2. To Survive
"This will be our home for a while," Grandar said, gesturing toward the modest bungalow with a hint of pride. He turned to me, removing his hat with a flourish like a magician revealing his final trick on stage.
"What do you think, Chris? It's a bit small, but looks comfortable, no?"
Before us stretched a neatly trimmed lawn, a simple yet charming house with a small terrace, and a wooden chair sitting under the awning as if inviting us to rest. The neighborhood echoed the same modest elegance—rows of similar homes exuding tranquility.
"It looks wonderful," I replied with a smile.
Oh, by the way—my name is Chris Diffodil. I should be around 17 or 18 years old. Like my father, I wore a long black coat and a hat, blending into the local style.
"Then let's take a look inside," Grandar said, pulling the key from his coat pocket.
As I followed one step behind, I called out, "Father."
"Hm?" he replied, not glancing back.
"I know you're looking for someone promising to work with, but... why Tingen? Backlund has plenty of talented people too."
"Well, there are many reasons. For one, I have friends in this city. It's cheaper. And… I see future possibilities here."
Click.
The key turned, the door opened, and he stepped in, continuing to explain his vision as we entered.
I really hope it wasn't some supernatural force pulling the strings behind the scenes…
Shifting gears, I examined the interior. There was a spacious master bedroom and a smaller one, a compact but efficient kitchen, and modest furnishings. The small room was clearly mine—just the essentials: a bed, a desk with a chair, and a cupboard.
"Chris, do you like it?" Grandar asked from the doorway, already having taken off his coat and hat.
"Yeah. It's practical. I like it." I gave him a grin.
"Practicality is the only thing in your head." He sighed, exasperated. "Just let me know if you need anything else. By the way, Peytra will only be able to come next week."
"Got it."
Our interactions were always easygoing. I didn't have to pretend to be someone else, yet my parents hadn't noticed anything odd about me. It made me wonder—did the former me have a distant relationship with them? But from what I've seen, it was quite the opposite. They seemed close. It's… strange.
"I know it's a bit late to ask, but how are your studies?" he asked with a trace of concern.
"Fine. The professor said there's no better way to learn than by experiencing things firsthand. He was happy to let me take a few weeks off."
That was part of the surface knowledge I'd pieced together in the past two weeks—filling in the blanks as I explored this new life.
"Good. That professor really knows his stuff." Grandar chuckled, then walked over to ruffle my hair. "Rest well. You must be tired from the journey. We have to wake up early tomorrow."
It was a strange sensation—comforting, unfamiliar, but… not bad.
After washing up with warm water and changing into more comfortable clothes, I lay on the bed. Slowly, I began to digest the knowledge that came with Occlumency, step by step, following the mental techniques etched into my mind. I was building mental defenses from the ground up.
And somewhere in the process, I drifted off.
Tap, tap, tak.
When I became aware again, I wasn't in my room anymore.
I blinked.
A dining table set for four, a modern kitchen tucked in the corner, a familiar sofa, and a flat-screen TV—all elements of a cozy, modern living-dining room setup.
Tak, tap, tak.
The sound tugged at my attention. I didn't know why, but I felt compelled to follow it.
I approached a wooden door—the source of the rhythmic tapping.
Click.
I turned the handle gently. The door opened with eerie smoothness—no creaking, no warning. Beyond it, the room was dark, lit only by the glow of a monitor.
Familiar.
A single figure sat in front of the screen, absorbed in a game, headphones on. She had a feminine build, long, waist-length black hair that fell in straight sheets, and neat bangs. I couldn't take my eyes off her.
I wasn't sure how long I stood there—seconds, minutes?
Then, she noticed me.
She paused the game, removed her headphones, and turned.
!!
Her beauty was unearthly—surpassing the limits of human imagination. Yet there was something uncanny in her presence, an eerie reverence that chased away any thoughts of desire. If gods existed, she might be among them.
I struggled to compose myself, barely managing to speak.
"Could you kindly tell me where I am? And who you are?" I asked in the most polite tone I could muster.
Silence.
Time dragged on. Each second felt like an eternity.
Then came the faint sound of the game through the monitor—she had unplugged her headphones.
"This is my home," she said flatly.
"I-I apologize!" I bowed deeply. "I don't know how I got here. The moment I became aware, I was already here. I'll leave right—"
"And you can call me D," she interrupted.
!!!
That name. That presence.
Suddenly, it all clicked.
D…
Demoness
The Primordial Demoness.
My breath caught in my throat.
Of course—that explained the overwhelming allure, the dread, the reverence. I should've realized it the moment I arrived. And now? I was practically at her mercy. It wasn't just reckless—it was suicidal.
I turned to bolt, but slammed into something invisible and unyielding. The force sent me sprawling.
Panic rising, I reached out again, but my hand met a solid, invisible barrier.
I was trapped.
I turned toward her—and something flew in my direction.
!!
I caught it instinctively. A controller?
"I'm not," she said in that same flat tone, then scooted over slightly, making room beside her.
The screen displayed a co-op game.
I glanced at the windows. The walls. There was no escape. I didn't even know how I'd gotten here.
A voice deep inside screamed: Survival means not refusing her.
And so, I sat down beside the Primordial Demoness.
There was no other choice.