DEMON KING'S Love Redemption

Chapter 27

The sharp tang of burning beeswax and the stifling, earthy aroma of a thousand ancient parchment scrolls washed over Vann as he crossed the threshold of the massive oak doors into Professor Mordred’s study. The room bore little resemblance to a typical faculty office; it felt more like the laboratory of an alchemist obsessed with the macabre. Pale twilight filtered through narrow stained-glass windows, illuminating dancing dust motes, while the corners of the room remained swallowed by shadows that seemed to pulse with a life of their own.

Vann steadied his breathing, fighting to still his racing heart. He smoothed out his academy uniform, which was still slightly disheveled from the chaos of the previous night’s Star Festival. Before him sat Professor Mordred, perched behind a desk cluttered with stacks of books bound in human skin and the skulls of magical beasts whose eye sockets still flickered with a faint, dying light.

"Sit down, Vann," Mordred said, his voice raspy, as if his throat had long since been parched by the dust of history.

Vann pulled out a wooden chair that groaned loudly, shattering the oppressive silence. He carefully composed his features into the look of a confused, slightly intimidated star pupil—a mask he had spent the last several months perfecting. "Forgive me, Professor. Is this regarding the incident at the festival last night? I have already explained everything to the Inquisition officers..."

Mordred didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he occupied himself by pouring a thick, violet liquid from a glass decanter into a black porcelain cup. Steam rose from the brew, swirling into the fleeting silhouettes of tiny hands reaching for the air before vanishing.

"Mandrake root tea?" Mordred offered, his piercing eyes tracking Vann from behind silver-rimmed spectacles. "It’s excellent for soothing frayed nerves after performing a... 'mass exorcism' in public."

Vann swallowed hard. Mordred’s tone was laced with a sharp, biting sarcasm. "I only did what was necessary to protect Lady Freya, Professor. As I stated before, it was a matter of luck and instinct."

"Luck is a word often favored by those concealing miracles, Vann," Mordred said, taking a slow sip of his tea before leaning back in his chair. "Or by those harboring secrets far too heavy for a sixteen-year-old’s shoulders to bear."

Mordred rose from his seat, his footsteps making no sound as he walked toward an iron safe bound in silver chains designed to suppress curses. Vann watched the old man’s every move. He knew that beneath the facade of an eccentric teacher, Mordred was one of the finest Inquisitors the kingdom had ever known before his sudden 'retirement' to the academy.

"Freya van Aethelgard gave a most fascinating testimony," Mordred said, undoing the safe’s lock with a flick of his finger that released a pulse of gray mana. "She claimed you used a 'light magic' that radiated from your very being to paralyze the cultists of the Diabolos Order. A poetic description, certainly, but technically... impossible."

Mordred turned back, carrying a black velvet box. Its surface was coated in a layer of frost that refused to melt. The temperature in the room plummeted. Vann felt the hair on his arms stand up. His Demon King instincts screamed a warning; the object inside that box shared a profound resonance with his very soul.

"Do you know what this is, Vann?" Mordred asked, placing the box on the desk directly in front of him.

"No, Professor," Vann replied curtly, struggling to keep his voice from trembling.

Mordred opened the lid. Nestled inside was a fragment of obsidian crystal that reflected no light at all. It looked like a solid piece of the midnight sky, pulsing rhythmically like a slumbering heart.

"This is the Cor Tenebris—the Heart of Darkness," Mordred whispered. "Not a literal heart, of course. It is an ancient artifact forged from the residual essence of the first Demon King millennia ago. It serves one very specific purpose: it reacts, pulses, and bleeds a crimson light if it comes within five meters of anyone possessing a bloodline or a soul attuned to the demonic throne."

Vann clenched his fists beneath the table, his nails digging into his palms. The pain helped him focus. Damn it. This was a trap. The Cor Tenebris couldn't be fooled by simple mana concealment. It detected the essence of the soul, not external energy flows.

"The Holy Inquisition used this to hunt down the remnants of the demon-kin," Mordred continued, his eyes locked onto Vann’s face. "However, this artifact has remained dormant for the last hundred years. Until last night... when you were in the square, the artifact I kept in this tower began to throb with such violence it nearly shattered its containment."

Mordred leaned forward until his face was only inches from Vann’s. "Tell me, Vann. Why would an artifact that only reacts to the Demon King suddenly start thrashing about while you were 'helping' Freya?"

Vann took a deep breath, letting his lungs fill with the bitter scent of mandrake. He stared at the black crystal. Through his supernatural vision, he could see threads of red energy beginning to creep from the crystal toward his heart. The threads were hungry for recognition. They wanted to greet their returned king.

Steady, Vann. You’ve survived a thousand wars. Deceiving one old stone is nothing, he told himself.

Vann loosened his grip, allowing his body to go limp and appear fragile. He looked up at Mordred with shimmering, watery eyes—an emotional manipulation tactic he’d picked up from watching traveling theater troupes.

"Professor... I don’t know what to say," Vann’s voice cracked, sounding utterly pathetic. "Maybe that’s why they call me 'Your Majesty' as a joke. Maybe... maybe there is a curse in my blood I don’t know about. My father was a farmer, and my mother died when I was small. Am I... am I a monster?"

Mordred narrowed his eyes, searching for a hint of insincerity. "We don't need to guess, boy. This crystal will provide the answer."

Mordred produced a small silver dagger. "Give me your hand. A single drop of your blood upon the Cor Tenebris will prove everything. If you are a common human, the crystal will remain silent. If you are what I fear... then this room will be the last thing you see as a free man."

Vann knew he couldn't refuse. Refusal was a confession. He extended his right hand toward the black crystal, letting it tremble with dramatic flair. Mordred made a swift, shallow cut on the tip of Vann’s index finger.

A single bead of bright red blood clung to Vann’s fingertip before falling slowly toward the cold obsidian surface.

Drip.

In the split second the blood touched the crystal, Vann took a massive gamble. He didn't suppress his darkness. Instead, he fractured his soul into two distinct layers. In the deepest layer, he locked his Demon King identity within a vacuum of mana. On the outer layer, he manipulated the lingering energy from the festival—the faint traces of the fake 'light' magic—and fused it with raw, unadulterated terror.

He constructed a reactive 'false soul.'

The crystal shuddered. A glow began to emanate from its depths. Red. A very faint, thin red, like a thread on the verge of snapping.

Mordred’s eyes widened. His hand moved toward the wand hidden beneath the desk. "Red..."

But just before the glow could intensify, Vann forced his mana to 'burn' internally. He deliberately ruptured his own mana circuits to trigger a violent energy backlash.

BZZZZTT!