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Demonic Conqueror: Heroic Valor - Chapter 31.1, 31.2
🕑 Added 2025-05-01 03:13:20 +0000 UTCClaws gleamed with wicked intent as the Demon reached out for a noble neck.
Piers Helmund's eyes widened with fear. He leapt sideways, expelling mana from the soles of his feet to propel himself faster. A burst of light shot forth from his hands, haphazardly aimed, done with more haste than finesse.
Simon let the attack fruitlessly pass by. His claws grasped at the space where Piers' throat had been, closing around empty air. With a shrug and a snap of his fingers, he gave the nobleman a playful grin, as if to say: 'Almost got you!'
A host of warring emotions sprang up on the royal's face. Indignation, outrage, apprehension, terror. A lifetime of occupying the top of the food chain clashed with the reality of his flesh being torn asunder mere hours ago.
And all the while, his gaze remained transfixed on the Demon's outstretched arm. As if Piers couldn't fully comprehend what he was seeing. As if the arm itself was a living creature about to grow fangs, let out a hideous shriek, and lunge straight for him.
As if he was a man made of steel in a world built from glass, yet for the first time in...ever, he was beginning to understand the concept of mortality.
More frantic bursts of mana were shot forth. The Demon dodged and advanced in the same motion, his grin deepening and his body left unscathed. He hadn't needed to spend even a single drop of MP since the two of them fell to this floor.
A cat toying with a mouse – that's what an outside observer may have thought. It was certainly what Piers was starting to believe, and what Simon was attempting to portray.
Inside, the transmigrator knew better.
I nearly died just then.
Those sloppy, off-the-cuff mana blasts had pierced directly through the wall behind Simon, melting reinforced stone and metal like butter. If any one of them had struck him instead, he probably wouldn't be smiling right now.
Piers' spellcasting was also blindingly quick. Virtually impossible to react to, at least with Simon's current Dexterity. It was less that he had dodged, and more that the nobleman had missed.
Barrier. 50 MP.
Simon prepared the spell well in advance this time, anticipating that Piers would cast faster. His caution was rewarded a split-second later when destructive mana slammed into the Barrier.
MP: 280 / 630
A worrying crack almost split the translucent shield apart, but it held long enough for the transmigrator to continue his advance forward. After contemplating his options, he chose to employ one of the strongest tools in his arsenal, something much more potent than a spell empowered by Fell mana:
Laughter.
Sounds of amusement echoed throughout the hallway, mingling with the distant clamor of battle up above as the Hurricane rebels engaged Piers' retinue. Simon kept his laughter to a moderate level of insanity – better to establish a baseline now, then escalate later for added impact.
It wasn't the voice of full-on derangement that he'd utilized back at the bar, but it got the job done. The Helmund scion froze in place, his eyes swimming with memories of pain and fright that were far too fresh to ignore. He recklessly threw out another blast of mana, cursing loudly when his assault missed by a hair.
"YOU HAVE TRESPASSED UPON THE SEVERED ISLES, DEMON!" Piers tried to sound menacing while running backwards. He didn't quite manage it. "IN THE NAME OF HELMUND, I SHALL CAST OUT THIS VILE ABOMINATION!"
Simon didn't respond verbally. Without breaking eye contact, he draped his claws over his throat, then mimed a harsh pulling motion, pretending to rip out his flesh. In case the message hadn't been received loud and clear, he made sure to point at the nobleman right after.
Admittedly, Piers' furious eruption of mana made for an excellent retort. Shame that it missed as well, the transmigrator ducking under it with what appeared to be practiced ease.
Nearly died then too, Simon thought. Not that he was surprised.
By his estimate, he would be brushing hands with death every five seconds until the fight was over.
The cold truth of the matter was that Piers had basically won. Despite his weakened state, he was still stronger, faster, more trained, and positively overflowing with mana. There was no metric that a Level 31 transmigrator with modest combat experience beat him in.
Except one. Just one path to victory that Simon could envision. One debilitating flaw that was rooted deep in the nobleman's psyche.
His discipline.
Aside from his father the Duke, Piers Helmund hadn't needed to answer to anyone. As the supreme ruler of his own little world, he'd never tasted real defeat, and his success in life had been set in stone from the very hour of his birth. The name he flaunted and the mana he wielded were weapons that simply could not fail.
Until they had.
Getting your neck torn out and your healing magic nullified would've been traumatizing for a normal Valtian. For an arrogant, silver-spooned noble? Someone whose biggest hurdles in life were closer to gentle slopes? It was the single-worst thing that had ever happened to him by a wide, wide margin. Nothing else could possibly compare.
Piers had already depleted his shallow wellspring of courage during his initial assault upstairs. After that failed due to 300 MP worth of Barriers, the well promptly ran dry.
He could no longer convince himself that he was still in control.
Simon could see it in the man's eyes. He was scared. Not just in the sense that he was facing a powerful foe – he was scared like he was developing a phobia. Piers couldn't tear his gaze away from the Demonic arm, his pupils dilating, breaths intensifying, sweat collecting on his brow, blood continuously pouring from his unhealed wound.
Try as he might to hide it, the nobleman was practically trembling from head-to-toe. That was the main reason he kept missing.
And the only reason why Simon yet lived.
The transmigrator fought to maintain a self-assured grin as another searing bolt of mana missed him by millimeters. If it had found its mark, he would've lost half his HP and most of his torso.
It's like dodging bullets, he mused. You can't. Not really. Just have to move fast, throw off their aim, and hope for the best.
Simon pressed forward yet again, endlessly chasing Piers, seeking to narrow the gap between them by just a little bit more. That was all he could do. Gamble his life to gain a few inches, over and over.
Five seconds passed. He almost died for the sixth time.
This isn't sustainable. While Piers was panicking for now, even the slightest shift in momentum would bring their duel to an abrupt end. The nobleman wasn't an inexperienced civilian like Armand Calloway – he'd received martial training befitting the Helmund name. He would prevail as soon as he managed to calm down and aim carefully once.
Which was why Simon couldn't let that happen.
The Demon's face and posture portrayed complete self-assurance, without so much as a hint of doubt. His claws were displayed in full view – although not too obviously, lest their glamour dull. Each individual moment in time was tailored to drag Piers' psyche through the gutter.
Fake it 'till you make it. If he presented himself as a terrifying, unstoppable Demon, then the nobleman might just believe him.
Of course, the problem with Fake It 'Till You Make It was that it immediately fell apart if the other guy caught on. Simon's only viable strategy was a house of cards that could collapse at any moment.
He had an endgame plan in mind – a surefire way to guarantee victory – but it wouldn't work unless Piers was on the verge of a mental breakdown.
More than a battle for physical supremacy, this was a prolonged theater performance; a con that put Simon's stint as Ardyn Cobblestone's 'cousin' to shame. And out of every tool in a conman's arsenal...
There was nothing more insidious than unchecked, unearned, and unshakeable confidence.
"I think congratulations are in order," Simon began. He stopped chasing, sacrificing distance to stand still and clap, clap, clap, his human and Demonic hands meeting. "You've done well."
Rather than taking the opportunity to escape, Piers skidded to a halt, his fear temporarily usurped by anger. "What do you mean by that?" he demanded, voice gurgling from his ever-bleeding neck wound.
"It was a compliment. Few people could have stayed upright after suffering such a grievous injury, let alone fought one of my kind afterwards. Quite admirable – for a human."
The nobleman clenched his teeth, cheeks reddening with fury. Simon could only imagine how long it had been since someone besides the Duke last spoke to him so dismissively.
"Human I may be," Piers spat, "but you should never compare me to the alley-born vermin whose souls you've devoured before. We of the Helmund family are the scions and shepherds of this land. An authority above all else, akin to gods walking among insects."
His impassioned rant caused another spurt of blood to gush from his throat, which just seemed to incense him further. "Your cheap trick was a momentary hindrance and nothing more. I hardly need healing magic to wipe your stain clean from this world. In five years time, if I choose to look back on this day, I doubt I'll even remember your face."
Simon tapped his chin with a claw. "So you can't recall the faces of those you've slain?"
"Why would I? Their lives were meaningless."
"The people you've kept at the Grove indicate otherwise."
Piers blinked, and Simon smirked. "Oh yes," said the transmigrator. "I know all about that menagerie of horrors. You've been a busy man, son of Helmund. Finding isolated commoners, kidnapping them, replacing them with new stock when their bodies expire...that's a lot of work for people you consider meaningless."
He raised an eyebrow. "Risky, too. If the general public had ever learned the true depths of your depravity, it would've drawn undue attention – the kind that reflects poorly even on a Helmund. So...why? Surely there were other ways for a man of your means to entertain yourself. What did you have to gain from indiscriminately torturing hundreds of random people?"
Simon was fully aware that no answer Piers gave would satisfy him. Still, he felt driven to ask. Call it morbid curiosity, call it a desire for closure, but a part of him simply had to know.
"Did I need a reason?" The Helmund scion sounded genuinely confused. "I took them because I wanted to. They were mine by right to do with as I see fit. Have you not done the same, preying on the vermin in secret until you decided to strike at me?"
An expected response. Predictable, even.
Yet Simon's body tensed, his grin locking into place as if his face was carved from stone. "Naturally. Might makes right. If they couldn't stop you, then they deserved whatever ill fate befell them."
He slowly stalked forward. "I wonder, though. How consistent is that ideology of yours? What about when I catch you and tear out what little flesh still clings to your throat? I'm stronger, so it's justified, yes? How about when I flay you alive and strangle you with strips of your own skin? Piers Helmund, heir to the Severed Isles, mine to do with as I see fit."
The Demon's gaze shone with bloodlust, and none of it was an act. "No complaining, now," he chuckled, his tone mischievous as he wagged a finger. "You set the rules – I'm just following them."
Piers was shocked into silence as Fell mana gathered around Simon's Shapeshifted arm. Its aura felt distinctly more hostile than the Barriers of before, resonating with the intent to hurt, to maim, to snuff out a wretched life.
Kill. 80 MP.
MP: 200 / 630
A bolt of pitch-black energy raced towards the nobleman, with Simon running not far behind. He knew the attack wouldn't land, but the sudden change of pace might trip up Piers, worsen his mental state, cause him to lose ground.
And on the off-chance that he actually took the hit? All the better. An 80 MP Kill would be equivalent to one-one-thousandth of the agony he'd inflicted onto others.
Simon had some catching up to do.
Face twisting with alarm, Piers desperately threw out his arms. Vivid brilliance illuminated their surroundings. Mana flowed out in a waterfall, engulfing the Kill entirely–
Only for him to jerk back with a cry, shaking his hands as if he'd touched a hot stove. The mana he had expelled just...stopped. It hung in mid-air, like water flash-frozen by a catastrophic drop in temperature.
A loud, keening hum echoed throughout the hall as the frozen mana began to vibrate.
Simon, who had been preparing a standard evasive maneuver, instantly adjusted course and sprinted away as fast as his legs would carry him. He'd felt this sensation once before: when a Kill collided with Armand Calloway's mana-draining dagger.
Back then, it–
BOOM.
An explosion shook the foundations of Piers' villa. Solidified mana detonated like a bomb, scattering furniture, paintings, and gold-embossed ornaments. The ceiling above and the floor below cracked under the pressure, bending inwards and almost collapsing.
Both men were sent flying, crashing into nearby walls, leaving indentations in the shape of their bodies. Neither had been especially hurt by the impact, yet they were left stunned by what transpired.
Simon forcefully rallied his composure. He couldn't afford to appear as if he'd lost control of the situation...despite how distracted he was from connecting a series of dots. Armand's dagger Artifact. Piers' mana. My own Fell mana–
Later. The curtains hadn't fallen yet; he still had a show to put on.
With a nonchalant air about him, Simon pried himself out of the wall and dusted off his pants. "You've really made a mess of the place," he chastised. "Although I suppose you have servants to clean up after you. Well, except for Harvey – turned that one into pulp."
"What was that?" Piers glared at him with renewed terror. "What did you do to my mana?!"
"That would be telling." Simon rolled his shoulders and stretched his limbs. "Now...where were we?"
A pitched gurgle emanated from Piers' ruined neck. He had tried to suppress a scream, and only partially succeeded.
The revolting noise was music to Simon's ears. Getting closer.
Their farce resumed. The Demon chased, and the nobleman fled. One was an all-powerful demigod, yet thought his life was in peril. One constantly walked the knife's edge of death, yet acted as if he was invincible. It was a grand spectacle only made possible by hiding the truth behind a wall of ignorance, adding to it brick-by-brick with each intentional misunderstanding.
It wouldn't last. If just a single brick was removed, the wall would come crumbling down.
By this point, Simon was regretting not investing more into Dexterity. Piers was so much faster that reaching him felt like a pipe dream. Even setting aside his impressive baseline speed, the royal's mana seemed neverending, far exceeding what his Estimated Level had suggested.
Seriously, how could anyone keep up with a man who casually blasted energy from his feet like built-in rocket boosters? It would've taken a team of three Simons working in tandem to properly corner him.
Paradoxically, though, the transmigrator didn't feel concerned. Maybe it was due to an overindulgence of adrenaline – he'd avoided life-ending projectiles so many times that they were becoming rote – but he saw the path to victory growing wider, not narrower.
Because Piers was second-guessing himself.
He had started using less mana than before. The shots he fired were smaller, less powerful, with nothing remotely as large as the waterfall of energy that'd engulfed Kill.
This wasn't about being scared of a monstrous Demon, or his general lack of discipline – Piers legitimately didn't know what to do. The inherent power of the Helmunds should have been sacrosanct, a pillar of their family's existence. It was what had let them lord over the Severed Isles like tyrannical despots.
Yet twice now his mana had betrayed him. First at the bar, when his healing was stymied. Then just seconds prior, when Fell energy had warped his attack into a surprise explosion.
Every time he regained even a fraction of his old arrogance, the rug would get pulled out from under his feet all over again.
'What else?', he must be wondering. 'What else is this Demon capable of?' What if Piers fired a mana-bolt, and it blew up inches away from his face? What if the Demon was merely toying with him – waiting for just the right moment to corrupt his mana in a third, unknown manner?
What else. What if.
Do you feel it? Simon tilted his head to the side, a bullet of mana soaring past, his teeth bared like fangs. That sinking sensation as the implicit truths of your life are pulled apart at the seams? When everything you believed with the purest conviction suddenly becomes...fallible?
The transmigrator knew that feeling intimately. In the past, he wouldn't have wished it on his worst enemy.
He had revised that opinion as of late.
To be fair to Piers, his caution wasn't wholly unwarranted. Theoretically, Simon could warp and detonate the royal's mana with another well-timed Kill. Based on the other incidents, it should be a consistently reproducible effect. He just needed to mix their mana again.
Easier said than done. Piers was currently sticking to smaller, faster mana-bolts. Hitting one of those with Kill would've been like tagging a bee with an arrow. Simon would run out of MP long before he ever managed that feat.
Though I'll run out soon anyway, he noted, as he was forced to cast Barrier to shield himself from an attack he couldn't evade. 150 MP remaining.
That was a major problem. Right now, Piers seemed to think that the Demon's mana capacity was, if not inexhaustible, then at least immense enough to match a Helmund in battle. The nobleman had no idea that it'd taken half of Simon's MP just to block the assault that sent them tumbling down to this floor. If it was discovered that his reserves were starting to wane...
Need to accelerate the plan. Degrade his mental state further.
But how? Simon was honestly running out of ideas. He'd already employed a bunch of classic horror movie tropes: evil laughter, unhinged smiles, crouching like a feral beast, dragging Piers' blood across his face. Re-using a dramatic flourish would result in significantly diminishing returns, or even expose the charade for what it was.
Hmm. At the end of the day, he still had his words – and thanks to Sin Scry, a depressingly exhaustive knowledge of what went on in the Sanctuary Grove.
May as well shake the branches, see what comes loose.
"They hated you."
Piers recoiled, briefly thrown for a loop. "What? Who?" He sneered. "You mean the peasants? Of course they do. Hatred is simply another form of deference–"
"No, no." Simon shook his head, almost looking apologetic. "Well, yes, them too, but not only them. I was referring to your compatriots. The ones you brought along when attending to your...playthings."
A beat of silence passed. It lasted just long enough for Simon to confirm that he'd struck gold.
"As if you could know anything about that," Piers muttered, his arms lowering and eyes clouding. "You weren't there."
"I know more about you than anyone, son of Helmund." Way more than I wanted to. "I have watched your sins, imbibed your emotions, perceived your cravings. Funny how that works. We viewed the world through the same pair of eyes, but what you saw and what I saw were two very different sights."
Simon straightened his posture, abandoning the feral-beast crouch. "I'm curious – were you delusional, or just sticking your head in the sand? Because you couldn't have truly believed that your 'friends' followed you by choice."
"Enough," Piers snapped. "Those were private moments. You had no right to profane them with your–"
A bark of laughter silenced him. "Incredible. You didn't know. I suppose that's an understandable blind spot to have, considering you've never experienced a genuine human connection in your entire life. When you're surrounded by subordinates and sycophants all day long, how are you meant to tell sincerity from polite fiction?"
Simon spread his arms out. "I'll clue you in, son of Helmund. When you're a commoner, and a deranged royal invites you to a torture chamber hidden in the middle of the city, and he peers at you with an expectant look on his face...responding poorly isn't an option. The smiles of acceptance they showed you? The camaraderie you embraced together? The knives they wielded at your behest? All defense mechanisms to shield themselves from your wrath."
"Liar." Piers' hands were shaking. "You seek to impair my mind with falsehoods."
"No falsehoods needed, son of Helmund. Did you really think you were that lucky? That everyone you invited to the Sanctuary Grove just happened to share your predilections? Psychos like you aren't actually easy to find."
Besides Harvey. He'd been a true blue freak. The rest, not so much. Simon knew a thing or two about putting on a performance, and most of Piers' so-called friends had been fighting for their lives with each and every smile.
"That's just how it is when you're at the top," Simon continued, with a morose sigh. "No peers for Piers. Would've had more prospects if you'd chosen a hobby other than bloody sadism, but I guess you needed something to fill the void in your heart."
The transmigrator perked up. "Oh! That's why you constructed the Grove. Sanctuary Trees do have a pleasant ambiance to them, don't they? The soothing aura of sacred mana. Like a blanket swaddling you to sleep. Or a substitute for a father's absent love, that coveted warmth which was always denied to you–"
"ENOUGH!"
An upsurge of mana erupted around Piers, the floor threatening to break underneath him. He reached into his pocket and produced what appeared to be an Artifact, holding it aloft and pointing it forward.
"NO MORE, DEMON! I WON'T SUFFER ONE MORE WORD TO SPEW FORTH FROM THAT LOATHSOME MOUTH OF YOURS!"
Recognizing that he had less than seconds to act, Simon cast Identify on the Artifact and hastily read its Description.
Another device that fires sacred mana. Except, the others gradually stored energy over time. This one absorbs Piers' innate mana, then...converts it.
A powerful tool in the hands of someone with as much mana as a Helmund. Simon was just beginning to wonder why it hadn't been brought out already – when the Artifact shuddered, a hairline fracture cracking it in half as vast quantities of energy flowed inside.
Apparently, this item was single-use. It wouldn't survive beyond one devastating attack. Piers couldn't have known whether Simon was the only Demon that had infiltrated the Severed Isles; he'd likely been saving the device in case more Fell abominations started crawling out of the woodworks.
Yet I coaxed him into wasting it on me. I'm flattered, truly.
Simon weighed his options. Dodging seemed...improbable. This was shaping up to be an overwhelming deluge of mana that encompassed everything around them. Warping it with Kill wasn't possible, either – that only worked on Piers' inherent mana, which this Artifact was converting to the sacred variety.
A thought came to him. Their ongoing battle had damaged the ground in multiple places. If Simon rushed over to a weakened spot and broke through, he might be able to collapse it and send himself falling to the next floor below in the villa. That should put him out of range.
It was doable. Difficult, and he'd need to act immediately, but doable.
Or...I can double down. Up my wager.
Simon had encountered a situation like this back in Springwater Village. The scale and scope of the attack was very different, yet the scenario itself was strikingly similar. And at that time...
His lips crept upward. I was looking for new ideas, wasn't I? Technically it'll be a repeat performance, but that's fine – the audience has changed, so he won't be able to tell.
Piers howled an unintelligible war cry. The Artifact shattered, letting loose the flood contained within.
Simon calmly walked forward as a torrent of white radiance enveloped him.
HP: 433 / 460
Burning.
HP: 401 / 460
That's what it felt like. As if he was being slowly cooked in a microwave, the heat and pressure rising with every passing moment.
Demons and Fell Beasts were exceptionally vulnerable to sacred mana. The Red-Eyed Hunter had been stonewalled by a lone Sanctuary Tree. The Sealed Demon of Ruination was kept prisoner by a circle of everyday Warding Orbs. It was common knowledge in Valtia, and even the gods' system had indicated that normal Demons were susceptible.
Simon, however, was hardly a normal Demon – more of a human masquerading as one. His weakness to sacred mana was slight. Barely a weakness at all.
HP: 374 / 460
But...
HP: 325 / 460
There was...
HP: 269 / 460
A lot of it.
The transmigrator was surrounded by pristine, immaculate light, covering him from head-to-toe. His body felt blazing hot, like his skin was being peeled off to reveal the tender muscle underneath. Tears ran down his cheeks as his eyes were stabbed with tiny daggers of luminescence.
Still, he stepped forward, pushing against the tide that was boiling him alive.
Endure the pain. This was nothing. Getting shish-kabobed by ten soldiers at the bar had been worse. Getting his legs blown off while fighting Armand Calloway had been worse. Getting infected by the Ravenous Wanderer's nerve-searing venom had been worse.
Getting bathed in sacred mana? That didn't even rank in his Top 5 worst experiences since coming to Valtia.
Hell, he'd had worse before Valtia.
Gauge the distance. Simon positioned himself near a damaged section of the ground as he advanced. If necessary, he could always default to Plan Emergency Exit, break through and fall down to the floor below.
He didn't think it would come to that, though. Piers might have nigh-endless mana, but his Artifact had only been able to absorb a certain amount before shattering. This deluge should run out soon. And when it did...
Remember to smile.
All at once, the torrent of white faded.
Piers was greeted by a Demon grinning mere inches away.
Simon's skin had been burnt raw and red. He looked closer to a walking tomato than a person. Yet he was conscious, standing – and most notably, alive.
HP: 87 / 460
The nobleman went shock-still. A statue would have moved more. His mouth was hanging open, throat sputtering, as if he'd forgotten how to breathe.
It didn't matter that the seemingly-unstoppable Demon was visibly injured. He shouldn't rightfully exist anymore. A flood of sacred mana would've been enough to atomize any other Fell creature. Piers had done the equivalent of slathering a tree in kerosene and assaulting it with a flamethrower, only for the tree to survive with just a faint discoloration of its bark.
That's three, thought Simon. Your healing mana, your offensive mana, your sacred mana. It's all failed. The power that you considered absolute – a fundamental aspect of your identity – is worthless against me.
He spoke none of that, but his beatific smile conveyed every word.
In that moment, the last waning embers of hope vanished from Piers' gaze.
Simon lunged. Hungry claws raked across the nobleman's stomach, nearly disemboweling him. Royal flesh parted with satisfying ease.
Piers gasped, backing away in a hurry – but the damage was already done. Blood poured from torn gashes, a mirror image of his neck. He tightly clutched his hands to his gut, as if worried that his intestines would spill out if he didn't hold them in.
Maybe they would. His wounds looked pretty nasty.
Simon gazed upon his handiwork with pride. The manipulation, the misdirection – all for this. It was the most successful gaslighting campaign of his personal career.
And I'm not done yet.
Even in this state, Piers had the upper hand. While his injuries were gruesome, he wasn't dying anytime soon.
Simon didn't have room to complain, as Transmigrator's Body had allowed him to traipse around with a snapped spine, but it was evident that the Helmund's body didn't adhere to typical human biology. I wouldn't be surprised if he's more mana than meat.
Piers was also still obscenely fast – there was a reason Simon had aimed for the center of mass. The nobleman wouldn't let himself come to harm again. If anything, with how terrified he was right now, he was liable to flee with his tail tucked between his legs. The opportunity to assassinate him would be lost forever.
Things wouldn't be much better if he stayed. Nothing fought for its life harder than a cornered animal. He'd be throwing mana blasts around like it was a bargain sale.
Not the best situation for a char-broiled transmigrator to find himself in. With just 87 HP left to his name, Simon didn't favor his odds against a panicked, trigger-happy Piers.
Yet all of that was fine.
Because he'd already won the jackpot.
Simon locked eyes with Piers, cheerfully meeting a gaze of bottomless despair, and struck the final blow.
"That was fun." The Demon exhaled with contentment, as if he'd just finished a full-course meal. "Now that we've gotten the pleasantries out of the way – you ready to form a Contract?"
--
Thanks for reading!
Comments
Zachary Sloan
This series is so good at resolving situations in ways that are surprising while still making perfect sense. I'm not sure why it didn't occur to me that "intimidate him into accepting a contract" was an option. Super curious about what kind of contract it will be. A pretty manipulative one should be doable, since Piers isn't exactly in a great frame of mind right now (and also hasn't lived a life where he's used to being cautious in his dealings).
Rocky
i thought it would be too early for piers to die so a contract makes perfect sense.
TheArchivist
You never cease to impress, wordsmith I was NOT expecting that last bit hnnngggghh
Julia
"Impostor syndrome. It’s like sanity, fake it until you make it." - Ryan Romano, 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘙𝘶𝘯
Connor Barkley
*chef kiss*
