Chapter 279: The Resurgence of Old Wounds
Jima’s dream palace was quite convenient.
After George fell asleep, he entered and distanced himself from the blood-soaked battlefield, escaping the metallic scent of blood in the air and avoiding the piercing sounds.
In the dream palace, a gentle breeze blew, carrying a hint of floral fragrance, and the warm sun made one feel lazy. Everything was just right; the water in the pool was neither hot nor cold, and the towels that flew in were soft and clean.
Naked George stood by the edge of the pool, gazing at the clean, reflective environment around him, feeling an impulse not to dirty it.
He stepped into the pool, the clear water rising over his calves, the colors of blood and beast hair spreading outward. George sank into the water, unable to help but close his eyes as he felt the perfectly warm water.
At this moment, in the dream palace, the master of this realm was Jima.
The succubus Jima was hiding in a secret chamber, staring at two ceramic jars on the table before her, emanating an earthy smell. Each jar had a piece of paper taped to it, scrawled with Chinese characters: “You know what is inside.”
It’s some of my memories, Jima thought.
Upon contacting the Demon King’s extraordinary substance, her personal system granted her the highest privileges, revealing the red-name text.
The text informed her that when she upgraded to platinum, Jima, the Demon King, encountered the “jarred magic potion” which could contain memories, bringing to mind classic scenes from past literary works.
The big villain loses their memory and is with the righteous partners, none recognizing them as the villain.
Coincidentally, at that moment, Jima was distressed about how to deceive George. This guy was as stubborn as a stone in a toilet. She had no doubt that if her identity were exposed, George would either imprison her or, at worst, kill her with one sword strike. Even if he loved her, he would definitely do so.
“Back then, I truly saw through George.”
Jima recalled how George had furiously slain his mother.
It was so resolute, without a hint of hesitation.
If placed in the anime of her past life, the protagonist would surely be indecisive, going through several emotional flashbacks that would drag on for one or two episodes.
In the end, to maintain the protagonist’s image and avoid the stain of patricide, the scriptwriters would create a scene where the protagonist kills their mother without being blamed, procrastinating until the audience could no longer stand it and wanted to help him kill his mother before he finally cried out and struck her down.
In the past, Jima would always scoff at such scenes, fast-forwarding through them.
“Why go through so much drama when you’ve already drawn your weapon to kill? Just do it already!”
Now, having witnessed someone truly embody those words, Jima felt fearful, very fearful. So worried that as she reached for the jarred magic potion, her hand trembled.
In the past, she had no fear, trusting that she wasn’t the Demon King Jima. With George’s personality, even if the entire harem stood up and pointed her out, she would feel completely safe.
But now, that sense of security was gone.
Her delicate hand touched the cold ceramic jar, and the chill made her want to withdraw her hand. She merely wanted to toss the jarred magic potion back into the deep pit, bury it well, and hope it never resurfaced.
But that was just self-deception; she had already come into contact with the Demon King’s extraordinary substance, knowing she was undoubtedly the Demon King Jima.
Even if she tried the same trick again, packing up all her past memories and cramming them into the pit.
Not to mention, with such a large blank in her memories, could she really deceive herself? Although she might be mediocre, she wasn’t a fool.
Moreover, how could she control the Demon King’s extraordinary substance if she disposed of so many memories?
Could she bear to part with such great power?
The thought of losing the Demon King’s extraordinary substance made Jima feel extremely pained. After all, this was power she had earned after three centuries, starting from a mere pawn amid the bloody ascension, wielding knives and guns, treading on countless corpses.
Why should she hand over her power?
“The original plan was that if I encountered the Demon King’s extraordinary substance, it would indicate I might gain great power. That way, regardless of whether George knew my identity, I could ensure my own safety and enjoy power.”
“If not, then I would just be George’s concubine, ensuring a peaceful life.”
“Now, since I cannot escape my past, it must be my destiny.”
Jima lifted the ceramic jar and slammed it hard onto the ground. The two jars shattered, revealing a translucent liquid glowing softly white, which splattered everywhere and transformed into white mist, merging into Jima’s body.
For an instant, her head spun. Memories of the past flashed before her like a revolving lantern.
Jima covered her head with both hands, leaning back and lying on the recliner.
Those originally blurry memories became clear, filled with details. Within the clarity of these memories, some emotions from the past also became vivid.
The resentment of being bullied as a child—she couldn’t recall how many times at night, in bed, she had furiously waved her fists, wanting to dismember those detestable people, smashing their skulls with bricks.
And the moment she leaped from a rooftop in despair, crashing to the ground.
Suddenly, pain surged in Jima’s chest, as if someone were driving a hammer and chisel inside her chest, forcing out a hole.
She gritted her teeth, pressing her soft chest with both hands, curled up like a boiled shrimp, unable to hold back her tears, exclaiming, “It hurts! It hurts so much!”
The memories she did not want to think about kept flooding into her mind…
After landing, she immediately regretted it, trembling as she reached for the phone that had fallen from her, its screen cracked, and with her last bit of strength, she dialed 120.
Her fingers tapped the screen slowly, visible against the dry cement floor, sucking in her blood, the crimson liquid spreading, filling the gap between the phone and the cement.
So painful, so painful, so painful.
Jima rolled off the recliner, the pain of soul injury piercing through her body.
The memory of death finally reached its end, darkness enveloped her, and she gradually sank into the painful void.
Then, another death memory returned.
The holy sword pierced through her chest, shining with sacred light, dismembering all the power within her. The faces of her maids surrounded her, filled with relief, disgust, and cold gazes. As she took her last breath, the final words she heard were:
“He is finally dead.”
The last person she saw was a cold bucket helmet.
The pain of soul injury pierced through her body.
Jima opened her mouth, tilted her head, and coughed up a few mouthfuls of blood, gradually regaining her composure. She felt like at least an hour had passed.
She lifted her head, her gaze piercing through the darkness, landing on the clock.
Unexpectedly, only two minutes had passed.
One hand pressed against her soft chest, Jima slowly sat back in the recliner, sighing:
“Falsehoods ultimately cannot withstand the test of time.”
The healing of soul injury is built on a foundation of self-deception. Once she realized the truth, the wound became more severe and painful.
With no cure available, Jima didn’t attempt to drink any medicine.
The pain gradually faded, but at the same time, Jima could feel her control over her own magical power weakening; the less magic she had, the greater the risk of losing control.
Based on experience, estimating her current situation, her magic power was likely only about ten percent left before it became dangerous, requiring willpower to resist losing control.
But she did not regret this choice.
Taking a deep breath, she intertwined her fingers, resting them under her chin.
Behind her, a two-meter-tall man with a bald head and broken lips appeared in the air. Upon closer inspection, his body was somewhat transparent—this was the Demon King Jima.
Using “illusion” as “flesh,” “Demon King’s extraordinary substance” as bones, and injecting “power of lies” as blood.
A powerful combat illusion emerged. Of course, it wasn’t as strong as her past self. Nonetheless, the illusion could still kill Jima in a head-on battle.
An invisible force of fear radiated from him.
Jima felt satisfied with the power she had gained.
There were no hiccups; it felt like she wrote the code in one breath, running it successfully without a single bug.
Jima raised her hand, focusing her thoughts.
The “Demon King’s illusion” quickly jumped in front of her, its gaze vacant. Essentially, it was just Jima’s combat puppet.
“Let’s give you a name.”
With that, Jima scanned the “Demon King’s illusion” from top to bottom.
There were hardly any parts without scars, horns protruding from its shoulders and head, the marks left by the blessings of the Four Dark Gods on its body. Its limbs bore a dozen red circular scars—the points where it connected with armor.
The armor of Demon King Jima, bestowed by the Blood God, had once belonged to a monster; after Jima killed it, its corpse melded with her, forming a tough and resilient armor.
Later, to seek pleasures, the Demon King Jima spent considerable effort to remove her armor, unlike other demonkind who wore armor for life.
In addition to this, Demon King Jima’s skin had been weathered by the wind and rain, darkening its complexion.
Jima raised her hand and looked at her own skin; it had become much fairer.
“Dark Gold Star? No, that pun is too awkward; you aren’t dark enough.”
“Undying Fear Demon King? Too common.”
“Lord of Fear?”
“Forget it.” Jima’s gaze fell on the originally bald figure that had been her body: “Let’s just call you Baldy.”
Then she realized there were many people named Baldy in this world.
Especially in the empire—if during a battle one shouted, “Baldy,” would not all the priests and scourgers of Sigma turn to look?
What qualifications did these weaklings have to share the same title as the strong?
To distinguish herself from the weak, Jima pondered and ultimately decided to add a strong character.
“Baldy Strong!”
The “Demon King’s illusion” lifted its chin and responded, “Ah!”
Jima couldn’t help but chuckle, reminded of a character name from her previous life.
It was a perfect coincidence.
“Baldy Strong!”
“Ah!”
“What’s your name?”
“My name is Baldy Strong.”
“Hahaha.” Jima laughed a bit before stopping.
One part of her felt lonely. She thought this world probably had only her, a soul from Earth.
Nine parts were regret, resentment, hatred, and… pain.
Thinking of Earth, she recalled her failed life, realizing that no matter how strong she was now, she couldn’t return to Earth and exact her revenge herself.
Just like growing up, even if she had the courage to smash a chair over those who bullied her or had the muscle to knock them out, she could not go back in time to take revenge.
She could only spend endless nights, throwing punches in the air before sleeping.
Jima pressed her hand against her chest, catching her breath again. The smile on her face had long vanished as she snapped her fingers.
Baldy Strong vanished before her.
