The simple phrases, "Thank you," and "Thanks," echoed in Bathilda's ears, a sweet melody replacing the discordant hum of past rejections. "Thank you, Bathilda," the farmer had said, his weathered face creased in genuine gratitude. It was a small thing, a simple act of watering the parched magical fields, but it was a testament to the slow, steady shift in the townsfolk's perception of her.

  Bathilda soared through the azure sky, her wings catching the warm currents, carrying her back towards her cabin. The joy that bubbled within her was a stark contrast to the icy isolation she'd known before. 'It's nice to be appreciated,' she thought, the words a mantra against the lingering shadows of her past. 'The polar opposite of being the outcast. I love my life.'

  Home, once a fortress of suspicion, was slowly becoming a haven. The chasm, her strategic masterpiece, yawned protectively, a natural barrier against unseen threats. The sturdy walls, reinforced with her magic, stood resolute against the encroaching wilds. And the guards, once a ragtag bunch, now moved with a newfound confidence, their skills honed by her rigorous training sessions. The results were undeniable: monster encounters were handled with efficiency, the guards' morale was soaring, and the town's safety was assured.

  Her training sessions, conducted by a tireless clone, had yielded impressive results. The town's defenses were stronger than ever, and the flow of resources, particularly her enhanced meat and vegetables, had solidified her position.

  Bathilda descended gracefully, her feet touching the porch with a gentle thud. She paused, her gaze lingering on the vibrant flower bed that lined the path to her cabin. The colors were a riot, a testament to her nurturing touch, a reflection of the blossoming acceptance she felt from the town.

  Inside, the cabin was a sanctuary of comfort. "Hiro, I'm back," she announced, kicking off her boots and sinking into the plush sofa. The soft, yielding cushions were a world away from the cold, hard stone of her former cave. "This is so much better than the furniture I used to own, and it's leagues above the makeshift base."

  Hiro emerged from the kitchen, a tray laden with two frosted glasses. His crimson hair, a stark contrast to his violet eyes, seemed to shimmer in the warm light filtering through the windows. "Welcome back," he said, his voice a smooth, comforting baritone. "Did you successfully make it rain?"

  Bathilda's (Illusion) spell had evolved into (Grand Illusion), a manifestation of her growing power. Hiro, now capable of maintaining any form he desired, had settled into his preferred appearance, a testament to the bond they shared.

  She accepted the chilled glass, the condensation cool against her fingertips. "Of course I did. To be honest, I'm only limited by my imagination. For example, I could probably create a better city than what the people of Home are currently living in. The problem with that is they don't trust me enough to say - yeah, let's move to the Vampire's city, no problem there - do they?"

  Hiro considered her words, his brow furrowed in thought. "True. You are, however, winning them over slowly."

  "I am, and that was just an example. It's not like I'm going to create a new city. Not yet anyway." Bathilda winked, then took a long, satisfying sip of her drink. "That... is delicious. What is it with you and these drinks anyway? Are you sure you weren't a butler or bartender in your last life?"

  "Don't be so absurd," Hiro chuckled. "Just because I know how to make a good drink and enjoy serving them to others doesn't mean that was my station."

  "Sorry. It was just a joke. Here," Bathilda conjured a bottle of fine wine, its label shimmering with an ethereal glow. "As a means of apology."

  "Bribes don't work on me, you know?" Hiro declared, his voice laced with playful defiance.

  "I'll just dispel it then, seeing as how I can't handle it these days." Before she could lift a finger, Hiro snatched the bottle, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

  "That would be a waste. I might as well drink it now that it's here. I'm not taking this as your apology though, but another two bottles might see us good."

  Stolen story; please report.

  Bathilda laughed, the sound light and carefree. "Fine. Here," she conjured two more bottles, her heart brimming with contentment.

  As Hiro popped the cork of the first bottle, a sense of unease settled over the room, a subtle shift in the atmosphere. Then, a putrid, acrid stench, like rotting flesh and burnt sulfur, filled the air, a grotesque intrusion on their peaceful moment.

  Before either could react, the cabin erupted. Not from the wine, but from above. The roof splintered and shattered, a cascade of wood and debris raining down as something, or someone, crashed through the ceiling. The force of the impact was devastating, the cabin's sturdy structure collapsing inwards, the peaceful haven transformed into a chaotic ruin.

  The air, thick with the acrid scent of splintered wood and disturbed dust, hung heavy in the ruined cabin. What had been a sanctuary of quiet contentment moments before was now a tableau of destruction, a brutal testament to the sudden, violent intrusion.

  Sunlight, a stark, accusing beam, poured through the gaping hole in the roof, illuminating the chaos like a stage light on a macabre play. Furniture lay shattered, scattered remnants of their former selves, like fallen soldiers in a silent war.

  Bathilda, her elegant form dusted with debris, rose from behind the wreckage of the once-comfortable couch. Not a scratch marred her pale skin, a testament to her undead resilience. Her eyes, usually pools of serene wisdom, now blazed with a cold, furious light. They locked onto the source of the devastation: a small figure bathed in the harsh sunlight, standing amidst the ruins like a misplaced porcelain doll.

  The figure, undeniably a child, possessed an unsettling aura. Her hair, as white as freshly fallen snow, framed a face of unsettlingly pale skin, a stark contrast to the crimson frills that adorned her black dress. Small, curled horns, like delicate ebony tendrils, sprouted from her scalp, adding an unsettling touch of the infernal to her childlike form. Her eyes, devoid of warmth or emotion, held a chilling, blank stare.

  "Excuse me," Bathilda's voice, usually a smooth, melodic cadence, was sharp and laced with barely suppressed rage, "but what the actual fuck? What gives you the right to crash into my home like this? Where are your parents?" The child’s appearance, so fragile and innocent, did little to quell the storm of fury raging within Bathilda.

  The child responded in a monotone, her voice devoid of inflection, like a pre-programmed recitation. "I am the Demon King. Fear me, for all who gaze upon my absolute presence shall perish." The words, so grandiose and menacing, were delivered with the flat, emotionless delivery of a robot, a stark contrast to the dramatic pronouncements they implied.

  A rustling sound emanated from behind a pile of shattered bookshelves. Hiro, his face pale and drawn, emerged from the wreckage. A tremor ran through his body, a lingering echo of the countless deaths he had endured. Bathilda's heart clenched with concern; she feared he was reliving the trauma, bracing for another violent demise.

  The child, seemingly oblivious to Hiro's presence, continued her rote pronouncements. "All shall die. All shall perish. I am the Demon King. All those that gaze upon my absolute..."

  "That was my fucking wine!" Hiro's voice, a raw, primal scream, shattered the tense silence. His form blurred, a sudden burst of impossible speed, and in the blink of an eye, he stood beside the child, his hand gripping her snow-white hair.

  The child’s small body crumpled to the floor, her blank eyes staring up at the newly formed skylight.

  "What the fuck, Hiro? She was just a kid!" Bathilda's voice, a mixture of shock and outrage, echoed through the ruined cabin.

  "She was the Demon King. She said it herself. Problem solved," Hiro replied, his voice slightly off-key, a hint of a sniffle betraying his lingering fear.

  The child’s disembodied voice, still eerily calm, echoed from the floor. "I am the Demon King. You cannot kill me. I am immortal. I will be back. All that gaze up..."

  Hiro, with a guttural grunt, seized the child’s head and launched it through the gaping hole in the roof, followed swiftly by her crumpled body.

  Bathilda stared, her jaw slack, her mind struggling to process the bizarre spectacle she had just witnessed. Normally, a flying, talking head would register as a pinnacle of insanity. Now, it was just another surreal moment in her long, strange existence.

  "I can't... It's just... How?" Bathilda stammered, sinking onto a relatively intact cushion. "How is she a child? If the Demon King is as ancient as they say, how could she still be a child? Was she a child? It makes no sense." The incongruity of the situation, the immortal Demon King trapped in a child's body, was a puzzle her undead mind couldn't quite solve.

  "How are you a vampire? How were you a bat? How was I supposed to go through life looking like a woman?" Hiro's rapid-fire questions, delivered with a mix of defiance and exhaustion, snapped Bathilda out of her bewildered reverie. A wave of laughter, unexpected but welcome, washed over her.

  The questions lingered, though. How strong was the Demon King, really? But those were for another time. For now, Hiro, despite his seemingly callous act, deserved praise and comfort. He had faced down an immortal threat, even if his primary motivation had been the loss of his wine.

  Even in the face of the absurd and the terrifying, the mundane realities of life, or unlife, persisted. Right now, Bathilda needed to create a new bottle of wine and restore her cabin from the aftermath of the last ten seconds.