We walked shoulder to shoulder; her gaze flitted like a sparrow, every storefront a bright pebble. Funny—I'm the outsider, yet she’s the curious one.

Why’s a local still brimming with wonder, like a spring bubbling out of stone?

Baroque flourishes curled in the details—vines of carved stone, gilded swirls. Strolling this beauty felt like play under soft evening light.

“Ah, found it.” Stini dashed to a roadside stall; coins clinked like raindrops on tin. She snatched a packet of snacks and sprinted back.

Ugh, that Baloya man‑eating rabbit mascot again—cutesy lacquer over a face that stays unsettling, like a smile painted on a mask.

“Here, try this—local specialty, Baloya cookies. My top pick.”

I’d just eaten. I waved it off; Stini didn’t mind and munched, crumbs flying like snow.

The cookies were big but dry; she popped two, three per bite, all appetite, none of elven grace, like a woodcutter at lunch.

“Stini, the way you eat is downright forthright.”

In other words, not exactly ladylike, more thunder than lace.

“Well, Dad raised me like a boy—sword drills and sprints, feet pounding like drums. He hated dithering; my rowdy, scrappy stunts? He loved them. So this unruly streak stuck.”

She shrugged; nothing coarse about it—swagger and beauty twined like sun on steel.

“I like girls with that kind of edge. My home’s out on the western frontier, where wind scrapes dust like sandpaper.”

I skim my fabricated backstory, the maps I wrung from Vega, pages rustling in my head.

“You’re a frontier knight?”

“My dad is; I’m not. Life out there ain’t leisurely—girls work too, hands cracked like bark. It breeds a steady spine. A free‑spirited girl like you? Rare as a firefly at noon.”

“Ew, is that a confession? Haha. Dad wouldn’t let me marry a guy I’ve met once. Hahaha.”

No cooing in her voice—clean candor, clear as river water, no blush clouding the cheek.

“Then I should see you a few more times to curry favor with the Hero himself? Haha. The thought’s a little thrilling, like drums before a race.”

“Mm, go ahead, try. At least I’ll carry you to the Sanctuary of Life, Andor.”

The banter drifted off like a breeze through tall grass.

It sounded like casual friends out for fun, but my nerves stayed tight as bowstrings; I couldn’t relax, a fox walking a hunter’s path.

Simple reason: she’s the Hero’s daughter. She approached me first, and kept tugging threads of my info like a weaver testing yarn.

The Hero Academy enrolls near a thousand each year; how did she single me out, a needle in a haystack under moonlight?

Think hard and doubts pile up like storm clouds. If I hadn’t dodged, Holy Sword Yingfeng would’ve skewered my skull like a bamboo skewer.

No matter how I twist it, those odds are loaded dice—too neat to be natural.

My one comfort: Stini’s a blessed airhead, her heroic blood gifting wild intuition like a breeze that finds cracks. Otherwise, she’d skip probing and finish the job—head clean off like a melon.

With that grim little thought, we reached the blacksmith, smoke hanging like a veil.

A modest shop; smoke had stained beams and walls, a gray film shrouding the whole room like ash after a burn.

Only a few plain‑clad customers dotted the space like pebbles in a stream.

“Best smithy near the Hero Academy. Uncle Jim, I brought you another customer,” she called, voice bright as a bell.

I’d chased conspiracies in circles, but maybe the truth was simpler: fleece the newbie like a lamb in market.

“Thanks, Stini. Helping an old man drum up business again. Cookies by the door—help yourself.”

He waved; Stini bounced back clutching another bag of cookies, joy hopping like a rabbit.

“Craft and enchantment here? Best of humanity—discounting black mage work. A bit pricey. But you’re a frontier knight, right? You can afford it.”

Yep. Absolutely fleecing the outsider, knife glinting like a smile.

Relax. If I get fleeced, I get fleeced. The Demon King’s name is money; I can afford a blade, coin flowing like dark rivers.

But—

I shot Stini a glare—the standard human response to daylight robbery, a spark tossed on dry straw.

Maybe she’s testing me. Breathe. Pretend it’s a shopping trip with my family’s maid, easy chatter like tea steam.

First, weigh it. I favor heavy weapons—weight that anchors like a mountain underfoot.

My usual is a Long Halberd, near two people tall. In the human world, it’s exotic, and screams Demonfolk like a banner in black.

Better pick something common, easy to find, unremarkable—water in a cup—yet kind to the hand.

“By the way, Andor, what do you use?”

“A Greatsword. Out on the frontier, monster tides hit like seas; tricky weapons get you killed. A plain blade boosts survival like a sturdy boat.”

“Oh, a Greatsword? Hold on.”

She said it and jogged off into the back, quick as a breeze through canvas.

Not just price‑gouging, but lousy hospitality. If there were a guild here, I’d file a complaint, ink splashing like rain.

Fine, I’ll browse, eyes moving like lanterns in the dark.

The place was humble; blades lined the walls, no ornaments, steel gleaming like fish scales. Heat whispered from the back—he forges and enchants himself. The craft screamed masterwork, hammer‑song lingering in the air.

I found a Greatsword with the best storefront shine, black oil like night on a pond.

Lift, test the grip… shockingly light, like picking up a hollow reed.

I clenched down, raised it, feeling the grain… damn, what’s this quality? My grip left dents, metal bruised like soft fruit.

Before crossing over, I devoured human data—humans were weak, yes. Didn’t expect their weapons to be flimsy too, tin under thunder!

“Got it, Andor. How’s this one?”

Bad, bad, bad! Panic fluttered like bats.

That grip isn’t human‑normal. I’ll blow my cover. My wounds aren’t healed; in a nest of killers, I’ll die like a candle in wind.

Pinch it back. Uh, fingers are round—I can’t restore the exact pattern. Just smooth it fast; forget the filigree, make it pass like mist.

“Hey, Andor, what’re you doing? Like that sword? That one’s low quality; I don’t recommend it.”

Yet this “low‑quality” blade would bleed a frontier fief’s yearly output, coin poured like grain through fingers.

“Ah, no, no—just looked nice. I was only checking.”

Good. My deadpan earns its keep, a stone face under rain.

Okay. The handle’s core shape looks fine. Good enough for now, like patched cloth at dusk.

“Which one did you bring?”

“The shop’s treasure. A fine piece! Judging your stance, you’re a power fighter; this matches you,” she said, eyes sharp as hawks.

No wonder she’s the next Hero—she reads strength from a grip, like a hunter reading tracks.

Stini jogged over hauling a Greatsword, then raised it one‑handed, easy as lifting a reed over water.

Whatever her temperament, her raw power was already formidable, a river in flood.

“Feels good.”

Its whole body was midnight black; edges flashed muted gold. The blade was broad and heavy, like a door of night.

True words: even in the Demon Realm, this would be a collector’s piece, a gem in shadow.

“Good piece. What’s its name? No—price first.”

With the owner’s nod, I swung it by the door; it fit my hand like memory, weight singing in the wrist.

She rattled off a price like a wagonload of gold, coin wheels grinding on gravel.

“It’s called Valor, huh. Steep, but cheaper than I feared,” I said, breath settling like dust.

I’d thought, given this shop, the blade would cost a small city, walls and all.

“Can’t be helped.” She spread her hands. “Few people can wield this kid. Uncle Jim doesn’t want his masterpiece gathering dust. You showed up; price too high scares you off. So lower, sell to you,” she said, smile easy as sunlight.

“So you do know you overcharge! Why not buy it yourself? It suits you,” I asked, eyebrow arched like a bow.

“Me?” She stroked the Holy Sword at her waist. “I already have Holy Sword Yingfeng. Also… we’re broke…”

That last part came out tiny, like a mouse squeak under a door.

Still, the blade was right. Pay up, let coin fall like rain.

“You’re Stini’s acquaintance. Take it now; pay later if you want,” said the owner, beard shaking like a thicket.

I didn’t want to return. If the damage got noticed, paying is easy; exposure of my identity is death, a trap snapping shut.

Besides, the Demon King doesn’t haul money by hand like a mule; dignity travels in shadow.

“No. I’m paying now.”

Each Son of the Demon King bears a different dominion. Mine is Shadow—neither bizarre nor supreme, but deep as a well at night.

Posing as a Shadow Sorcerer was part of the plan, a cloak sewn from dusk.

I let a chest of coins rise from the Shadow into the world. The chest was tweaked—plain wood from the western frontier, not a blood‑stained, padlocked Demon King Castle coffer.

“You can do that? They say Shadow magic is hard,” she breathed, eyes bright as stars.

Mm. First time I caught respect in Stini’s eyes. I wish she’d see a gleam of character too; maybe that’d spare me if unmasked, mercy like dew.

“Shadow Sorcerer’s my trade. I just happen to like swords.”

Right. A magic‑and‑steel hybrid hero template. Nothing suspicious. It tracks, stones fitting in a wall.

“Hmm… this young, using Shadow magic, and wielding a rare Greatsword. Very suspicious…”

So it doesn’t fly! This setup screams protagonist—or undercover villain—like ink on a wanted poster!

Are we about to throw down? I don’t want to go home, coffin first!

I was priming my Shadow Realm artifact to flee, when Stini smacked her palm, sound sharp as a firecracker.

“I got it. You’re the rumored prodigy here for advanced training, right? No arrogance—doesn’t fit.” She started circling me like an inspector, steps tapping like rain.

“I thought you were the Demon King’s spy. Hahaha.”

Bullseye! The airhead’s intuition works, arrow finding the ring.

After half a day, I’m beat. Stini, mind showing me around the Academy—especially the teaching blocks? It’d suck to walk into the wrong class, face red as a sunset.

“Sure, I’ve got you. Uncle Jim, Andor bought a sword. Shouldn’t a scabbard come free?”

After Stini’s coaxing, the owner still refused. I had to pay for a scabbard, leather sighing like old bark.

Most smithies toss one in, especially after a big purchase. Why so stingy, purse strings knotted like roots?

As for Miss Stini hauling a basket brimming with Baloya cookies, then asking me to stash it in Shadow—I didn’t even bother to complain, words drying like salt.

Afterward, we toured the campus, halls fanning out like petals. By dinner, I took her to a finer restaurant—my treat, candles warming the room.

Before parting, I politely asked if she had time tonight to visit my single dorm and discuss the truths of life and the universe, tongue in cheek like a cat.

Predictably, Stini laughed and smacked me—hard enough to snap a normal human’s neck, a thunderclap on bone.

Then we split paths, and that “pleasant” day drew to a close, dusk folding like a curtain.

---

“As if. Vega, can you track Stini’s movements?” I asked, heart beating like a drum in felt.

“Sorry, my ill‑considered master. Even your stealthiest retainer can’t shadow the official Hero without risk of exposure,” Vega said, voice cool as night water.

Vega stood at my bedside; her pitch‑black eyes scattered a cold light like winter stars rimmed in frost.

“Then prioritize concealment above all. How effective would the tail be?”

“Sorry, my slightly‑thinking master. The intel would be much less complete,” she answered, words precise like pins.

“I clearly thought a lot! Fine. Let’s do that. Thanks in advance, Vega.”

I stroked her cute cheek; skin cool as moonlight on stone.

“My foolish master, it’s my honor instead.” She said it very softly, like a moth’s wing.

“Is being candid really that hard?”

She didn’t answer. She rolled and sprang through the window, light as a wild cat vanishing into brush.

Before she left, I caught the corner of her mouth—just a hint of a smile, a crescent like a new moon.