The Devil Is a Part-Timer!, Vol. 6 by Satoshi Wagahara and 029 (oniku)

The Devil Is a Part-Timer!, Vol. 6 by Satoshi Wagahara and 029 (oniku)

Author:Satoshi Wagahara and 029 (oniku) [WAGAHARA, SATOSHI / (ONIKU) 029]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Yen On
Published: 2016-12-13T00:00:00+00:00


The MgRonald, the Hatagaya skyline, and the Dullahan II supporting his weight were all the same. But the sound was gone. He could feel the presence of no one else.

Emi, who was just about ready to go trampling all over his heart with her tear-laden eyes, was gone.

Maou had been enraged a moment ago. But the disquiet that now replaced that wasn’t out of surprise over the bizarre scene that faced him. It was because, as much as he hated to admit it, her final words had pushed him over the brink.

His palms were sweaty—not because he was hot—and the negative energy pouring out of him made it feel like the blood that surged to his head would form horns for him on the spot.

“I… Look, I’m having trouble making decisions right now.”

“……”

“We were having a pretty important chat just now, okay? But I kind of lost my cool for a moment. I think I may’ve said something that I regret.”

Maou dropped the kickstand on Dullahan II and removed his hands from the handlebars.

“I think I avoided screwing it up too badly, but after all that crap she said to me, it was really getting hard for me to digest.”

Wiping the sweat from his brow and drying his hands off with the hem of his T-shirt, Maou turned around from his position in the middle of traffic and returned the gaze of the two people looking at him.

“Who’re you? Just give me your names and addresses and get outta here, okay? ’Cause I think I still got some steam to blow off.”

There were two figures, both human looking. Maou didn’t know either of them.

One was a young man in a stuffy-looking business suit, his shiny black hair done with a Clark Kent–style part—the kind of extreme-hold wet look that no young man would be caught dead in today. He wore large and equally out-of-date silver-frame glasses, but even from his vantage point, Maou could tell they were just for show, the lenses just two flat pieces of glass. The young man’s suit was a humdrum (if oddly bright) shade of navy blue, and between that and his unadorned black-leather briefcase, he looked like the quintessential Japanese salaryman from the 1970s or so.

That still beat his partner, though. That guy was off by a good two hundred years or so, what with his full-body samurai armor. That, and he was a kid. Not just small-sized, like Urushihara or Suzuno—the balance between his shoulders, legs, bone structure, and head all indicated he was still a child. That didn’t prevent him from encasing himself in a crimson-red suit of armor, complete with a frightening-looking hannya mask to seal the deal. The whole outfit looked hot, heavy, and somewhat lacking in visibility for the wearer.

“Jeez, thanks for going all formal with me, guys. So what is it? You angels, demons, North, South, East, West, what?”

“You seem less than surprised,” said the Beatles-era businessman.

“I am surprised—at your wacky outfits. Did that get you a free



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