The Demon King's Guide To Not Getting Defeated By A Paladin-Chapter 39 - 38 — Arm Wrestling

The moment their feet touched the ground outside the town gates, Medusa wasted no time. She whipped her rod in a lazy arc, muttering a spell under her breath — and before Mikhail could even react, a shimmer of magic brushed over him.

He froze. Blinked.

His horns — his beautiful, perfect little horns — were gone.

"What the hell did you just do?!" he barked, hands flying up to his forehead.

Medusa smirked, spinning the rod in her fingers like it was a game. "Relax, idiot. It’s just a simple illusion. It’ll wear off eventually."

Mikhail growled low in his throat, glaring at her like he was two seconds away from punching something. "You touch my horns again, and I’m feeding you to the next dragon we meet."

"You can try," she said sweetly, already sauntering toward the town gates.

He cursed under his breath, but followed, slinking after her like a shadow.

The town wasn’t big — a scattering of rough, colorful buildings pressed close together, shops and taverns and alleys all squashed into a maze of cobbled streets.

And people. So many damn people.

Humans, chattering and laughing and yelling, crowding the streets like ants. Mikhail immediately hated it. Until he caught sight of a group of girls leaning against a stall, whispering and giggling as he passed. One even had the nerve to wink at him.

He blinked.

Paused.

Spun on his heel, looking around until he found a battered mirror nailed to a pole nearby. He studied his reflection like he’d never seen himself before.

Without his horns, he looked... dangerous in a human way. Sharp, lean, wild-eyed. His pink hair whipped around his face in messy waves, his mouth curved in a smirk he hadn’t even realized he was making.

No wonder the humans were acting stupid.

He chuckled under his breath, cocky as hell.

"I wonder," he muttered loud enough for Medusa to hear, "if humans taste the same as demons."

She turned sharply, eyes narrowing. "In what way?"

He gave her the filthiest, most wolfish grin. "Wouldn’t mind finding out."

Medusa flushed deep crimson and smacked him hard on the shoulder with her rod. "Behave!" she hissed.

Mikhail laughed, low and dirty. "No promises, Red."

They walked deeper into the town, Mikhail practically vibrating with restless energy, his fingers twitching every time someone brushed too close to him.

At least five times, he nearly picked a fight — once with a merchant who shouted too loud, another with a drunkard who stumbled into him — but every time, Medusa yanked him back by his shirt or whacked him lightly with the rod.

"You want to get thrown in the dungeons before we find him?" she snapped the fifth time, dragging him away from a blacksmith who looked ready to break Mikhail’s skull with a hammer.

"Depends," Mikhail growled. "Maybe I’ll find him in the dungeon."

Medusa rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they stayed in her skull. Eventually, after dodging half a dozen temptations to commit homicide, they stumbled across a tavern.

The sign above the door read The Rusty Anchor, swinging lazily in the breeze. It smelled of sweat, smoke, and ale. Perfect.

Mikhail shoved the door open with his boot, grinning at the low roar of voices and clattering mugs. The place was packed — burly men at tables, rough laughter, the sharp clink of gold.

But as they stepped inside, reality hit. Medusa leaned in close.

"Hey, genius," she said. "We don’t have any money."

Mikhail frowned. "Shit."

He was about to suggest just taking some when Medusa’s eyes gleamed.

"Look." She pointed.

At a corner of the tavern, a rough-looking group was gathered around a long table. Two men sat across from each other, hands locked together in a brutal arm-wrestling match.

The crowd roared as one of them slammed the other’s hand down onto the wood with a sickening crack.

Gold coins exchanged hands fast.

Medusa’s mind raced, excitement slowly bubbling. They could earn their way through this town. Or at least drink themselves stupid tonight.

She grinned and shoved Mikhail toward the table.

"Go," she whispered urgently. "Go win us some money."

Mikhail turned slowly, eyebrows raising high.

"You want me to play their stupid human games?"

"You’re a demon," she said sweetly. "If you lose to one of them, I’m never letting you live it down."

That got him.

With an arrogant toss of his head, Mikhail stalked forward, slamming his hand down onto the table with a loud thud.

"I’ll play," he announced, voice dripping cocky amusement.

The crowd hooted and jeered — until they got a look at him.

Even without the horns, there was something in his stance, in the way he carried himself — raw, violent confidence.

His first opponent was a huge man, with arms thicker than Mikhail’s thighs.

Perfect.....this was the kind of challenge that made his blood boil. Mikhail smirked as he sat down, flexing his fingers lazily.

"You sure you’re up for this, Grandpa?" he drawled.

The big man growled and clamped his massive hand around Mikhail’s because he knew that no one was capable of beating him.

The match started.

For a heartbeat, nothing moved.

Then Mikhail tightened his grip — and there was a sickening crack as the man’s wrist bent sharply, far too far.

The tavern went silent.

The man let out a roar of pain, clutching his broken hand, while Mikhail leaned back in his chair, grinning like he’d just stepped on a bug.

For a moment, Medusa thought the crowd would turn ugly. But then someone whooped. And the tavern exploded in cheers. Gold coins hit the table like rain.

Mikhail’s eyes gleamed.

He scooped up the coins, laughing, as more men lined up to challenge him. It didn’t stop there.

By the end of the hour, Mikhail was half-drunk, slouched sideways in his chair with his feet kicked up, a tankard in one hand and a pile of gold coins stacked neatly beside him.

Medusa stood nearby, arms crossed, watching him with bright, amused eyes. Every time another fool stepped up, Mikhail would flex his hand, wink at Medusa, and destroy them like it was nothing.

They started calling him names.

Pink Devil.

Wrist Breaker.

Cloudborn Killer.

Mikhail soaked it all in like sunshine.

Medusa couldn’t stop grinning.

Her heart was hammering in her chest, alive with excitement as she watched the gold pile grow. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝙬𝙚𝓫𝒏𝓸𝓿𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝙤𝓶

It was reckless, insane — exactly the kind of chaos she loved best.

And for a little while, in that smoky tavern, with the scent of beer and blood and victory thick in the air, everything felt exactly the way it was supposed to be.