TuxedoTranslations

Chapter 11

Albin’s magic had its limits; he couldn’t continuously channel warmth for both himself and someone else.

He channeled magic until his reserves were depleted, viewing it as an opportunity to train his abilities. In the meantime, he used the free time to review the words and letters he had learned the previous day.

Albin enjoyed using his new knowledge to communicate with Gold through writing, much like someone eager to practice a new language by speaking with native speakers. This immediate feedback made learning rewarding and filled him with motivation, while also helping him apply his lessons practically.

Gold, on his part, would often write down words he didn’t recognize, turning to Zeman, his reluctant teacher, for their meanings. Today was no exception.

Albin repeated the word Gold had written with a quill, then turned to Zeman.

“Dad, what does this word mean?”

Zeman glanced at the parchment, then shifted his icy gaze to Gold.

“He says it means ‘cold.’”

Albin looked over. Gold’s golden hair was dampened by the drizzle, his hollow gaze fixed on Albin, giving him a pitiful, downtrodden look. His frail frame curled under a blanket, resembling a dog left forgotten on an open balcony, whining softly as it faced the rain and wind alone.

How pitiful.

Immediately, Albin channeled some of his recovered magic toward Gold.

Gold’s whole body jolted, and he transformed into the picture of a warm dog lazing by a fireplace. In gratitude, he even offered his blanket back to Albin, as if afraid the boy might catch a chill.

Zeman observed the scene with cold detachment.

Outside, the rain continued, but the wind had diminished, and its direction shifted so that no more droplets reached the carriage.

Yet Gold, who hadn’t shown the slightest discomfort during the earlier heavier rain, now appeared to be shivering uncontrollably, his teeth chattering dramatically.

Zeman’s memory was sharp; he recognized Gold’s act as a ploy to draw Albin’s attention—a ruse only someone as naive as Albin would fall for.

Zeman’s expression darkened further, his cold aura palpable.

Gold, catching this chill, shivered involuntarily but refused to retreat.

Sensing the tense atmosphere, Albin turned and saw his father’s frost-like expression. He shuffled over, clinging to Zeman like a koala, shielding him from the cold air.

“I’ll keep Dad warm!” Albin declared with conviction.

Though his magic wasn’t sufficient to warm two people, he still had his body!

The warm, cuddly boy nestled into Zeman’s arms, like a soft, thick coat that radiated constant warmth. His bright, lively smile was enough to thaw even the frostiest air.

It was clear who mattered more to Albin.

Zeman remained composed, his face indifferent. Restricted by Albin’s actions, he had no choice but to teach by writing words in the boy’s tiny hand.

Zeman’s cool fingertips traced featherlight strokes across Albin’s palm, but the boy found the sensation ticklish, squirming like a caterpillar.

“Pay attention,” Zeman’s cool voice cut through, sharper than the drizzle outside, commanding Albin’s focus.

Albin’s learning method lacked structure; he simply learned whatever caught his interest.

Pointing first to items in the carriage, then to the clouds outside, he peppered Zeman with endless questions. While Zeman couldn’t tell how much he retained, Zeman patiently answered each one.

Once his head was spinning with information, Albin suddenly perked up, his tired face glowing with excitement.

“Dad, how do you write your name?”

Zeman hesitated briefly before tracing his name carefully on Albin’s palm.

This time, Albin sat still, memorizing each letter and softly spelling them out a few times.

“I’ve got it!” he announced confidently.

With great care, he wrote two words in Zeman’s palm: Zeman and Dad.

Zeman stared intently at his hand, as if scrutinizing a sacred text from years past.

Suddenly, Albin mischievously wiggled his fingers across Zeman’s palm, attempting to tickle him.

Zeman didn’t even flinch, his expression unwavering, not so much as an eyelash twitching.

Frustrated by his failure, Albin pouted, puffing his cheeks in defiance.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Dad smile.”

His father was so handsome; surely, his smile would be breathtaking!

But his eyes always carried a weight Albin couldn’t understand, like endless rain clouds—completely devoid of any trace of joy.

Determined, Albin vowed to make his father smile one day.

The caravan journeyed through gloomy weather all day, finally reaching an inn before nightfall. The worsening rainstorm loomed as they hurried inside.

Exhausted from the bumpy ride, Albin scarfed down a quick meal and went to bed early, while the rest of the caravan indulged themselves before the inn quieted.

In the dead of night, Zeman’s eyes snapped open.

Magic energy—a sinister presence—was close.

Wrapping Albin snugly in blankets, Zeman’s killing intent locked onto a figure near the adjacent bed.

In the darkness stood a silhouette resembling Gold—or rather, a demon.

Sensing Zeman’s hostility, the figure fled through the window.

Zeman pursued into the stormy night, confronting the intruder in the nearby woods. By moonlight, Zeman recognized the face—a wiry figure with golden hair, now shorn of its disheveled beard, revealing a gaunt, sharp visage: Gold.

A demon had dared to approach Albin under his watch.

Furious, Zeman unleashed a torrent of dark, tangible magic spikes, their violet-black edges targeting the intruder.

“Wait!” Gold cried out, seemingly as shocked as Zeman.

“You’re Zeman… from the Solar Temple?! How can it be you?”

Zeman’s sharp gaze narrowed.

A mute had spoken. A blind man had seen.

And a human had turned into a demon.

“You’re the demon?” Gold whispered in stunned disbelief.

Zeman’s barrage resumed. Gold dodged, moving impossibly fast, beyond human limits.

“Time freeze? Space teleportation?” Zeman murmured icily. “No, speed magic.”

He flooded the area with undulating waves of magical energy, sealing Gold within an inescapable ocean of darkness.

Seeing his abilities completely exposed, Gold’s fear reached its peak, and sweat poured down like rain.

He was only one sentence away from death.

He had to say something that would make this ultimate weapon, the slayer of countless demons, pause and lower his weapon.

“I have information concerning Albin’s safety!”

The sharp thorns of demonic energy halted abruptly, hovering just before his brow.

Zeman did not withdraw his attack but coldly asked, “What do you want to say?”

“I didn’t deliberately disguise myself as a vagrant to approach that child. It was the backlash of a curse.”

He carefully observed Zeman’s expression.

“If you’re also a demon, you should know what kind of curse I’m talking about.”

Zeman gestured for him to continue.

Gold began recounting his story. He hadn’t originally had a human form. It was only after he discovered a way to suppress a divine curse that he was able to take human shape and roam among humans.

Zeman pressed him further: “What method?”

“Ordinary high-level demons can only take human form by relying on overwhelming power to suppress the curse.” He glanced at Zeman, assuming that Zeman’s current form was the result of such suppression.

“But I didn’t possess such power. I found a shortcut—to have other demons or humans supply me with strength.”

He spread his hands with pride. “After that, I bribed several clerics with money to transfer magic power to me.”

So what if he was a demon?

As long as he had money, humans would still flock to please him. Clerics were nothing more than a greedy bunch.

With a human form, he amassed vast wealth in the human world. He could make clerics treat him like a god and could even mass-produce other humanoid demons, holding immense power in both the human and demonic realms.

He prided himself on being different from the foolish demons stuck in beastly forms.

However, three months ago, while reveling in his success, he suffered the backlash of the curse.

“Backlash?”

This was the first time Zeman had heard of such a phenomenon, a secret likely known only among high-level demons.

“That’s right. It’s a punishment from those petty gods for all high-level demons. Taking human form doesn’t make us human.”

Each high-level demon’s backlash differed, but it always manifested in the form they least desired.

For example, he had relied on money to buy human magic power, and the backlash deprived him of the ability to observe, listen, and speak—the eyes to read people, the ears to gather information, and the silver tongue to persuade.

It sealed his demonic energy, weakened his limbs, stripped him of his wealth, and reduced him to a blind, deaf, and mute human vagrant.

It made a once-proud high-level demon vulnerable to human abuse, possibly even dying wretchedly on the streets.

“If I want to break the seal of the backlash, someone must once again transfer magic power to me.”

To survive, he was willing to abandon his dignity, something he had done countless times before.

But in his current state as a human vagrant, demons wouldn’t recognize him as one of their own, nor could they communicate with him.

Robbed of his gold and silver, he lacked the funds to bribe the cunning humans or clerics who wouldn’t even spare him a glance without payment.

Who would transfer magic power to him?

“Only Albin extended a helping hand to me.”

Regardless of that child’s intentions, the warmth of magic flowing into him had made him regard Albin as his benefactor, his only light in the darkness.

He repeated that name, which had lingered in his mind countless times, his sharp gaze fixed on Zeman.

“Not all demons’ backlashes are as harmless as mine. If you’re a demon, you too will one day suffer the backlash. The more you suppress the curse to maintain human form, the stronger the backlash will be, and the more unbearable the form it takes.”

How could those gods leave behind a curse they could not control?

From the start, it was a trap designed to mock them.

“When that time comes, Albin, who stays by your side, will also be in danger.”

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