DEMON KING'S Love Redemption

Chapter 25

A heavy, chilling silence hung over Aethelgard Square, as if time itself had been flash-frozen by a high-tier ice spell. The sugary scent of candied apples and cotton candy that had filled the air just moments ago was now buried under the pungent stench of sulfur and black vapor seeping from the cracks in the cobblestones. Amidst the chaos, dozens of black-robed figures remained prostrate, their foreheads pressed against the cold stone in a display of ultimate reverence for a young man whose face still pulsed with an unnatural silver light.

Vann felt every eye in the city fixed upon him. It was pure horror. The looks usually reserved for a savior had shifted into the kind of stare one gave a monster being unmasked. But what hurt Vann most was Freya, standing a few yards behind him. He didn’t need to turn around to know she was gripping her dagger so hard her knuckles were white, ready to plunge silver into his back if he uttered a single command to the zealots at his feet.

"Dammit, dammit, dammit!" Vann screamed internally. Of all the thousands of nights this year, why did they have to show up while I was just trying to be a normal teenager eating cotton candy?

"My Lord Vann..." the goat-masked cult leader spoke again, his voice trembling with a loathsome, fanatical euphoria. "Give us your command! Tell us who to slaughter first to celebrate your awakening! This holy woman? Shall we tear out her heart right now?"

Vann clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms. The scorching demon blood surged through his veins, begging to be unleashed so he could annihilate every black robe in front of him in the blink of an eye. But if he used his true power, his masquerade as an academy student would be over forever. He would lose Freya before he even had the chance to love her in this lifetime.

Vann took a deep breath. The glow on his face—the lingering failure of his tooth-whitening magic—could actually be useful. In his sheer desperation, a plan so insane it bordered on comedy took root in his mind.

"Stop this madness!" Vann bellowed. His voice wasn’t the deep, resonant tone of a Demon King; instead, it was a high-pitched, panicked shriek, like an amateur exorcist in over his head.

Vann stepped forward, his legs shaking—this time, he made sure they wobbled on purpose. He snatched up a wooden pole from the wreckage of a doll stall he’d just flattened. He thrust the stick toward the sky as if it were a legendary holy relic.

"O vile spirits possessing these poor souls!" Vann cried out with exaggerated flair, sounding like a third-rate stage actor. "Do not use my radiant countenance as an excuse for your heretical rituals! I am an honor student of Aethelgard, and I will not allow you to taint this festival with your collective hallucinations!"

The cultists froze beneath their hoods. The goat-masked man looked up, his blood-red eyes staring at Vann with profound confusion. "My Lord? What are you saying? We aren’t possessed... we are your loyal servants who—"

"SILENCE, YOU DISGUISED FIEND!" Vann cut him off with a brutal kick square to the chest.

CRACK!

The man was sent flying backward, crashing into the city fountain with enough force to crack the marble. Vann didn't stop there. He leaped into the center of the black-robed crowd, swinging his flimsy wooden stick with wildly dramatic movements, as if fighting for his very life.

"Take this! The Power of Light... uh, the Purifying Pearly White Light!" Vann screamed.

Every time his stick struck a cultist's shoulder or head, Vann discreetly funneled a microscopic spark of pure dark mana through his fingertips into the wood. The result? Anyone hit didn’t just feel the physical impact; their nerves were momentarily paralyzed by his negative energy, making them scream as if they’d been doused in acid.

"AAAAAUGH! IT HURTS! WHY DOES THIS LIGHT FEEL SO COLD AND BURNING?!" shrieked one cultist after Vann thrashed him across the back.

"That is the sting of repentance!" Vann barked, continuing to beat the cultists mercilessly. "Begone, demons! Crawl back into your holes! Stop saying 'Lord Vann'—my name is Vann the High-Achieving Student!"

Freya stood frozen at the edge of the square, watching the absurd spectacle. On one hand, she saw Vann—the man she suspected of being a dark overlord—running around like a lunatic, beating dozens of fully armed cultists with nothing but a broken stick. On the other hand, every strike he landed did emit a glow, even if the color was a bit purplish.

"Vann? What are you doing?" Freya asked, her voice a cocktail of horror and utter bewilderment.

Vann glanced back at her for a split second. His glowing face was now streaked with soot, but he managed to give her a thumbs-up. "Don’t be afraid, Freya! I’m performing a 'Mass Exorcism via Physical Therapy' technique! It’s high-level magic I studied in the library... self-taught!"

Vann returned to the fray. He grabbed one cultist by the collar, hoisted him up, and whispered something only the poor soul could hear. "If you don't run right now and pretend to be in agony from my light magic, I’ll make sure your soul never reincarnates, even in a million years."

The cultist’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head in terror. He immediately let out a blood-curdling scream. "NOOOO! THE LIGHT IS TOO BRIGHT! I REPENT! I REPENT!" He threw himself to the ground and scrambled toward the shadows of an alley with impossible speed.

Seeing one of their own flee, the other cultists who had already felt the sting of Vann’s "Light" finally caught on to their King’s message. They all began to wail dramatically.

"O Hero of Light, Vann! Forgive our darkness!"

"The glow of his teeth... it truly shatters my evil faith!"

"We’re going back to the righteous path! Please stop hitting us!"

One by one, the dozens of robed figures fled—jumping into the river or vanishing into the shadows after receiving Vann’s "therapy." The goat-masked leader hauled himself up, staring at Vann with a mix of hatred and confusion. He realized their King was putting on an elaborate performance to protect his identity.

"You are quite the actor, My Lord," the leader hissed before detonating a black smoke bomb to make his escape. "But we will return once you grow bored of playing house with this little hero."

The smoke cleared, leaving behind a trashed square, a few smashed lanterns, and a single young man named Vann, standing breathless while clutching a wooden stick snapped in two. The glow on his face slowly dimmed, leaving a silence far heavier than the battle itself.

Vann dropped the stick. He turned slowly toward Freya, wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve, trying his best to look like a weary hero who had just saved the day.