Ian handled the aftermath with practiced efficiency. He confirmed the wounded and the dead, then filled the gaps in the ranks wherever replacements were needed.

The civilians dug graves for the fallen and raised simple headstones above the freshly turned earth.

Everyone who could spare the time attended the funeral. Only those unable to abandon their posts observed a silent moment of mourning from afar. The rest gathered at the temple and the graveyard, listening to the clergy’s eulogies and offering prayers for the dead.

Standing at the edge of the graveyard, Dorian watched Ian surrounded by mourners.

Those who had lost family and friends lowered their heads and wept. Ian comforted them one by one, embracing them, remembering the names of the deceased, assuring them that their sacrifices had meaning—that he would not forget them.

Dorian smiled.

The hero he had found was perfect.

When news of the Northern Demon Archduke’s invasion spread and Ian began preparing for battle, Dorian had concealed his presence. It would have been troublesome if that foolish demon had spoken his name aloud.

The defensive battle he watched from afar had been beautiful.

The hero chosen by God was clever and fearless. He never retreated, accepted self-sacrifice as though it were only natural, and inspired courage in those drowning in despair.

‘Yes. This is what I like.’

Beings like this were called heroes.

Without Ian, the elf village and the dungeon would have become a demon realm in an instant.

The newly settled elves had no idea how to defend their territory. It was the commander’s skill that allowed them to exceed their own limits and slaughter every demon noble.

And the dungeon?

Ordinary humans would have collapsed into despair the moment the demons invaded. Turning them into soldiers capable of holding the front lines was entirely Ian’s achievement. His mere existence gave people hope.

‘It’s dazzling.’

‘And it smells wonderful.’

Dorian absently stroked the camel beside him.

The camel, transformed into a beast, obeyed the king’s command without question. An ordinary animal could never have remained hidden and silent for this long. Resting his head against the creature’s hump, Dorian slowly closed his eyes.

‘I mustn’t lose myself.’

Magic was born from negative emotions. A graveyard steeped in grief was enough to drive a demon mad.

Even the camel, bound beneath Dorian’s absolute control, occasionally lost composure and let out restless snorts.

But what intoxicated Dorian was not simple sorrow or despair.

When the funeral ended, bells rang across the dungeon, and people returned to their daily routines.

Ian entered the government building.

He called it the “command center,” though the people of the dungeon referred to it as something closer to a “temporary palace.” In reality, it was nothing more than an ordinary brick building.

Ian had not built it himself. The people of the dungeon had done that for him. Tired of endlessly waiting for their lord to perform another “miracle” and create a residence with his own power, a group of magicians and werewolves had gathered together and erected it themselves.

Dorian had heard countless trivial stories like that within a single day of awakening in the dungeon.

It was a kingdom lifted straight from a painting.

A place where every race lived together.

A kingdom where the king loved his people, and the people loved their king.

And at the center of it all stood a king in turmoil.

A Holy Knight guarded the king’s body.

Dorian knew he guarded the king’s heart as well.

That was love.

Though no one else had seen it through the black magic spread by the demons, the two had kissed immediately after the battle ended.

The confusion radiating from Ian intoxicated Dorian.

Even after all his years, Dorian still could not identify exactly what those emotions were.

Did Ian feel responsible for the deaths of his subordinates?

No.

It was not merely grief.

Nor was it guilt. Ian understood those sacrifices had been necessary.

Dorian’s first—

No.

His only regular was coldness.

Never swayed by emotion. Never allowing sentiment to corrupt the greater good.

And yet powerful negative emotions churned within Ian all the same. Because Ian himself refused to acknowledge them, the accumulating scent became increasingly foul, stirring Dorian’s instincts more fiercely with every passing moment.

Was the despair of a hero truly this sweet?

“It can’t be,” Dorian muttered aloud, as though reminding himself.

He would not devour Ian.

He was not like those disgusting demons who surrendered to their cravings. He could not become something so vile. Dorian did not know how to accept such a version of himself.

One of the elementals Dorian summoned drifted toward the temporary palace.

The four spirits, unable to return to their own realm under Dorian’s absolute influence, remained within the demon realm’s palace unless called upon.

They had been dragged into hell simply because they had refused to abandon him.

Dorian had to die in order to free them.

‘I feel like I’m about to be discovered.’

The Holy Knight was far too perceptive to overlook even the slightest disturbance. Sending an elemental to spy would not go unnoticed for long.

Even so, Dorian did not call it back.

If he were caught, he had countless excuses prepared. Besides, Ian was soft-hearted in certain ways—far too generous toward anyone who fell beneath his protection.

If Dorian simply said, ‘I wanted to say goodbye,’ Ian would probably assume he had only sent the elemental because he did not know the building’s location.

‘He’s too careless.’

Perhaps that was something that needed fixing.

No.

With such a vigilant Holy Knight constantly at his side, perhaps that balance was exactly right. Heroes were meant to embrace others, not suspect them.

Yes.

Ian Ferentz was right.

Perfect.

And so he had recklessly interrupted a sacrificial ritual just to save an unknown elf.

A drunken smile spread across Dorian’s face once more.

Unlike his usual expressions, this one was genuine.

His elemental sent a signal.

“Not caught? Strange. Well, whatever. What are they doing now?”

Dorian shared the elemental’s sight.

The first thing he saw was a silhouette.

Black hair.

A cloak far too large for its wearer.

The Holy Knight leaned against the wall while Ian held his face in both hands and kissed him.

Because of the difference in their heights, Ian stood slightly on tiptoe while the knight lowered his head to meet him.

They looked like a single shadow because they stood so impossibly close together.

— Lord Ian.

— Stay still. Isn’t this dangerous?

— Yes....

— Then speak properly. What’s the problem?

From the elemental’s perspective, Ian’s expression was hidden. Only the knight’s face was visible as he whispered softly.

— May I ask you something?

— What is it?

— Does this comfort you as well?

— What are you talking about...?

Even after the dismissive reply, the knight did not retreat.

— The grace you have shown me eased my anxiety and warmed my heart. I was wondering if this means the same to you.

Silence lingered before Ian finally answered.

— Be quiet.

Their lips met again.

As they kissed, the knight studied Ian with a searching gaze.

There was no lust clouded by a curse reflected in his eyes.

Only concern.

Eventually, relief softened his expression into a gentle smile.

The face of someone deeply in love.

‘The hero’s companion.’

That blind devotion should have disgusted him.

But Dorian felt no revulsion.

Why?

He did not know.

The negative emotions filling Ian were fading.

Dorian felt strangely uneasy.

What was this feeling?

He tilted his head in confusion.

‘No. That can’t be.’

Even amidst his uncertainty, he corrected himself with calm clarity.

The emotions had not disappeared.

They had merely been suppressed.

The hero’s will was strong, and the stimulus before him was overwhelming enough to briefly distract an ordinary human from despair.

But no one could ignore the feelings filling their heart forever.

Given enough pressure, those emotions would eventually erupt.

The aged elf knew that better than anyone.

But still—

A hero chosen by God should not despair.

Should they?

They were chosen precisely because they were extraordinary.

The reason Dorian himself had been abandoned was simple:

He had not been strong enough.

Ian must never fall into despair.

The hero acknowledged by God—the hero Dorian himself had recognized—could not be allowed to break.

At his side stood a /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ knight who loved him and protected him.

That knight would never allow his master to collapse.

He would never leave him.

He had been chosen for precisely that role.

What the elf saw before him was everything he himself had never possessed.

“Being chosen... seems like a happy thing, doesn’t it?”

The elf reached toward the elemental.

The spirit gently pressed its forehead against his fingers in comfort.

The hero chosen by God.

The knight chosen by the hero.

Whose thoughts those words truly belonged to, even Dorian himself no longer knew.

The satisfaction of having made the right choice had vanished.

The elf was always tired.

And he had never been accustomed to emotions.

So what was this emptiness?

This feeling of standing utterly alone in the world.

Though... hadn’t he always been alone?

Anxiety?

‘Ah. Yes.’

This crisis had not been enough for Ian.

What had that useless demon truly contributed to the hero’s growth?

Dorian’s smile faded.

“As expected, it was too easy. The hero needs a harsher trial.”

A hero required trials.

Perhaps...

A trial cruel enough to make him lose the one he loved.

And the hero forged through such suffering would eventually rise to slay the hated Demon King.

That was the ending Dorian desired.