I opened my eyes. That hay again. That cursed barn again.

  Only this time, an impressive brown stain adorned the dry grass by my side—my own blood. The sun had long since set, leaving behind only cold shadows and a hollow, echoing void in my stomach.

  I stood up, staggering. My legs felt like they belonged to someone else, but my instincts were functioning perfectly. The horses in the stalls, catching sight of me, began to back away with frightened, raspy breaths.

  I wanted only one thing. To eat.

  A chicken ran past. I didn't even think. My hand shot forward on its own; a short, fierce burst of flame erupted from my palm.

  PSHEW.

  The chicken was roasted mid-air. I tore into the hot meat, ignoring the feathers. A second one happened to be nearby and met the same fate.

  The barn door was locked from the outside. No windows, no cracks—just a wooden box. As I was debating whether or not to simply kick the wall down, the bolt rattled from the outside.

  — "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?! YOU ATE GLAIR?!"

  The Demon of Poverty stood on the threshold. He looked... neat. Far too neat.

  — "Who the hell is Glair?" I muttered, wiping grease from my face.

  — "AND ROSMARINDA TOO?!" He collapsed to his knees, staring at the feathers at my feet. "Monster! No, you are a true monster! I had such plans for them... breeding, eggs, homesteading..."

  I looked at him like he was an idiot.

  — "You had plans for dinner, not breeding. Just take me to the house."

  We stepped out of the barn. Instead of the old shack I expected to see, a respectable building loomed ahead. Three stories, massive stonework, a wide porch. It was practically a palace, just without the flags.

  We climbed the steps. The hallway floor was laid with heavy stone slabs. Expensive, simple, reliable.

  — "Take off your shoes," Poverty snapped as I crossed the threshold into the entryway.

  — "What?"

  — "I read it in your books: this is what civilized people do to avoid bringing filth inside. Take them off."

  I obediently pulled off my shoes, feeling the cold stone against my soles. To the right—a bathroom; to the left—the kitchen. The scent of something edible drifted from the kitchen. I headed that way, but the Demon of War blocked my path.

  She was standing at the stove, stirring something in a cauldron. She looked... strange. Her extra limbs were gone, and her skin had turned an almost human shade.

  — "YOU." She poked me with a ladle. "You're supposedly human, yet you have no manners. Wash your hands. Now."

  — "Since when did you all turn into aristocrats?" I protested. "And where are your extra combat-arms, War?"

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  — "Mira ordered us to 'blend in'," she said. "We are respectable residents now. Go wash up; you smell like a scorched chicken coop."

  I went to the bathroom. There, I discovered a strange device: an iron tap that produced a stream of water when turned. Where it came from was a mystery, but the progress pleased me.

  After my ablutions, Poverty led me to the second floor.

  — "Your room."

  It was huge. Far too spacious. For furniture, there was only a bed and an empty wardrobe. Nothing extra—just the way I like it.

  — "We’re on the third floor," the demon tossed over his shoulder before leaving.

  I collapsed onto the bed. The springs didn't even creak—quality. In my head, the sparks of memory regarding fires and volcanoes were slowly fading.

  House. Kitchen. Clean sheets. The bed was soft, and that settled the matter.

  I closed my eyes and plunged into the dark.

  I was woken up at the crack of dawn.

  — "What? Where?" I tried to burrow into my pillow, but I was unceremoniously shaken out of sleep.

  The Demon of Poverty stood before the bed, clutching a stack of paper.

  — "I read in this book..." he began with terrifying enthusiasm.

  — "What book?"

  He shoved a tattered volume under my nose: Farming for Dummies. Next to it lay two others: History of an Ordinary Plowman and some treatise on the life of the "average human."

  — "According to the instructions," the demon lectured, "we must feed the horses, walk the cows, clean the manure out of the barn... oh, and plow the field so the wheat grows. There’s a whole list, Zenhald. Get up; the work won't do itself."

  I looked at him. — "Do you actually like this?"

  — "Very much," he answered seriously. "All of this... is new. Studying the lifestyle of pathetic creatures is a quite fascinating experience."

  We went down to the kitchen. There existed a loud banging, sound of metal warping. Demon of war was trying to cook something, but, based on the cooking pot she was using, she was loosing that battle.

  — "AND WHY SHOULD I BE THE ONE DOING THIS?!" she roared.

  — "It’s written in the book," Poverty didn't even flinch, "that the female sex in human society usually manages the kitchen. Division of labor."

  In response, a heavy wooden ladle flew at Poverty's head. There was a dry crack—the wood shattered into splinters, leaving not a scratch on the demon.

  — "Well," Poverty sighed. "Now we need another ladle."

  — "Alright, stop," I sat at the table, trying to quell the buzzing in my head. "Enough with the domesticity. Tell me properly what happened. We were going to the City of Alchemists, and then—a blank. A void."

  The Demon of War shot me a heavy look.

  — "You really don't remember anything? You became... a true monster, Greg. I don't know what you did to that Fire Demon—whether you consumed him or simply erased him—but after that, you lost it."

  — "Mira touched your forehead, and you turned into something," Poverty picked up. "You created a goddamn volcano. Summoned stone titans. By our estimates, you dismantled an entire state. The death toll there is in the thousands, and considering the ash and lava—the consequences will kill tens of thousands more. You simply wiped that region off the map."

  I froze. — "And... where are we now?"

  — "You were blacked out for three days," War stepped closer. "For three days, Mira's sword was stuck in your chest. During that time, we managed to cross the borders of two nations. Mira bought this farm so you could recover."

  She sniffed. — "Your eyes are different again. And you smell like... nothing. The Void. Are you even actually human?"

  I moved to a sofa in the corner of the kitchen.

  — "We have more important problems than geopolitics," I grumbled. "For example: what are we going to eat? I’m starving."

  War slammed a plate of some grey sludge in front of me.

  — "The book said: 'Potato Soup'. But I didn't understand what to do with them, so I just boiled them as they were."

  I looked into the plate. Whole tubers were floating in murky water. In their skins. With dirt still on them.

  Well, in principle, it wasn't critical. Vitamins and all that. I scooped up a spoonful.

  — "Is there any salt?"

  — "What salt?" War frowned. "What for?"

  — "Well... it's a flavor enhancer. To make food pleasurable."

  — "Is food supposed to be tasty?" she interrupted me. "It's just fuel. A waste of time on meaningless sensations."

  I sighed and buried my face in the plate.

  — "You guys are such bores. Demons, masters, kings... you're all the same. Just give me normal food, and maybe I’ll stop destroying kingdoms."

  But there was no salt. Only unpeeled potatoes crunching between my teeth.