Over time, Freedman’s name had never stayed the same.
Oktar. Lebella. Taknus.
Each name borrowed, each identity stolen.
That was the nature of a parasite—a demon born to imitate, to steal what belonged to others and wear it as their own.
They were the lowest of the low. The race even other demons despised. Creatures who survived by crawling beneath others’ skins.
Freedman hated that.
He hated the way they whispered the word parasite like it was filth.
He hated that his very existence depended on theft.
And yet...
’But if I were to become a king...’
The thought struck him like lightning—mad, impossible, but glorious.
’If I could rise above the crawling and the hiding... if I could become the Faceless Imposter... then my name would no longer be borrowed.’
’It would be mine.’
The idea burned through him like a fever.
Velra no longer mattered. The noble vampire’s dying breath was irrelevant compared to this revelation.
For the first time, Freedman wasn’t hungry for blood or power—he was hungry for existence.
To be seen.
To be real.
To no longer be a shadow living in someone else’s light.
A desperate thirst for being itself clawed at his insides.
"Kraaah—!"
The scream tore out of him like something ancient and feral, a sound that didn’t belong to any one creature.
And with it, the last fragments of Freedman’s stolen reason shattered.
The faceless human shape began to twist and unravel. His body melted, skin sloughing off like wet parchment until there was nothing left but shadow.
No eyes. No mouth. No form.
Only darkness.
From head to toe, his body was replaced by roiling, living shadow that pulsed with malice.
And then it grew.
The outline of a man dissolved into something monstrous—elongated, hunched, its limbs splitting like the tendrils of a nightmare. The ground quivered beneath its weight.
The air filled with the heavy, suffocating aura of hatred and hunger.
Freedman—if that name still meant anything—no longer looked human, nor parasite, nor demon.
He was something else entirely.
Something born of envy and denial.
Something made to kill.
And before him stood the Faceless Imposter—his supposed king, the one whose existence mocked everything he’d ever wanted.
The shadows around Freedman rippled, trembling with murderous intent.
This was no longer about orders or vengeance.
It was about erasing the one who stood as proof that he would never be real.
The monster lunged forward.
Solely, completely—
To assassinate the king before him.
----
"Completely thrilled."
Freedman’s voice came out warped—gleeful, unhinged.
His body continued to expand, twisting grotesquely as shadows bulged and hardened into slick, black muscle.
The sound of bone—or something worse—cracked and reformed under his shifting skin.
-Crack, crack, crack.
Saliva dripped in thick strands from the maw that had replaced his face, fangs lengthening until they gleamed like knives in the half-light.
A grotesque form, reminiscent of some nightmarish worm, raised itself from the snow. Its body pulsed and writhed with each breath, the ground beneath it trembling.
’Why is this guy here...?’
At first, I thought Freedman was just another parasite. They were dangerous, sure, but manageable.
But this thing... this thing was different.
The moment I saw its true form, I knew.
How could I not?
This was it—one of the major boss encounters.
The first monumental meeting with a high demon.
And that monster... was exactly it.
—"You are not the Third Prince! Reveal yourself, wicked demon!"
...Shoot.
Caught.
The scene was playing out exactly as I remembered it from the game. The infiltrating demon’s disguise had been uncovered, his identity revealed by the protagonist’s sharp instincts.
And then came the line that had made every player’s heart drop.
—"I haven’t fully absorbed his memories and emotions yet! Well, fine! Now that it’s come to this, I’ll just devour you! And all your dear friends too!"
The Third Prince’s face had gone dark, shrouded in black mist.
That was the cutscene.
The moment when the next boss—the Deceiving Ground Spider—finally appeared.
"Deceiving... Ground Spider," I muttered under my breath.
[Keke, I don’t get why people make such a big deal about Alice.]
I remembered the forum threads—the memes, the frustrated posts, the despair.
[That thing wiped me before I even understood the attack pattern.]
[He’s the weakest of the Four Heavenly Kings, they said. Weakest!]
[Learn from Mr. Bad’s strategy guide, trust me.]
Alice had been the mid-boss—the one who crushed anyone still finding their footing in the game.
But this thing?
This thing was the wall that separated casual players from survivors.
A nightmare that punished overconfidence.
[Newbies must read! Strategy for defeating the Deceiving Ground Spider!]
I could still remember writing that post myself—half out of frustration, half out of pride when I finally managed to beat it.
To think I’d end up standing here... face-to-face with that same monster, in the flesh.
It didn’t feel like a cutscene anymore.
It felt real.
And this time, there was no "retry" button waiting on the other side.
The monster’s shadow loomed larger, blotting out what little light filtered through the storm. Its many tendrils slithered through the snow, twitching like veins beneath translucent skin. Each movement left faint trails of steam where the snow melted away, hissing softly.
Freedman—or what was left of him—no longer had a face. The featureless mass rippled, pulsing with stolen memories and emotions. Each breath exhaled a sound like grinding teeth.
"Foolish...," it hissed, its voice echoing as if a dozen throats were speaking at once. "You... should’ve stayed hidden."
Velra, still slumped against the tree, forced her eyes open. Her once-pristine dress was torn and stained with blood, but her gaze burned with clarity for the first time since the fight began.
"So that’s... what you really are," she whispered. "A parasite who dreams of being a king..."
Freedman’s enormous, warped body twitched as if barely able to contain the chaos inside it.
"Dreams?" His voice gurgled, layered with static and slime. "No... I only consume."
Then came the laughter—wet, guttural, distorted like the echo of something drowning. It rolled across the clearing and rattled in my bones.
The trees groaned as his shadow spread outward, swallowing the forest whole. Every flicker of darkness felt alive, reaching, devouring.
And then—
"Aaaargh!!!"
The roar tore through the air like a storm.
In an instant, what had been a lush forest turned to ruin. The ground split and heaved; ancient trees collapsed one after another, powerless beneath the crushing weight of his aura.
The shadow monster moved, and with every step, life died.
And unfortunately—its target was me.
I could feel it. The weight of its killing intent pressing straight down on my chest.
’Of course... just my luck.’
My stats were still abysmal, barely recovered from the last fight.
From experience, I knew my thief build wasn’t suited for this kind of enemy. A build made for critical strikes and precision couldn’t stand up to a walking natural disaster.
’Even with all my artifacts, there’s no way I can trade blows with that thing head-on.’
Freedman’s warped voice cracked through the chaos.
"Hand it over! The throne! Freedom!"
The demand was half-scream, half-rant.
And it was obvious who he was shouting at.
Me.
I sighed inwardly.
’A throne? Freedom? He’s lost it.’
He must’ve absorbed fragments of Velra’s mind along with her blood, tangled her dying delusions with his own madness.
His huge, shapeless body rippled, and he bared his teeth—jagged, glinting with shadows—toward me.
"King—!"
I tilted my head slightly, letting a faint smirk tug at my lips.
"I’ll pass," I said evenly. "Something tells me you couldn’t handle the weight of that crown."
The shadow monster froze for a heartbeat, then screamed again, the sound shaking snow from the branches.
It was almost funny.
For all his power, Freedman’s rage made him predictable—wild, unthinking, easy to manipulate.
’Good. That’s what I needed.’
Because the more blinded by anger he became, the easier it would be for me to finish this.
And as his monstrous form lunged toward me, tearing the earth apart in his wake—
I couldn’t help but smile.
’It turned out rather well. Now... let’s see just how far I can push him.’
I grinned when his hulking shape lunged—big, blind, all teeth and thunder. Exactly the kind of charge I wanted.
"Is that it?" I called, dancing just out of reach. My boots barely sank in the powder; every step was a promise to goad him further. "Is that how kings take crowns? By smashing everything around them until nothing’s left to rule?"
His roar answered me. The trees shuddered. The ground heaved. He was all momentum and shadow; if I let him keep that, he’d flatten the whole valley and probably me with it.
So I did the only smart thing: I ran him into trouble.
I pivoted, feinting left, then right. Freedman followed—huge, clumsy, single-minded.
Each time he overcommitted I gave him a little more of my flank and a little more of the forest’s geography. He was hungry for the throne, for the Faceless Imposter, for whatever stitched his madness together; baiting it out of him was as easy as waving a bone. He swallowed it.
"Say his name!" I taunted, keeping my voice light. "Call your king! Tell him you’re coming to steal a crown!"
That did more than rile him—it doubled him over. The thing wasn’t merely enraged; it was unraveling, the parasitic voices and Velra’s fractured memories tangling into a single, violent logic.
’Now it’s Amelia turn. I hope she just follows the order perfectly as she does.’