Chapter Text
Deon Hardt thought he was dead.
He, Deon Hardt, Honorary Count Hardt, the Emperor's hunting dog; or Demon Arut, Commander of the Zeroth Corps, the Joker in the Demon King's hand; or whatever else people usually call him, chose to take his own life after completing his revenge.
As his body gradually lost the feeling of life, countless images appeared before Deon's eyes from memories that seemed to have sunk into oblivion.
He seemed like he saw the moment he was born, saw the faces that were happy for only a few seconds, and then immediately became depressed after seeing his appearance. He saw the worries and suffering from his family when he, a sick child, was born.
But at the same time, he also saw the moments when he and his family were together happily. Deon found himself with his parents and brother picnicking on a small hill in the Hardt territory. He saw the whole family together seriously sitting down for the artist to start painting the portrait, as well as witnessing the family painting being completed and hung in the main hall of the Hardt mansion.
He tried to lift his heavy eyelids: "Is this a flashback before death...?"
It seemed like life was still a little bit gentle for him.
At least dying like this wasn't that bad...
The image before his eyes still did not stop. As time began to pass, the Deon Hardt in front of his eyes grew up and up and finally stopped at the age of fourteen.
Everything happened exactly as he remembered. 'Deon' and Cruel played chess together in his own room, and then the Empire soldiers suddenly burst in; they summoned 'Deon Hardt' to enlist. Before the surprised eyes of the two Hardt sons, without wasting even a single sentence, the soldiers immediately rushed in and dragged the white-haired teenager away.
Deon closed his eyes and did not continue to look. He knew what happened next was simply hell, and Deon never wanted to see them again.
And yes, he's not just having to see everything but experiencing it all again.
The pulling force on his arms became more and more obvious; the painful feeling of being dragged along the road gradually became clear; and the extreme pain of being thrown hard into the carriage transporting conscripts made him regain consciousness.
Deon's vision became clearer, and then he saw a stream of familiar red liquid dripping to the ground.
Deon touched his nose, and then his throat couldn't help but spit out that fishy liquid.
Ah, he vomited blood again. He's always been like that since childhood; his useless body has always been weaker than that of normal people. If Deon was just a little stressed, slightly shocked, or even just a little startled, it would be enough to make him vomit blood, let alone be thrown mercilessly like that.
However, that was not the important thing right now. Deon clearly felt the familiar rusty iron taste in his throat, along with the soreness and bone-deep pain transmitting from all over his body.
"Even if this is a flashback, it seems too real."
Of course, because this was reality after all.