The Hero Academy was founded at the dawn of the Silver Era, a lighthouse raised against a storm-tide of darkness.

The Hero of that age, seeing how vast the Demon King’s power loomed like a mountain range, summoned gifted youths from the Seven Human Kingdoms, and tempering-travelers from the Primordial Nine Races, to study battle as if learning to breathe before a coming winter.

After the Demon King was driven back, the allied host camped in the central lands of the mortal world. That war-band, sworn to teach any youth who wished to resist the Demon King, slowly cooled into a school, like molten steel cast into a blade.

Courses grew systematized, like rivers finding their beds. The faculty gathered masters from every craft, and later even the Hero of that era served as honorary head, a star set above a continent of lamps.

The Academy won the backing of the Seven Kingdoms and of many races. Legends who had fought the Demon King Army chose to teach here as honorary professors, ending their days like old pines facing a clean wind.

In short, the Hero Academy is the mortal world’s highest academy, a summit-peak; to enroll here is a crest pinned on your breastbone.

It welcomes all the gifted, with fairness like a straight blade, yet with harsh standards; you prove your talent and your grind, or the gates stay shut like a cliff-face.

As for me—yeah, you probably know this—the Demonfolk template and the human template are two different constellations. Among humans, a monster like Augustus who splits sky and earth with a single sword is rare as a comet.

But the Son of the Demon King holds the reins of power. From the roots of being, he can adjust his material form, like a smith remaking ore in the heart of the forge.

So I set my own body’s parameters. To infiltrate the Hero Academy, I picked a build that’s above average. Call it a Hero template, a mask cut to fit the light.

I only tested wrist strength, reaction speed, and coordination, and they waved me through like reeds parting for a boat. After I showed Shadow magic, they even called me a prodigy.

Sounds like I could start building a harem on campus—no, a retinue. In pop stories, a demon whispers at your ear; if your will wavers or your heart curdles, the demon seizes the crack and steals your soul.

In truth, that’s hard work. Also, soul-stealing’s a devil’s trade; a demon just eats you, clean and simple, like night swallowing a candle. We’ll talk about that later, when the moon’s higher.

First, the rules for taking vassals:

First, anyone I kill gets swallowed by my Authority Domain within the Ocean of Darkness, then converted into a lesser vassal—mindless, but loyal as bone to marrow.

Second, if you choose the conversion, you keep your mind and become a mid-tier vassal; with talent like Vega’s, you can take one more step and become an upper vassal.

Upper vassals are the strongest, and the most beautiful—my personal taste; I usually make upper vassals my maids. For the record, I only have three maids so far, a small constellation.

Third, only those who can commune with an Authority Domain—those with the makings of apotheosis—can become upper vassals, like mountains that answer thunder.

Fourth, as long as the Demon King (or his Son) lives, the vassals revive without limit, like waves reforming after a break. Even if the Demon King dies, he can resurrect through a vassal rite. That sideways immortality is why so many in the Bronze and Black Iron Eras sold their souls and became Demonfolk lackeys.

Calling my own boys lackeys feels off, like spitting into my own well.

Vassals converted in my Domain are Shadow creatures. My siblings’ vassals take other forms: the Death Domain breeds heart-hollow dolls, the Indulgence Domain breeds fleet fiend-beasts, and so on, like different storms born from different seas.

Sounds easy to recruit vassals, right? Let me finish the backdrop.

Throughout the Silver Era, the Ocean of Light and the Ocean of Darkness stood opposed like winter and summer—pure light and pure dark, right and wrong crossing blades endlessly.

So those who stood with the light kept the high souls the Creator first hammered into humanity. Ask a captured warrior to choose death or surrender, and most chose death, like leaves choosing frost.

After the Bronze Era, thanks to the Endless Demon King’s mischief, the Ocean of Darkness and the Ocean of Light mixed in the mortal world like two inks. The races stopped being titans of virtue; good and evil braided into every soul, a double helix in every breath.

As things are now, very few choose to fall. My target’s a hill behind a mountain; it won’t be easy.

This morning, I woke with that sour mood sitting on my chest like wet cloth, crawled out of bed, and got hit with:

“My languid master, since I worked so hard last night and didn’t attend to your bed, did you take care of it yourself?”

Miss Vega stood at my bedside, uniform immaculate, posture precise, a spear planted in fresh snow. She’d been waiting awhile.

“Vega, you’re back? How’d it go? Sorry I couldn’t scout myself. If the watchers see me missing, that’s a horn blown at midnight.”

“If you didn’t take care of it, why are you in post-clarity, my master?”

I’d planned to ignore it. Was she really going to run the joke to the end?

Or is she just grumbling that she worked through the night while her master slept like a log in autumn rain?

No, no, that’s what a maid is meant to do.

“Just tell me. How did it go?” I don’t mind the chatter trailing behind the knife.

“I’m not angry at all.” Clearly, Vega was still very much angry, a still lake hiding deep current.

“We both wear deadpan faces. I know you’re complaining. So talk. You’re already getting on my nerves.”

“My frigid master, are you sure you didn’t take care of it yourself?”

What is she getting at?

“Good timing. I didn’t get a chance either, so let’s cooperate.”

Vega flicked dust from her maid dress gathered during last night’s prowling. Her face stayed like carved jade.

Oh. I get it.

I peeled off my half-buttoned undershirt and crooked a finger at her like hooking starlight.

“Come here.”

“Mm. Leave it to me, my dear master.”

———

Sheets. Heat. Silence like a tide going out.

———

Life is full of things beyond your grip, like rain that slips through fingers. Even the highest seat among the Divine Beings isn’t spared; as long as you breathe, some event will scissor away from your predictions.

Among the twelve Primordial Deities who hold the world’s roots, the Wisdom God Haydon can look toward the future, and the History God Hestrey keeps the ledgers of the past. Yet among the gods there is no god of fate, no hand that knots every thread.

Even gods face moments where a greater presence makes them feel small, like ants beneath a passing shadow.

Let alone me. A Demon King is god-like but not a god—wielding god-tier authority without a god’s vast soul. And I haven’t even reached Demon King. Fate’s loom is far above my head.

In a sense, the Son of the Demon King hasn’t molted into a higher being; he’s still of the mortal stream, only a stronger current. He can’t see what lurks behind the painted scenery, behind the curtain that sways without wind.

Today I mock mortal frailty; tomorrow someone laughs at my smallness, an echo thrown off the cliff-face.

And yet, I still think I can steer the broad direction of my fate, like a captain choosing a star.

By my own strength—the strength I adore, detest, and fear, a fire in my ribs.

Vega took my clenched hand, unwound it gently like silk, and laced our fingers together.

“My sentimental master, this time it’s true post-clarity, isn’t it?”

“Maybe.”

I stepped to the window and stared at a sky not quite bright, or rather, at the easternmost star, a pin of ice above the rim of the world.

“Nightmare? Omen? Gut-feel? Whatever it is, you’ll swat it aside, right? Because my great master, you’re always the strongest.”

“Yeah. I am. I always was, and I’ll keep being the strongest.” I opened and closed my hand. “But, Vega, there are enemies in this world you can’t beat with strength.”

Some existences you can’t match, even as the “strongest,” because raw force doesn’t answer that kind of question.

“So, we’re not building the Demon King Army?”

“Of course we are. Many things only vassals can do, like roots holding up a tree.”

“Then you’ve got a goal, you’ve got a worst-case, and you’ve got a way to fight. What are you still lost about?”

“But—” I smiled, crooked as a scar. “The other side is too vast.”

The loss of a twig or leaf means nothing. You can lift mountains and still not jostle the sky. You can split the earth and still not crack the stars.

What’s the use of “strongest,” if in the end it’s just mutual ruin with another “strongest,” two meteors colliding in empty space?

“What’s that to us? They’re strong—so what, we can’t run? My indecisive master, drop your need to make every path end in flowers. If you’ll invade the mortal world, climb on human bones, and walk through the curses of the dead—didn’t you prepare to lose everything?”

Resolve? Of course I have it. My compass just wobbles, now and then.

“Of course.”

“Good. In the end, I still choose the master who stands firm.”

She didn’t smile, but on that impassive face I caught a little warmth, like sunlight slipping through shutters.

It made me fidget. I covered it with a flourish.

“By the way, Vega.”

“What is it, my can’t-stay-cool-for-three-seconds master?”

“Don’t say I can’t stay cool for three seconds… Do you know? I came back for you. For all of you.”

She turned with perfect maid poise, flawless as a blade-edge, but I still saw confusion in her eyes, a ripple under ice.

“…Came back? You mean, came to the mortal world? Please retract your flirt-line, though. My favorability toward you has stabilized and won’t increase.”

“I came from the future, and that future is dust. I saw the fall of the gods, the Demon Realm’s annihilation, and the mortal world’s decay. So I came back, hoping to find a better ending.”

At least this time I don’t want to become the Endless Demon King Andreas. Those who wish to destroy the world never find a good end, only ashes in their teeth.

“Forgive me, my baffling master. I don’t understand.”

I patted her head. The warmth I felt was enough, like embers that prove the fire exists.

“You don’t need to understand. Just know this—we’re working toward a better future.”

“You’re chasing happiness? That thing that doesn’t belong to the Demonfolk?”

It’s true, isn’t it.

“Don’t you want to come with me?”

“If it is your will, I’ll spend every drop of blood and splinter of bone in this body to walk beside you to the very end.”

She closed the talk with a bow and drifted to the kitchen to make breakfast, like a shadow returning to a sheath.

“Honestly.”

I fixed the collar I’d ruined a moment ago with too much motion.

“This time I meant it.”

And…

“And, Ferrel—forever…”

By accident, my eyes caught the eastern star again, flickering in the pale, mist-soft dawn.

———

Vega likes to joke when we’re talking business. I don’t mind; her efficiency more than repays the minutes spent, and she knows the boundary, laughing only where laughter fits like rain on a roof.

She’s the maid who reads hearts the best, and the vassal who gets things done the fastest, a knife that never rusts.

“Back to business. How’s it look with Stini Saya?”

After breakfast, we walked to the teaching hall. Today’s magitech allows precise teleportation, but we had time, and I wanted to discuss a few things, so we walked, two shadows moving with the wind.

I won’t run with bread in my mouth, and I won’t crash into a girl at a street corner.

“All normal, my cautious master. After parting, Miss Stini went straight back to her dorm to sleep.”

That proves nothing. A still pond can hide a snake.

“Her sleep onset was fast, and she slept deep.”

That also proves nothing. A deep lake can still conceal a whirlpool.

“I also took photos of Miss Stini’s sleeping face. Do you want them?”

Vega pulled a thick stack of photos from her pocket like pulling knives from a sleeve.

That proves even less!

“I don’t want them!”

I have Vega. Why would I need photos to, well, solve anything?

“Wise choice.” She flipped through the shots. “True arousal comes from a model posing on purpose, with a photographer choosing the perfect angles and light. These life shots will thrill Miss Stini’s admirers, but by professional artistic standards, they lack erotic charge.”

True enough. Stini’s slack, sleeping face stirs no heat rising from the marrow.

“Did you try poking her once—with a knife?”

“Vega, aren’t you good at assassination?” I asked, my voice a thin blade in the air.

“I’m terribly sorry, demanding Master. If I truly bore malice, you’d already need to revive me,” she said, cold silk over steel.

“Fair. I’ve never heard of a Hero dying to a dagger in the dark,” I thought, the idea a stone sinking in water.

“Forget it. Intel work is like sifting river silt; most of what you get is mud. Keep watching,” I said, the words a steady drumbeat. “Also, Vega—how’s recruiting retainers? That’s our most important task.”

“We’re still in the gathering phase,” she said, nets spread at dusk.

“So we haven’t pulled in a single retainer?” I asked, the hook coming up empty.

“We have two lower-class retainers. I ordered them to standby in the Shadow Realm,” she replied, like moths resting in a cave.

Lower-class… which means she snuffed two small animals or drifters somewhere, like pinching out candles.

“Pointless. Once we go to war with humans, that level will be as common as weeds,” I said, breath a dry wind.

I want mid-tier retainers with minds, with teeth. Grow them from gifted humans who choose the change—Vega’s seedbed of a job.

“I don’t yet know whose hearts waver, so I haven’t moved,” she said, reeds trembling in hidden water. “Pardon me, but this can’t be rushed. My anxious Master, please wait,” her tone a cool hand on a fever.

I get it; this isn’t handing out flyers—smile, wave, and move on like paper boats down a stream.

If you ask outright, “Do you want to be the Demon King’s retainer?”, there are only two paths: they agree with bright eyes, or we kill them, to keep the Demon King Army’s infiltration of the Academy from leaking, two blades in one sheath.

So I planned clean-looking bait. In the library, place a grimoire that only states the effect—transform into a shadow creature. Some hungry for power will bite, ink like bait on a hook.

Also mimic a devil’s bargain: in midnight hush, seek life’s failures, promise money or strength, and demand they convert, moonlight spilling in alleys.

But carrying this out is heavy labor. Even with Vega’s split-bodies for parallel tasks, it’s a mountain ants can’t move.

Mid-tier retainers aren’t always stronger, but the watershed is intellect, a river forking around a stone.

Right now I don’t need soldiers; I need managers, hands that can steer oars through dark water.

For the future, a seed buried in cold soil.

“We’re near the Servant Training Hall. That’s that—counting on you, Vega,” I said, steps like drums toward a gate.

“Yes. And please, my slacking Master, try a little. To become the Demon King, please… flirt with girls,” she said, a fan flicking laughter.

“You hesitated, then picked that word,” I said, plucking a thorn from the air.

“Push yourself. I’m sure you can find a better term,” I urged, rustling bushes for a phrase.

“Fickle-hearted,” she offered, a sparrow fluttering in the chest.

“Not a verb,” I said, the reply flat as a stone.

“Chase skirts,” she tried, like bees to blossom.

“Are you my lawful wife?” I asked, dust-dry humor.

“Rakish,” she said, wind in loose sleeves.

“I’m doing serious work; that word doesn’t fit here,” I said, iron under silk.

“Lecherous,” she said, eyes like greasy lanterns.

“Unclear meaning,” I said, fog on glass.

“Doing things that deserve castration,” she said, knife cold as moonlight.

“Enough! Let’s stick with ‘flirt with girls,’” I cut in, a line drawn like a blade.

“My brazen Master, it’s best you have self-awareness,” she said, smile a sharp fan.

After those impolite words, she bowed perfectly, then turned and left, a shadow slipping like water.

Without a blink, like cutting silk.

Hm… is she jealous? A vine curling around a stake.