a win."

He blinked. "Wait. Seriously?"

She held up the sack she’d tied to her hip. It jingled beautifully. Mikhail sat up so fast he winced. "You beautiful, red-haired demon."

"You’re the demon."

"Semantics."

He leaned against a wooden post, wiping his bloodied hands on his pants, eyes gleaming despite the bruises and the dirt on his face.

"You know," he said slowly, grinning, "next time I’m going full form. Horns. Fire. Wings. I’ll light the damn pub from the inside out."

Medusa snorted, tugging him up by the arm. "Next time, try not to flirt with a woman by asking if her jaw can withstand your punch."

"That was a genuine question."

They finally made it to the edge of town, where broken fences met crooked homes, and the air smelled less like burnt booze and more like damp straw and livestock.

Mikhail rubbed his shoulder. "So... where exactly are we staying tonight? Because that tavern was our only real lead."

Medusa shrugged. "We’ll find something. A barn. A stable. An abandoned house with no doors and a pissed-off raccoon."

"You’re very optimistic."

"No, I’m just practical."

Mikhail squinted at her. "You just like dragging me around when I’m weak."

She grinned wide. "Guilty."

He bumped her shoulder with his. She didn’t pull away.

For a moment, they walked in silence, the night a little too quiet after all that noise.

Then Mikhail exhaled, wincing as his ribs protested. "She really did throw me like a damn sack."

Medusa grinned, hand sliding into the gold pouch again.

"I know," she said, dreamy with satisfaction. "It was incredible."

*

They were almost ready to curl up on the side of the road.

Mikhail had started eyeing a particularly fluffy patch of grass and was this close to declaring it his new throne when Medusa suddenly stopped.

A small wooden sign hung from an iron hook just ahead. It read: ROOMS. CHEAP. CLEAN(ISH). MAYBE CURSED. ASK INSIDE.

Mikhail squinted. "Well. That’s... not suspicious at all."

Medusa tilted her head. "It says ’cheap.’ That’s already better than the last place."

"And maybe cursed," Mikhail echoed. "You’re glossing."

She was already walking toward it. "We’ve lived through worse."

The house was wedged awkwardly between two crumbling buildings, with ivy crawling up its weather-worn wood like greedy fingers. The windows were tinted green with time, and the front door creaked like it had chronic arthritis.

They knocked.

Eventually, it opened. Slowly. Of course.

The man behind it was old. Cloaked in layers, eyes sunken, and eyebrows that could’ve had a zip code of their own. He squinted at them like they were distant relatives or perhaps demons in disguise—which, to be fair, wasn’t far off.

"Yes?" he rasped.

"We need a place to stay," Medusa said quickly, smiling with practiced charm. "We can pay."

The old man’s brows twitched. "No."

"What?"

"No. I mean yes. You can stay. But no, you can’t pay." the old man said.

Mikhail blinked. "...Huh?"

The man grumbled, backing up and opening the door wider. "My master doesn’t want your coin. He told me to let you in. Said you’d be arriving. Said you smell like smoke and chaos."

Medusa and Mikhail exchanged a look.

"We’re very hygienic," Mikhail muttered.

The old man ignored him. "My master wants to see you. Both of you. Tonight."

Medusa frowned. "Why?"

The man gave a shrug that looked like it might kill him. "Didn’t ask. I just mop and deliver creepy messages."

He turned, and they followed him in.

The inside of the house smelled like lavender, dust, and possibly pickled snake. The furniture was mismatched, the walls covered in old paintings whose eyes definitely followed them. There were too many clocks. None ticked.

Mikhail leaned toward Medusa. "You sure we shouldn’t just go back to the grass?"

"Shut up."

They passed a long hallway—too long, unnaturally long—until they reached a door made of dark wood and silver hinges.

The old man stopped, knocked once then opened it.

The room inside was warm, lit with gentle firelight. Rich tapestries hung on the walls, and books lined the shelves in careful order. In the center stood a man.

No older than twenty, if even that. Tall. Lithe. And unmistakably wrong in a beautiful way. His skin was pale, almost glowing. His hair was black silk, falling over his shoulders. But it was his eyes that stopped them.

Pale. Clouded. Blind.

Yet, somehow, they felt seen.

"Welcome," the young man said softly. His voice was like still water—quiet, with something deep under the surface.

Mikhail raised a brow. "And you are?"

The man smiled. "I am your host. You may call me Verel. I saw you coming, Mikhail of the blood-born flame. And you, Medusa of the red thread."

Medusa stiffened.

Mikhail took a step forward. "What are you, some kind of seer?"

"I see many things. But not the way you do. Not with eyes." Verel turned his head slightly. "I asked that you be given lodging. Free of charge. You’ll stay here, as long as needed."

"Okay, creepy-but-pretty man," Mikhail said with a smirk. "But why us?"

"You are loud," Verel said simply. "The world around you stirs when you enter it. Chaos wraps around your steps like a scarf. I find that interesting."

Medusa crossed her arms. "So you’re watching us."

"Observing. It’s different."

"Still sounds stalker-ish."

Verel tilted his head toward her. "I also brew tea. Would you like some?"

She blinked. "...What?"

He gestured to the small table nearby. Steam rose from a delicate porcelain pot.

Mikhail made a face. "Okay, now it’s creepy."

"You’ll find your rooms upstairs," Verel added, unbothered. "You’ll find your rooms upstairs. Right corridor. Second and third doors. The sheets are clean. Mostly."

Medusa’s eyes narrowed. "What if we say no?"

Verel smiled faintly. "That would be unfortunate. You’re not allowed to leave. Not yet."

Mikhail stared, then he burst out laughing. "Excuse me? You think you can keep me here?"

Verel said nothing.

"Oh, that’s rich." Mikhail turned, stalking toward the door. "I’ve torn down cities for less. I’m not staying in your weird tea-drinking haunted house."

He reached for the door only to find nothing. No handle, no frame. Just an unbroken wall, smooth as marble. His hand hovered where the door should’ve been. "What the hell—?"

"I told you," Verel said softly, "you can’t leave. Not when you’ve just arrived."

Medusa took a slow step back. "What sort of sorcery is this...?"

But Mikhail was already snapping.

He turned, his teeth bared, rage igniting like wildfire in his chest. "You think this is funny!? You think you can trap me!?"

He charged.

In a flash of motion, too fast to see clearly, and Mikhail had Verel by the throat, lifting the pale man off the ground like a doll.

"MIKHAIL!" Medusa shouted, eyes flaring. "Don’t hurt him! We don’t know—"

But it was too late. Mikhail’s claws dug in. Verel gasped, feet dangling above the floor. Calm eyes wide—no panic, no fear.

Just... watching.

Then with one savage pull—

SNAP.

SPLATTER.

Blood burst from Verel’s neck like a fountain, staining the floor, the walls, Medusa. His head fell, rolling gently along the wooden floor. His body twitched once, then crumpled like discarded cloth.

And there was silence.

Only the sound of Mikhail’s breath.

Behind him, there was a soft laughter that rang in the air. Mikhail turned slowly, fists clenched and red, only to find Verel. Seated in a chair, legs crossed and calmly sipping his tea. Not a drop of blood on him.

"You’re not the first demon to try," Verel said softly. "You won’t be the last."

Mikhail’s eyes blazed. "What are you?"

"I’m the one who doesn’t need claws to make things bleed."

Mikhail charged again, but Verel moved one hand. He traced a small glowing circle in the air with a fingertip. Just a circle and Mikhail froze where he was as if time had stopped. A snarl stuck on his face like a broken mask. "What did you—!?"

"This," Verel said, standing now, "is power."

He sighed. A gentle breath.

But from that sigh, the room changed.

The air grew cold. And light erupted—dozens of golden blades forming in the air above Verel, shimmering like stars. They hovered, then shot.

CRACK—CRACK—CRACK—CRACK!

Each blade pierced Mikhail from every direction—shoulders, thighs, gut, arms, chest—his blood spraying like a storm of crimson rain.

And the final one?

Straight through his skull.

Mikhail dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

Verel looked over him, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve.

"I don’t need you dead," he said, looking at Medusa now. "I just need you to listen."