It didn’t take long for Aphelia’s frenzy to break; the wild tide of Arcane Power ebbed, and her clouded eyes cleared like rainwashed glass.

So, can we lay the terms on the table?

Her voice came out hoarse, sand on glass; she looked shell-shocked, spirit bruised, a banner hanging limp in the wind.

Nero figured her weakness came from that uncle’s ability. Only Aphelia and Jasmine knew it was the heaven-rending, earth-shattering impact; her jing, qi, and shen were all spent, her body at a low ebb.

Even in this illusory world, she rebuilt a forbidden form from memory; the price showed now, weakness frosting her bones.

Even so, Nero wouldn’t dare look down on her; her strength had fallen like late-autumn leaves, but respect held like a blade in the hand.

That sky-tearing strike wasn’t spellcraft or a device; it was pure martial technique, a bare hand clawing heaven—scarier for its simplicity.

Jasmine watched with a tangle of feelings, eyes like storm-heavy clouds; she seemed to speak, then swallowed it, her usual frost thawed.

It left Aphelia groping in fog, but the focus wasn’t on Jasmine now.

Alright, I’ll admit it—you moved me. Let’s lay the terms out like blades on a table.

Nero drew out a yellowed, parchment-like contract; the instant it appeared, Aphelia’s heart skipped, a drum faltering mid-thunder.

What is that... thing?

She frowned, caution cinching like a cold band; anything that stalls her heart isn’t normal by any measure.

Sharp senses, huh... I’ll be straight. This contract is made from the skin of that-which-should-not-be-named. Its binding force is absolute.

Wait—what did you say? The words hit like a stone in a still pond.

The instant Nero spoke the name, her mind blurred, mist rolling over a cliff; confusion pricked despite her endurance.

Nero didn’t answer; he carved a sign into the tabletop, a crooked mark that spoke volumes, frost writing itself into wood.

It was twisted, indescribable; with each stroke, blood threaded from Nero’s right hand, no wound visible, pain screaming like winter wind.

His face contorted, jaw tight; he kept etching, because only this way could he pass the Unspeakable’s intent, poison soaking through paper.

Aphelia had seen that warped mark once; it branded her memory like a hot iron.

She’d found it roaming the continent, in a small inland village—cut off, mad with fear, a place where no divine light reached.

Years of isolation drained common sense like water from a cracked jar; no farming, no medicine—everything pinned on a hazy, heretical god.

What grotesqueries sprouted from that soil? The question hung like a crow over a field.

On day one, fear slid under Aphelia’s skin like ice; their staple food was a thing no words could fix.

It was alive—at least it writhed, a nameless lump crawling like a nest of worms.

From that mass she felt pure malice, cold as deep water; perhaps “alive” was only a costume for something else.

The twisted sigil was tattooed on that writhing spite, a knot of night set in meat.

The villagers ate it without a flinch, like rice or bread; they chewed with genuine joy, smiles blooming like sick flowers.

She chose to lie low, shadow to shadow; this wasn’t a problem a blade could solve. She needed the source, the maker, the root of that malice.

That night, she blacked out like a snuffed candle; later Lena and the others hauled her out, lips sealed about whatever the dark swallowed.

Confusion gnawed like mice, but for friends she let it go, tucking the memory away like a letter in a drawer.

Now the sigil resurfaced, and cold sweat beaded like dew; it had been a long time since fear bit like this.

Stop. I get it. Her voice cut like a blade through fog.

She caught Nero’s hand mid-stroke; pure Arcane Power swept the warped sign away, tide erasing footprints. He exhaled, relieved.

Where did you get that thing? Her words dropped like stones into a well.

Its origin won’t fit in a few words; using it carries risk for me. But its binding is perfectly bilateral, chains sharing weight.

Nero spoke coolly, as if pain never happened; he wiped blood-threads from his hand and nodded thanks, still as a pond.

As far as I know, there are contracts that bind both parties, bridges locking both banks.

Aphelia frowned, thoughts circling like hawks; there are safer pacts than that dangerous sheet, plenty in her memory.

That’s only true in the Human World.

Nero cut her off like a knife, then slid out a sheet heavy with Arcane Power and passed it across like a card.

Talk’s cheap—try it yourself. He set it down like a thrown gauntlet.

Aphelia took the sheet, caution steady as a held breath; if he said try, she’d try—no trap hides in plain paper.

Her jade-slim fingertips gathered Arcane Power in the air, then flew across the page. Writing a contract is spellwork; ink is just a vessel.

Nero and Jasmine looked at her anew; even drained in body and Arcane Power, she held her casting steady, a bowstring taut in rain.

They realized they’d underestimated her; better late than dawn finally breaking after a long night.

In the name of the God of Law, I declare this pact complete! Her voice rang like a bell.

With the final stroke, the page’s power knitted whole, the last link rising like a bridge closing its span.

Then the charged sheet burned in silence, fire blooming black—the eerie flame Aphelia had conjured before, eating words like moths.

See? Your so-called God of Law can’t enforce ordinary contracts in the Demon World. I know your pacts; the moment you try the last step...

Nero mimed an explosion, fingers blooming like a dying flower.

It pops like that.

That’s a headache... a stone lodged in the shoe.

She watched ash drift and black flame curl, and a wild thought stirred—does the Demon King’s power still stain this world?

One of the few exceptions is that dreadful sheet, a scab that won’t heal.

Nero wouldn’t even name it; voicing its true sense exacts a price, salt in a wound—no one gladly pays.

You mean our Human World contracts. Then what about the Demon World? It must have contracts—doesn’t it?

Faced with that, Nero actually blushed, coughed, and glanced aside like a boy caught stealing plums.

Aphelia arched a brow, a question mark inked on her face.

The more he squirmed, the more puzzled she felt, curiosity pricking like needles. A contract shouldn’t be only for elites or the rich, right?

Ahem... In the Demon World, there are only two types: summoning contracts, and... master–servant contracts.

At that, Jasmine’s cheeks flushed like peach blossom; she stepped to Nero and whispered in his ear, voice soft as silk.

I can’t help it either... He scratched his cheek like a guilty cat.

Nero’s answer was awkward; they traded a look like a secret handshake and seemed to settle it.

Master–servant... If I recall, that’s not exactly wholesome. The phrase tasted bitter, like burnt tea.

Aphelia narrowed her eyes, blades of thought clicking; she wasn’t stupid—she could guess what that contract’s meant to “do.”

Ahem... Between the same sex, it’s a normal master–servant bond, mutual benefit, lord and vassal. After a certain Demon King “revised” it, between the opposite sex... there are odd effects.

Even with thick skin, Nero couldn’t spell those effects out, words sticking like honey in the throat.

Truth be told, after becoming female, Aphelia lost none of her looks; the handsome youth turned woman—both alluring and fierce, moonlight over steel.

Figures. The thought settled like a pebble.

Aphelia sighed, breath curling like mist; she reconsidered. Though her body turned female by the Demon King’s meddling, her soul stayed male. A contract grips the soul first, and the body follows.