"This is Overlord City," Birand said, eyes on stone fangs that bit into a storm-gray sky.

Abyss stood with hands clasped behind his back, a rueful smile like winter sun. So your mouth says no, but your heart won’t let go?

"Huh? What?" Birand blinked, words like dust on his tongue.

He couldn’t let go; the thought sat heavy like wet cloaks. He told himself that, over and over, like prayer beads sliding.

When this is done, he’d lay down arms, shed armor like old bark, and try for a simple life with them, a hearth warm as amber.

If any of them hated that quiet, they could leave like birds off a branch. He wouldn’t chain wind to his wrist.

Abyss sighed, a tide ebbing from black rock. This kid still can’t set it down—no one drops a mountain they’ve carried for decades in a single breath.

He’d stay close and talk him through the fog for years if need be, snipping dark sprouts in the cradle when tragedy tried to take root.

And breaking that guy’s web—oh, that would be sweet lightning. Like the things this kid will do later: not perfect, but solid work, a blade that finds its mark.

"Hero!" A man hurried up, voice low as rain, and murmured a report by Birand’s ear about the state of Overlord City.

This place was thick with demonic miasma, a swamp of breath and shadow; it needed sealing, needed careful boots and careful hands.

Even if the high seats of the so-called kingdom races grumbled like cold geese, he’d still lock it down, iron clasp on a boiling pot.

It would be his biggest gift to the humans of the other world, a lantern before he dropped all his burdens—if the light actually helped.

"My people say this is the last door still shut," Birand said, dismissing the messenger like ash on wind, then turned to Yuris. It’s not unopened—just won’t open. How do we crack it?

Yuris was already roaming, eyes hawk-bright, taking in the bones of the Overlord City. He glanced at the gate and snorted like fire. Can’t open? Just cleave it with your sword. Why make it a mountain?

Birand smiled, a thin blade under the skin. Unless I have no choice, I won’t call Thias again.

The meaning was clear as a bell over water: you want what’s inside, and you want me to hack it for you? Dream on, cloud-chaser.

That damned demon sword staying put would be a blessing, a quiet night instead of a hornet hive in his head.

Yuris shrugged, shoulders light as reeds. He knew this bastard’s mind like a map. But he’d already claimed he was that legendary World Extreme; small stones, he’d kick them himself.

He traced the frame of the door, fingers a spider’s walk, and chuckled like dry leaves. Not bad—not bad. They even copied things born in the Abyss.

Birand’s eyes cooled, a midnight pond. So, this guy is the Abyss-side World Extreme—close to that cliff’s edge for sure.

Yuris raised both hands, drawing arcs through the air like a conductor in black rain. Runes peeled out of the room’s corners like flocking birds.

Sigils surged up, an ink storm swirling, and under his fingers they poured into the gate, a river of glyphs finding its mouth.

They struck the door, countless as stars, and the whole gate sighed open like a cave in spring—then turned to powder, a hush blown away by a breeze.

"See? No big deal," Yuris said, smiling like polished obsidian. "Easy."

Birand remembered that sky-wide blizzard of runes, scalp prickling like frost needles, and Yuris’s calm like a tea surface. His head throbbed like a drum.

"You call that easy?" Birand said, voice flat as slate.

"Sure. I didn’t even break a sweat," Yuris replied, light as a moth.

"I—≯>°≈¹½≤½≤³¾²sjqkisnr/sj@e," Birand hissed, syllables like tangled rope and sparks.

Just gathering that mountain of sigils would gut most minds; keeping them aloft without clash took spirit like a crystal tower and will like iron.

And each rune’s knots were thorny jungles; almost no one could find them all, one by one, without losing breath or blood.

"What? Why so dramatic?" Yuris grinned, eyes like lanterns. "No need."

"I’m floored. Never thought someone could show off this naturally," Birand groaned, palm to brow, humor a bitter cup.

Yuris only smiled, silence like ink. Emotion had flowed back for a spell; a sealed ancient deviant tasted loneliness like old smoke and let out a long sigh.

"Come on. Let’s take a look. The Demon Race’s Holy Sword—Ashir," Yuris said, casual as rain tapping a rail.

"Okay." Birand drew a deep breath, shoulders square like gates, and followed at a quick clip.

A matter this big needed his eyes on it, flint to flame; or else guilt would gnaw like mice in the walls.

…

"Cut," Eli said, smiling, his voice soft as a blade slipping from a sheath.

Up in the tree, Anna pouted, lips cherry-bright. Bad guy, still trying to trick me? Same game since forever, like a clock that won’t change.

Eli saw her unmoved, a hint of scorn like frost on leaves, and paused, guard easing like a hand from a hilt.

He kept a slice of sword-qi wrapped around Yiyi and Edlyn, a clear glass bell, then circled to where they couldn’t see, voice drifting like smoke. Come down. Didn’t you say you had something to talk about?

"Mm?" He blinked—Anna was already in front of him, standing neat as a lily, eyes bright as lakewater.

"You trust me?" she asked, surprise like a quick spark.

Eli shrugged, shoulders loose as rope. "Yeah."

"Why? You’re always all claw and glare," she said, nose crinkling like a fox.

"My ability—never told anyone, not even Edlyn," Eli said, smile crooked as a crescent. "Yet you knew its weakness and trigger. That’s enough to start trust."

"Not enough by itself," he added, brows knitting like twigs. "But there’s a familiar scent on you, a thread I know."

"Like…" His words hung like mist.

"Like I’m a blend of you and Mom, right?" Anna cut in, voice clear as chimes.

"I’ve heard that all my life," she sighed, shoulders dropping like wilted petals.

"Heh." Eli laughed, belief settling like seven stones in a river—most, but not all.

"Yup, my dad’s still handsome and cute," Anna said, eyes traveling, delight like sunlight through leaves.

Eli raised a brow, a small hook. "You’re really my daughter?"

"Uh-huh. Who else would call a man ‘dad’ for fun?" Anna shrugged, careless as a sparrow.

"Got anything to prove it?" Eli asked, tone light but eyes like needles.

"What? After all this, you still don’t believe me? Then your earlier words were trash?" Anna snapped, anger flaring like a matchhead.

"No. Just confirming," Eli said, smiling, voice warm as bread.

She looked like Edlyn stamped from the same mold—face, hair, and, well, figure. The thought hit like a pebble to pond.

Oh no. Same build as Mom: flat-chested loli, tiny storm. His temples throbbed, a drum under fingers. Would all the girls in his family end up like this?

Anna watched Dad suddenly howl in silence, confusion fluttering like moths. What was that?

Eli shook off the nonsense like water off a dog. He sighed, then grinned, teeth a white flicker.

Seems the Demonic Lord still couldn’t jump out of my palm; in the end, she played nice and bore me a daughter. He smirked, pride a small fire in the ribs.

Anna blinked, lashes like wings. Don’t tell me… Dad’s gone stupid?

…

At the very center of the central room, the forge sat like a black altar. On it, a long black sword lay across an iron cradle, a sleeping beast.

Above, a magic circle dripped lava, a glowing rain that hissed like serpents as it struck iron and blade.

The black sword didn’t melt; it drank the molten rock, swallowing the heat like a slow, dark tide pulling the shore.

The whole chamber held its breath, an eerie painting alive with fire and shadow.

Birand and Yuris stepped in. A pressure pressed on Birand’s chest, a slab of stone and smoke; Yuris felt nothing but a spark of glee, a child at a fair.

"This is the demon sword?" Birand asked, eyes on the black length, voice falling into quiet like snow.

"Yeah. Demon Sword Ashill," Yuris said, smiling with night-smooth confidence.

He walked up, ignored furnace heat that licked like wolves, and lifted the black blade, easy as lifting a reed.

"Good. Really good," he murmured, admiration ringing like bronze. "It can stand against Thias."

"Pity it’s only half-forged," he added, tone light as ash. "Thias would tap it, and it would shatter to dust."

"What are you going to do with it?" Birand asked, stepping closer, caution like a hand on a lantern.

"Hero, you really don’t want it?" Yuris waved the black sword, the edge a sleeping moon.

Birand shook his head, firm as an oak. "No."

"Then I’ll take it," Yuris said, grin a cat’s. "I’ll find a way to complete it."

"You can do that? It’s a blade beyond all, a peak above clouds," Birand said, doubt in his voice like cold rain.

Yuris only chuckled, silence thick as velvet.

"Whatever you do, promise me you won’t use it to butcher the people," Birand said, face set, words a stake driven into earth.

"As you wish." Yuris smiled and slipped the black sword into his carry-space, the blade vanishing like a star swallowed by dawn.