Even It had to admit this much: Ye Weibai—the current Demon King—was interesting. But only interesting. Because even though It was forced onto the board... "To me," It said, voice flat as cold iron, "it means nothing." Before absolute force, every scheme froths and pops like sea foam. Ding— At that clear, bell-bright note, It flicked Its wrist and drew something from the X World layer, like plucking a thread from silk.

...

"Time doesn’t waver for anyone’s will." Amid Nightfall, the Demon King watched the silver moon sink, then spoke. The black-robed reader kept turning pages and stared at the Demon King without blinking, like a hawk fixed on prey. He was so intent he didn’t hear Ye Weibai at all. He kept trying to see it through, to see what hid inside this Demon King’s shell. He refused to believe a mere Demon King could wield such power. Even Augustine couldn’t erase that sword so lightly, as if swiping dust from a table. That’s why Ye Weibai’s second line—"What is set won’t budge, but the unknown swarms with change"—left him puzzled. He still didn’t see what lay in the Demon King, nor what the boy meant. He felt a thread between that line and what just happened, and it needled him. His mood soured, and the pages flew faster, like leaves in a gust. Then, in his ear, a sound rang— Ding— It was clear and bright, a needle on stone, so slight it could be snow tapping a window. Yet his face changed at once. "It actually—" He couldn’t believe it. "It even let him out." "Him?" Ye Weibai looked over. "That man." He frowned, baffled. "That should be the last card, the strongest one. If that gets eaten too, what can It still play?" "Then the player has to step onto the board," the Demon King said, cool as night water. "Come down in person?" He gave the Demon King a long look. Realization flashed, then a slow smile edged in mockery. "So that’s your fantasy, 9,679th Demon King? Lure It down? Then I take back what I said—you’re no different from Augustine." "Ha." The black-haired youth didn’t bristle at the scorn. He only tilted his head, a cloud-thin smile touching his lips. It held no warmth, only haze, which made it worse. "Maybe," the black Demon King said, voice blurred like smoke. That slippery stance made him itch. He swallowed his anger and said coldly, "It won’t come down." He said it like a nail. "It doesn’t need to." "It only needs—" He paused, as if a gear clicked. Then he finished. "To let the Cycle run and grind you to dust." He almost sighed the last line. "The ending was carved from the start. The moment you were tagged as Demon King, it was set—the Demon King dies by the Hero King." "That won’t change; it’s a seal hammered into stone." "No." Ye Weibai shook his head, like shaking off rain. "Just like you, It hasn’t figured out what I am. It won’t kill me lightly." "You don’t get it." He sneered, like a blade flashing. "To It, ‘curiosity’ is a recent quirk. ‘Guarding order’ is a bone-deep instinct from Its birth." "No one defies instinct." The black-robed reader summed it up, voice like shut iron. "It’s not the Cycle’s master. It’s the guardian at its gate." "Oh?" Ye Weibai narrowed his eyes. His smile didn’t fade; it brightened, like a candle fed with wind. "So even if It wants or doesn’t want, bound to the Cycle, It still has to act. Right?" His smile thinned. He watched the black-haired boy, pupils tightening, as if he could spear the heart. This man heard his death sentence and still laughed like he felt a breeze. Wrong. That was wrong. No one stares down death like that. You can not fear dying, yet still fear death. Different shores on the same river. For creed or obsession, people stride into death. But before death itself, every creature flinches at the cold shadow. There’s no shame in it. It is the reflex of life facing its opposite. And the Demon King was too calm. If this was a mask, it was flawless, so perfect he fooled himself. Otherwise how did he pick the key in my words so cleanly? "Enough." He caught himself. "I’ve said enough. Next—" "Next—my move." Hum—!

...

"Then..." The blonde girl looked at the black-haired girl, a little lost, like a fawn in fog. "What should I do?" She heard how muddled that sounded and rushed on. "I mean—did we just make a companion pact? No vows, no trials?" "Ugh, such a hassle." Lustrous tilted her head and yawned, like a cat in a sunbeam. "Don’t get me wrong. Not you. The trials and vows." "B-but, in knight novels, it’s always like that." Aerin’s voice went small, like rain on leaves. Of course. Loneliness had been her weather for too long. Wrapped in the World’s malice, what she longed for most was the Hero King’s companions. She’d pictured that meeting a thousand times, like a scene from a chivalry tale—meeting in a dream, hand to hand. "Ay." Lustrous rubbed her long hair and sighed, like smoothing ripples from a pool. Then she sat up in a springy snap and looked at Aerin, suddenly solemn. "Do you really want a contract?" Aerin jumped. "I-if there is one." "No contract. But—there’s something that’s yours. I’m giving it back." Aerin blinked. The words rang familiar. Then she caught up. "Isn’t that what Master Bai—" "Yeah, that person." Lustrous clicked her tongue, and the poise shattered like glass. The black-haired Witch didn’t seem to respect that ‘father.’ "Then what you’re giving me is... fear?" Aerin couldn’t help biting her lip. Cold, bloody scenes flashed through her mind like lightning. She’d moved like a blade and cut down seventeen paladins, clean as a guillotine. "Fear? What’s that?" Lustrous shook her head, hair flowing like ink. "I’ll give you the thing. You’ll know it when it lands." "Mm..." Aerin nodded, like a reed in wind. "But—not now." Lustrous fixed her with a look. Her slanted bangs hid her left eye. Her right, a cold blue, burned with intent. "Not now." "Huh?" Aerin didn’t follow. Lustrous sighed and explained, patient as a teacher at dusk. "I’m giving it to you now. But you won’t know what it is right away. You’ll know when the time comes." "But when is that?" Aerin asked, adrift. "Probably..." Lustrous lifted her face to the sky. Her long hair spilled back like a black waterfall, showing a swan-white neck. The Witch long exiled in Witchwood Forest wore a fleeting, lost look, like a bird hearing a far bell. After a long while, she lowered her head. A thin smile drew across her lips, light as mist. That smile matched the black Demon King’s smile in the heavens, two echoes on one string. "When you find the Demon King." She spoke softly, like a leaf touching water.

...