Chapter Text
“I never want to be king,” Derkila admitted quietly, setting down his sakauzi cup. “I wanted adventure: an endless journey with those I cared for. I wanted to change the Netherworld, to make it better for everyone, so they could see the beauty lands born from acts of unspeakable cruelty.” His voice drifted into the hush beneath the sakura trees surrounding them.
Iruma took a slow sip of the bittersweet rice wine, letting the silence settle before speaking. “Is that why you left?” he asked gently. His gaze dropped to a ladybug crawling across the soft red and white blanket spread over the grass. After a moment, he reached forward, placing his cup aside and pulling a fresh tokkuri closer, the cap popping softly as he opened it.
“No,” the former demon replied, his eyes lifting toward the deep blue sky of the human realm. “I left because I felt alone.”
Iruma hesitated, the words lingering in the air as he poured sake into both cups. “But… you were admired by everyone,” he said, a crease of confusion forming on his brow.
“Admiring someone from a distance is just another form of worship,” he said, the words low and edged. His bangs slipped over his eyes, shadowing them as his mouth tightened into a faint snarl. “I never wanted that. I never asked for it.” His voice wavered, then sharpened. “I wanted friendship; someone to walk beside me, not someone who lowered their gaze every time I drew near.”
Bitterness clung to each syllable. He seized the sakauzi too quickly, the motion rough enough to send a thin arc of sake splashing against its painted rim. Without pause, he brought it to his lips and drank deeply, the liquid burning a visible path down his throat as he swallowed.
“They loved me,” he continued, more quietly now, though the strain in his voice only grew clearer. “Or at least, they said they did. But I never felt loved; I had only ever felt burdened.” His grip tightened around the cup. “Burdened by their expectations… by their envy… by their desires. By duties I never chose.”
The cup struck the table with a sharp crack, the sound splintering the stillness. A small shard of black ceramic broke loose, tumbling onto the blanket between them.
“…So you left,” Iruma murmured, turning the cup slowly between his fingers, watching starlight ripple across the surface of the sake like something alive. The silence that followed stretched long and heavy, settling over them like fresh-fallen snow; quiet, suffocating, and hiding everything that stirred beneath.
Derkila muttered, centuries of remorse twisted tight around his heart, “I never meant to hurt them. I was only going to leave for a little while… a few years, perhaps even decades. Just long enough to become one with the wind. So I would never be forced into a life I didn’t choose.”
A hollow chuckle escaped him, splintering into something louder, harsher—laughter that rolled like distant thunder before a storm.
“And look what became of me?” His voice rose, breaking as he threw his arms wide to the empty void. “Look at what I have become! Look at my legacy! Look at my people!” he howled. “I was meant to be their king! their leader! Yet in the end… I couldn’t even save myself from my own pain!” His laughter collapsed in on itself, dissolving into ragged sobs.
“Two hundred years…” he whispered hoarsely. “Trapped. My magic stolen, my mind devoured by a cursed ring, my body buried beneath a temple in the mortal realm.” His hands trembled as they covered his face. “The king of the Netherworld… reduced to nothing more than a soulless trinket.”
Silence followed. Heavy, and suffocating. Iruma watched him, eyes steady, filled not with pity, but with quiet understanding. “A long time ago,” he started gently, “Sabro told me a story.”
Derkila’s shoulders still. Slowly, he lifted his head.
“It was about a man; a general unlike any other. Someone who stood above all demons. Not because of his power… but because he couldn’t bear to see others suffer.” Iruma leaned toward the former king, his voice growing firmer, warmer.
“They said he ended a war by himself. Not for glory. Not for conquest. But because he refused to let his comrades dies.”
Derkila’s eyes flickered. Tears gathering at the corner of his eyes.
“And that same general became king,” Iruma continued, meeting his gaze. “After the chaos left behind by the Eleventh Demon King, Dokfel. He turned the Netherworld into something no one had ever dared to dream of.” His words deepened, steady and sure, careful hands restoring something long shattered. Broken black ceramic, pieced together and made whole again with veins of gold.
“He created a world of wonder. Of order. Of possibility. He reshaped education. Gave demons purpose beyond mere survival. He made sure even the lowest-ranked had rights had dignity.” Iruma’s voice softened, but its conviction did not waver as he poured the sake into the mended cup, its golden seams catching the light.
“He became the greatest king in history,” he said quietly. “The one who gave generations something to believe in.”
A small, resolute smile touched his lips. “And that king…” He extended the repaired sakazuki toward him, hands steady, offering not just the cup, but everything it represented.
“…is you.”
Derkila did not take the cup.
For a long moment, he simply stared at it—at the thin veins of gold threading through fractured black ceramic. His reflection wavered in the sake’s surface, broken, reformed, unfamiliar.
“…You speak as if that man still exists,” he said at last, his voice low and unsteady. “As if I can simply… step back into that role.”
His hand lifted slightly, then faltered midair.
“I am not him,” Derkila muttered. “Not anymore.”
Iruma didn’t pull the cup back. “I know,” he said. The answer came easily, gently, without hesitation.
“That king lived two hundred years ago,” Iruma continued, “And he made mistakes. He ran away. He suffered.” His grip on the cup remained steady as he held it between them. “But that doesn’t erase what he did. And it doesn’t decide who you are now.”
The breeze stirred the sakura petals, carrying a few across the blanket. One caught briefly in Derkila’s hair before drifting away.
“You said you wanted someone to walk beside you,” Iruma continued, his voice softer now. “Not someone who bows. Not someone who worships you.”
He held the cup steady between them, his gaze unwavering. “So be Derkila. Just Derkila, not the demon king, not the legend of history. Just Derkila, my mentor… and my dearest friend.” His tone was gentle, yet firm. The words settled into the quiet, softer than any title, yet carrying far more weight.
“Walk,” Iruma said, nudging the cup forward just a little. “Not ahead of everyone. Not above them. Just beside.”
Silence followed, but it had changed. It no longer pressed in so tightly. Derkila’s hand trembled as it moved at last. His fingers brushed the gold-lined fracture before slowly closing around the cup.
The ceramic was warm. It was not what it once had been, yet it was no longer broken.
“You make it sound simple,” he murmured, his voice rough.
Iruma smiled, a little sheepish, but sincere. “It’s not,” he admitted. “But you don’t have to do it alone this time.”
A quiet breath left Derkila, fragile and unsteady, like something long held finally set free. For the first time since he had begun to speak, the weight within his chest eased.
For the first time, he did not feel quite so alone.