Chapter 13: Grind the Snail Bride to Bits (2)
Farming must be stopped.
This Abandoned Land was a cursed, desolate wasteland.
There was no way farming could succeed in a place like this.
Such things were the doings of humans.
They didn’t suit the Demons like us.
That’s why—
Everything had to be thoroughly destroyed.
And every last Demon on this land must die and fall into ruin, becoming wretches like us. Deprived of the blessing of reincarnation, they should become ghosts endlessly wandering the mortal realm.
Only then would his misfortune lessen, if even just a little.
So farming must fail.
Absolutely!
Pikamir, loyal aide to the First Star Lord of the Demon Lord’s forces, looked around with a hardened gaze.
A vast stretch of land prepared to become a potato field.
A massive pile of compost stacked off to one side.
It was enough to make his nonexistent nose ache.
"……"
For a moment, Pikamir wondered.
He had died a long time ago.
His physical body was already lost.
Naturally, he no longer had a nose.
And yet—why was he suffering from this pungent stench?
"Um, General? Doesn’t this… feel a bit strange?"
Just as Pikamir was beginning to feel a hint of dismay at the fact he was "smelling" something, one of his subordinates cautiously spoke up.
"I know it sounds strange to say this, but… I think I smell something."
"……"
Pikamir flinched.
He stared silently at the subordinate.
With eyes that said, ‘You too?’
The subordinate, who had followed him for many years, understood what that look meant.
"Could it be… you feel the same, General?"
"……Mm. I do. It’s shocking and absurd, but yes."
"Honestly, it’s unbearable."
"Yeah. It feels like even the nose I don’t have is about to fall off."
"It’s like the smell’s clinging to my whole body."
"Exactly, General. This is serious. We can’t even take a bath, can we?"
"What if we return like this and end up ostracized because the stench has soaked into us?"
"……Tch!"
Pikamir furrowed his brow and shot them a fierce glare.
The startled subordinates shut their mouths.
Pikamir spoke.
"I know what you’re all trying to say. It’s terrible. It’s foul. I’ve never encountered such a vile stench—neither in life nor in death."
It was a sincere confession.
With the corners of his eyes trembling, he stared at the source of the wretched odor—the pile of compost.
"……But we have a mission."
Pikamir’s voice took on a solemn tone.
“Our Lord has commanded it. We must thwart the farming that Demon Lord Credos seeks to attempt on this land. We are to destroy everything he has prepared for the sake of agriculture.”
“……”
“But look at yourselves now. Are you saying you’ve forgotten that noble mission over a mere stench? Is that the extent of the loyalty and pride you once boasted of? No. We mustn’t let it end like this. We must… wait a moment… ughhh…”
“……”
“Uurgh, damn it, the smell… bleeeargh…”
“……”
“Cough! Spit! A-anyway, from now on, we carry out the mission entrusted to us by our Lord. So quit your whining.”
“Understood, General. Then what should we start with?”
“That vile compost first.”
Barely suppressing his gag reflex, Pikamir pointed at the compost.
“Judging by the sheer intensity of that stench, it seems that compost possesses an extremely toxic nature.”
“Then… what was it made for?”
“Most likely, it’s a weapon, developed to repel those who approach the crops with impure intentions.”
“……I see!”
“An astute assessment, General.”
Pikamir’s subordinates were in awe.
Now that they heard it, it sounded completely plausible.
A pile of such overwhelmingly foul odor—it was impossible to imagine any use for it besides driving enemies away.
Of course, one of the subordinates had a slightly different(?) theory.
“……Um, General? If I may… could it be that this compost was actually made to be spread on the fields?”
“What?”
“It just crossed my mind, but maybe the various nutrients in the compost serve as nourishment to help plants grow…”
“……”
“I-I’m sorry. That was a foolish thing to say…”
“Wahaha! It was a foolish and absurd opinion, yes, but it was an entertaining bit of imagination nonetheless.”
“R-really…?”
“Indeed. A truly imaginative notion. You may even have the talent to walk the path of a storyteller one day.”
“Thank you, General.”
“It’s all right. Don’t be so hard on yourself. The idea of plants growing by feeding on something this revolting—such a tale belongs in hell, but it was certainly a refreshing bit of fantasy.”
“……”
“But now it’s time to work. Let’s start by dealing with the compost.”
“How shall we deal with it?”
“Spread it across every area intended for the fields.”
A chilling venom laced Pikamir’s voice.
In a merciless tone that ground down all reason, he issued his command.
“Picture this: the secret weapon crafted to eliminate intruders, now thoroughly spread across the very fields its maker prepared. Imagine it. The fury and despair Credos would feel.”
“It would be immense.”
“Wouldn’t it? Carry it out.”
“Yes, sir!”
A total of 300 elite specters swarmed the compost heap. Each of them summoned the mana of the dead to exert physical force. They clutched and hauled armfuls of the compost.
Naturally, the chorus of gagging noises erupting from all directions was an unavoidable side effect.
“...Ugh, bleeeaargh—”
“Guweeehhk…”
“Urgh, uuoorgh, uoooorgh…”
“Grkrrrrr… b-blarghyaaa—!”
But they all endured it.
For the mission bestowed by their Lord.
For the hopeful future of the First Star Legion.
They desperately suppressed the furious wave of dry heaving that surged through them.
Pikamir roared with grim valor.
“Spread it! As evenly as possible! Wide! Thoroughly and without mercy!”
“……!”
They all answered with silent resolve.
And then, they moved.
Overflowing malice!
Pure hostility!
Explosive hatred!
Channeling every form of savage emotion, the thoroughly aged compost—like fermented soybean bricks at Grandma’s in the fall—was flung powerfully across the vast land. Occasionally, someone failed to suppress their nausea and actually vomited—an added bonus.
“Hold on, everyone…! It’s not over yet!”
Once the ordeal of spreading the compost was somehow completed, Pikamir, now battered and barely holding himself together, shook the filth off his body and gave the next order.
“Now for the field itself. We destroy the field.”
“Just the compost… wasn’t enough?”
“Of course not!”
A ghostly blue flame flickered in Pikamir’s eyes.
“Do you think this ends with just dumping compost on the field? No. It mustn’t end like that. All we’ve done is scatter it on the surface layer! Think! What if Credos simply scrapes away the topsoil along with the compost? Then all our blood, sweat, and effort would be for nothing.”
“……Ooooh, indeed.”
“A truly General-like insight.”
Everyone once again expressed their admiration for Pikamir’s words.
As expected, the General’s reasoning was persuasive.
That foul compost, likely designed to repel intruders—would merely spreading it be enough to ruin the field? Would that alone destroy it?
No.
What’s been scattered can simply be removed.
“And so now… we tear the field apart!”
Pikamir watched, one by one, as his loyal subordinates made their noble departure. A single tear welled up in the corner of his eye. A man’s tear—his tribute to those who had fulfilled their duty and moved on!
“……”
At last, with all his subordinates gone and only himself remaining, Pikamir turned his head.
The eastern sky had begun to lighten faintly.
Beneath it lay the vast field, utterly ruined and torn to shreds. From every corner of it, the stench of compost rose in full, pungent force as a bonus.
“……”
My loyal subordinates—
No, true warriors.
Your sacrifice has not been in vain.
Thus, I, who shamefully remain alive, shall bear witness with my own eyes to the outcome of our mission, and I shall pass it on to every specter of the future.
I will ensure that the tower of achievement built upon your sacrifice shines bright. That it bore magnificent results. I shall see it with my own eyes, report it to our Lord, and raise your names to the highest honor.
…Sssrhhk.
With sorrow and pride entwined in his heart, Pikamir melted into the shade of a boulder and hid himself.
And he waited.
For the morning to brighten. For Demon Lord Credos to arrive. For him to lay eyes upon his ruined field and scream in anguished fury.
He hoped for it.
He longed for it.
And thanks to that, he soon met the moment he had been waiting for.
In a form he never could have imagined.
From a direction he hadn’t guarded against at all—his rear.
Chomp!
Something—a massive hand—grabbed the back of Pikamir’s neck with monstrous force.
Pikamir’s eyes went wide in shock.
It was at that moment—
“Well well, what do we have here? A snail bride hidin’ out in my garden?”
“……!”
A face slid in right next to his, cheek to cheek. The kind of filthy mug that’d make anyone want to cry out for their mother, even in a dream. And those murderous, sideways glances glaring straight at him!
‘Demon Lord… Cre… dos…?’
There was no mistake.
The moment he realized it—
…Creeeak!
A bucketful of goosebumps began mercilessly twerking across Pikamir’s shoulders.