“Humans are weak; Dragonfolk are arrogant; orcs short-sighted; elves inert; Wingfolk scarce; fishfolk maimed; dwarves dull; Lunarfolk timid; Starfolk full of faults—like frost etched on cracked stone.”

“They, the weak, bask in the sun’s grace and drink the rain’s gifts—why? Why must we Demonfolk curl in the Demon Realm’s dusk—why?”

“We, the strong, should swing the Demonfolk’s sword to win soil for the Demonfolk’s plow. Sorry—off-script, not important. What matters: go take, go kill, go fight—grab what you want, burn what you hate!”

“Right now. What are you waiting for, my brothers and sisters? Charge!”

“Oooooh!!!” They unleashed a thunderclap of a roar, eyes lit with wildfire.

——————

That’s all.

“I think I spoke pretty well.”

“My foolish master, did you forget Demonfolk are crafty and fickle? You’re not the only one who loves a performance.”

The voice belongs to my maid—Vega, a cold-faced, cold-edged battle maid.

After I reached the human world, wounded and barely mobile, I summoned her from the Demon Realm—an old retinue.

“But when I look around, I see grand rites, bright glass, laughing crowds, mage-lamps, and fireworks blooming now and then—nothing of the Demonfolk’s gloom.”

Constructs—robots from the Age of Clay—are everywhere. They shoulder heavy labor, cost little, and trail after workers in all shapes, proof of the Silver Era’s prosperity.

“I can’t accept how we ended up here.”

I know my younger siblings’ excitement and trust were an act. But this was too much—two-thirds of the Sons of the Demon King focused me down the moment I opened the portal, at my weakest.

I didn’t do anything worth heaven’s wrath or a mob’s hatred, did I.

Probably.

“I thought I got along fine with everyone. Sigh.”

Hero Academy sits at the center; homes gathered around it like stars around a moon, raising a City of Heroes.

Beyond teachers and students, more and more people settled here.

As the population grew, churches, factories, and permanent shops stood up like pillars. The seven human nations sent delegates to co-manage this wall-less city.

This is a second-tier city—not the vast size of the seven capitals. But as a symbol, consortiums, industrialists, churches, and royalty all invested heavily.

So it isn’t gilded in gold, yet it’s clean and trim. Houses rise high; it looks good.

I walked to a nearby shop with social anxiety gnawing me, and bought a bag of cookies.

Even worried, I still wore a corpse-face.

By the way, the cookies are shaped like a cutesy Baloya man-eating rabbit. Those rabbits slaughter folks living near the forests; these cookies scream “we eat them back to vent our hate.”

Crunch, crunch.

Mm. Tastes good.

“Want some, Vega?”

I held one out to my maid.

No response.

“Hey, yes or no—give me a clear word.”

She sighed.

“My childish master, do you truly not grasp how many disgusting things you’ve done? How tight things are right now? That buying cookies is meaningless… and surprisingly tasty!”

I ruffled her cheek and her shoulder-length jet-black hair in payment.

“Don’t tense up, Vega. We won’t get found out. I trust my magic. If a stroll through the market would expose us, how could we walk into Hero Academy, where the hard cases flock?”

“No, my proud master. We were forced to grow retinue in a human city because your ambush cost you the opening to seize retinue. You should regret it.”

I’m not that reluctant. I’m not that arrogant, either.

“Think of it this way: building retinue among humans is good. The strong are many here—one of the Creator’s masterpieces, the Primordial Nine Races. If it works, I might become the strongest Demon King.”

There’s more than one Demon King; we compete.

Usually, a Son of the Demon King builds retinue among worldly monsters, harrying Divine Beings, earns the Ocean of Darkness’s recognition, and receives matching clearance.

Before a Divine Being deploys large-scale causal weaponry, we cut down the territory we rule and drop it into the Demon Realm. That’s our climb.

It sounds simple. It isn’t.

We fear many things.

A passing Hero might wipe out our retinue—or the Son himself.

Dragonfolk or Wingfolk may swoop in to punish evil.

Worst, if a Divine Being descends, trouble blooms.

If a Son is killed by ordinary folk, the body dies, but the soul returns to the Demon Realm—weak for a long time, but better than true death.

If a Divine Being descends, they drag the Son into their domain of authority. Death there is utter purification.

Everyone climbs like this.

“So if I want to be the strongest, I can’t rely only on monsters—those inferior beings the Ocean of Darkness pollutes into the world. Even at best, I’d be no better than Father.”

“The Primordial Nine Races are different. Turn one into retinue, and the power would be immense.”

“So my master who never admits fault must go to Hero Academy.”

“If you could drop that rude tone… yes. That’s the plan.”

I pointed at the low-key, luxurious dark-gold arch—the gate of Hero Academy. Beyond it, a castle-like main tower, potion gardens, and an enormous flower garden.

This whole town grew around the Academy, which tells you how vast Hero Academy stands.

Even the surrounding neighborhoods together don’t match the Academy’s size.

“Study in peace. My magic will hold.”

“Students in Hero Academy are talented youths. Easy to fool.”

“As long as you don’t say you’re Demonfolk, nobody will—”

I dropped my head and hopped aside.

Whoosh.

A sword flew over my scalp.

My body moved before thought—a reflex honed by centuries of brawling in the Demon Realm.

The blade bore clean, elegant etchings, bathed in gentle gold light. A ruby the size of an eye sat in the hilt, with gold glint within. The tip shaped an abstract half-open flower.

I knew this sword.

The Holy Sword, Galewind.

Which means its wielder is…

“Sorry! First time using it—didn’t hurt you, did I?”

She wore a short green ponytail, strands fine and faintly luminous—a lively girl.

Her lifted hair exposed ears longer than a human’s, shorter than an elf’s—shaped like Wingfolk, though she had no wings.

“My first time with this sword, and I didn’t expect the child to be so heavy. It slipped. I’m really sorry!”

The girl snapped a jaunty salute and apologized with a grin.

The world’s only true half-blood, daughter of the Hero, the next Hero—later called the Unsmiling Hero—Stini Saya.

She smiled at me and said,

“It’s fine. I’m unhurt.”

I put on shock with a touch of poise. By my cover story, I shouldn’t know her; Demonfolk are masters of the stage.

“But your ears…”

She seemed relieved, touched her ear. “They’re the result of Dad’s and Mom’s genes together.”

“But I remember…”

Races shouldn’t intermarry.

When the Creator shaped life, different codes were used. Reproduction is power’s transfer—we call it why Dragonfolk weaken after breeding. Humans have no special power, so they don’t suffer much.

Stini is different.

She’s the result of the Goddess of Life, Liv, blessing Hero Augustus Saya and the elf saint Ibera Lingo—a gift for Augustus slaying a Demon King.

“I’m Stini, Stini Saya. You know who my dad is, right? Dad and Mom loved each other, but Mom’s an elf and Dad’s human—no result. So Dad killed a Demon King, and begged the Goddess of Life for a crystallized blessing. That’s how I came to be.”

She scratched her head without a hint of shame, laughing bright.

Still, the Hero Augustus killing a Demon King for this reason—well, that startled me.

“You’re the daughter of the Hero?”

“I don’t like people seeing Dad’s shadow on me. Treat me like a normal person, okay? Sorry for almost skewering your head. I saw you two wandering here for a while—first-time students in this City of Heroes, right? That your maid? She can take your luggage to the dorm. I’ll guide you around town, as an apology. How’s that?”

Frank, big-hearted, brave, decisive, quick to bond, debt-kept, justice-aware—those are Hero traits.

When life crushes her later, she matures, a trace of gloom in her grace, with flashes of her old light in public.

She wins her party’s trust and the common folk’s closeness. Honestly, she fits Hero perfectly.

So when Hero Augustus dies, she becomes the unsmiling god of slaughter, swearing revenge on Demonfolk.

“Then please hand me the luggage. My master of great masculine charm and this beautiful lady may stroll together. I hope, master, you show a face besides a corpse’s. I hope your night is lovely. Daytime, too.”

“Ahaha, what a funny maid. Want to work at my place?”

“Honored by your favor, but this lady’s household stores demon heads more than coin. The wages must be low. Thank you—do contact me later.”

“Hahaha.”

I realized I was still mid-conversation, pushed down my thoughts, and presented my best face—borne on Demonfolk talent for acting.

“I’m Andor, Andor Mephy. Saya—no, Stini—I want to visit many places, and first, weapon shops. Back home, neither enchanters nor smiths are that skilled. I want to see what’s here.”

“Leave the guiding to me. I’m free all day!”

I’ll admit it—I have ulterior motives.

But Stini—so what?

I glanced at her eager smile, and held back judgment for now.