To Hell And Back | Granevere | Edited

Chapter Four Part II

A/N: don't mind me just squeezing new chapters here

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Granger never had a friend like Guinevere ever again. It wasn't that he hated nobility nor hated having friends who were not in his social status.

In truth, he was afraid, afraid of the sheer fact that they were just going to leave him when they get tired of him, and somehow they will.

But on the bright side, he has come to a peculiar realization that his fear is an oppurtune advantage. Friendships would likely become mere burdens to someone like him, a Hunter.

So he has taught himself to fight for himself and no one else. Obliterating the demon race is his only reason for becoming both a servant and a demon hunter, forever serving the Empire until he dies, at least in that way he might earn himself the least comfort seat with the gods.

He has abandoned the idea of making a future for himself; falling in love, marriage, having children of his own, surrounded by the ones he loved and who loved him in return, and dying beside his partner in life.

It was ridiculous to think of it now.

The man was selfish and the only selfless thing he has was his fuming self-hatred. It runs deep more than the Abyss. He hates himself more than any demon that he swore he shall put his life on the grave to if it meant preventing another child from experiencing the same horrible trauma.

He wished he can take it all back. Guinevere had given him hope and that was the only thing he hated about her for hope had made him suffer, made him want to live on another day as a Hunter.

The world is a cruel place for children, that much he knew, and he doesn't wanna be another ignorant person who only thinks about themselves and the ones they love the most. He has heard songs of knights saving the day and slaying monsters for the princess and it all sickens him.

Lest, what of the ones they love less or not love at all, the other people they did not care? The ones who are weak and forgotten, who has lost their voices and are being oppressed by natural greed? Ignorance truly is bliss and he has been awakened from it.

This dark path the man took, he will walk it alone until the end of his days, fueled by hope a pampered girl had given him.

---

"Good evening, darling, what can I get for you?" The lady, thick in the waist, on the other side of the counter sang with a warm tone.

The tavern underneath the inn is quiet and empty. The day has darkened and Granger seems to be the only customer around. It is strange, being that the hotel was built near the ever-busy marketplace of the village of Baille, a town prospering in trade.

The man looks at the plump lady directly with his glimmering red eyes, one having a scar drawn across. Half of his face is hidden behind his collar for the purpose of hiding his true identity.

Minstrels have been singing songs of the Vagrant Poet and it is detrimental to his safety. How they had become as close to knowing him boggles him.

"Nothing," Granger spoke. Hearing his deep monotone, the bartender's smile falters and stares at her.

"Okay," she said, quieter than before, not wanting him to feel provoked. She glances down at the guitar case below the wooden stool he sat upon. "But are you looking for an inn to stay in for the night? We have a couple rooms available."

Granger only responds with a nod. He takes out a Baillean paper money and hands it to her. Fulfilling a fair trade, she gives back a room key with the number four chained on the ring.

---

It stunk of suspicious the second he walked through the door.

There was a fly on the outer side of the only window in the pristine room and Granger grimaced in his collar.

He had been sent here to clean up a disgusting mess.

Many customers of the inn had not walked out alive and the Monastery confirmed there were demons, and not of the local kind.

Those who had migrated from the Abyss have checked in the inn.

As he stands in front of the bed fit for two, the five senses can not identify any looming threat. There was only the common hotel atmosphere of washed linens and cool air ventilation. Accounts explain how customers who checked in the night were never to be seen again.

He flips the mattress of the bed, releasing the fiery smell of hell.

The corpse looks no more than several weeks old, still in the process of decomposition. Granger can tell the organs in the abdomen were currently accumulating gas for the stomach was bloated. How the bloating was not protruding underneath the mattress, the case was as hollow as a shallow grave.

He lifts his collar higher, shielding himself from toxicity exposure in the air. Well, somebody forgot to store their leftovers in the fridge, he thought sarcastically.

The corpse is of a male human, of nobility to be exact, if one was to judge the colors on his fine suit of pink satin.

It has been a while since he saw a dead body. The bile rises from Granger's stomach and he forced it back down. He ought to be professional when on the job.

A clamor of the throng can be heard just underneath the balcony outside of the room. Those people are unbeknownst to the corpse that was in front of Granger, or could it possible that this was not the only skeleton in the closet?

There is a metal briefcase beside the corpse. As he breathes heavily behind his sleeve, he hauls it out and lets the mattress fall back down with not a sound as if tampered with magic.

The briefcase is unlocked and Granger unclasps the locks, taking his breathe away more than the putrid stench did.

Sitting alone in the imported cushion of velvet was a small golden band, a ring pleated with an eclipse of Moon Diamond.

This is no commoner, Granger thought. There was a sigil patterned on the cushion, the Baroque sigil to be exact, and it sings to him of an old song of puppy green eyes and fiery red hair.

Granger throws the briefcase against the room. No! His inner self screamed in the voice of one of his masters. She has long forgotten about your sorry arse, you must forget about her too, you fool!

All those years of being whipped to forget every ounce of his dignity had been for naught. His masters told him he had no childhood to reminisce anymore, so why could he still, especially her?

A small scroll falls from the edges of the briefcase. Granger tears it open and the words were written in flat cursive:

"Tis' shall be a fine symbol of the Lady Guinevere's future marriage."

He exhales a shallow breath, letting the scroll fall as he throws his head back.

His eyes widened. One of the ceiling tiles from above has been removed, revealing the darkness within.

Granger runs over to his instrument case and takes out the rifle from inside. All his years of training and making this gun will be proved to be of significant use after all. His masters from the Monastery, he shall make them proud.

Eliminating this inn's mysterious evil will be the start of his legacy.

He waits for the evil to reveal itself, and when it does, it is in the form of a long slithering tentacle coming out of the darkness.

"Time to make history," he spoke out as loud as he could, intentionally doing so to attract the tentacle's attention. It began creeping its way towards him on the ceiling. "Let's make this quick!" He braced the rifle against his shoulder.