NOVEL NEXT Chapter 17: The Biting Insect
Twenty-Three hours until the next game.
“Tell me, man,” hisses a scathing voice, the last word sounding almost like an accusation. “Do you fear me still?” asks the Demon-Queen, curling her fingers closed and crossing a leg as she sits atop her grim throne. “Even now, centuries later,” she hisses, her insectoid voice clicking and the chittering carrying through the air. “The lingering smell of your sweat befouls the air that I must breathe,” she accuses, staring down the resurrected hero, Pravyen.
The arena-quarters are quiet, with the several hundred contestants awkwardly staring and keeping a very respectable distance from the both of them. There isn’t much of a party to be had tonight, as everyone is rightly terrified of the two newcomers with whom they are quite literally sharing a room with.
Munera prevents death and in-fighting amongst its ‘champions’, or prisoners, depending on who you ask, but that does not mean that anyone wants to get on the bad side of the literal incarnation of death itself, manifested onto the world as a skittering avatar with too many protrusions on her body and too many vocal cords projecting her unnatural voice. The magic leaking out of her and out of the hero is so intense that even in their passive states, it can be nauseating just to get close to them for many of the weaker souls in the dungeon.
Pravyan rests his hand on his belt, his thumb hooking in as his fingers grab the empty air where the hilt of his sword would usually rest.
“I was never afraid of you,” he says, looking at the Demon-Queen with narrowed eyes. “Not back then, and not now.” She curls the fingers of one hand into a fist and leans to the side, the other one swirling with a long claw through the air as if she were pulling a ribbon around that nobody can see, tracing patterns over his soul from a distance of five steps, watching him in amusement. “When there’s a bug in the house, one simply carries it outside where it belongs,” he explains coldly.
She scoffs, smiling in amusement. “And how long were you outside, boy?” asks the Demon-Queen, staring him down. “You did not kill me. You killed us,” she explains, her lips cracking open as if she were ready to laugh, but were fighting it down out of politeness.
“And I’ll do it again,” remarks Pravyen, stepping toward her without hesitation and looking up to always meet her eyes. The crowd steps back. “As often as I need to.”
Amused, the Demon-Queen watches him from up high on her perch. “Strong words,” she starts, smiling a smug smile. “- For a man who must sleep on the bottom bunk.”
Pravyen sighs, reaching up and undoing the spaulders of his ancient armor before throwing them down below into the lower bunk of the double bunk-bed that he and the Demon-Queen have been assigned. The metal equipment sinks into the flat, cheap mattress. “As if something inconsequential like this matters,” he replies.
“Spoken like a true bottom-bunker,” mocks the Demon-Queen, rolling onto the side of the top-bunk and looking down at him from over the edge as he sits on the side of his bed and quietly contemplates the situation for a time.
After a moment, the hero lifts his gaze, staring at the upside down face of the Demon-Queen, which casts a sharply toothed, dangerous smile his way as if waiting for a reaction that he refuses to give her.
He ignores her, looking at the crowd instead.
They immediately disperse as soon as he makes eye-contact, awkwardly returning to whatever it is that they were doing.
Does this change anything?
Vilalae, the elven archer, draws with her finger on the table through a bedding of bread-crumbs as she makes a diagram, as if she were drawing in the sand on the beach.
— No. The hero and the Demon-Queen are a development, certainly. However, if anything, this is positive for her and the others.
The amount of attention they’ll get means that she and everyone else are going to be out of the spotlight for a little while. This gives them exactly the chance she’s been waiting for.
Finishing her drawing, she looks up at the others. The human spearman, Marjus, and the black-haired priestess, Niji-ji both look at each other and nod before turning back her way, both silently confirming their agreement with the scheme.
Vilalae nods, her long ears wobbling as she swipes the drawing off of the table, destroying it. The large fistful of breadcrumbs drops to the floor, where it is destined to be swept away by a skeleton with a broom.
The unofficial team looks over toward the small, captured mouse, living in a home-made cage below her bunk.
A few goodies and knick-knacks from the item-shop and the right moment, and they’ll be set.
It is later that day, in the dining area. Sixteen hours remain until the next game.
“Pathetic!” mocks a scathing voice. “Look at you,” says the Queen. “Weak. Inconsequential.”
Pravyen sits down at the lunch table, setting down his bowl of thick, mixed soup and chunk of bread, provided by the dungeon as a free meal. It is simple and humble food.
Lifting his gaze, he looks across the table at the Demon-Queen, who has new followers on either side of her. Some members of the dungeon’s prison here have made their own hooded robes and have decided that their best shot to get anywhere in life was to bow their heads to the Demon-Queen.
Looking at her collected mass of empty bowls and streaks of broken bread lying over from the feast she was given by the others, he quietly picks up his own spoon and begins eating. “You will never have the strength to defeat me with such sad portions,” says the Demon-Queen. “A pecking sparrow will never match a devouring colony of locusts.”
Not giving in to her provocations, he quietly eats.
“Ah… e- excuse me,” says a timid voice from the side. “Pardon me, your Grace,” says a priestess. Pravyen turns to look at her and her outstretched hands, holding a small bag. “It’s not much. I don’t have many points to spend, but…” She gulps, her face tensing up. “Please accept this gift!” she asks, sharply bowing her head and holding out the small satchel of sweets she had bought from the item shop. “It is an honor to meet a real hero!”
The man looks at her for a moment and then smiles, accepting the gift with both hands.
“Thank you very kindly,” he says, rising back up to his feet again, despite having only sat down a moment ago.
“Y- you’re welcome,” she replies, smiling nervously as she looks down to the side, pulling on a strand of her hair with a curled finger.
“Would you like to share these?” he asks, her face changing to a surprised expression. She quickly turns around, looking back at a flock of priestesses who are giving her a variety of hand signals from the distance, trying to guide her in their own awkward way.
“SURE!” she replies, yelling for no reason at all and then covering her own mouth as she realizes her awkwardness, quickly running back to her group and hiding behind them.
Pravyen smirks, shaking his head as he scoots back out from the bench, taking his soup and bread with him as he goes.
Stopping after a step, he looks back at the Demon-Queen, sitting there and studying him with a cold gaze. “As locusts, sparrows will also flock together,” he replies, finally giving an answer to her prior statement. “But the locusts will eat each other once the grain has gone,” he remarks, his eyes casting over the new cultists as he walks off to join a group of holy people.
There is a sharp hissing noise from the table behind him that he ignores.
It is later that day, in the bathing area. Twelve hours remain until the next game.
A pouring stream of icy water runs down the top of Pravyen’s head as he sits below the artificial waterfall with crossed legs, meditating after having cleansed his body from the grime of the grave.
The cold water is invigorating for the blood and a minuscule practice of discipline for the heart. It brings him to focus, to clarity. The noise of the calm waters rushing over him, the sound of the silence echoing around the baths, and the smell of soaps and herbals steams, bringing him a sense of peace and quiet as he contemplates what all of this is.
He has been returned to life after centuries in the grave, just like the Demon-Queen.
He does not know how or what kind of power would allow this. For a dungeon-core to pull off something of this scale, it must be immensely powerful, world-changingly so. Especially for it to control both him and her so… inconsequentially. Is it a god?
He cannot say. The entity is vague about its purpose.
All that he could gather from the priests and priestesses is that they are prisoners here, trapped, in order to fight to the death over and over again. Many of them will be so for a great length of time, as they simply do not possess the fighting skills to fight their way out of the arena. Many of them are breaking in the mind from being killed over and over again and from being people who chose the healer’s path because of their soft hearts and delicate spirits.
Yet he cannot call the dungeon ‘evil’.
It simply seems… coldly indifferent, rather than malicious, from what he can gather. It just wants them to compete against one another, and that’s it.
However, to return the Demon-Queen to this world in such a foolish pursuit is irresponsible to a degree that cannot be overseen.
He does not wish to be alive again.
His life ended that day, those centuries ago, not when he died, but when he killed the Demon-Queen and ended his only purpose and reason for being — the hunt of a true demon. He could never return to his old world after knowing what this new one offered him — magic, power, and something other than triviality — but at the same time, his purpose in the new world was fulfilled.
Pravyen opens his eyes, thinking, as water streams down his body.
…As long as the Demon-Queen is alive. He must be too. He cannot let her escape this place.
His purpose has been returned to him, hasn’t it?
He has a goal.
He must defeat the Demon-Queen a second time, and then he must defeat this new being, this new power — the dungeon-core that threatens the safety of the world — Munera.
Lifting his gaze, he stares across the bathing area at his rival, who seems intent on acting exactly as she always has — the true horror of the world.
His having slain her in their past lives has not changed her personality in the least.
She sits in a pool of steaming water just next to him, her head resting on her fist as she stares coldly his way, the long claw of her other hand flicking the surface of the pool over and over again to shoot droplets at him, as if the strike of the hot water against him would be enough to ruin his meditation and process of thinking.
This is the true power of the Demon-Queen that none but him ever really knew about, as nobody else in the entire world has the power to survive in her presence as long as he has. Nobody in the entire world has gotten as close to her as he has. He knows her as well as she knows him, and the truth is that the terrible Demon-Queen, well…
— Once you get past the world-ending murderer and devourer of souls thing, the woman is kind of an annoying brat who never grew up.
A sharp cackle fills the air as droplets of soapy water strike true, hitting his eyes.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
It is later that evening. Pravyen returns from his light training and sparring against some very confusingly excited opponents so that he can now go to bed. Nine hours remain until the next game.
The man stops, staring at the bunk bed quietly.
The Demon-Queen lays on her side, looking his way, lying down on his bunk instead of hers, which is above. She is messily eating a bag of snacks and getting crumbs everywhere on the sheets.
Simply ignoring her latest provocation, he drops his equipment down at the side of the bed, grabs hold of the edge, and effortlessly pulls himself up onto the top bunk, getting ready to sleep there instead.
The man closes his eyes, folding his hands over his chest as he gets ready to rest.
The new ‘game’ is going to start in the morning. He has to be ready so that he can beat her at whatever it ends up being. He can’t afford to lose. He can’t afford to let her escape this dungeon before he does.
He’s going to win, no matter what.
— Something pokes his back from below.
The hero opens his eyes again, staring with a dry expression at the ceiling as the demonic woman on the bunk below him presses her foot against the bottom of his mattress, continually kicking lightly against it. Not enough to lift his body, but always enough that he can feel her doing so.
It will be a long night.