The Demon King’s Precious Little Angel - Chapter 5

Chapter 5: Celoia’s Sword Practice Records  Never because of a despicable person’s

Celine, busy and working far away, received another urgent call. Already exhausted and fuming from cleaning up messes, Deroville happened to walk right into her line of fire and received a harsh scolding.

“Dero, I remember telling you that a child’s stomach is very fragile.”

“How did you manage to make a little kid suffer once a day?”

Deroville was lectured into silence. He could only lower his head sullenly, patting Celoia’s back one moment and rubbing his shoulder the next, trying to make him feel better.

He had already given Celoia a healing potion, but the boy’s complexion hadn’t improved; pain, after all, does not vanish instantly.

Celine glanced casually at the ground beside him. The discarded, now-cold grilled fish caught her eye. She pressed a hand to her forehead and gave a bitter smile. “You really have no idea how to look after a child.”

“A perfectly good fish, and you turned it into a pile of charcoal.”

She calmed herself for a moment and instructed: “His stomach is upset. Give him more water and help him by rubbing his belly. And pay attention—don’t let him eat anything from the forest again. Wait until I come back to cook.”

Deroville did as he was told. His eyelashes drooped slightly in a rare display of tenderness as he pressed his palm against Celoia’s stomach, rubbing gently.

Celoia looked up at Deroville, seeing only the sharp line of his jaw. He tilted his head as if by accident, resting his forehead against Deroville’s chest. Pressing his ear against the man’s heart, he heard the steady thumping—thump, thump—an incredibly grounding sound.

He listened intently for a long time until, dazed and drowsy, he fell asleep leaning against Deroville.

Cradling the soft little person in his arms, Deroville’s breath hitched for a moment. He looked hesitantly toward the forest. Not far away, a Carrion Beast was passing through; it was his target for the day. But if he stood up, he would surely wake the boy in his arms.

He touched the sword hanging at his hip, his fingers tightening. With a sharp tug, he drew the blade and hurled it outward. As if possessed of its own spirit, the sword flew with unerring speed, skewering the Carrion Beast and pinning the massive creature firmly to the ground.

However, the Carrion Beast’s vitality was stubborn. Since Deroville hadn’t used a specific sword technique and had merely pierced its body, it wouldn’t die immediately. He should have gone to deliver a finishing blow, yet for some inexplicable reason, he didn’t move. He simply made a quiet decision.

The Carrion Beast could live a little longer.

When Celoia woke up, his cheeks were warm, though the air felt chilly against his skin. He rubbed his face with his small hands to keep the warmth in, his eyes wandering restlessly.

Then he saw Deroville walking back from the forest, sword in hand.

Cold, domineering, and handsome.

Celoia couldn’t help but gasp. He praised him in a small voice: “Dero, you are the coolest person with a sword I’ve ever seen.”

Deroville’s hand slowed as he wiped the blade, but he soon resumed his rhythmic motions. He kept his head down, not even glancing at Celoia. His expression was calm as he spoke: “You probably haven’t seen many swordsmen. You lack experience, yet you’re quite the flatterer.” He sounded almost critical.

But Celoia let out a secret smile. He clearly saw Deroville’s lips twitch upward by a single pixel. He was obviously happy but too concerned with his pride to admit it.

Clearly in a better mood from the praise, Deroville wiped the sword clean and tossed it aside. He rolled up his sleeves, crossed his arms, and looked at Celoia, tilting his chin slightly in a gesture of command.

“Since you say I’m so good with a sword—and since you can’t use magic right now—why don’t you practice some swordsmanship?”

Celoia was caught off guard as a bundle of small wooden sticks was dumped into his lap. He scrambled to catch them, his eyes wide with disbelief. After a long while, he murmured a response, his voice thick with self-doubt: “Dero, I’m clumsy. I can’t learn anything.”

Deroville narrowed his eyes. “Are you saying you’re giving up before you’ve even started?”

Celoia shook his head frantically, his tone bordering on desperate. He took two steps forward, reaching out a hand to grab the hem of Deroville’s cloak. “I’m just afraid of disappointing you,” he answered earnestly.

“If I can never learn it, then it must be my fault.”

Deroville tsked, his gaze turning even colder. He felt an inexplicable discomfort, especially seeing Celoia belittle himself.

He uncrossed his arms and began to physically adjust Celoia’s posture, answering stiffly: “I’ve never taught anyone before. You are my first student. Even if you can’t learn it, there’s a high probability that it’s because I’m a bad teacher.”

“Don’t go taking the blame for everything without even thinking.”

Celoia hummed in obedience. He felt Deroville guiding his fingers into a spiral grip. The rough wooden stick pressed against his tender skin, creating a peculiar, stinging ache.

Celoia’s heart began to race. He couldn’t control his excitement, and a flush crept up his cheeks, making him look as enticing and cute as a ripe red apple.

Deroville suddenly felt a strange itch in his teeth, a fleeting urge to take a bite, but he quickly suppressed the thought.

He patiently guided Celoia’s hand through the movement many times, correcting his grip over and over until he was certain the boy had mastered the technique and mechanics.

Finally, after setting Celoia in the proper stance, he stood and stepped back.

“This is the direct grip. It’s mostly used for thrusting, hacking, parrying, and sweeping.”

“Practice on your own for a while. If you have questions, ask me.”

Celoia gripped the wooden stick tightly. Without Deroville’s help, he was nervous to the core. The sweat on his palms was nearly soaking the wood. Only after a long time did he muster the courage to gingerly perform a few simple moves as Deroville had taught.

Unfortunately, he was young and lacked strength. His wrists were weak; no matter what he did, the movements were limp. They weren’t standard—not ugly, per se, but they lacked momentum, let alone any lethality.

Celoia’s face flushed bright red. He knew he might not do well, but he hadn’t expected to be this pathetic.

He lowered his head, not daring to look at Deroville’s expression, yet not daring to stop. Driven by an unspoken stubbornness, he forced himself to swing the stick again and again. He put all his effort into every strike, trying to make the stance more powerful, but everything fell short. Eventually, his movements became mechanical. His wrists throbbed, and his arms ached. No matter how hard he persisted, his form became more distorted until it was impossible to tell what he was even trying to do.

How much longer until this is over?

Celoia waited in vain for Deroville to call a halt. His emotions reached a breaking point. He swung once more, his form predictably failing. Finally, he lost control of his expression. His lips trembled, and tears spilled from his eyes, rolling down his cheeks.

But he cried quietly. He wasn’t trying to be pitiful to gain attention; he truly couldn’t help it. Even gritting his teeth couldn’t stop them. With red-rimmed eyes, the “little golden beans” fell.

Deroville had been leaning against a nearby tree, watching coldly for a long time, unmoved. Only now did he speak: “Why didn’t you ask me for help?”

Celoia sobbed, his eyelashes wet. His voice was choked with emotion as he answered: “I’m sorry, Dero. I thought I would get better if I just practiced. I think I’m too stupid. You taught me for so long, but I can’t even do the basics. I felt ashamed, so I didn’t have the courage to ask you.”

Deroville let out a deep sigh. He knelt down, reaching out to press his palm against Celoia’s tear-streaked face. Feeling his palm become wet, he wiped the tears away somewhat roughly.

“You really are delicate, Celoia.”

Celoia lowered his eyes guiltily, but the next second, he looked up in surprise.

“But you are also truly impressive, and very strong.”

Deroville took the small wooden stick from Celoia’s hand, tossed it aside, and firmly opened the boy’s palm.

The tender skin was rubbed raw and red. Some areas were slightly swollen. At the base of his thumb, a large, glistening blister had formed. Deroville blew gently on it, and the skin shifted—a painful sight.

Celoia shivered slightly from the pain.

Deroville’s hand froze as he reached for the ointment. He took a deep breath and suddenly apologized: “I’m sorry, Celoia.”

Celoia shook his head in confusion. “You have nothing to apologize to me for, Dero.”

He emphasized, his voice huffy: “This is my own injury from being stubborn. It has nothing to do with you.”

Deroville shook his head and applied the ointment evenly to Celoia’s wounds. “I was the one who insisted on teaching you. No matter how dissatisfied I was, I am responsible for you and your safety. Instead, because of a moment of irritation, I deliberately extended your training time and caused you to get hurt from over-practicing. That was my fault.”

Celoia was stunned. He stared at Deroville; he had never heard such logic before. The man’s warm fingers were still moving in his palm as he heard him ask:

“Can you tell me why you were unwilling to ask for my help when you were struggling? I clearly told you that you could ask me if there was anything you didn’t understand.”

Celoia’s fingers curled slightly. He didn’t want to lie to Deroville, so he honestly shared his concerns.

“Because… a friend once told me the same thing. But when I went to him with a problem, he didn’t want to help me. Instead, he mocked me, saying I was a useless waste who couldn’t even do that.”

“Then, during an exam, he used that weakness against me. In front of everyone, he defeated me using the very spell I could never learn. At the time, everyone was saying I didn’t deserve my status.”

“I don’t want to be called stupid.”

“It hurts my feelings, too.”

Deroville went silent. Once again, he said, “I’m sorry.”

Celoia shook his head, but suddenly his other hand was taken. Another small wooden stick was pressed into his palm. He felt Deroville guiding his hand.

The stick sliced through the air.

For a moment, Celoia felt as though he had become Deroville. The stick in his hand turned into a sword, and infinite power surged from the tip of the blade.

A flash of sword-light rose toward the sky.

Celoia looked up blankly, chasing that trail of light and shadow. He heard Deroville whisper in his ear:

“See, Celoia? You did it.”

“Don’t let one hurt make you afraid of similar scenes in the future.”

“Exclusion and suppression are the tools of the weak and the despicable. A true powerhouse is never intimidated into standing still by such things.”

“Remember: never surrender, never put down the sword in your hand.”

“And then… strike back.”