The Devil Is a Part-Timer!, Vol. 1 (3 page)

“The landlord tells me she gives preferential treatment to people like you, who are…if I may say so, unusual? Or from unusual circumstances, I should say.”

It was an unorthodox sales approach, but if this was all he had to offer, so be it. After a ride in the agent’s “car” (so
that
was what they called these carriages!), they arrived at a two-floor apartment building in a quiet, almost desolate neighborhood. Plaster was peeling off the walls, and the roof was missing more than a few tiles here and there. The rain gutter attached to the roof had given itself in entirely to its brown, rusted doom, and the stairway to the second floor tilted in several different precarious angles at once. There wasn’t a soul to be seen; all of the rooms were likely empty.

“This…this is
astounding
.”

Alciel groaned to himself.

“Yes. Even I can see that much.”

The pair spoke to each other in the demon tongue. As inexperienced as they still were with this world, the utter dilapidation presented to them was still obvious.

These were, bear in mind, the demon elite, two men who had clawed and struggled their way to the top of the underworld. They had fallen far since, yes, but it was hard to accept living in this hovel during their stay. And if every room was empty, this meant not even the lowly humans would stoop so low as to live
here
, would they?

It was simply impossible. Just as Satan turned around to tell the young agent as much, he realized that someone else was standing there instead.

“Is that…a person?”

To their demonic sensibilities, it was an utterly enigmatic, strange creature. It was tall, even approaching the height of Alciel, who towered above most others even in human form. The plump, rounded body—the word
endowed
was not up to the task of describing it—made this creature barely recognizable as a woman.

A colorful hydrangea headdress was perched upon her hair, dyed a silvery purple and towering toward the sky. A violet stole was tossed over her shoulders, covering a shockingly bright purple summer dress. Every finger on her hands had a large amethyst ring on it, and her high heels were coated in a purple enamel. She had on purple rouge, purple eye shadow, and enough thick snow-white foundation that one could imagine it cracking apart if you slapped her. The light dollop of red cheek blush applied over it seemed to shine as brightly as the sun. The image presented was one of an enormous purple potato that had been peeled in random locations.

“Hello there! I understand the two of you wish to move in?”

“It…it talks!”

Alciel’s instinctive response was understandable, given the daunting sight before them.

“My name is Miki Shiba, and I’m the owner of Villa Rosa Sasazuka.”

Still frozen in place, Satan and Alciel could see the real estate agent’s car peel off behind the purple presence in front of them.

“The name
Miki
is made up from the characters for ‘beautiful’ and ‘shine.’ Please feel free to call me Mikitty, though.”

The demons had thought they were beginning to get the hang of spoken Japanese, but something within their instinct made them reject the words being spoken by this puzzling tsunami of intent, this Shiba, before them that called itself a landlord.

They must keep their distance from her at all costs. They could feel that in their veins, and yet they found themselves being dragged into a room in this beaten-up apartment house, being forced to sign a litany of documents, and receiving a rundown of the nearby facilities.

“Well, then! Starting today, this will be your little sanctuary! I live
in the house adjacent to here, so if you have any questions, please, don’t be afraid to give a holler. See you later, then!”

The purple hurricane then left. All that remained in the room was the utterly dumbstruck Satan, the equally silent Alciel, and a rental contract onto which a pair of purple lip marks had been pressed.

They had signed the contract, completely unable to mount any sort of protest. The two of them stood there, their minds blank, waiting to regain their composure so they could reflect over these sudden events.

The place was a dump, its landlord a nonhuman behemoth. But what other living space would be willing to accept two homeless, unemployed young men, a concept that would send any sane landlord running at first sight? They resigned themselves to their fate, knowing the answer all too well. At the very least, they wouldn’t be rained on.

So, deep in their hearts, the two demons swore to work hard, make the rent each month, and otherwise have as little to do with their landlord as possible.

“‘You have to start somewhere,’ as they apparently say around here. Perhaps this is exactly what we need.”

They were overwhelmed in battle against the Hero, battered by the wild journey across the flows of the Gate, and mentally fatigued by their adventures in an unfamiliar world. Satan, the Devil King, was rapidly expending his magical force, his breathing ragged after only two hypnoses. The sense of extreme exhaustion was like none he had ever tasted.

So the Devil King fell asleep. And he stayed asleep for three days and three nights, healing his scarred body and drained soul.

Then, after sleeping three days straight without eating or drinking, Satan was taken to the hospital for malnutrition. The dehydration and vitamin deficiency had immobilized him.

In order to rescue his master—near death, skin dry and pallid, empty eyes staring aimlessly into space—Alciel had been forced to ask their landlord, Shiba, for help the third day after moving in. He
had absolutely no idea what manner of medical facilities to expect in this world.

Using a long-distance communication device known as a “telephone,” Shiba summoned an “ambulance,” a white car that, again, spat out red light.

Sitting in a hospital room, watching his bedridden master as an IV drip flowed into his arm, Alciel realized they were akin to the humans of this world not just in external appearance, but internally as well. He started to cry, unable to withstand the humiliation.

Reality, however, would prove cruel to them in ways that Alciel had yet to anticipate.

In this world, receiving medical care costs a vast amount of money. There was a public system of sorts, apparently, to reduce individual medical costs, but naturally, neither Satan nor Alciel had enrolled in any such program.

The medical fees presented to them could only be described as brazen profiteering, something Alciel could understand even with his tentative grasp on the value of this nation’s currency. Once allowed to leave the hospital, Satan was forced to use hypnosis once again to make the bill go away.

Right now, what they needed over anything else was money. Money earned with methods besides getting arrested or wasting magic.

That, and the national health system. They needed in on that action, too.

For the final usage of Satan’s hypnosis, the pair agreed to travel to a “bank” to obtain an account and some monetary resources. Putting the teller under his spell, Satan took ten thousand yen from the employee and used it to open a regular savings account.

It was completely illegal, but no sensible demon would even flinch at the concept of robbery. The thrill at finally obtaining the seed money for their new lives overcame the nagging impression within Satan’s mind that they were making some kind of mistake.

The ten thousand yen was used to purchase the food necessary for survival, as well as something called “résumé forms.” A “résumé,” it turned out, was considered indispensable for obtaining employment.

All they had to do was fill in the required boxes, bring the document to the appropriate place, make an appointment for an “interview,” and parrot out the right answers. Then they’d be able to work.

There was just one snag. Neither Satan nor Alciel had any special skills that could be easily applied in this nation. Satan could hardly write “Job History: King of the Demon Realm; Hobbies/Abilities: World domination” on his résumé. Thus, the only option was to focus on jobs that touted “Beginners Welcome!” in their notices.

The two of them sat down and prepared several résumés.

Holding back the frustration and humiliation, dreaming of the day when they would defeat the Hero and regain their grasp upon all that lived and breathed on Ente Isla, they wrote their names down.

“Name…‘Sadao Maou.’ Perfect.”

“Name…‘Shirou Ashiya.’ That doesn’t sound odd, does it?”

“Little point whining about it now. That’s what we wrote into the census register, no?”

Thus, Devil King Satan (aka Sadao Maou, the surname of which was written with perfectly ordinary Japanese characters whose pronunciation just happened to be the same as “Devil King”) and Great Demon General Alciel (aka Shirou Ashiya) set off on their quest to reconquer Ente Isla, room 201 at the Villa Rosa Sasazuka apartments serving as their Devil Castle for the time being.

The two of them had established a foothold in their drive to find the bare minimum of work for themselves, but they had little time to rest. Money would be needed for other things, too—electricity, water, gas, essentials.

A tear came to Satan’s eye as he recalled a time when he could gather the thunderclouds, summon mighty waves, and raze the land with punishing flame, all at the flick of a finger.

Now, Satan and Alciel were just Maou and Ashiya, two slow-looking unemployed young men, neither looking past their early twenties.

The Devil King and his erstwhile Demon General read through every job-listing magazine they could find. Soon they discovered the existence of something called “day labor.”

All they had to do was sign up with a given company, and they’d then be assigned short-term work. They would receive payment daily, between five thousand and ten thousand yen depending on the work, perhaps more if they performed well.

Tossing one of their few remaining ten-yen coins into the slot of a public phone, they set up an appointment time for an interview.

Traveling to the office in Shinjuku, they found it was less an interview and more a work-orientation meeting. They signed up at once, found the directors less than picky about qualifications, and work was promised to them before the day was through.

Since they were both inexperienced beginners, they were tasked with assisting a group putting up facilities for an outdoor event, performing their assigned work up to the salary agreed upon.

Staring at the seven thousand yen each of them had earned for the day’s work, Satan felt reassured in his convictions.

If they kept this up, they could earn the money they needed for now. And once they saved enough money, they could turn their focus toward finding part-time jobs to keep them working on a more long-term basis.

That mission, however, fell apart in a short two weeks.

They had performed their duties on a consistent basis, to the point where the salaried employees working up front were starting to remember their faces.

Then the company received a stop-work notice from the government, forcing them to leave the work-assignment business. It was a complete bolt out of the blue.

In poor spirits and with no money source, the pair made their way home. Passing by a TV playing the news, they took in more of the story.

The newscast condemned the firm, accusing it of assigning workers to illegal sites and skimming an outrageous amount off the top of their revenue.

Satan focused on the news report, wondering to himself why a great demon as himself had to lose his job because of some silly laws enacted by
humans
, of all things. Suddenly, he came to a realization.

“Hey, Ashiya, wait a sec.”

“I would prefer Alciel, please.”

“Our mission here is to conquer the human world, right? Not to spend every day of our lives scraping up enough cash to survive.”

“Y…yes. As you say.”

“Then how about you just focus on finding a way to restore our magic? I can hold down a job instead. I may have more physical and magical strength than you, but
you
—you’re the one and only strategist I have. I need you to find a source of magic for me, here, in Japan.”

“M-Maou…”

“It’s ‘Your Demonic Highness.’ But anyway, even if it may be more comfortable for us if we both worked, we must never lose sight of our goals. Demons and magic may not exist here, but the
concepts
do. And every concept has an origin. If we can root out the origin, then perhaps…”

“…perhaps we can find a way to regain that magic?”

Satan nodded sagely.

“Far preferable to the both of us stringing part-time jobs together, right? And there is no need to focus on just magic, either. Perhaps we could find some new power, something exclusive to this world. Then we could use that to dominate Ente Isla once more!”

Ashiya…er, Alciel fell to his knees, deeply moved by the first truly motivational speech from his master in many days.

“Absolutely, Your Demonic Highness! I will stake my very life to find a way back to Ente Isla; to find a method to restore my liege’s powers!”

“…Will you get up, Alciel? We’re in the middle of a crosswalk. You’re embarrassing me.”

Their fellow pedestrians stared as they walked past, not betraying a hair of emotion at the sight of Alciel suddenly kneeling down and shouting nonsense in the middle of the afternoon.

The Devil King Satan, absorbing himself in the role of Japanese slacker Sadao Maou, gave every inch of strength to his work. He went through a lot of it. Traffic control at a road construction site.
Order picking at a commercial warehouse. Assistant for a moving company. Rush-hour customer management at a train station. The variety, at least, was nothing to complain about.

Meanwhile, as Shirou Ashiya, Alciel devoted himself to maintaining the household, ensuring that Maou remained healthy and able to devote himself to work. In his spare time, he investigated the world’s magical possibilities, as well as strictly managing the pair’s financial situation.

Exactly six months after the two of them first touched down in Japan, Maou received an offer for his first long-term part-time job—MgRonald, the fast-food giant.

He returned from his first day at work with a pleased look upon his face, the bags in his hands groaning with deep-fried miscellanea. As he put it, “From this day forward, we will never have to worry about our food drying up.”

Ashiya, too, was glad to be rid of such concerns. At first. But eating all these burgers, all these French fries, all this fried chicken—all this high-calorie, additive-laden food, day in and day out, wore him out almost immediately. After a week, the heartburn was enough to make him never want to set eyes upon a fast-food container again.

But Maou carried on with this questionable diet, apparently taking a liking to the “cuisine” on offer.

Inevitably, Ashiya had to pay even more attention to their daily food habits in response. The result was that the demon’s valiant search for magic was getting absolutely nowhere. If he wanted to avoid a disastrous diet of junk food for every meal, Ashiya had to dash for the supermarkets just before closing time, keeping a careful eye on whatever day-old stuff was discounted the lowest each day.

At least Maou was devoted to his work. Within two months, he had already received a raise.

The day was one Ashiya would likely never forget. The sight of the Devil King, overjoyed at the concept of a one-hundred-yen raise in his hourly wages, was something nobody could bear to behold without their eyes tearing up.

Several more line promotions followed in the ensuing weeks.
And before long, Maou had become an A-level crew member at the MgRonald location in front of the Hatagaya rail station.

His hourly wage was two hundred yen higher than when he joined half a year ago. This was, allegedly, exceptionally kind treatment on MgRonald’s part. Using any of his hypnosis magic would weaken him to a point that Ashiya would immediately recognize something was amiss, so everything Maou achieved must have been the result of honest sweat equity.

Eventually, a customer feedback form made its way to MgRonald headquarters, apparently full of praise for Maou’s service. That earned him the Crew MVP award for the month.

A marked change in attitude began to settle in. Here was the Devil King after work, talking about how right his boss was to praise him and how talented one of the new hires was proving to be. It was hardly the devious plotting of a would-be conqueror. His qualifications upon the Devil King role gradually shrank, to the point where he began claiming that surpassing his store manager would be the first step to world domination.

For someone like Ashiya, whose sole pleasure in life was to support the Devil King in his illustrious triumphs, the sight was growing increasingly disquieting as of late. It was becoming difficult to think in depth about the future.

Ashiya flung the envelope with the MHK payment slip into the mail holder, not bothering to open it. He willfully bottled up all his concerns and complaints—his oath of fealty rang just as true now as it had when he swore it—and today he had an art gallery and a museum to research.

During his investigations, Ashiya had become convinced that magic either still existed, or had existed, somewhere on planet Earth.

From England’s Stonehenge to the Egyptian pyramids and the Nazca Lines in Peru, the world was dotted with cultures and structures that seemed to ooze magic at the core.

This was the result of countless hours spent in libraries, investigating every ruin site and relic the world had to offer. The Devil’s
Castle Maou and Ashiya called home had nothing as convenient as the Internet available.

The issue was figuring out the difference between
true
magic and magic-ish-ness.

There was no money to travel overseas, and even if they used Maou’s hypnotic powers to make the trip, there was no telling which civilizations were magical unless they actually went to look for themselves.

If a lead wound up going nowhere, he would be too ashamed to even look at his master. That, and who could say there was enough power anywhere in the world to refill his strength in the first place?

Thus, Ashiya decided to start by examining antiquities closer at hand.

The museums and galleries within the city apparently offered rotating displays from foreign museums on a regular basis. He wanted to see if anything on display resonated at the wavelengths of their own demonic magic.

With that, he set off for Shinjuku. His target: the day’s special gallery at the National Museum of Western Art in Ueno.

It was still raining outside, so Ashiya grabbed up another plastic umbrella Maou had fished from the side of the road, fumbled with the wobbly cylinder lock on the door to secure a room that offered nothing of value to steal, and set off.

Suddenly, Ashiya was stricken with a gruesome thought. What, he asked himself, if this way of life went on forever? It was enough to make him tremble, even in the late-spring weather.

“Hmm?”

A moment later, he realized he actually
was
being shaken. An earthquake was in progress.

It was nothing to panic about; he learned quickly over the past year that Japan saw quakes on a regular basis. But living in this popsicle-stick apartment that might set the world record for “oldest extant building with no work ever done to it” was enough to make any earthquake seem about 30 percent stronger, sickening him to the core every time.

But nothing happened, again. The shaking ceased after ten seconds or so. In Ente Isla, any earthquake, no matter how strong or
widespread, would send the humans into spasms of panic, blathering on about vengeful deities or advancing demon forces. But a quake this size wouldn’t even attract the notice of many Japanese. The trains wouldn’t even bother to stop for it.

Not that Ashiya needed a train to reach Shinjuku. From Sasazuka, it was only one train stop away on the Keio line. About twenty minutes’ walk for any healthy man. Twisting the doorknob again to ensure the lock was still in one piece, he thrust the key into his pocket and gingerly walked down the staircase.

It never dawned on Ashiya that he, himself, had fallen to the point where he gleefully made excuses in order to cheap out on a single stop’s worth of train fare.

Sadao Maou, perched atop his trusty steed Dullahan, was on his way to work.

From the Devil’s Castle in Sasazuka, it was less than ten minutes’ riding to the MgRonald in Hatagaya, assuming no snags. Thanks to the delay from Ashiya’s lecturing, however, the rain was now falling at a steady clip.

It was strong enough that his beaten-up umbrella, with its bent ribs, rusting support rod, and clouded plastic that no longer offered full visibility, had no chance of covering for it.