Chapter 10: Castle of Glass

In front of me stood a towering structure—no, a castle—glistening with glass panels that caught the sunlight like a knight’s polished armor. It dared to rival the splendor of my own fortress back home. Bold, arrogant, almost regal in its posture.

I hated it instantly.

A massive board loomed at the front, emblazoned with the name “Super Mart.” I scoffed. So this Mart fellow was important enough to stamp his name on a fortress like this? Some kind of local warlord, perhaps. The peasants must worship him.

My gaze shifted to the right, where the golden sand of the beach surrendered to the dark, unforgiving pavement that led to Mart’s domain. The transition was harsh—soft grain giving way to solid stone. Yet this structure stood tall, unshaken, a proud neighbor to the sea itself.

To challenge the beach and still remain standing? This Mart must be a formidable foe indeed.

Cooking could wait. First, I had to make it clear to this so-called Mart that a new king had arrived in his realm.

I adjusted my hat with slow precision, the way only rulers and dramatic protagonists do. Then I straightened my back, threw my shoulders wide, and stepped forward—boldly, unapologetically—into enemy territory. Alone. No army, no steed, not even my trusted Deathbringer by my side.

And no, I wasn’t scared. Not even a little.

Let lesser men tremble before the unknown. I, however, do not concern myself with things like “danger” or “logic.” Even if this Mart ruled over legions of glass towers and fluorescent suns, he was no match for me—not here, not anywhere.

He just didn’t know it yet.

“Welc—” the woman at the counter began, but her voice faltered the moment her eyes met mine—those bottomless voids forged in the icy abyss of conquest. She froze.

For a brief moment, her soul teetered on the edge of oblivion.

Yet somehow, she gathered the scraps of her courage and pressed forward, like a doomed soldier marching into battle. “Welcome,” she said with a smile. A fake one. The kind of smile you wear at a poker table when your last chip is gone and death is holding the deck.

I strode toward her. Each step I took echoed with sovereign authority, my cloak (well, shirt) fluttering slightly as if the very air feared to touch me.

Her eyes widened with every inch I closed. Dread bloomed across her face like a mushroom cloud.

“I am here to see Mart,” I declared, my voice laced with the fire of a thousand victorious campaigns.

She blinked. Swallowed. Maintained the same brittle smile, even as the edges of her sanity began to fray. “M-Mart…?”

I laughed. Softly. Cruelly.

“Yes,” I said, leaning in just slightly. “Your ruler. I know he’s hiding. He must have sensed my arrival and fled to the shadows, fearing a rightful challenge.”

“Y-you mean the manager?” she asked, feigning confusion like a peasant pretending not to recognize the approaching army at their gates.

“Manager or ruler, whatever title he hides behind—I demand audience with the one who owns this castle.”

She kept the smile, but it was starting to crack at the edges like old porcelain. “Actually, the manager is out at the moment… Could you maybe tell me what you wanted to discuss with him?”

I stepped forward, slow and deliberate, and took a commanding stance—legs apart, chin lifted, one hand resting on the hilt of absolutely nothing.

“Tell him,” I said, my voice low, clear, and final, “this realm has a new ruler. No matter how far he hides, no matter how fast he runs, I will find him.”

I leaned in slightly, just enough for her to feel the weight of destiny creeping over her shoulders.

“And then,” I said, grinning, “this castle of glass will shatter into a thousand pieces.”

The air went still for a moment. Even the self-checkout machine nearby beeped a little softer.

The woman laughed—a weak, nervous sound—as she struggled to act calm. “…Ok, I’ll let him know. Is there anything else?”

I stepped away from the counter, flicking my hand with flair. “No need for pleasantries. I am not known for my kindness.”

She sighed—the signature sound of all overworked peasants. Hers carried the weight of someone severely underpaid for this kind of nonsense.

Of course, no commoner could be expected to handle a Demon Lord approaching them.

I chuckled. For her sake.

“No… I mean,” she tried again, voice gentler now, “do you want to buy something? I can help you with that.”

“Buy?” I narrowed my eyes. “How do you know?”

It seems the peasants of this world have mastered the ancient art of mind reading. Dangerous. I must stay alert.

I grunted. “F-fine. I actually wanted to buy some cooking ingredients.”

That seemed to unlock her true form—an actual employee just doing her job. Her smile returned, no longer the strained poker face of fear, but the grateful relief of someone who finally knew what the hell was going on.

“Oh, you can find all the cooking ingredients on the second floor,” she said.

I nodded solemnly. “Then I shall conquer your second floor.”

She blinked, opened her mouth, and then wisely said nothing.

***

Flight is an extremely high-level magic—one that requires perfect balance between mind and heart. After all, fear of heights is instinctual for all land-bound creatures. Maintaining composure while suspended in the air is no small feat.

So I never expected the people of this backwards realm to not only master it but also use it so casually.

The flying glass box lifted smoothly off the ground, carrying several people inside as if it were nothing. What in the seven flaming circles of Hell was this? Levitating something that massive, with passengers no less… You’d need to be a high-level mage to even attempt it.

I chuckled darkly. Maybe this Mart fellow would be a stronger opponent than I thought.

As the glass box ascended, another one descended on the left—this one carrying only a single person. I grunted. Is that a challenger?

The box halted with a soft thud, and the gate slid open with a cheerful ding that felt far too innocent for what was surely about to be a duel.

I dropped into a fighting stance, eyes locked on the man inside.

He didn’t move. He simply stood there, silent and motionless, staring at me with an intensity that made it clear: he wasn’t stepping into my world.

No… he was daring me to step into his.

I grunt. Naturally, I don’t back away from a challenge. I take my time, stepping into the box with the steady confidence of a seasoned warrior crossing into enemy territory. My eyes stay fixed on the man inside, ready to read the slightest twitch as a sign of attack.

But he doesn’t even look at me.

He stares ahead—at the wall—stoic and unmoved, as if my arrival meant nothing. As if my presence didn’t rattle the very mana in the air. We stand side by side in that narrow space, and still, he refuses to meet my gaze.

Coward? Or something more cunning?

“Where do you want to go?” he asks at last, his tone flat. No challenge. No fear. No honor. Just… duty.

Ah. So this was not the champion I was expecting. Just a messenger. A glorified gatekeeper of realms.

“Second floor,” I said, my voice firm, regal, and booming just enough to remind him—and the box—that I am not some common traveler.