In countries ruled by the Church, the existence of magic was practically taboo.
If the Church discovered a child had magical talent, the family had no choice but to hand them over. The slightest resistance would result in the entire household being slaughtered under the blades of the Inquisition. The taken children would be sent to the Holy City for "education" and surveillance—they had to undergo a ritual to join the Church, swearing loyalty to the Deity of Light to avoid execution.
That ritual wasn't just for show. If someone wasn't truly devoted to the Deity of Light, their oath would receive no response. Failure meant only one outcome.
But because no one dared openly discuss it—and the Church forbade even the casual mention of words like "magic"—many who possessed magical talent lived their entire lives without ever understanding what it truly was.
The little demon flicked his tail impatiently, ignoring her question entirely. "Hurry up and cook."
Myma was on the verge of snapping. "You emptied half my pantry, ate my lunch, and I'm still making fish for you—yet you won't even answer a single question?!"
The little demon blinked at her, utterly lost. He neither understood why she was angry nor what she was even talking about. "Question?"
Myma deflated, repeating weakly, "Do you know magic? Can you teach me?"
He stared at her as if she'd spoken nonsense. "What?"
"I have talent!" she insisted quickly. "I can cast first-tier spells! Well… not always successfully, but I can learn! I just need someone to answer a few things—the books only have incantations and useless history lessons!"
Any certified mage hearing this would immediately point out the flaw: if she could truly cast first-tier magic, success would be guaranteed. Spells didn't "sometimes work and sometimes fail."
Myma knew this too, but right now, it didn't matter.
She had prepared countless arguments. If this guy was willing to teach her—even just give a few pointers—she'd gladly provide not just fish, but three meals a day. Hell, she'd cook for him whenever he demanded, as long as he didn't refuse.
Under the girl's burning gaze, the little demon finally spoke, his expression blank.
"Magic," he repeated the word slowly, as if hearing it for the first time. "I don't hear this often. What is magic?"
Myma almost thought he was messing with her. She studied his face—but the little demon genuinely looked confused. For all his faults, he never hid his emotions.
He was a simple creature: angry, hungry, or utterly baffled. Right now, his face screamed, What are you talking about?
Myma sighed. She didn't even know the demonic word for "magic." Turning away, she muttered, "...Never mind."
The little demon didn't appreciate being dismissed. His tail lashed out, pressing down on Myma's shoulder with terrifying force—like a collapsing roof beam.
She swore, if she were any weaker, the impact would've flattened her!
The little demon tilted his head, his tail sliding under her arm and curling around her shoulder. Effortlessly, he lifted and spun her to face him, demanding again: "What is magic?"
Myma exhaled in frustration. "It's using mental energy to resonate with external magical elements. When you summoned fire, didn't you communicate with fire spirits first?"
Theoretically, a child raised under Church rule shouldn't know this—even black markets struggled to carry magic-related books. But Myma had traveled from the Borden Empire to the Dusk Continent, passing through Taven Empire, where the Deity of Light held no sway. Magic flourished there, with countless renowned academies.
She had desperately wanted to stay and study, not just buy a few books and leave.
Myma side-eyed the tail resting on her shoulder.
It had to be at least four or five feet long, as thick as her arm, covered in smooth, obsidian scales that shimmered with ember-like heat. Its tip tapered into a vicious, blade-like spike—a natural weapon capable of flaying flesh.
Instantly, Myma froze, not daring to imagine the gruesome consequences of resisting. "...Do you have any other questions?"
The little demon raised a claw, hesitating. His confusion remained. "Fire spirits? What's that?"
Myma choked on her words.
Elemental spirits existed in every corner of the world, saturating the air itself. They weren't truly sentient, but mages drew their earliest power from communing with them—using incantations and mental focus to channel their energy.
Her initial excitement had vanished. How stupid could I be? Pinning hopes on a clueless demon for magic lessons?
She tried explaining again, though she doubted demonic tongues had words for "elemental spirits." "...Never mind. You're just born with this ability, right?"
Under his blank stare, Myma shook her head in disappointment. Life's so unfair.
Defeated, she pointed at the frying pan. "Forget I asked. Just tell me—how do you light the fire? Is there a trick?"
The little demon released her. Myma's shoulder sagged in relief as she fished out a few pieces of fish for her own lunch, then gestured at the rest. "All yours."
The other happily dug into the sizzling oil with bare hands—unfazed by temperatures that would sear human flesh. At least he remembered her question. "No trick."
Myma raised a brow. "You don't talk to fire spirits. Got it."
He shot her a figure it out yourself look between bites. "When lighting fire, you think—"
"Think what kind of fire you want," he mumbled through a full mouth. "I have to think. Or you'll burn to death."
His explanation was crude—maybe due to the fish—but Myma still didn't grasp it.
"...Why would lighting the stove kill me?" She twitched. "Does your fire fly around? Like third-tier Firebolt spells?"
The little demon shook his head, giving her a you're hopeless look. "I'm done!"
Myma panicked, shielding her plate. "If I don't eat, I'll starve. If I starve, you'll never eat my cooking again!"
Wait.
Is there going to be a "next time"?!
The little demon pondered this seriously before conceding with a grunt.
Myma wolfed down her fish first. "What do you usually eat?"
His face scrunched in distaste as he struggled to articulate. "Mother says I don't need to eat. But I want to. Beastmen taste bad. Most monsters too. Someone said cooking helps, but their cooking still sucks."
Myma: "..."
She eyed him warily. "You mean… beastmen's food, right? Right? I heard they mostly eat monsters—and monster meat fills you up fast—okay, stop licking the plate. Sit. I'll make something else."
The little demon, initially baffled, brightened at the offer and actually stayed put.
Myma poured milk into a pot, steeping bay leaves and pepper stems, then grated cheese bought from the market. After straining the milk, she melted butter with flour, adding cheese and nutmeg.
The little demon didn't hold back his praise this time. "...Smells amazing!"
Youngsters rarely stayed composed when complimented. Myma smirked. "Before leaving her clan, my mother worked in the mountain dwarves' royal kitchen. Even Emperor Mask XIII praised her skills—I might not have mastered her dual battle-axes, but I did inherit her recipes."
She washed tomatoes and lettuce, piled a bowl with purple cabbage and greens, then drowned it all in sauce. When she looked up, golden eyes gleamed back.
The little demon glanced between her and the plate. Resigned, she handed it over. "...Go ahead."
Utensils were optional for him. He face-planted into the food, licking every trace clean—but halfway through, he paused, tilting his head before pushing the plate back.
"Don't starve," he declared solemnly.
Myma chuckled, picking up a fork. "Fine, but this is it… My pantry's practically empty now."
The little demon scanned the room. "Why not eat other things?"
She understood. "Like livestock? This area's crawling with monsters. No proper pastures either. Merchants bring some meat, but it's expensive. I'm not picky, though."
"Monsters?" He seemed puzzled. "So?"
"If you raise animals, monsters might not eat them all—but they'll slaughter the rest. People here don't pay taxes, but there's no army to drive monsters away either." She yawned, rising to wash dishes. "Dusk Continent rangers patrol sometimes, but they're not here daily. With just me at home, monsters are trouble."
The little demon still didn't get it. He snatched the plate, licked it, then tossed it back. "Just kill them."
Myma deadpanned. While his appreciation for her cooking was flattering, this was ridiculous.
"...What?"
"Monsters. Kill them. Or eat them."
Myma: "...I wish everything were as simple as you make it sound."
The rain had stopped.
Lazy summer sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled patterns across the windowsill. Roses and lilies in the garden glistened post-storm—yet the usual chorus of birds was conspicuously absent.
The little demon vanished from the room, disappearing into the garden in a blink.
Myma didn't mind his abrupt exit. Finally full, she curled up on the sofa, nestled into the cushions, and drifted into sleep.