He couldn't forget it.
Like a beast, Roger suddenly felt… wrong.
The moment he reattached Nelly's arm—when his fingers touched that fresh blood—he caught the reek of iron and rot. He licked it on instinct. After that, he couldn't get it out of his head.
Day after day, because of that taste, his appetite soured. Regular food—fine dishes from human master chefs, even—held no interest. Nothing touched his tongue in the right way.
At first, Roger thought he'd developed some hidden kink—hematomania or something.
But he'd never had anything like that. He dug through the memories of Anderson, Reiner, and Lara Tybur; there was nothing of the kind.
Say nothing of Anderson or Reiner—Lara Tybur's memories were downright averse to the smell of blood. As a child she'd watched a person die, soaked in blood; it left her with a lifelong mania for cleanliness.
Roger understood. Like Levi's own obsession with cleanliness, he'd kept her habit for nearly a decade. He'd even picked up a bit of a neat-freak streak himself, fussing over his hair.
He was too lazy to cut it, so he let it grow. But the War Hammer's memories kept needling him, making him feel off about it—if he trimmed it, it had to be perfect, not a single strand out of place.
So the problem wasn't in him. Which meant it was in…
"Hey. You. Hiding in my body. Talk."
Anger flared. Roger pulled a knife from the drawer and leveled it at his heart.
He hovered, ready to drive it in.
The black markings didn't stir.
Only when Roger truly thrust did they dart out in a panic, interposing themselves between the blade and his chest.
[Are you insane?!]
The same voice he'd heard atop the Wall came out again.
"Otherwise how do I make you show yourself?" Roger said. "I want you out of me—or give me a reason you have to stay. And it had better benefit me. Otherwise…"
[Ha. You'd kill yourself?]
"I would."
[…]
Roger raised the knife again.
[Fine. I believe you.]
[I'll tell you my goal.]
[But now isn't the time. You wouldn't understand.]
"Say it anyway. I'll decide what to do with it," Roger said.
Silence from the black lines.
[All right.]
[I'll tell you.]
[My name is 'Demon.' I come from a twisted world you can't begin to grasp.]
[There, the living are eaten by demons—and demons hunt demons.]
[Once, I was king of the demons. Then…]
[I was betrayed.]
"Useless."
Roger said it straight.
[Shut up!]
[You understand nothing!]
[Right now you're just my shell. If not for a certain promise I made…]
[Oh, and by the way—you don't have long to live.]
[Unfortunate for them, you have me. They can't touch you yet.]
"Someone's hunting me?"
[Yes.]
"Who?"
[Many. Too much to explain right now.]
"Then at least tell me what they are," Roger pressed.
[Hah. Greedy, vile drinkers of blood.]
[Not worth remembering by name.]
[Filthy maggots and flies!!]
[Give me the chance and I'll kill him! A thousand times wouldn't be enough!!]
"Heh. Interesting."
Roger smiled. Maybe there was a reason this parasite chose him.
"In that case, I'll kill them for you. In return, you serve me. Deal?"
[Brat, that's not how we do business. Didn't your father teach you manners?]
"Yes or no."
[Hah. As of now, you're no match for them. Not unless you reclaim the Founding's Coordinate and unleash that power.]
"The Rumbling."
[Exactly. The Rumbling.]
[Work at it, brat. As you are, you're not worthy to negotiate with me as an equal.]
It said no more.
Roger didn't push it. He still hadn't learned who the mysterious hunters were, but it was enough.
Whatever the reason, he had to find the Founding's Coordinate.
No wall is airtight. Sooner or later, he'd find the Founding.
And the first thing he'd do then—
Destroy Marley, that militarist empire.
If the world still despised Eldians, then make them speak on their knees.
With that thought, Roger calmed, clamped down on the aversion, and forced himself to dig into the food in front of him.
Like an herbivore choking down a cooked steak, he ate with gusto.
And nausea.
Under the parasite's influence, everything tasted like wood.
"Damn it."
He swore.
Then a different scent hit him. He snapped his gaze to the door.
"Tours? If you've got business, come in."
Roger spoke even though the door was shut tight. He shouldn't have been able to see Tours still some distance from it.
Hearing his boss's voice, Tours had no choice but to push the door open. He came in, a little abashed, rubbing the back of his head and carrying a tray: fried eggs, milk, bread. He wore an apron, fresh out of the kitchen.
"Boss, you've looked a bit off lately. Feeling unwell?" he asked with concern—then, a touch timid, he eased back. "Maybe I'm interrupting. I heard you talking to yourself just now."
Most people would pretend they'd heard nothing.
Tours, in his big, dopey way, said he had.
That only made Roger trust him more. No theatrics.
"Maybe I just haven't rested," Roger said, nodding for Tours to set the eggs down. "You made these?"
"Yeah. Used to fry them for my little sister all the time—got a feel for the heat. Won't burn 'em. Sorry if it's crude, boss."
"No." Roger took a bite. Somehow, there was craft in the pan—he'd nailed the texture, down to the fine points.
Roger knew nothing of cuisine, but he knew this was good.
Miraculously, the gag reflex faded. He polished off Tours' breakfast in a few quick bites.
Wiping his mouth, Roger looked at him. Time to repay this "chef."
"I'll teach you stealth," Roger said. "Your hiding just now was riddled with holes. If it wasn't me on the other side, you'd already be dead. So I'll show you advanced techniques. Learn well."
"Yes, boss!"
Tours snapped to attention, the floral apron drawn tight across the broad frame and high ponytail of a bull-shouldered giant.
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