Dim… well, not truly dark; the light hung like a thin thread across the room.

To a Daemon, this wasn’t darkness at all, just cool shade like bamboo shadow.

Rafi melted under Nina’s kneading palms like a sleepy cat, while sweet cake from the maid blossomed on her tongue like a lantern.

She thought, this is the bliss of a Daemon’s life, like warm tea in drizzling rain.

Mid-bite, her eyes popped wide, a firefly flaring in still air.

Hey, Nina, ever wonder why Ling and the others rushed straight to you like arrows?

They don’t even know you, yet think you’ve got some special power—doesn’t that feel like leaping a chasm?

Nina paused, the massage stilled like water gone glassy, and she frowned with a stone-weight seriousness.

Emmmm… maybe because Nina is too special, like a white patch of fur in a dark forest?

After all, this kind of special Beastfolk is only Nina, and only Sis would take Nina in.

Otherwise, the special Beastfolk Nina would’ve vanished like dew at sunrise.

The joke-light tone pricked Rafi’s chest like bitter tea.

Sorry for poking your scars again.

Thump-thump-thump—the door rapped like a drum in a temple.

Then it swung open without asking, a blade through silk, as if the knocking didn’t matter.

Of course, if the one doing that is a cute girl, then fine, Rafi thought, a smile like a hidden crescent.

Demon King, the Demon Elite have been ready for ages, their blades a small forest.

In that time, one hundred and fourteen daemon soldiers have taken hits like rain on shields.

When will you launch the attack?

Meh—those things aren’t exactly unable to revive; no need to rush, Rafi said, voice a slow river.

The straight-black-haired girl dressed like a secretary puffed her cheeks like steamed buns, not satisfied.

The folder in her arms was pressed tight by two soft hills, breathless like cloth under snow.

Idiot! What kind of Demon King are you!

Sure, the Demon Elite can revive, but if we just let humans hit us and never hit back, our banner of dignity looks wilted like a soaked flag!

Who says we won’t hit back?

We set a counterattack option, right—like a lever ready to flip.

No no no, I don’t care—I don’t care—I don’t care!

Our noble daemon dignity got used up by your lazy crown, like incense burned to ash!

Who knows why she started acting spoiled, claws out like a kitten.

Rafi had seen this a hundred times, so she didn’t fall for it, her heart a stone under rain.

Mostly because her wife sat right beside her like a moon at her shoulder—she wasn’t about to play homewrecker in plain sight.

Still, she needed a reason that would soothe the girl, like tossing a bone to a growly pup.

Listen up—your Demon King isn’t counterattacking for a reason, set like a carved seal.

What reason? the girl asked, eyes sharp as twin blades.

It’s the Principle of Accumulated Fear.

Right now, we do nothing, and the humans who strike will find our numbers don’t shrink, like waves beating a cliff.

They’ll panic, and once panic blooms, they trip at the starting gate like runners in loose sandals.

We still won’t strike; we’ll stand at their doors like stone guardians, seen every day like fog at dawn.

Ignorance is the greatest fear—when they don’t know our hour, worry gnaws them like mice in the walls.

Fear grows invisibly, mold climbing damp chalk.

The girl bowed her head, a sunflower nodding, then snapped her fist to her palm, sparks in her eyes.

I see! But… is it really like that?

Mm, of course—when has your Demon King lied to you? Rafi’s voice rolled like slow thunder.

Ah, true—worthy of the Demon King I serve, strong and wise like iron and jade.

Just sitting in a chair, you toy with humans in your palm like chess pieces.

So handsome—too handsome—my lower half is about to—beeeeeep!

Rafi knew that storm by heart, so she didn’t flinch, calm as a lake under wind.

The Daemon Citadel is packed with lechers, a steamy bathhouse of minds; she saw it on day one.

Suddenly she understood why the previous Demon King loved staying home, like a recluse under pine.

Rafi was grown; she could weather it.

But Nina, the little one at her side, shouldn’t see or hear such crooked paths.

She reached back without hesitation, scooped Nina into her arms like catching a sparrow, and pressed Nina’s face to her own pitiful chest, tragic as a flat drum.

She covered Nina’s ears and muttered, Don’t look at what’s improper, don’t listen to what’s improper, the words like wooden charms.

Her own eyes, though, were wide as saucers, shining like moons.

After a few breaths—just a brief viewing like counting beads—the girl’s strange state ebbed, leaving her face flushed like peach skin.

Sorry. I lost my composure, she said, voice clear as spring water.

She apologized without fluster, honest about her own thorns, like a cactus in bloom.

Rafi didn’t mind; we’re all girls here, sisters sharing a teahouse bench.

Thank you for your lenience, Demon King.

May I ask one question, she said, the words straight as an arrow.

Speak freely, Rafi said, tone light as smoke.

When exactly do we begin the attack? her gaze fixed like a spear.

Buzz-buzz—the phone trembled like a cicada in summer.

On the lit screen was one word: Ling.

Rafi’s lips curved, a blade leaving its sheath.

Now.