The Demon King's Guide To Not Getting Defeated By A Paladin-Chapter 43 - 42: Fire Beneath The Foam

The water was warm. Too warm.

The kind of warmth that seeped into muscle and marrow, clawing the bones from beneath the skin until the body felt reborn. Mikhail lounged there, neck tilted against the porcelain edge, pink hair soaked and plastered to his face as wisps of steam curled lazily into the air above him.

Foam clung to his arms. Bubbles drifted across the surface like lazy ghosts, shifting with every subtle movement. The bath smelled faintly of lavender and something else — something old. Like dusted pages and silk.

He hated how good it felt.

"Damn this place," he muttered to no one in particular, dragging a hand across his chest and flicking water toward the tiled wall. "Haunted halls. Secret tea trays. Pretty boys pretending to be gods. And yet—" he leaned back again with a groan, "—they have the best damn baths I’ve ever set foot in."

His muscles had loosened. The stiffness in his spine gone. The throb from the golden blades that had run through him yesterday now just a dull memory beneath the bubbles.

He stretched out his legs until his feet hit the other side of the tub. It was so unnecessarily large, like it was built for someone who expected to be worshipped while they washed. Mikhail could relate.

"See?" he whispered to the room. "This is what power should feel like. Soap. Heat. Space."

He closed his eyes.

And the world began to drift.

*

He was ten.

Standing barefoot in a wide, open field. The grass was green, too green, stretching out in waves that shimmered under the afternoon sun. His chest was heaving. His fists clenched.

And above him — circling lazily in the sky — was the crow.

That crow.

The black-feathered bastard that always showed up when something was wrong. When the storms were coming. When someone needed to be watched.

It wasn’t just a bird. It never had been.

That crow belonged to him.

The man Mikhail only knew through silence and shadow.

His father.

The one who never came home.

"You coward!" Mikhail’s young voice roared, ringing across the hills. "You send your bird but not yourself!? You watch me, but you never speak! You don’t care!"

Flames sparked at his fingertips.

The field trembled.

And in the blink of a heartbeat, fire bloomed from beneath his feet — not wild, not chaotic, but furious. It scorched the grass in a widening circle, heat warping the air, the boy at the center shaking from rage more than power.

"Mikhail!"

A voice—Soft, high, panicked.

It was his mother.

She ran toward him, dress flapping like torn sails, long hair glinting gold under the sun. But she couldn’t reach him. The heat shoved her back. The wind spiraling from his power held her at bay. Tears blurred her beautiful, worried face.

"Mikhail, please!" she shouted. "Listen to me!"

"I don’t want to!" he yelled. "Why doesn’t he ever come?! Why is it always the stupid bird?!"

The flames hissed louder, answering his fury. His mother didn’t flinch. She stepped forward again, fighting the wall of heat, her sleeves already singed.

And then her arms broke through.

She reached him, wrapped him in a trembling embrace, her skin against his burning, and suddenly—everything stilled.

The fire died.

The wind dropped.

Only the sound of his shallow, angry sobs remained.

"You don’t need to understand everything now," she whispered into his ear. "Just know... he’s trying. He’s fighting to keep us safe."

Mikhail’s voice cracked. "That’s not good enough!"

"I know."

"He doesn’t care about me."

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. Her face was flushed, a little burned, but her smile was soft. Steady.

"One day," she said, "you will be the one who makes the difference. Not him. You. They will know your name. The kingdoms will bow. And all of this?" She motioned to the scorched grass. "All of this power... will be yours to command."

His tears had dried.

He didn’t speak.

But the fire still burned — beneath his skin. In his blood.

*

Mikhail’s eyes snapped open.

Steam filled his lungs as he gasped, his chest rising sharply from the bath. Water sloshed over the edges, foam sliding down his shoulders.

He blinked once. Twice. The ceiling was the same. The candles flickered softly. The scent of lavender still hung in the air.

But that field was gone.

His hands trembled slightly above the surface, watching them — bigger now. Stronger. Scarred.

He exhaled slowly and whispered to the mist: "Mother... I have never forgotten your words." His fingers curled into fists beneath the bubbles. "And I will make sure all you said comes to pass."

Steam still clung to his skin when he stepped out of the bath, barefoot, water dripping down the sharp lines of his body. The towel he dragged over his hair was careless, like he couldn’t be bothered to dry himself properly. His reflection caught in the mirror—a lean, muscled frame, a face that belonged in royal portraits or war legends, not some half-rotted ruin.

And yet.

Some blind lunatic had knocked him unconscious with a flick of thought. He stared at his own reflection. Scowled.

"Humiliating," he hissed. "Absolutely humiliating."

He was supposed to be the one people whispered about in fear. The one whose presence dropped rooms into silence. The one whose power sang through the bones of the earth.

And yet—He’d been on the floor, twitching like a slaughtered dog. His fingers curled around the edge of the basin, knuckles whitening.

"If I’m to rule Pandora," he muttered, "then what kind of god falls to a half-naked, smirking freak who doesn’t even see?"

The foam was gone now. The warmth evaporated. Only the simmering ember of his pride kept him warm as he dressed again—tight black pants, sleeveless shirt, boots that echoed when he walked across the marbled hall.

He didn’t even knock when he entered the chamber again.

Verel was reclined on one of those ridiculous plush chairs, swirling a glass of wine like he had nothing better to do with eternity. Medusa stood near the windows, fingers tracing the frame, distracted. They both looked up.

"I’m tired of waiting," Mikhail announced, voice sharp enough to cut.

Verel raised a single, elegant brow.

Mikhail strode into the center of the room, boots planting with purpose. "So. When are we going to bring out these pretty little angels of yours?"

That got their attention.

Verel tilted his head slowly. "Hm. That’s... sudden."

"I’m running out of patience," Mikhail growled. "And I can’t keep living in this filthy, mold-sucking ruin like it’s a tavern in the swamp."

Medusa blinked, startled. "You—wait, you want to help now?"

Verel chuckled behind his glass. "Did you hit your head in the bath, princeling? Or did the soap bubbles whisper strategy to you?"

Mikhail’s jaw flexed.

He hated the calmness. The amusement. Like Verel already knew the punchline of a joke Mikhail hadn’t told yet.

"You think this is funny?" Mikhail said, stepping closer. "You think this is all just some game? You humiliate me in front of that girl. You touch my mind without permission. Do you think I forgot that?"

"Oh, no." Verel grinned. "I was counting on you remembering it every second."

Mikhail’s nostrils flared.

Medusa stepped in instinctively, the tension crackling between them like a match waiting to be struck. But Verel didn’t flinch. He just leaned back, glass tipping toward his lips.

Mikhail’s voice dropped into something quieter, darker. "You want war, don’t you? You want fire and ash and glory. So why are we still sitting here drinking tea and decorating rooms?"

The smile finally faded from Verel’s face.

There it was.

The spark of something real.

Mikhail pushed harder. "Let’s make those angels bleed."

A moment passed.

Then another.

Verel set the glass down. "Fine," he said. "Let’s get to work then."

Medusa inhaled sharply as the tension broke, but she didn’t smile. Instead, she crossed the room in two soft steps and caught Mikhail’s arm before he could move.

Her voice was a whisper meant only for him. "Why now? You really want to help a stranger with a god complex and a hidden agenda?"

Mikhail looked down at her, a smirk twitching at the corner of his lips, though it never quite reached his eyes.

"When I was a boy," he murmured, "my mother told me that one day, I’d rule all of Pandora. That the world would kneel beneath me, and nothing would stand in my way." His gaze flicked to Verel, lingering with veiled disdain. "I intend to fulfill her words. No matter what it takes."

Medusa’s brow furrowed slightly. She caught the glint in his eye — not excitement, not hope.

Just a cold, ruthless ambition.

And something else too.

A deeper, simmering intent she couldn’t name yet. She could feel it in her chest, like a thread tugging at a dangerous future. But she said nothing.

Not yet.

Instead, she released his arm.