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[The Distinguished Mr. Rose] Chapter 99: The Third of the Great Evils: Lips of Refusal
🕑 Added 2025-09-22 00:29:16 +0000 UTCLucius and his companions at this point had already developed an immunity to the Evil’s mental corruption; and with the experience of having slain three of their kind, eliminating another should surely not be so difficult. Except, something was peculiar about this demon.
The others were grotesque, twisted and shaped into hideous forms, but the demon they saw here was similar to a man. It had arms, legs, a torso and a head. It had clearly defined muscles and a skeletal structure not unlike the Franks, the only differences being a lack of certain private genitalia and hair. It had no nipples, and its skin was smooth in a way that was technically possible but also somewhat unsettling.
It was a person, yet distinctly not at the same time, as if it were a creature merely wearing the skin of one. This odd thing was as naked as a newborn child. The only feature that noticeably denoted its demonic origin was its face, for it had no eyes, or ears, or even a nose. Instead, there was only a pale set of lips.
>[EMERGENCY QUEST!]<
Brave warriors from another world, it is time to take up arms once more. Sir Ferragut, the former leader of the Levantine Corps, now holds the object of your search: the second Demon King Fragment. He has consorted with dark powers, claimed the fragment for his own, and even summoned its demonic guardian, the Lips of Refusal, to bring devastation onto your forces. Eliminate him and his wretched pawns. Only then will the object of your search finally be within grasp.
Success: 2000 Cosmic Coins, a Skill Rank-Up Card, and decreased reputation with the Arabian Emirate.
Failure: Death.
Oh dear, now this was an interesting mission. It was the first time Lucius saw a negative demerit included with the success rewards. He wasn’t too bothered by it — the group had long already drawn the Saracens’ ire.
The players soon cracked their knuckles and readied themselves for another dangerous brawl. The Peers, on the other hand, reacted quite strangely. Sir Astolfo paled in the face and stepped back, panic spread all across his face, while Angelica grit her teeth and yelled a nervous command. “We must run. We are not safe here!”
Everyone turned around and looked at her, confused. It was only when sweat dripped down Roland’s brow and he cautiously moved to cover their front that they realized the severity of the situation. Here he was, the strongest Peer of them all… and even he didn’t appear confident in their victory.
“Lucius, go with the others and escape this structure,” he said, the savagery of before returning to his eyes. “The Lips cannot be fought in tight quarters. I will distract the thing and bring it outside — only then may we stand a fighting chance.”
Lucius didn’t bother to ask why. Time was ticking, and a gentleman knew when he needed to make haste. Thus he gathered his companions and attempted to bolt through the exit. Alas, their attempt was cut short, for a giant pillar of sand rose up and blocked their way. The sand crept along the room and covered every surface and crack. The players couldn’t break through; whenever one layer was blasted away, another would simply take its place.
“Aw crud, it ain’t gonna work, guys,” Mili wheezed, her breath sharp and haggard from exhaustion.
Harper tried to douse the sand with water. It didn’t work; their sandy cage was ever shifting. “It's that Saracen’s fault. We need to take him down, or else we’ll never escape this damn place.”
“And how’re we gonna do that? Slippery ol’ fella could be anywhere,” Marco grunted. “Somethintg tells me that body over there ain’t his real one either.”
The players had been well and truly bamboozled. All paths of escape were blocked off, and thus the only course of action left was to confront the demon head on.
“Stars be damned… Sir Ferragut truly intends to see us all perished here,” Angelica said. She and Astolfo had tried to smash through the sand as well, sadly to no avail. “Curses, we absolutely cannot be near it when it speaks! We have to—”
It was too late. Sir Roland unsheathed his mighty blade, the Durandal, and charged at it with such speed that his body appeared blurred; but when he moved to slash its neck, the demon opened its mouth, and it spoke.
“Your arms fall limp.”
No sooner were those words putridly spewed did Roland’s arms immediately drop, as well as his blade. It clunked helplessly onto the floor, its owner struggling to gain back control, and right behind him the others suffered the same fate. They couldn’t move their arms. There was no feeling, no connection; it felt as if they never had arms to begin with.
Roland spared not a second of hesitation despite his new handicap and kicked the Durandal back up before biting the hilt and holding it within his mouth. He lunged forward and spun, bringing the edge slicing down on the demon’s pallid skin.
“My flesh is invulnerable. No blade can harm me.”
The Durandal bounced back upon impact, an invisible force repelling all attacks away from the demon. Roland couldn’t hurt it; he couldn’t even draw near. Fortunately, however, his arms twitched to life once more, and he made a swift retreat before cautiously gauging his fickle foe.
“This is… impossible,” Miss Enapay whispered, the others anxiously sharing her sentiment. “It can’t be harmed. It can cripple us with a few words. How can we possibly defeat that thing?”
Oh, but the worse had yet to be seen. Words of power were not the demon’s only skill.
The thing stared at Roland for a moment, its movements cold and calculating. When it appeared to be satisfied with its analysis, it opened its lips, but no words came out. Instead, it raised its hand and then plunged it into the hole, before pulling out a dull misshapen sword.
“You dare?” Roland said, anger rising up from his chest, for but a second later the demon leaned back and assumed the very same fighting stance as the Peer’s own. It was copying him.
Nay, perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it was learning.
“Damnit, damnit! We have to end this now.” Astolfo pulled out his ivory horn and gestured for the other players to follow his lead. “The longer we fight it, the stronger it gets. Angelica and I barely managed to drive it away, and that was when we were outside—when we had space to get away. If we don’t slay it here, we’re all doomed.”
The players were still somewhat dazed; fortunately, Lucius stepped up and took command, organizing them all into ranks before joining with Astolfo and Angelica.
Whilst they were planning their method of attack, Roland was busy fending the Evil off.
“Your vision grows blurry. Weight pushes down on you.”
For every one of the thing’s wretched sayings, the man was forced to adapt on the spot, switching his focus to where his body’s autonomy still remained, and he did this all the while clashing with the demon’s perilous blade. An ordinary man, perhaps even one of the other Peers, would have long succumbed to the Evil’s assault. Not Roland — he held firm with an experienced, practiced defense. But merely defending would cost him eventually. He had to do something, even if only to buy time.
“Durandal! Switch forms: Ragna Modus.”
The Durandal emitted a bright glow, flooding the room as its base twisted and groaned, the metal remolding, until the blade had transformed into the shape of two curved daggers. The demon tried to mimic him and opened its lips again, but the Peer gave it no time to react and rushed in, striking it in a flurry of rapid slashes. There was a beastly trace hidden within his violence, one that threatened to break free the more he fought. The demon struggled to resist, at first, but eventually it learned his patterns well enough to push him back and utter its words of protection.
“My flesh is invulnerable. My chest swells with power. Shadows grab at your ankles.”
It was not just its combat ability that grew, but also the length of its chants. Roland did his best despite the adversity and switched between all kinds of weapons in an effort to disorient the demon. He stabbed with a spear, swung a mighty hammer, and even shot it from afar with a bow. Roland had complete mastery over every type of weapon imaginable; and yet, even so, there was little he could do to truly harm his ever-developing adversary.
It was when the demon had nearly stripped away all his autonomy that the loud blare of a horn echoed, sending an invisible gust of force crashing directly into the Evil and pushing it back all the way to the other end of the room. The gap in distance alleviated Roland’s burdens enough for him to quickly retreat as Angelica and the other players flocked to his side.
“Do forgive us for the late assistance, my friend,” Lucius said to him. “We needed a moment to discuss a plan of attack.”
Roland chuckled and readjusted his weapon. “All is well, so long that it works.”
“We shall see.”
The Lips of Refusal recovered not long after. This time, however, it had to contend with the group’s full might.
“Mister Bernardi, Lady Angelica, please advance first.”
The two of them sprinted ahead and tackled the Evil before it could recover, slamming it into the wall and using all their strength to pin it motionless. The thing struggled and spat out all manner of enfeebling curses, but the pair were the party’s sturdiest, and they held strong as Mili conjured the deadliest bolt she could muster. Harper supported her with a status-boosting ability.
Rather than releasing it, however, the musician condensed it into a pulsating orb and waited. Mister Crowley meanwhile tinkered with scraps of metal, screws, and bolts that eventually combined into an explosive he called the “Particle Scrambler.” It was a dreadful, intimidating little thing, and it was made even more dangerous when he somehow fused it with Mili’s orb. The bomberman also had his own peculiar skills.
The new contraption trembled ominously in his hand. It looked as if one touch would be enough to set it off, blowing them all up, so Miss Rhodes wrapped it in a special reinforced fabric shell, before handing it over to Miss Enapay. The warrioress tied the Particle Scrambler to her spear. Everything was almost ready; one role had yet to be played.
“Sir Roland, might I ask you for a favor?” the gentleman said.
“... Say no more. I shall serve as the bait.”
“Very good. Mister Bernardi, Lady Angelica, you may come back now!”
The two leapt back and ran as fast as they could back to the group. Roland, on the other hand, confronted the demon once more and changed his weapon into a wide greatshield. “Durandal! Switch forms: Allas Modus.”
The Lips of Prejudiced jerked and writhed. It approached Roland slowly, its eerie march one of bland indifference, yet Miss Enapay did not throw. Not now — not until Lucius gave the signal.
“Your heart trembles.”
No, not yet.
“A frigid chill creeps down your spine. Your throat fills with fire.”
Lucius had watched the thing all this time. He noted its patterns, its habits, the moments when it chose to speak words of offense rather than protection.
“You refuse to stay and atone. You refuse to take responsibility. You refuse to acknowledge the filth inside.”
Each additional line compounded in viciousness. It built up, more potent than the last, and thus Lucius hypothesized that there would eventually come a chant powerful enough to disable them not just in body, but also the ego. However, that was exactly what the gentleman wanted. Only when the Lips had no more curses to spew would its weakness finally be exposed.
“Your consciousness fades away—”
“Now, Miss Enapay.”
The exact moment it finished the last word, Miss Enapay threw her spear. It left her hands right before her mind shut down, her body drooping lower, ever lower, until her eyes glossed over, and she joined the other players in a deep sleep. Everyone, from Sir Astolfo, Lady Angelica, and the other players soon collapsed onto their knees. The only ones we managed to resist were Sir Roland… and Lucius.
>[Your passive title, Reckless Bravado, is currently active. Enfeebling status conditions are half as effective against you]<
Lucius was the only one fully aware, fully cognizant, amongst his fellows. As such, only he could drag them behind Roland’s shield as Miss Enapay's spear pierced the demon’s lips, along with the lightning-charged bomb.
There was no bang, at first. A blinding flash enveloped Lucius from head to toe. He could not see nor hear a thing. It was as if the entire world had become deathly still.
And then, it all came rushing forth at once. The boom, the blast, the marriage of explosive and lightning evaporating every speck of atom it could reach—Lucius thought the sight to be quite dazzling. He continued to think that way as the resulting force blew back the sand and pushed the group smashing through the exit walls.
The others did not regain their clarity in time to avoid banging their heads, step by step, onto the stairwell outside. Lucius avoided most of the damage by using Marco as a big cushion.
“Agh, I swear these plans are gettin’ crazier by the day,” the old mobster groaned when the group had finally arrived at the bottom.
Mili emerged relatively unscathed as well, though her magic had been entirely drained. She couldn’t gather the strength to even pluck her guitar much less conjure another bolt. “At least we’re alive, big guy. Let’s hope that demon thing isn’t.”
Only a few people among the group had regained their consciousness. Most were still out cold, the main exceptions being Lucius’s three companions and Sir Roland. As such, Harper immediately went to work and helped attend to the wounded. The firefighter had her own share of injuries, but Roland was the one who suffered the worst: burns carved deep into his chest. Nonetheless, he stood back up and acted right as rain. Lucius began to scold him for acting recklessly, but the gentleman soon closed his lips, for right before his eyes the good man’s injuries were rapidly healing by itself. Even his natural recovery was beastlike.
All was just fine and dandy, save for one little thing.
The players hadn’t received any experience yet.
“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me!” Mili cried while pointing at the top of the stairwell. “How the heck did it manage to survive that?”
Indeed, much to the party’s horror, their foe emerged from a cloud of smoke and ash.
“M-m-my fle… fle? No, c-c-can’t speak…”
Despite its miraculous survival, the demon had taken its fair share of grievous wounds. Its skin, once pale and unblemished, was now covered all over in black swollen blisters. Fingers and chunks of its flesh had been scorched off, revealing a familiar nonsensical interior filled with candy-cane colored blood and dangling organs made of rubber balloon animals. Whatever shell this thing used had been damaged beyond all repair. Even its throat was mangled and shredded. It tried to speak, but all that left its lips were crude, guttural wails.
Roland glared at the wobbling creature and ascended the steps, his sword dragging across the stone. Astolfo and Angelica had yet to wake. This was his duty and his alone. “You will not haunt my fellows any longer, foul thing. I will put an end to this madness once and for all.”
Lucius’s companions tried to follow after him, but they could barely keep themselves upright, much less support him in battle. The only one hale and hearty enough was the good gentleman himself, not that the others needed to know. Lucius had a feeling something very entertaining was about to happen; and thus he fanned his face and dramatically leaned back, putting on the act of a poor, exhausted fellow.
The demon clutched at its spilling organs and ripped one out, sharpening it, to use as an impromptu weapon. Credit where credit’s due, the thing was a stubborn one. It did not retreat despite its injuries unlike the other Evils and instead boldly staggered forth, ready to meet Roland in single combat.
No more tricks. No more dubious chants. The two foes rushed in and clashed against the other with nothing more than their prowess with the blade. Swing after swing, they fought in a dance of whistling steel, feet pounding firm as they slowly whittled the other down piece by bloody piece. The way Roland moved was almost hypnotic, practiced in a way to deliberately confuse his opponent, but the longer the battle dragged down the simpler it became. He used less feints, his tactics less refined.
Over time his sophisticated movements gave way for a vicious, and crude, impulse. He began to rely less on his blade and more his own pure, physical capability. He pummeled the demon with strikes of his fist, bashed its chest with his elbows, and used his knees, his shoulders, every part of his body to brutalize the thing with nothing else but sheer barbaric force. Even the Lips, with all its learned knowledge, could not adapt quickly enough to Roland’s growing rage.
At last, the demon faltered, and the Peer wasted no time before sweeping its legs and then binding it to the ground with a stab. The Durandal stuck deep in its cartoonish flesh. It tried to pull it free, but Roland gave it not an opportunity and struck its face with his fist, and again, and again. He continued this assault until his gauntlet dented from the impact, and he continued ever more even when the demon grew limp and it spoke no more from its crushed limps.
There was no light in Roland’s eyes. Every strike came down ruthlessly, cold, and yet Lucius couldn’t help but sense an almost sadistic quality in Roland’s behavior. There was a madness within, a primal desire to rip and tear everything in sight. The man’s every moment was spent suppressing this urge; but when met with a scourge he could torment without consequence, that urge leaked free, clouding his mind with a deeply-rooted terror.
Just who exactly was he imagining beneath his bloodied fists? What was it that he refused to confront?
Roland brought his hands together for a final, sadistic bash, before letting out a deep sigh and standing back up, victorious. There was no need to check the body. The Lips of Refusal had perished long before he rose.
>[The third Great Evil, the Lips of Refusal, has been slain! Your contribution in its subjugation is meager. As a result, your acquired EXP will be halved]<
*(NEW!) EXP + 425
Your skill (Flowers’ Best Friend) has ranked up to D+!
[Rank D+] Flowers’ Best Friend (Passive, Growth Type): Whenever you encounter a new species of Flora, you will feel greater affinity towards it. You will also be given a list of any harmful or positive effects it may contain. The specific recipes to achieve the desired effect, however, will not be revealed unless studied yourself.
>[Sinister Interdimensional Bureaucrat is disappointed. The Star wanted to see more of Lucius’s prowess in battle, but it supposes that cunningness is a skill in itself. You are the only one unharmed among your group. It would be simple to slay them now and steal their items]<
>[Virtual Goddess of the Wired excitedly waves a glowstick and congratulates Lucius on another successful subjugation! The Star was a bit unnerved by Roland’s brutality, though, and urges you to quickly claim the fragment and leave]<
>[Angel of Mercy has taken a liking to Roland and encourages you to challenge him in a duel. Nothing makes a bond stronger than beating each other to near death]<
With this, only one more Great Evil remained. Lucius and his fellows were ever so close to the end of this long grand quest, but one objective still remained: They had to retrieve the fragment.
Come to think of it, where was the thing anyway? It should currently be in Sir Ferragut’s possession, but the gentleman doubted the Saracen escaped unscathed after that last explosion. His sand no longer covered the pyramid’s walls; where could he possibly be?
Lucius didn’t need to wonder much longer, for before Roland could return to them, a rough sandy figure emerged behind him and wrapped around his neck in a malicious hold.
“For as long as I… live… you will never escape. Not until my soldiers… the Levantine are avenged.”
Roland desperately clawed at the sand and backed into a wall, smashing into it in an attempt to break free from his unyielding assailant. Ferragut’s appearance had changed drastically since their last encounter. His body slowly crumbled, sand and ash mixing together in a pitiful display, yet even with such injuries he refused to let go. His charred, blackened skin wasted away. In a few moments, he would soon fall apart entirely.
“Curse you, Ferragut,” Roland wheezed, gasping for air. “Do you truly despise me so much that you would forsake your living flesh for power?”
Lucius realized, then, why the group could never find his real body. From the very beginning, Sir Ferragut was the sand. He had given up his humanity and became one with the pyramid, knowing that his time was quickly fleeting. He intended to die here… successful or not in his revenge.
“Our Arabia will rise again, propelled by the next generation. I am too old, too feeble to stand beside that child when he leads our people onto golden sands, and so I will bury it all here: our past, our grudge, our mistakes. You and I must die, Roland. Only then will this tortured cycle finally cease.”
“You crazed fool. Perish by yourself if you desire it so, but why target me? I was a simple tool — nothing more. My involvement changed not the fate of your people. If not I, then someone else would have taken my place.”
Ferragut’s grip tightened; he choked Roland’s neck until the man could hardly speak. “That very cowardice is why you are here today. Long have the years passed, and yet you still refuse to accept the truth. The one I saw in those war torn days, the reaper who spared not one soul mercy, is the very same beast before me now. You have not changed, Roland. Your heart still bears a mark of cruelty.”
The two continued to struggle for some time, but it was clear Roland would emerge the eventual victor. The Saracen man could not persist forever. Death’s door approached ever closer.
“Ah, it has finally come… the frigid winds of Jahannam,” Ferragut croaked, his form shrinking by the second. “My soldiers await me in hell. Worry not, brave souls of the Levantine. I shall not come alone.”
Just when Roland appeared to finally break free from his grasp, Sir Ferragut raised his withered hand, and he brought out the Demon King’s Fragment.
“If you refuse to reveal the monster inside you, then I will do it myself.”
In one, final last act of resistance, Sir Ferragut took the fragment, and he forced it onto Roland’s chest. It latched onto his body. The Peer screamed and collapsed on the floor, his body enveloping in a swarm of dark, twisting shadows, and all the while the fading Saracen man laid a distance away. He smiled, for his duty was now complete.
“May you prosper in my absence, o’ wise Emir. Forgive this old one for departing first.”
The pyramid began to shake and rumble. Lucius tried to hold onto his companions, but the ground cracked open beneath them, splitting the group apart as dust, sand, and broken stone pieces fell from above. Before he knew it, the gentleman lost sight of his fellows; the entire structure groaned in duress.
The last thing Lucius saw was Roland’s tormented expression, as everything around them came crashing down. But the gentleman wasn’t worried. Why, on the contrary! He was positively excited, for what Sir Ferragut had gifted the Peer was much too precious for him to understand yet.
Yes, perhaps this would work. In the aftermath of this devastated land, Roland had no choice, no more excuses, but to confront what hid within.
It was time for him to bloom.
