Chapter 609: Vermouth Lionheart (1)
This was a place incapable of hosting anything; hence, becoming aware of one’s self-existence or one’s own ego was impossible, as was staying conscious. It was akin to a trash heap where madness and filth had accumulated over an immeasurable expanse of time.
The belly of Destruction was a place incapable of existence, and nothing should have been able to originate from the emptiness that filled it. Thus, the emergence of an existence was nothing short of a miracle.
Long ago, Vermouth was born here.
He knew neither the name Vermouth Lionheart nor did he possess any real personality after his birth. His existence was profoundly alien even in the belly of Destruction, but the mindless Demon King of Destruction did not recognize the being born within itself. In fact, it wasn’t even capable of becoming aware of the foreign body. All manner of things were teeming within Destruction’s belly, and a newborn incapable of even squirming was no different from any other cell.
For a long time, Vermouth lay crouching in the belly. Although it was his birthplace, he never once felt it as comforting or cradling like a mother's womb. He was defined merely as a cell and was composed of Destruction’s dark power. Yet strangely, as more time passed, he felt increasingly more discomfort the more he became aware of his sense of self.
Who am I? Why was I born here? And what exactly is this place? At some point, he began to harbor such questions. And after much contemplation, he realized the answer.
A large scar could be found in a place where nothing should exist. It was a deep wound that, despite the passage of time, never healed. As he grew increasingly aware, everything in the belly became increasingly torturous for him, but strangely, he did not feel any pain in the scar. Instead, he felt a sense of comfort and longing there.
Becoming aware of this scar awakened his existence. Despite previously having no feelings and only questions, he now possessed a clear personality. Once he found himself conscious, memories began to seep into his mind.
Who was responsible for this scar?
‘Agaroth,’ Vermouth distinctly remembered the name in the darkness.
He was born from the scar inflicted on Destruction. Though he was a miraculous existence born from a scar caused by the Divine Sword, Vermouth found it impossible to affirm his own existence. Moreover, even if he was born from a miracle, the fact that he was a copy of Destruction did not change.
The critical difference between Vermouth and the Demon King of Destruction was the presence of reason and recognition of self. He had awakened memories by coming to self-realization, and he knew the history that Destruction had lived through, as well as the name Vermouth Lionheart. Unlike the Demon King of Destruction, who existed solely to bring about destruction, Vermouth — in this repulsively revolting belly — contemplated who he was, what he should do, and what he could do.
He could have lived as a mere extension of Destruction. Doing nothing would have been fine, but Vermouth could not accept that.
It was because his existence began with a miracle. There was a faint light in the very first of his reawakened memories. There was a dying ember. There was a man who, after leaving a scar on Destruction, slumped down and opted to curse rather than despair. The man died harboring nothing but a will to kill despite facing his death and the eventual ruin of the world.
Then, there was a man who, consumed by desire, betrayed others and ultimately was devoured by his cravings. He was a man who left behind only despicable regret. He was overwhelmed with regret and guilt, thinking that he would have made a different choice had he only known better. That man, swept away and consumed by his regrets, was none other than Vermouth Lionheart.
Thus, Vermouth emerged into the world to continue the miracle that had given rise to his existence and to lead a life different from the old Vermouth, who died with ugly regrets. Because he had felt the man who had died cursing and harboring murderous intent had been born into this world.
How much time had passed since Agaroth’s death was unclear, but Vermouth was certain that Agaroth had reincarnated into this world. And since Vermouth was born from the miraculous scar Agaroth had left behind, he felt a fateful connection with this man.
"I am...." In the midst of damp, sticky darkness, Vermouth spoke, "A clone of Destruction."
He was born from a miracle, yet ultimately was a part of Destruction. Perhaps he was the reason everything went awry; after all, he had been born and interfered with fate.
If only I had not been born. If only I had not pretended to be the Hero. Perhaps... everything would have proceeded smoothly.
Vermouth had questioned himself hundreds, thousands of times over three hundred years. He wondered if all that he had experienced as the Hero should have been Hamel's instead.
He continuously pondered why he had no choice but to step forward. He was strong. He knew about the Demon King of Destruction. He could negotiate with the Demon King of Incarceration. Though he couldn’t help in defeating the Demon King of Destruction, he could contribute greatly to killing the other Demon Kings.
Hamel was still weak. He had not awakened his divinity. He may be making a name for himself in the mercenary world, but with his strength, Hamel wouldn't survive a fight with the demons.
The world needed a hero. Vermouth had no choice but to take the holy sword and become the Hero. That was how the world would find hope. He needed companions to fight the Demon Kings and who could also support Hamel.
So, he had been left with no other choice.
But those were all excuses. Vermouth knew what he truly longed for, the desire he had long kept buried deep inside.
The original Vermouth Lionheart didn't just want to be the Hero's companion. He wanted to be the Hero himself. Born from a miracle, Vermouth Lionheart wanted to save the world with Hamel.
"I was just a piece of Destruction, doomed to die."
Vermouth placed his hand over his chest. He could feel the faint beating of his heart.
"I was neither the Hero nor a human."
The beating of his heart quickened. A flame sparked in his chest spread and transformed into a brilliant star.
"You simply called me Vermouth."
The bright white flame illuminated the darkness. His murky eyes were starting to fill with a brilliant light. This place was no longer dark.
Vermouth looked around with his shining, golden eyes.
Thump, thump, thump.
The steady, loud beats came not from Vermouth’s heart but from the heart of Destruction that he had assimilated with. Vermouth took a deep breath and reached out his hand.
Thump, thump, thump, thump....
The beating of the heart grew stronger. He could see the outside beyond the dimming darkness. His companions stood in front of the monster. All of them were covered in blood and wounds, yet no one had fallen. Despite the slim chances of victory, there was no sign of despair on their faces. Vermouth knew all too well the look in those eyes. How many times had they crossed the line of death with such a gaze?
"I...."
Vermouth reached further ahead while gasping for breath.
Thump, thump, thump, thump....
As Vermouth moved, the beating of the heart grew stronger, but a grating dissonance accompanied it, indicating his movements were adversely affecting the monster and its heart.
"Where I belong is...."
Hamel, Anise, Sienna, and Molon had said it. They called him to fight together. The young Saint, who had never spoken directly with Vermouth, prayed for him. Vermouth recognized the look in the eyes of the young Saint, who resembled Anise. To Vermouth, such gazes had once been very familiar. He had seen such gazes daily.
Such were the eyes of one beholding the Hero. They were eyes filled with hope, filled with belief that he would save the world.
"This isn't the place," Vermouth said as he bit his lip and moved forward.
The dense dark power in the heart clashed with Vermouth's flame. The dark power of Destruction turned to ash under the scorch of Vermouth’s flame, but his fire did not dim. He clearly knew that he was Vermouth Lionheart, and his belief caused his flame to be unwavering. He had made a declaration that he did not belong in this place, and his words created ripples inside the heart.
He stepped forward and grasped something. It was an ancient chain that had been bound to Destruction in the distant past.
[Do you still wish to die with Destruction?] a faint voice came through the chain.
"No," Vermouth said as he smiled faintly and shook his head.
He understood the intent behind the question. The original Hero and the Demon King, who had always tested the world and despaired repeatedly, was not laying a trial of despair with his question now. The Demon King of Incarceration, who had lived an eternity of despair, was now seeking hope.
"I wish to destroy Destruction with everyone,” Vermouth declared.
[Ha ha....] The Demon King of Incarceration let out a short laugh and said, [Then pull out the chain, Vermouth Lionheart.]
Vermouth wrapped his hand around the chain. With a crunching sound, he pulled out the chain from the depths of Destruction’s heart, and the chain wobbled in the darkness. The chain then coiled around Vermouth’s arm, but he was unperturbed and made no effort to prevent it from doing so.
Crack, crack.
The chain began to burrow into his arm after twisting around it, but he could feel no pain.
[What do you need?] the voice of the Demon King of Incarceration echoed in his head.
"A sword," Vermouth answered without hesitation. As he spoke, a sword appeared in Vermouth's hand. The chain that had once bound the heart from the beginning had become a sword for Vermouth.
He gripped the sword with both hands. The flames Vermouth conjured clashed with the dark power of Destruction, and the sword born from the chain did not succumb to the heart's power.
"Ha ha..." Vermouth couldn't help but laugh at the feel of the sword in his hands. "It feels nice."
How long had it been since he had wielded a sword to fight, to kill a Demon King? Vermouth felt more alive and himself as he held the sword in his hand. Knowing that he was a piece of Destruction felt horrific and excruciating. But now, holding a sword to kill the Demon King, he....
Whoosh!
The sword split the darkness. Like on ancient battlefields centuries ago, he kept swinging. The more he swung, the more the flames spread. The sound emanating from the heart was now closer to creaking screams than rhythmic beats. It opened.
Rumble!
A small wound opened, and Vermouth was spat out along with currents of dark power. The engulfing currents not only shook Vermouth’s spirit but also threatened to deeply erode it. The impulses and madness that had visited him thousands of times over the past three hundred years battered at his reason.
But he wouldn’t let it erode him. Vermouth glared beyond the darkness with his golden eyes. He listened to the beating of his own heart. He felt the heat of the blood pumping from it.
—The Great Vermouth.
A voice came from afar. It caused him to grasp onto his consciousness even stronger. The insidious impulses and madness that tried to erode him were pushed back.
—The Great Vermouth.
The voice came again. The Great Vermouth. In the midst of the turmoil, Vermouth found himself laughing.
All his life, Vermouth had never liked the name the Great Vermouth . He had read the fairy tale. He naturally guessed who had written it: Sienna and Anise. Therefore, he couldn’t possibly like the fairy tale and the name the Great Vermouth .
He had made promises, but only to himself. He hadn't said a word to his companions who begged him to explain. After returning to Kiehl, he received a duchy and married a woman chosen among many candidates for her likelihood of producing many children. After the war, Vermouth Lionheart’s life was never great. After a loveless marriage, he lived only to fulfill his responsibilities towards the Lionheart family and to help it flourish. He even severed ties with his comrades.
To him, the title of the Great Vermouth seemed like cruel mockery. He never asked Sienna and Anise what they were thinking when they wrote the book, but he had his suspicions.
There was a possibility, or rather, it was almost certain, that the name Great Vermouth was a nasty joke. He wasn’t someone who could ever be called great. He wasn’t the Hero, nor was he even human.
"Why didn't I think of it?" Vermouth chuckled as he raised his sword. "That you would never mean it that way."
—The Great Vermouth.
The voice came again. There was not a hint of mockery in that voice. It wasn’t his comrades calling him.
The voice came from outside the belly. Many people were shouting that name.
“The Great Vermouth, huh," he said helplessly.
The monster's chest split open.
"Honestly, it's quite embarrassing."
Vermouth smiled wryly as he fell.