Mystical Fantasy : The Lazy Real Young Master [EN]

”Devy, you finally came back. Tell me, how did it go? Did you manage to destroy those two monsters and rescue Al—hmm, I mean, that orphan boy?” Yura’s words rushed out in a hurried tone, brimming with impatience, as though her heart could no longer hold back the need to know the truth.

Devy looked at Yura, then let her gaze drift toward Yura’s companions, and finally to Johan and Rina, who still lay unconscious on their hospital beds. Her eyes carried a gentleness that seemed to veil a deeper intent, as if she wished to first reassure them with calmness before uttering his reply.

”Everything is fine, Miss Yura. That orphan boy has been saved. I do not know who exactly it was that rescued him, but I can assure you he is safe. As for the two entities… forgive me, but I was unable to track them down.” Devy’s voice was warm, though within those words was a careful manipulation of events, a subtle adjustment of truth for the sake of everyone’s peace of mind.

Yura, however, immediately sensed something was missing. The way Devy spoke lacked the straightforward sharpness she usually displayed when explaining things to her. Her intuition, always keen, brushed against the faint mist that seemed to shroud her words. Yet she kept that feeling to herself, lips pressing together slightly, choosing silence over pressing her further.

After all, now was not the time to pepper her with unnecessary questions. The most important fact was this—no one had been fatally harmed, and, most of all, Al was safe.

Yura nodded slowly.

”Thank goodness. Then… where is that boy now?” she asked, curiosity pricking her tone.

Devy shook her head.

”Unfortunately, I do not know, Miss Yura.”

Yura felt a quiet dissatisfaction with that answer. Her heart longed for more details, for any trace of news about that figure who, even in such a brief encounter, had managed to set her heart racing beyond reason. The mere thought of his face sent warmth creeping into her cheeks, her pulse quickening with a rhythm she did not wish to acknowledge.

Sensing her unease, Devy sought words that might soothe her restless emotions.

”Please do not worry, Miss Yura. After all, that boy has already accepted your request… or rather, your command.”

”What do you mean?” Yura tilted her head slightly.

”Didn’t he already take the money? That alone signifies he has acknowledged your words. Which means, in a way, he has become… your subordinate. Or perhaps, if I may, something even closer.” Devy’s lips curved faintly as ahe spoke.

Yura’s mind drifted back to the memory of Al willingly throwing himself into that dangerous battlefield just to recover the card filled with money. He had even declared that the card had been entrusted to him by someone special. That thought alone was enough to soften her mood. The corners of her lips rose ever so slightly, and her heart bloomed quietly like a flower touched by fresh morning dew.

”You are right,” she said casually, though inside her chest joy unfurled in full bloom.

Devy inclined her head in acknowledgment.

”Very well,” Yura continued. ”You may return. I will stay here tonight with them. I have already summoned several guards from home. There is no need for you to remain by my side. Go home and rest.” Her words carried the tone of gentle command.

But Devy shook her head.

”It is quite alright, Miss Yura. I will remain here as well.”

Yura studied her for a moment, her gaze weighing the sincerity in her eyes.

”Are you certain?”

Devy nodded firmly.

Accepting her persistence, Yura finally relented, and thus they resolved to spend the night there together, waiting until Rina’s family and the others arrived.

Devy walked over to Johan and Rina’s bedsides, carefully checking their condition.

No grave wounds. Their natural resilience as fighters was remarkable, their recovery already underway. Their bodies were weakened only because they had expended far too much energy in the course of that battle, Devy thought quietly.

Raising her hand slightly, Devy released a faint ripple of healing energy, letting it flow toward the two. A gentle green aura spread over their bodies, as soothing as a cool dawn mist that quieted both pain and fatigue. Satisfied, Devy returned to her seat beside Yura.

Not long after, Rina stirred.

Her eyes shot open wide, the memory of the fight still sharp in her mind. She bolted upright with startling speed, breath ragged, her hand instinctively clutching at her stomach where pain still lingered. Her sudden movement startled the others.

”Rina!”

”You’re awake!”

Voices rose one by one, each of them rushing closer to her side.

Rina looked confused, her mind still replaying the searing agony of the last strike she had taken. Her body trembled at the memory. But when her vision cleared, the scene of ruined, dust-filled rubble was gone. Instead, she now found herself within a clean, white room.

Her eyes darted about, taking in the sterile walls, the bright lights, and her friends gathered around her. And at last, realization dawned.

”What happened? Where am I?” she asked in bewilderment.

”I didn’t think a fighter could fail to recognize a hospital room. Perhaps you’ve been too strong all this time and never needed to be admitted,” Yura replied, her tone laced with sarcasm but meant as lighthearted jest, her gaze betraying her attempt to ease the tension.

”Yura… Rina just woke up, you know,” Karen protested irritably.

Yura merely tapped Karen lightly on the head without bothering to answer, the playful gesture enough to shift the heavy air between them.

Rina pressed her hand to her forehead, her senses gradually sharpening again.

”Ah… so it’s a hospital,” she murmured faintly. Then her eyes widened with sudden worry. ”What happened? Oh no—where’s Johan?”

Her gaze swept the room, and there, lying unconscious on the bed beside hers, was Johan.

”Johan!” she cried out, startled. ”What happened to him? Is he alright?!” She tried to rise from her bed, intent on rushing to his side.

But Yura held her back.

”Johan is fine. He should wake soon. Please, calm yourself and focus on resting. Your own condition is still fragile.” Yura’s voice was firm.

”She’s right,” Zaza and Armin added in unison.

Though Rina’s heart screamed to see Johan with her own eyes, she could not deny the truth of their words. The moment she moved, sharp pain flared in her abdomen—the very place struck by that suspected Jogo.

With a reluctant nod, she asked again, ”Then what exactly happened?”

”You really are impatient,” Yura muttered. Then she began recounting the events that had transpired while Johan and Rina had been unconscious. She even revealed that Devy was a magician, something Armin, Zaza, and Karen had already witnessed with their own eyes. It was better, she thought, that Rina know the truth as well.

Rina’s gaze turned toward Devy, who sat quietly upon a small sofa. Her eyes were filled with curiosity, tinged with admiration, though not without wariness. She had little familiarity with magicians. Still, she nodded gratefully, whispering words of thanks to the person who had saved them that night.

Devy lowered her head slightly, accepting her gratitude in silence.

Meanwhile, Yura urged them all to keep the night’s events a secret.

Karen, Zaza, and Armin, though confused, agreed. They had heard of martial artists who wielded strange energies, but a magician? This was the first they had ever encountered one—and that person was Devy herself.

”The world is far more mysterious than I ever imagined,” Armin murmured.

Laughter soon began to ripple between them, soft and fragile, but enough to chase away a portion of the trauma left behind by the night’s battle.

Then Rina suddenly remembered.

”Wait—Al. Where is he? Is he alright? If Jogo and Rudi were truly behind this, then their target must have been Al all along.” Her tone carried genuine worry.

And in that very moment, Johan stirred. His eyelids fluttered open slowly, his vision blurred before gradually sharpening. But he chose silence, feigning sleep.

None of the others noticed he had awoken. As he steadied his senses and absorbed the conversation around him, his gaze fell upon Rina. She sat upright on the opposite bed, worry etched across her face—but not for him. For Al.

Usually, whenever Johan was injured, Rina would be the first by his side. But now she was fretting over another man. Bitterness curdled within him, his jaw tightening, fists clenching beneath the blanket.

Her concern for Al, her lack of words for him—it was unbearable. His heart seethed with jealousy. Choosing not to listen further, Johan forced his eyes closed again, pretending to be asleep, though the tight furrow of his brow betrayed the turmoil beneath.

And so, the discussion of Al, followed by the arrival of several family members, brought their long night to an end.

---

Meanwhile, in another place far away from the warmth of civilization, there stretched a cavern so vast and enormous that it seemed less like a natural formation and more like the yawning mouth of some ancient beast. The cavern walls were lined with countless torches embedded into jagged stone, their flames flickering crimson and orange, spilling restless shadows across the rocky expanse.

Thin streams of smoke coiled upward, clinging to the ceiling where sharp stalactites hung like rows of fangs, creating shifting silhouettes that danced wildly, as if possessed by the restless spirits of the dead. The stifling air was thick with the acrid sting of sulfur and the faint metallic tang of dried blood, saturating the atmosphere with an oppressive heaviness that made every breath feel like inhaling ash.

From within the oppressive gloom, a lone figure advanced. It was Daraka, his form draped in a hooded black robe that concealed most of his body, leaving only his face visible. His footsteps were unhurried, yet each one echoed across the stone floor with chilling resonance, the sound carrying the weight of judgment, like the tolling of an executioner’s bell. His eyes glimmered faintly beneath the low light of the torches, cold and unreadable, their depths suggesting secrets too dark to name.

Daraka moved steadily until he reached the presence of a massive humanoid being whose skin bore the sickly shade of corrupted blue.

This colossal figure sat atop a throne crudely carved from the very stone of the cavern itself. Though far from ornate or luxurious, the throne radiated an undeniable aura of dominance, declaring with silent authority that the one who sat upon it was the undisputed ruler of this abyss.

The rocky seat was covered in grotesque carvings—arcane symbols etched into its surface, each curve and line resembling forbidden sigils, as though they had been chiseled not by tools but by the agonized screams of countless sacrifices.

Beside the blue-skinned overlord loomed another creature. This one possessed a humanoid form but was far more twisted in appearance. Its flesh was pitch-black save for the white-furred ridges streaking its back. Its mouth was unnaturally small, protruding slightly, while four bulging eyes dominated its face, glaring without the balance of a nose. Two elongated arms dragged almost to the ground, ending in enormous hands, each bearing only three thick, claw-like fingers. Its legs, jet-black streaked with pale lines, stood firmly as it hunched forward in a posture of perpetual vigilance.

The creature’s every movement was deliberate and predatory, like a beast biding its time before a strike. Its breathing came in guttural rasps, each exhalation resembling the hiss of a serpent reverberating through the cavern’s hollow expanse. Everything about its demeanor spoke of menace—it was the embodiment of a second-in-command, a dark sentinel who moved and acted as the shadow and executioner of its master.

Daraka lowered his head slightly in deference, his every motion marked by caution. His voice, when it came, was carefully measured, yet it betrayed the weight of failure pressing upon him. One misstep here would not mean simple punishment; it would mean erasure.

”Forgive me… I was unable to harvest the energy supply as intended, my Lord.” His words echoed in the cavern, each syllable bouncing across the stone walls until it became a chorus of defeat. The sound of his confession disturbed the silence, causing smaller, unseen creatures lurking within cracks and shadows to squirm uneasily, reacting instinctively to the aura of failure that accompanied his admission.

The blue-skinned overlord responded with a guttural sound, a grotesque language that seemed to mix thunderous roars with the sickening crunch of snapping bones. The strange words reverberated violently, shaking loose small fragments of stone from the ceiling. His subordinate—the black-skinned, white-backed creature—translated, its hollow voice cutting the silence with chilling clarity.

”Then how… do you intend to rectify this?” it demanded. The question was simple, but the tone was sharp enough to slice through flesh. Its unblinking eyes fixed on Daraka, cold and unrelenting, as though they sought to peel away the truth hidden beneath his skin.

Daraka, however, did not falter. Straightening slightly, he slipped a hand beneath his robe and withdrew an object—a stone, black and white interwoven like the duality of night and day corrupted into something unnatural. The stone pulsed faintly, its glow rhythmically expanding and contracting like the steady heartbeat of some slumbering beast. With each pulse, a chilling aura spread through the cavern, lowering the temperature so drastically that the torches flickered and hissed in protest.

”Rest assured, my Lord,” Daraka said smoothly, his lips curling into a cruel smile. ”Since they failed to provide the energy… then it shall be they who pay the price.”

His voice dripped with malice. His narrowed eyes gleamed with perverse satisfaction, as if he could already envision the screams of those who would soon suffer to atone for the failure.

The two monstrous figures before him erupted in dark laughter. Their mirth was twisted, reverberating across the cavern like a thousand snarling beasts. The sound rolled and grew, filling every crevice with a noise that was less like laughter and more like the discordant cries of something inhuman.

Then, with deliberate grandeur, the blue-skinned overlord rose from his throne. As his massive body shifted upright, the ground beneath him trembled under the sheer weight of his form. His predatory gaze swept over the vast congregation of creatures lurking in the cavern—monstrosities of every size and shape, all waiting for command, their grotesque visages bathed in the crimson glow of fire.

With a single, effortless motion, he summoned a colossal war hammer into his hand. The weapon radiated a malignant energy, tendrils of shadow coiling outward like sentient mist. The very stone beneath its presence cracked and groaned, as though recoiling from the corruption it exuded. The overlord lifted the hammer high above his head. A massive shockwave of energy rippled outward, rattling the cavern and forcing several creatures to bow instinctively in submission.

”ORRAAAAA!” The overlord roared. His bellow shattered the oppressive silence, booming so loud that the torches flared wildly. Smaller creatures dropped to their knees, trembling, some cowering entirely at the weight of his command.

The cavern answered in kind. From the multitude gathered, a deafening chorus arose. Thousands of monstrous voices shrieked, howled, and chanted in unison. Weapons clashed against the floor, fists pounded on chests, guttural cries were hurled toward the cavern ceiling. The entire chamber shook, the cacophony weaving together into a horrifying symphony of hatred, a declaration that reeked of nothing less than impending war.

Daraka, standing amidst the rising storm, allowed himself a sly smile. Half of his face was veiled by the hood, but his eyes gleamed with sharp ambition, glinting like blades hidden in the dark.

A declaration of war from creatures of nightmare.

The laughter of Rina and her companions miles away, still clinging to the fragile warmth of survival.

And Al, blissfully unaware, sleeping soundly in his new room under the quiet cover of night.

These three threads wove together into the closing curtain of their long, harrowing night.