“So… why are you back in that bed again, like a ship washed ashore after a storm?”

Nero glanced at Aphelia in the next bed, her bruises like ink splashed across porcelain, and a headache throbbed like a drumbeat behind his eyes.

He’d handpicked this guard, yet she’d been reduced to wreckage twice in days—like a banner torn by a stronger wind—was there someone beyond a Titleholder already on the board?

Cold worry slid down his spine like winter rain, and he squeezed a fist as if to hold the chill—if she had met a power beyond a Titleholder, her return alive was a blessing amid ash.

“Mm… just say I fell,” Aphelia said, her smile cracked like glazed pottery pulled from a kiln too soon.

If a Titleholder fell that hard, Nero thought, the ground must be forged from divine alloy, a battlefield floor shining like a celestial blade.

He gave her the look you reserve for a friend walking off a cliff, voice cool as a lake at dawn. “If you’re gonna lie, at least make it art. A fall that did that means artifact-grade ground—bring me a piece.”

Jasmine finally couldn’t bear it, her voice trembling like a reed in wind. “It was Zhe’s hand…”

“Huh?” Nero’s eyes widened like lanterns catching sudden flame, and he stared at Aphelia as if lightning had split the roof.

“Haha… yeah. I can’t say details,” Aphelia answered, scratching embarrassment like a cat behind the ear, “but it was voluntary. Thanks to him, I caught a new technique.”

She remembered that strike in the arena, and her heart twinged like a cracked bell that still wants to sing.

That wasn’t human—speed like a hawk stooping, power like a falling mountain, Arcane Power flowing like a river in flood—and even with a Titleholder’s might, she couldn’t touch that single blow.

A force like that, Aphelia had only felt in the Heaven-and-Earth Instant—that terrifying flash where sky and ground trade places—though the two tasted completely different in the mouth of fate.

If she had to paint it, Heaven-and-Earth Instant is absolute force, a scythe of lightning that harvests life in an eye-blink, born for pure ruin and leaving no green shoot.

Sometimes she wondered why the Valkyrie had birthed such a technique—was it to salt the earth? No. In legends and in her own brief touch, that Valkyrie guarded life like a spring in drought.

Zhe’s strike seemed to step beyond Ancient Martial Flow—maybe even surpass it—pursuing point that shatters plane; if it had been assassination, Aphelia would be a fallen leaf on cold stone.

Seeing her sink into thought, Nero kept quiet like a hunter in snow, and waited until the ripple stilled before speaking again.

“If that’s the case, I won’t press.” He drew a breath like iron into a forge. “With your physique, how long till you’re whole?”

That was the hinge of his vast plan, a clock ticking like a pendulum; time left to him was thin as paper, and he needed Aphelia’s edge.

“Ten days for full recovery,” she said, voice firm as a blade pulled straight. “Three days to move. If you stay near me, unless it’s a Titleholder assassin, no one touches you.”

Though one strike had wrecked her, the iron in her tone stood like a pillar; weakness was smoke, not stone.

In truth, measured by ability, Aphelia stood among the first ranks of Titleholders, a lighthouse on a jagged coast.

Through the pact, Nero felt her confidence like heat under armor; it rang true, not gilded words on empty silk.

“Speaking of which, Aphelia, you haven’t told me your title and your gift,” he said, curiosity flickering like candlefire.

“Do I need to step out?” Jasmine stood, ready to drift away like mist, her grip tight on the spear that gleamed like frost.

Titles aren’t trades you shout in a market; among Titleholders, a name is a key, and what it opens on the battlefield can be fatal as a hidden pit.

“Stay, Jasmine. You pulled me from the river once; you can listen.” Aphelia smiled, spring-soft but guarded, knowing Jasmine carried mysteries like seals on an old scroll.

Since becoming a Titleholder, Aphelia could see Jasmine’s level—a quasi-Titleholder in the upper middle stream—like a swimmer nearing the deep channel.

That strength alone made her a worthy ally for Nero, maybe even a guard; there was something in Jasmine like a polished gem under dust.

Truth is, even if Aphelia refused, Nero would’ve fought to give Jasmine this window; a Titleholder sharing craft is rain in dry season, and it might help her break the next wall.

Jasmine shot Aphelia a grateful glance, then sat again, cradle-holding her spear like a sleeping serpent.

“Ahem… the wards are set,” Nero said, laying down expensive scrolls like gold leaves, careful as a craftsman fitting jade.

“My title—The Immortal,” Aphelia said, each word placed like a stone in a garden. “It ties to my origin. Any deeper, I can’t speak.”

She tried to sit straight, back like a drawn bow, because Nero had already sat up in respect; pain bit her nerves like ants, and she swallowed the sting.

Jasmine moved at once, steady as a pine in wind, and helped Aphelia; the spear was leaned by the bed like a faithful hound.

“From the word ‘Immortal,’ you’ll guess wildly,” Aphelia continued, voice clear as mountain water. “It’s not monstrous regeneration, not a quirky element. It’s purely time.”

“From the moment I became a Titleholder, my time… seems to have been cut free from the river,” she said, the idea glinting like a fish beneath the surface.

“Hold up, Aphelia. I need to ask,” Nero broke in, surprise rolling off him like thunder, forgetting to hide the storm on his face.

“Go ahead,” she said, calm as dusk, already braced for this fork; time as a gift would always draw questions like moths to flame.

“If it’s time… why not reset your body to before the injury?” His eyes narrowed like a hunter sighting. “Was the strike too strong, or do you not steer time directly?”

It was the nail at the heart of the craft; if she could turn time like a wheel, then so long as her mind held, she’d truly be Immortal, a lantern that never goes dark.

“Not exactly,” she said, careful as a surgeon. “It’s wrong to say I can’t control time, but describing it gets muddy. Simply put: the moment I became a Titleholder, my time stepped outside the timeline. Thus—Immortal.”

She explained with patience like steady rain, unafraid of leaks; her time stands beyond all clocks, so how would anyone reach through her ability to tilt her?

With that posture, she told Nero the edges and corners, the small threads that get caught in the weave—yet the core is only understood by walking it, as she did in the river of time.

“I see… that kind of power is a net you can’t see coming,” Nero said, voice low as a growl; a double-edged blade, yes, but pointed at the enemy it’s a spear that pierces iron.

“Well… I’ve said much,” Aphelia tilted her head, a smile like a crescent moon. “Nero, aren’t you going to share something? Mister Nero Claudius?”

At the name, surprise lit his face like sunrise, then faded into a helpless sigh, smoke curling from a brazier.

Seeing the change, Aphelia knew: this was the Nero from the Demon King’s memories—Nero Claudius, one of the heirs to that shadowed throne.

“If I can, don’t attach that surname before I’m crowned,” he said, lips tight like a sealed envelope. “So my intel’s leaked into the Human Realm now…”

Even as he spoke, he watched her subtly, little tells like ripples in a pond—duly noted, and it made Aphelia chuckle; with a Titleholder’s sense, such threads are bright as silk.

“Yeah. I’m one of the heirs,” Nero said, tone sharpening like a blade drawn. “I need a guard like you for the succession war ahead.”

His casual mask fell, and a feral light flashed in his eyes like a wolf in moonlight; his fist clenched, knuckles white as stone.

“I have three half siblings,” he continued, each word a footstep on iron. “They’re contenders too. In the Demon World, the crown sits only on the strongest brow. Only by cutting a blood path through kin do you touch it.”

“I’ve prepared fifteen years,” he said, resolve like granite. “If I fail, I fall. If I win, this world will lay its power in your hands.”

“Aphelia, I know you don’t kneel easily,” he went on, voice rising like a tide. “You have bonds in the Human Realm. To go back, you’ll need power. Only this world can grant that weight.”

His emotions surged hot and clean, and Aphelia felt no false note—no test, just naked truth like steel without paint.

“Can I read that as a threat?” she asked, laughing, joy bright as sunlight on old stone; he reminded her of a clumsy figure from long ago, who’d said almost the same words under a quiet sky.

“Read it as my promise,” Nero answered, smile flaring like a torch; he sensed her faint assent like warmth through leather.

“That’s why I need power,” he said, eyes fixed like stars. “Absolute power. In our earlier pact, I added a line: once I’m king, this world recognizes you as a formal Demonic Knight.”

He reached out his hand, expression earnest as spring rain; his presence spilled into the room like incense, and even Aphelia felt herself drawn into its sway.

“My future knight,” he asked, voice soft as a blade’s kiss, “will you ride with me into the death-realm and back?”

Aphelia remembered that clumsy silhouette, and beneath it a pulse of majesty like a lion on a cliff—maybe that’s a true king’s wind.

“Gladly,” she said, joy ringing like a silver bell. “I could ask for nothing better.”

Their hands met with a grip like iron welded in fire, and a bond—unheard-of in the Demon World—master and vassal, was forged in that single, blazing moment.