The Villain's Story

Chapter 913: The Star!

What was more painful? Starvation? The aching in his teeth and gums as he bit down on the coal, reducing it to smaller pieces? The pain echoed in his throat as the sharp pieces slid down. Or the churning of his stomach as the coal reached it? Or was it the fate that awaited him if he did not consume anything? He would die, and his bones would be turned into an ornament, and his skin into leather. He had no meat to be consumed, only withered organs that some demons, the others in the mine would

What was more painful? What was more painful? What was more painful? What was more painful?

The coal burned in his stomach; the child could scream with pain if he could, but he had no strength to. His throat was filled with cuts, his teeth were tainted black, with some red from his bleeding gums. All he could do was contort his ugly face. Contort it again and again, as he suffered.

What was more painful? He asked himself once more. But he did not know the answer, nor did he care about it if he was being honest. He merely asked that question to stay conscious. What was more painful? Indeed, he did not know.

Soon enough, he actually found out. As the fire in his stomach subsided, as the coal had been ‘consumed’, he found out what was more painful. It was actually starvation, and not a literal fire within his body.

Starvation struck most. Starvation struck the hardest. Starvation was what was truly painful, everything else, he did not care for. And so, the child extended his frail hand once more, his red skin tinged with slight black lines, grabbed another piece of coal, and shoved it in his mouth.

And he endured this lesser pain, but for how long must he endure that pain? What must he do to be free from it? He did not know; all he knew was to fear starvation. Whenever the fire within his body was doused, he consumed more coal. He consumed more flint; he consumed more rock. He bit down on it until his teeth fell from his destroyed gums, and into his own throat, into his own stomach. He bit down on it until he bit his own tongue, and the first piece of ‘food’ entered his lacerated throat and into his stomach, akin to an oven.

His first feast was his own flesh, his own blood, his own teeth, seasoned by coal and flint, cooked by the fire of his stomach. That was his first feast.

But still, it was not enough. The demon stood up; his red skin was no longer crimson, but rather black. From what? He didn’t know, nor did he care. His nails had a black sheen to them, akin to flint.

The demon looked around his room at the mine, but found nothing but a pickaxe, a small iron bucket, and the numerous markings he had made in the wall. The lines signified days, the days he counted, the days he spent in this mine. Once, he was hopeful, hopeful that he would one day escape this mine and ascend the ranks of the demonic.

But now, he cared not for it. He looked around, but found no more pieces of coal and flint lying on the ground. He approached the pickaxe and consumed the iron and the wood. He then moved to the bucket. But it was not enough; starvation still clung to him. His skin turned black, with a metallic sheen, but his hunger occupied his mind. He moved to the wall and mined with his claws.

Every bit of rock, coal, and metal he swallowed, as he slowly moved up, and up. His claws bled, and bled, until he carved with his fingers, and then the bones. Whenever he fell from exhaustion, he would wake up to do it again, and again, and again. His nails changed, his skin turned blacker, rougher, and the shine of metal appeared. He moved up and up and up… until finally.

As he clawed at the wall, sparks flew. His nails produced them as he battered them against the wall, against everything. Those sparks flew across his skin, igniting him. It was as if skin was no longer ‘normal’, but coal, metal.

At the same time, he chewed on more coal, more flint, more metal, more rock, but no longer did the flame dwelling in his body cause him pain. That pain was overridden by the fire outside, searing his skin, roasting it… melting it, molding it.

When his claws broke, when his fingers broke, he chose to use his fists to chip away at the tunnel. His form was like a Balrog, always wreathed in flame… but he was not one. His features suggested he came from the communion of a Succubus and a Pit Fiend; he was nothing like a Balrog, whose flames were the core of their life.

The Fire around his skin, the fire using his very body as fuel, burned him; it burned through the fuel and scorched his nerves. The pain lasted for but a moment, but the demon still punched. He ate, punched, and ate. He kept moving.

With every bite, it was as if he replenished the ‘fuel’ that kept the fire burning. His body transformed with every bite, his fists grew stronger, and whenever his claws emerged once again, they grew tougher. His body continued to change as he continued to feast.

He dug, and dug, and the fire torching him alive grew livelier, the smoke threatened to suffocate him, but he did not care. He only cared if the pain of starvation was gone. That was all he cared about; he just wanted to be free of the pain.

He just wanted to eat something, anything. But his own flesh could not satiate him, for all of it was burned, and was no different from the coal, metal, and flint. His body had transformed into those materials as he dug out of the tunnel.

But for how long had he done so? How long had this expedition wandered on for? How long until starvation no longer continued to eat at him? How long?

It was unknown; the demon did not know when he started, nor did he have any idea of when it would end. His body wreathed in fire, he dug and dug. When his claws failed, he used his fists, and when they broke down.

He bit at the rock, he bit at the coal and the metal, and climbed his way by stabbing his bones into the rock. They cut his body at the start, but failed to do so now.

But then, the demon found no rock to claw at.