The Boss Wants to Die

Chapter 22

Chapter 22

The Boss Wants to Die

I didn’t want to waste any more time.

I wanted to give Michael Iruvre a kiss or something to raise his affinity and quickly collect the reward.

Yet, lo and behold, he had vanished without a trace.

“Where did he go?”

At a total loss, I searched the room Michael had stayed in.

Then, under the rumpled bed, I found a hidden note.

I picked it up and unfolded it.

***

Akt Hevgenia was at the Oak Tree Pub.

Built entirely of logs, this establishment was the most famous pub across all the nearby villages.

Because both players and adult NPCs frequented the place, there was a system at the entrance that automatically filtered out minors.

So he had been quite taken aback when, right in the middle of drinking his beer, Michael Iruvre got caught at the entrance and was flustered.

“You’re not an adult yet?”

Akt explained the situation to the employee and pulled Michael away from the entrance.

Seated next to Akt, Michael was served rich, savory milk instead of beer.

“Why did you tell me to meet in a place like this?”

Glaring at the white milk with a humiliated look on his face, Michael snapped at Akt.

The venom hadn’t fully left his expression.

Looking at him like this, he seemed a bit like a child.

“Crowded places are preferable if possible. The Evil God is still uncomfortable around lots of people.”

Akt Hevgenia downed several gulps of beer in succession.

Michael anxiously studied Akt’s profile.

Cold sweat trickled down his spine.

‘A sinner on the run with the Demon Sword….’

Michael Iruvre was a holy swordsman who had dutifully completed his quests.

A holy swordsman whose purpose was to capture Akt, who might have turned into the worst kind of murderous fiend.

He had counted down the days until they crossed paths, but he never imagined it would turn out like this.

Feeling the emptiness at his back, Michael shrank his shoulders even further.

Now, he didn’t even have his Holy Sword.

“Were you so flustered because you’re young?”

“…….”

“Even throwing away your Holy Sword.”

Stung where it hurt most, the veins on Michael’s forehead bulged.

“Shut up. Normally, you wouldn’t even be allowed to speak to me. You’re a heinous criminal.”

“Like my father?”

When Akt gave a small smirk and rested his chin in his hand, Michael’s momentum faltered.

Watching Akt’s relaxed demeanor, Michael gritted his teeth and slammed his fist against the table.

“I’m not wrong. It’s only a matter of time before you’re consumed by the Demon Sword.”

“Hmm.”

“You’re the son of a magic swordsman criminal who slaughtered a third of the village. Surely you don’t intend to follow in his footsteps?”

“No.”

“Then why did you leave the Sanctuary?”

As if suddenly overcome by profound exhaustion, Akt rubbed the bridge of his nose with his index finger before speaking.

“Michael Iruvre.”

Just hearing his name called made Michael feel utterly pinned in place.

Aside from flustering around the Evil God, Akt was a player with real gravity.

Experience that couldn’t be quantified by mere levels was condensed into his voice like solid rock.

“To be honest, it’s been a very long time since I last met you. That’s why I’d completely forgotten you existed.”

Even as Akt said so, he seemed unable to believe he had forgotten Michael.

Letting out a dry laugh, he roughly swept back his white hair.

“Am I starting to break down, I wonder…?”

“Break down?”

At Michael’s question, Akt tapped his temple and smoothly changed the subject.

“Setting aside talk of the Demon Sword, you have plenty to ask me, don’t you?”

Akt pushed his beer aside and loosely clasped his hands together.

It was the posture of someone settling in for a serious conversation.

He asked with meaningful weight:

“Your ‘memories’ have returned, haven’t they?”

“……I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

His face pale, Michael instantly feigned ignorance.

“What do you mean it’s been a long time since we met? You and I have only met this once. You must have finally gone mad from that Demon Sword.”

Shaking his head, Akt tore open a rift in the empty air and reached inside, rummaging through it.

It looked as if he were going through his inventory.

And then, completely without warning, he casually pulled out the Demon Sword to display it.

Black as obsidian from hilt to blade, the sinister weapon radiated an ominous, hazardous blood-red haze.

The air around the blade rotted away, darkening into a murky crimson.

“Hk!”

Serving near Akt and Michael’s table, a waitress gasped and collapsed to the floor.

Her knees had buckled under the wicked aura surging from the Demon Sword.

While the waitress trembled all over in terror where she had fallen, players began craning their necks one by one to gawk in their direction.

The Demon Sword seemed thrilled.

It had been a long time since it was drawn in such a crowded place.

The sword beckoning slaughter spread its blood-red haze even more malevolently, discharging its sinister energy.

“E-Eeek!”

The onlookers shrank back hesitantly before fleeing in panic.

Level 60 was the upper limit for this village at best.

The malice radiated by the Demon Sword was an evil aura equivalent to the miasma of the Demon Realm.

It was not an aura that players casually chugging booze in a tavern could endure.

The patrons cleared out like a receding tide, and the waitress scrambled away on all fours before bolting.

Only the owner of the Oak Tree Pub held his ground till the end, though even he remained frozen at the foot of the stairs leading to the second floor.

Once the surroundings fell silent, Akt placed the Demon Sword on the table.

“Here, the Demon Sword. Take it if it bothers you so much.”

He abruptly grabbed Michael’s frozen wrist and dragged it forward.

Then, he held Michael’s hand just barely brushing distance from the blood-red haze of the Demon Sword.

Michael turned pale as a ghost, petrified.

Sensing a new host, the Demon Sword writhed its haze with repulsive eagerness.

Just a fraction lower, and his skin would touch the putrefying air.

Cold sweat drenched his palm in an instant.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Akt offered gently.

“Pick it up yourself and take it. I won’t stop you.”

Being level 230 did not mean one could control the Demon Sword.

He could endure without fleeing, but that was the extent of it.

If he touched the Demon Sword, it wouldn’t take long before he lost his sanity and went berserk.

‘He’s held that ever since he was a baby…?’

This was the first time Michael was seeing the Demon Sword with his own eyes.

It was unbelievable.

How could anyone grasp such a wicked thing with bare hands?

And for well over twenty years at that.

“Not taking it?”

Akt shrugged and released Michael’s wrist.

Having held out solely on pride, Michael retracted his hand at lightning speed and wiped away his cold sweat with a handkerchief.

It was a cloth pre-soaked in holy water.

It was an essential item one had to carry before facing undead or evil-aligned monsters.

“Now that you’ve seen it with your own eyes, what do you think? Do I still look like a madman driven by the Demon Sword?”

Akt grasped the Demon Sword barehanded as if it were nothing.

His pale hand pierced through the blood-red haze that formed around the Demon Sword like soapy foam.

Then, without hesitation, he gripped the rotting-looking hilt.

A chilling crackle hissed in the air.

It was the sound of the Demon Sword throwing a tantrum, having been kept from rampaging to its heart’s content through all its long years with Akt.

Just watching it made Michael’s blood run cold.

Akt waited for Michael’s answer, his gaze clear and sharp.

“No.”

He couldn’t help but concede.

If he had truly gone mad from the Demon Sword, the Akt before him wouldn’t be sitting quietly in a pub.

This place would already have been a sea of blood.

“You seem perfectly fine.”

“I’m glad you understand.”

Akt stowed the Demon Sword back into his inventory.

The evil aura that had completely dominated the pub vanished as if wiped clean.

A loud clattering commotion broke out from somewhere.

It was the noise of the tavern owner, who had barely been holding on, collapsing to the floor as his strength gave out.

“The Demon Sword is safest with me. I’m the one who can control it.”

“…….”

“The original Michael Iruvre would have scoffed at my words. But now, you’ll believe me.”

Akt lazily rested his chin on his hand.

“Because your ‘memories’ have returned.”

“…….”

“Right?”

Michael’s Detection skill was abnormally high.

He had already known for some time that Akt Hevgenia was not lying.

It was just hard to believe.

If it had to be that either he was crazy or Akt was crazy, he wanted to believe it was Akt.

Yet both were sound of mind, and Akt had proven it in the most undeniable way possible.

“What did you mean when you said it’s been a long time since you met me? By my reckoning, it hasn’t been that long.”

Giving up, Michael gulped down the milk.

His throat was parched and there was no water, so he had drunk it out of necessity, but surprisingly, the rich, nutty flavor brought a sense of calm.

To Michael, finding comfort in that felt utterly despairing.

Meanwhile, having mulled over Michael’s remark that it hadn’t been that long, Akt finished his calculations.

‘There’s no need to explain things he has no memory of.’

He smoothly carried on the conversation.

“It’s understandable I’d forget. You were the first player to slay the Evil God, after all.”

Michael’s hand, about to take another sip of milk, froze in midair.

Their eyes locked in the space between them.

“A very, very long time ago.”

Akt muttered coldly.

Michael Iruvre was the first player across countless lifetimes to slay the Evil God.

Akt Hevgenia could recall that moment so vividly that he wondered how he could have ever forgotten it.

The air of that day, the weather, the expression Michael wore—even Lee Rowoon smiling.