I’m Not Your Husband, You Evil Dragon!

(Third person story narrative:- Pov)

Allen's Massacre

Those who summoned demons usually fell into one of two categories:

The greedy—shady businessmen who wanted the kind of work done that left no fingerprints.

Or the fanatical—cultists who worshipped the abyss, dreaming of ruling crumbling kingdoms beneath the shadow of their chosen demon lord.

Allen was neither.

He was an Arch Demon—ancient, calculating, and possessed of something rare among his kind: ideals. For decades, he had built an underground network that stretched across nations. Not for dominance. Not for worship. But for a cause most demons had long abandoned as impossible—freedom.

He offered his kind something precious: a way to slip their contracts, if only for a time. While others bathed in blood for sport, Allen searched tirelessly for a permanent escape from the invisible chains mortals placed upon demonkind.

It was a fragile dream. And then, Silent Death appeared.

One being—one force—shattered the decades of work Allen had poured into that dream. Betrayal hit him like a poisoned blade, and fury bloomed in its wake—cold, unrelenting, and absolute.

The network he had once nurtured became the object of his wrath. Allies, subordinates, even those who had once called him savior… all were struck down without hesitation.

And demons? Demons never hid their kills.

Bodies littered the halls of safehouses, blood seeped between the cobblestones of city streets. Screams split the night, recorded in shaky phone footage that hit the internet before the victims' blood had cooled.

After slaying many demons, Allen began to understand the true nature of Yuuta's power. Yuuta's abilities only activated when he was near corpses, enabling him to raise an army from the fallen. Yet, even though Yuuta wasn't present, Allen realized he still had to obey the commands of Silent Death.

Allen was no fool. Though he appeared to follow the orders of the Silent Death to eliminating demons—he played his own game. Instead of directly killing the demon kind as commanded, Allen struck first at the contractor who summoned it. By eliminating the source, the demon would vanish naturally, sparing it from death. His cunning move allowed him to protect the demons while still appearing loyal to his mission.

By morning, news anchors whispered of a massacre with trembling voices. Social media flooded with unverified clips—shadowy figures tearing through men in seconds, walls painted red, the sound of inhuman laughter echoing in the dark.

Panic began to spread.

And the human world—oblivious for centuries—stood at the edge of a revelation it wasn't ready for.

The World Government convened an emergency session before the chaos could rip the veil away entirely.

(Sara Venom's POV)

The conference hall was too cold for comfort, yet the air felt suffocating. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over a rain-slick skyline, streaked with the silver glow of distant streetlights. None of the people at the oval table spared it a glance.

They were the most powerful leaders in the world—men and women whose words could send armies marching and economies crumbling. Tonight, they looked like prey.

Out of all the countries represented here, we were the only agency with a seat at this table.

The reason was simple—no one else had the kind of information we did. The Lebeus Agency had been tracking Arch Demon longer than any other organization. We held archives on every confirmed sighting, every contractor, every unexplained disappearance linked to his name.

And there was another reason—one far more personal.

This world's first Arch Demon had been summoned in our country Libeus. I'd seen footage of aftermath. I'd walked through the ruins it left behind. And unlike the others in this room, I didn't just study demons from files and reports.

I came from another world.

That alone made my presence critical. My knowledge of demonic law, of the other side's politics and hierarchies, was deeper than anything Earth's agencies could dig up. I knew things these leaders couldn't even imagine… and some of them, I prayed they never would.

Which was why, no matter how much blame they tried to throw at me today, I couldn't walk away. Not while the Arch Demon still roamed free.

The U.S. President broke first. His palm hit the polished table hard enough to rattle the water glasses.

"Your Lebeus Agency knew about this Arch Demon!" His finger stabbed toward me like a spear. "Why the hell didn't you warn us sooner?"

I kept my voice calm, even though my pulse was anything but.

"Mr. President, with respect—Allen isn't a low-grade demon we can chain or banish. He changes contractors every fifteen years, and every change leaves nothing but corpses. We've been tracking him for decades."

"I know that," he snapped. "What I don't know is why he decided to suddenly start slaughtering people by the hundreds. Do you have any idea how hard it's been to lock down media coverage? We're seconds away from losing control of this!"

"I'm aware, sir. Very aware."

A Chinese official leaned forward, voice razor-thin.

"This is exactly why we've questioned the Lebeus Agency's funding. We pay for secrecy, Agent Venom—not headlines. If the public learns the truth about otherworldly beings, your entire operation becomes a liability."

I let out a slow breath, forcing my expression to remain neutral. "And yet we've managed to keep such truths contained for decades. This is not the first—"

The Japanese representative cut across my words, his own voice booming against the walls.

"Contained? Do you call this contained? Do you have any idea what will happen if my people learn the Isekai World exists?"

I met his glare evenly. "Yes, sir. I do."

"No," he said, leaning closer, his face hard. "You don't know. Our youth—no, the youth of the entire world—are obsessed with the fantasy of being sent to another world. If this gets out, teenagers will start throwing themselves in front of trucks for the chance to be reincarnated."

Several officials exchanged uneasy glances. From the far end of the table, someone muttered, "Yuji all over again…"

The Japanese President's jaw tightened.

"Yes. The Yuji Incident. A boy vanished from a shopping mall eight years ago, chasing the dream of becoming a hero in another world and later Manga artist make him famous by creating Anime. Now imagine that… multiplied by millions."

My hands curled into fists beneath the table.

We had failed to catch the demon. Failed to stop the bloodshed. And now the chaos—every drop of it—was already out there.

Uploaded. Shared. Picked apart by strangers in online forums.

The world was watching.

And the clock was running out.

The shouting match had been going on for minutes now, voices bouncing off the marble walls like ricocheting bullets. Some leaders leaned forward, jabbing fingers; others leaned back, arms crossed in tight defiance.

Through it all, the Indian President sat in silence. His hands were folded neatly on the table, his posture unmoving. He watched the arguments pass like storm clouds—never interrupting, never showing which side he might lean toward.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm but carried the weight of a closing gavel.

"Don't blame her." His eyes met mine for a fraction of a second. "We are all equally at fault here."

The tension in the room shifted, if only slightly. Heads turned toward him, some frowning, some merely blinking as if startled by the sudden stillness his words brought.

The South African President was the first to break it. He leaned back in his chair with a slow shake of his head.

"Well… the damage is done. The question now is why. Why would the Arch Demon go on such a rampage? Why target so many lives?"

The sound of a throat clearing drew every gaze toward one of the FBI's senior officials—a man whose thin spectacles did little to soften the hard line of his jaw.

"With respect, Mr. President," he began, "those who died were… not entirely innocent. Our data suggests every one of them was bound by a demonic contract."

I inclined my head in agreement.

"When a contractor dies, their demon is automatically banished back to the demonic world," I said. "That's why it matters."

The Australian President frowned deeply, his heavy brows knitting together.

"That doesn't make sense. Why would a demon kill its own contractors? That's like… burning down your own house just to kill the mice inside."

I drew in a slow breath before answering. "We don't have a complete picture yet. But we believe someone—someone who sees themselves as a bringer of justice—issued a direct order to Allen. A command to erase all contractors. And Allen… obeyed."

It wasn't the whole truth, but it was cleaner than the mess of speculation filling the room moments ago.

One by one, the nods came—hesitant, reluctant, but present.

The U.S. President tapped the end of his pen against the polished table in slow, rhythmic beats.

"Fine," he said at last. "Then tell me—how many so far?"

I slid my tablet across the table. Its glow lit the otherwise dim space, the screen filled with columns of grim statistics.

"As of this morning," I said quietly, "just under 2,376 confirmed dead. Among them… high-ranking government officials, senior corporate heads, wealthy power brokers. Many of them were household names."

The President cursed under his breath, the sound low and bitter.

Then he leaned back, the pen still rolling between his fingers, and his tone shifted—colder, almost casual.

"Let the Arch Demon continue, then."

A ripple of surprise went around the table.

"In the end," he continued, "he's doing our job for us—removing the parasites that have been feeding on humankind. Think of it as pest control."

A murmur of uneasy agreement passed between the leaders.

"For now," the U.S. President said, "we hide the truth. I want AI-generated counter-footage pushed online until the public can't tell what's real and what isn't. Flood their feeds. Bury the story under noise."

"And the real footage?" someone asked from the far end of the table.

The President didn't blink.

"Destroy it. Blind the people to the truth. The fewer who know…" His gaze swept the room, heavy with warning. "The better."

(Yuuta's POV)

When… did I fall asleep?

The question formed sluggishly in my mind, breaking through a fog that clung stubbornly to my thoughts. I opened my eyes to darkness—thick and almost tangible, the kind that made you second-guess whether you were truly awake.

Something felt… strange.

My lips were warm. Damp. As if someone had just pressed something soft against them—like the faint gloss of lip balm, or maybe a drop of water—but that didn't make sense.

The air in the room was heavy, unmoving. I tried to shift, only for a sharp sting to lance through my ribs, forcing me to stop with a hiss.

"Damn… still hurts," I murmured, barely above a breath.

Slowly, shapes began to emerge from the shadows.

The first thing I saw was Elena, slouched in a chair beside me, her head cradled in her arms. Even in sleep, her brows were faintly furrowed, as if she'd fallen into her dreams still worrying.

"She must've been here the whole time…" I thought, my chest warming for a fleeting moment.

But then I noticed something else.

I wasn't resting on a pillow.

The surface beneath my head was far too warm. Far too soft. And it rose and fell in the gentlest rhythm, steady as a heartbeat.

Frowning, I tilted my head ever so slightly—

—and froze.

My head was in Erza's lap.

Her silver hair spilled forward like a silk curtain, strands brushing against my face. Her head was bowed, chin resting lightly against her chest, and her shoulders slumped in a way that told me she had been sitting like this for hours. Even in the dim light, I could see the exhaustion etched into her delicate features.

"…How long have you been here?" I whispered, the sound barely audible even to myself.

My injuries still throbbed, but the pain wasn't nearly as vicious as before. That was when the thought hit me.

She healed me… didn't she?

But then my mind wandered back to that strange warmth on my lips earlier—

—and my face heated instantly.

No. She wouldn't. Would she?

The image came uninvited—Erza leaning down, her hair brushing my cheeks, her lips pressing gently to mine. My heart skipped, stumbled, then broke into a full gallop.

As if sensing the change in my breathing, Erza stirred. Her lashes lifted slowly, and those Voilet eyes—usually so sharp and commanding—met mine. But there was no steel in them now. Only a softness I'd never seen before.

She leaned closer, her forehead touching mine, her scent faintly sweet, like the air before the first snow. Her voice was low and trembling, as if it carried the remnants of a nightmare.

"…Don't worry."

There was a shimmer at the corners of her eyes, a sheen of tears she hadn't allowed to fall. Her hands—resting lightly on either side of me—were trembling, the kind of tremor you only get when you've been holding too much in for too long.

"I'll save you," she whispered, and the words cracked at the edges, breaking like thin ice under weight.

Before I could speak, before I could even think, she closed the distance.

Her lips met mine again.

This time, I knew it wasn't about healing.

It was slow, deliberate. Warm. Tender in a way that made my chest ache and my body forget every trace of pain. It was a promise, wrapped in the shape of a kiss—a vow that reached deeper than words ever could.

Her lips left mine, and for a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then it came—soft, hesitant at first—a spreading warmth, as though someone had set a tiny flame in the center of my chest. It flowed outward, curling through my veins, chasing away the chill lodged in my bones. The ache in my ribs dulled. Torn muscle began to knit together. Even the sting in my lungs softened until each breath came easier.

Dragon saliva…

The thought rose unbidden, half-memory, half-certainty. Erza had mentioned it once, in that casually dismissive way she had, as if something miraculous was nothing more than a footnote in a history book.

But the comfort in my body only made the weight pressing on my heart heavier.

Her face hovered above mine—close enough that I could count the fine strands of silver hair drifting across her cheeks. Her lashes trembled. Tears clung stubbornly to her eyes before surrendering to gravity, leaving faint, glistening trails down her skin.

I lifted a hand, every movement deliberate, as though the air had turned to water. My fingertips brushed away a tear, and still she didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't speak.

The Erza I knew—the proud, sharp-tongued Dragon Queen—was gone. In her place was someone smaller, quieter, stripped of her fire. Someone who looked like she'd been wandering in darkness far too long.

"What happened, Erza?" My voice came out softer than I intended. "Why do you look like this?"

She didn't answer my question. Her lips moved only to form words so fragile they barely reached me.

"Don't worry… I will save you."

It was a promise. And a sob.

The sound of it hurt more than any wound I'd taken.

A painful knot twisted inside me. My chest tightened painfully. It felt like I'd done something… something unforgivable. It's clearly written across her face in raw grief. My eyes stung, blurring the sight of her.

My vision blurred as my own tears welled up. How badly did I hurt her for her to end up like this?

"I'm sorry," I choked out, my voice cracking under the weight. "I'm truly sorry, Erza. Please… forgive me." My fingers trembled where they rested against her cheek. "Come back to your usual self. Yell at me. Hit me if you have to. Just… don't be like this."

She didn't answer.

Instead, she leaned down and kissed me again. And again. Each time her lips left mine, she whispered the same trembling vow:

"Don't worry… I will save you."

The repetition tore something open inside me. My own tears slipped free, hot against my skin. It was unbearable—seeing her like this, all the unshakable strength I'd admired stripped away until all that was left was raw, aching grief.

Please… God. Save her.

A sound broke the stillness—a quiet creak.

The bedroom door eased open. A narrow stripe of light stretched across the floor, cutting the darkness without softening it.

A figure stepped inside.

Grandpa.

He held a tray in both hands. The scent of warm soup drifted in with him, faint but comforting. His movements were slow, careful, the kind of deliberate caution a man uses when approaching a wounded predator—something that might accept the offering or tear him apart for trying.

Then Erza's head turned.

Her Voilet eyes caught the thin spill of light. They gleamed—predatory, dangerous—and the sound that followed made my skin prickle. A growl, low and deep, rolled from her throat.

"Are you here… to hurt him?"

The room seemed to shrink. The air grew heavy.

Grandpa didn't answer. He lowered the tray onto the far corner of the bed, never turning his back to her. His eyes stayed on her, not in challenge, but in recognition—like this was a moment he'd been through before… and feared.

He started to retreat, step by slow step, his hand brushing the doorframe.

"Stop," I said, my voice breaking through the tension like a blade through still water.

To be continue.....

Author's Note

Sorry for the delays in chapters lately, everyone. I want to be honest with you—it's because I've been working overtime at the café, which has left me with barely any time to write.

But don't worry! I haven't forgotten about you. As a little thank-you for your patience, whenever I have to take a break, I'll make sure the next chapter is a bit longer than usual to make up for it.

Thank you for sticking with me and supporting the story. Your comments and encouragement really keep me going!