The Devil Is a Part-Timer!, Vol. 1 by Satoshi Wagahara Read Free Book Online Page B

two dirty hobos? This is horrible…!”
    The sight of Maou sitting cross-legged in front of his beat-up
kotatsu
table, enjoying breakfast in his boxers and sweat-stained running shirt, finally made Emilia break down in tears.
    Six tatami mats lined the floor of the apartment, bronzed over time by the rays of the sun. Against one wall, a cheap-looking three-level particle-board shelf, sitting on top of some cardboard to keep from damaging the tatami mats. On the other wall, a closet, the sliding doors similarly discolored by the sun.
    There was no balcony, no screens over the windows; just a few rusted iron bars welded to the other side. Bits of laundry—mostly shapeless, solid-color T-shirts, threadbare underwear, and socks—were draped over the window frame, taking every available inch of space. The washer that cleaned them was outside in the corridor, too large to actually install in the apartment. Looking around, Emilia spotted a single lonely door, the paint peeling off of it. A plastic plate reading “Toilet” hung from it, as if the occupants had trouble remembering where it was. The john was the old Japanese-style floor model, no doubt.
    The kitchen counter boasted an array of thin, dull, flimsy-looking plastic accessories, all likely purchased from the hundred-yen store, as well as a few stacks of ceramic bowls and such, none of their designs customized for the season or anything. A garbage bag was thrown into one corner, crammed to the brim with MgRonald packaging, ready for disposal whenever anyone gave enough of a damn to take out the trash.
    There was also a stainless-steel trash bin with a funky flower motif, another garbage bag lining the inside. The dents and old packing-tape markings one could spot here and there suggested the bin was a relic from the local thrift shop.
    The refrigerator that made the already cramped kitchen even more constrained was a medium-sized model, likely meant for asingle-person household. A MgRonald desk calendar with “Monthly Shifts” written on it was tacked to the door with broken bits of old kitchen magnets.
    “I…I live by myself, and I
still
live better than this. You’ve got two of you holding jobs, and
this
is the best you can do?”
    Emilia was trying to condemn Maou’s pathetic lifestyle, but Maou’s interest was laid upon a completely different subject.
    “By yourself? You don’t have any friends?”
    “Shut
up
!”
    Without skipping a beat, Emilia threw the nearby tissue box at him. Maou nimbly dodged it, and it harmlessly bounced off a stack of free newspapers and job-search magazines, tied up with plastic twine, before falling with a thud upon the tatami mats.
    “The…the archbishop was supposed to join me! We were going to head right back home after you were defeated! And…and
now
look what happened!”
    Emilia was the one who decided to pursue the fleeing Devil King through the Gate at once.
    She had taken the lead position and plunged inside, but once it swallowed her up, it had suddenly shut itself off, leaving the rest behind.
    Her last glimpse of Ente Isla as she looked behind her was the strained face of Olba Meiyer, her friend and one of the six archbishops of the Church, seemingly unable to comprehend what had happened.
    “Hmm…”
    “What?”
    Emi shot a glare at Maou. He shook his head to indicate it was nothing, motioning her to continue.
    Once she touched down in Japan, Emilia went through the same ordeal Maou and Ashiya did—conserve what remained of her powers while attempting to build a life in this new world.
    The main difference was that her part-time work paid a lot more by the hour than Maou’s, enough to let her afford a fairly decent condo-sized apartment.
    “You got a phone?”
    “Yeah. Dokodemo.”
    She took out a sharp-looking touchscreen device, a high-end one, advertised as offering the power of a modern laptop in the palm of your hand.
    “…Well, you win.”
    “I win what?”
    Maou and Ashiya’s phone was an old,