The avenue flowed away from the circular dueling arena like a stone river.

Houses rose on both sides like walls; shops buzzed like hives; the gray flagstones bore a tide of people. They argued hotly about the shocking news of Aerin. More surged toward the stage, faces wearing anger, disappointment, and a fear they didn’t yet admit.

Hooves and wheels beat a steady rhythm, like rain on drums. A red carriage, drawn by a dark-red purebred nightmare steed, rolled calmly against the current.

The coachwork was baked-lacquered iron, heavy and unyielding, stamped with a dark-red blooming Purple Blossom crest. People split like reeds before it; in the capital, across the nation, none failed to know that mark.

It belonged to the Purple Blossom family. They had long been strong, but what raised them to near-royal height was their current patriarch—Aofan Bonia.

Past sixty, his talent was limited, his wits and personal might no better than other lords, perhaps worse. If his own force had ever broken through, his hair wouldn’t have gone snow-white so early.

Yet winds trade. The Elves of the Astrolabe Tower named him the empire’s sole point of contact, like a lone bridge over a deep gorge.

Only Aofan could receive word from the Elves. That privilege let him stir clouds and call rain, and push his clan one tier higher.

His tidings ranged wide. Some cut to the bone; more were harmless as weather and temperature. Among them, one mattered most—the news of the Demon King’s revival.

In the carriage box, Aofan sat alone, his white hair like frost on an old pine.

The window stayed shut. Only a pale magic lamp breathed like a wan moon.

In the dim, his aged fingers laced into a fist upon his knees, like roots knotted in winter soil.

His face now was nothing like the one he’d shown the nobles moments ago, masks dropped like leaves after wind.

Expressionless, still as water, his gloom in the dull light seemed ready to drip like cold rain.

Yet there was not a drop of doomsday fear, not a flicker of haste at the Demon King’s awakening.

The earlier fluster, the hurried exit from the arena—

All of it had been a costume, thin as theater paint.

"Hero King—"

Ridges and wrinkles creased into a mocking smile. He chuckled dryly, like a half-buried corpse rattling its teeth.

"—what a ridiculous title."

...

"Then I’ll teach you."

The black-clad Demon King smiled at the golden-haired girl, voice light as a breeze over ink.

"Teach...?" The girl stared, blank as mist. "Me, what?"

"Teach you to become—the Hero King."

Hero King—those words made Aerin’s heart jolt like a struck bell.

It was the Deity of Fate’s decree, a birthright dream. Distant as a star, yet she had to chase it with her whole life.

For sixteen years, since birth, Hero King had weighed on her spine like a mountain. Heavy, yet she had to stand straight, because the whole World watched, waiting for her to grow.

She wasn’t lazy. She worked, harder than anyone, tenfold, a hundredfold, like a candle burning at both ends.

But she couldn’t do it, like grasping smoke.

No matter what, she couldn’t, as if fate were a locked gate.

It was flowers in a mirror, a moon in water. She could only look. She dove in again and again, drenched and shivering, yet never touched it.

She saw no future, no ending, no bright bend on the long river of Time. Yet she had to charge on—shouldering the World’s malice—straight ahead, like a lone skiff in storm.

Because she was heir to the Hero King, a sapling under a giant’s shadow.

She wanted it too much—to be the true Hero King, like a thirst that cracked earth.

In that moment, Ye Weibai’s words were a blade piercing her tired heart, clean as ice.

Her pupils trembled, confusion mixed with a thin dawn of hope. "Hero King... can that be taught?"

"Of course. In this World, nothing can’t be taught," he said, smiling like a cat in sunlight. "Besides, no one understands the Hero King’s craft better than I do—even the Hero King themself."

Even more than the Hero King themself? What a claim. He looked barely past twenty, black-haired, bright-lipped, fine-featured—how dared he speak so wildly?

There was only one reason. He was—the Demon King.

An archenemy across uncounted cycles, blades crossing like seasons.

The one who knows you best is the foe who’s chased you a lifetime.

The golden-haired girl didn’t know the terror before her. Likely only the star-drunk Elves knew he was the Demon King fated to end the World—and they never meddled.

Yet the hidden wheel of fate turned. The girl, as if tugged by tide, believed every word Ye Weibai spoke.

For no reason she could name, since her father’s death, it was the first time she trusted someone wholly—a stranger met like a bird at dawn.

So when the black-haired youth asked softly, "Aerin, do you want to learn?"

He said it lightly, as if asking, "Want me to teach you to cook?" with no reverence for the title Hero King.

Yet her eyes lit like stars. She broke into a bright smile. "Mm! I want to learn!"

"Good."

Ye Weibai nodded. He stepped back, left hand behind, right over his abdomen, and bowed slightly—a formal, ancient rite like a crane folding its wings.

"—Bai." He straightened, met her eyes. "From now on, you may call me Master Bai."

Aerin started, then gathered herself like a ribbon in wind.

Her right hand pressed the silver sword at her hip. Her left clasped her slender wrist. She bowed in return, golden hair flaring like wheat, offering a solemn disciple’s salute.

Ye Weibai accepted the Hero King’s obeisance as easily as a lake accepts rain.

And so, in the empire’s capital, on the circular dais, at the Hero King’s first public match—

the Demon King became teacher to the 9,782nd Hero King.

...

"Master Bai. My name is Aerin. —"

"Your surname—don’t," Ye Weibai cut in, voice mild as falling ash. "Until you become the true Hero King, you needn’t speak your family name."

Aerin flinched, pressed her lips, then nodded, like grass yielding to wind.

"Likewise, until you are the true Hero King, I won’t tell you my surname. Understand?"

As if he didn’t see her wavering eyes, Ye Weibai turned toward the stands, gaze sliding like a blade.

"Next, I’ll teach you the first lesson, and the most important for a Hero King."

The most important?!

The words jolted her. She held her breath, gathered her spirit, and looked at Ye Weibai, heart drumming like rain.

Only then did Aerin finally see the world around her clearly, like fog lifting.

Her pupils pinholed like a cat’s in sudden sun.

The vast arena was quiet as an empty nest. Hundreds of spectators lay collapsed, clutching their heads and weeping—yet no sound escaped, like mimes in a storm.

It was a pantomime, cruel as winter.

Their near-desperate faces and floor-rolling told of agony. Yet none fainted, as if held awake by thorns.

Everyone’s threshold differs. And this crowd wasn’t just common folk. The arena guard was here, and the formidable referee—

The red-haired, red-eyed swordsman—the Niefeng family’s second son, Ark Felix. A Level 55 Swordmaster, gifted as wildfire, famed across the capital. If not for his sister—the Crimson Blossom—too dazzling, too peerless, who reached Saint-tier young and crushed both the young and the old—

Without her, Ark might have shone brighter, like a second moon.

Yet now he was no different from the crowd. His sword lay aside. He writhed on the floor, handsome face smeared with dust and tears.

The girl flicked a covert look at Master Bai—what fearsome control over magic must this be, like a puppeteer of storms!

He held no wand, spoke no spell, loosed no scroll. In silence he cast a force this vast, laced with physical strikes, mental assault, area effect, and Silence.

How strong was Master Bai? Surely beyond Half-Saint. Was he Saint-tier, or even...?

"Do you see?"

Ye Weibai spoke then, words falling like pebbles into a still pond.

She started, then shook her head, fogged and small. "Master Bai. I don’t understand."

"This is your first lesson." His robe whispered. He raised his right hand and pointed at the crowd. "Why do you think I made them shut up?"

It wasn’t merely "shut up" this lightly... She glanced at their sorry states and, grumbling inside, asked softly, "Because... they insulted me?"

"You’re overthinking." Ye Weibai glanced her way. "I shut them up simply because they were—too noisy."

His tone was light, but it brooked no doubt, like a knife wrapped in silk.

Shamed by the rebuke, she flushed. His next words left her mouth open, words blown away like leaves.

Just... because they were too noisy... he made them collapse and weep on the ground?!

She didn’t pity them. She was stunned by his lack of scruples, as if watching thunder laugh.

Ye Weibai read her at a glance. He spoke slowly, "You think I’m lawless?"

She opened her mouth, said nothing, and thereby agreed, like a nod under rain.

Ye Weibai laughed, smile reckless as a blade drawn. "I am—lawless."

"This is your first lesson—one of the Hero King’s essentials—"

Ye Weibai suddenly lifted his head and looked far, sight like an arrow.

Far away.

A silver light, like a meteoric shard, tore a blazing scar across the blue sky and came crashing in.

The silver glow washed his face like moonlight on steel.

He slowly smiled, a crescent rising.

"—the Arrogant Heart."