Premise: I crossed Stini because I was courting Raven, so we fought a gentleman’s duel. Blood ran thin, tempers flared, and we both stepped into the Godspeed Realm to settle it.

In broad daylight, stars hung in midair; starlight braided with sunlight, crossing and refracting, dreamlike and songlike, like frost and flame dancing.

A keening arc of swordlight cut through, soundless yet heavy with ruin, like a scythe for the sky and a hammer for the earth.

From the arena’s heart, a black river of cracks crawled toward the main teaching hall and the potion gardens, nearly three kilometers long, twenty meters wide.

Stini and I leapt together, then dropped together, twin hawks falling through broken sun.

Splurt. Cough, cough.

Her insides hemorrhaged; half a lung shattered. I was no better, five vertebrae cracked, my chest caved like a crushed drum.

“I… you…”

I forced a voice out, but only hollow wind came, like breath through a cracked flute.

Looks like my lungs were shot too, bellows torn and leaking.

Even coughing blood, I had to speak, anger burning like dry pine catching.

I heaved my torso out of rubble, teeth grinding, and yelled at the bastard who cleaved us and bolted like a shadow.

“Augustus! You bastard!”

Yes. Before we could finish it, Stini’s father intervened—Augustus Saya, head of the Hero Academy, the real Hero, Demon King Slayer.

They call him the Aberrant Knight, the Strongest of Humankind, Dragonscale Breaker, the Gunblade of Judgment, titles like banners snapping in storm wind.

Only he could carve a strike like that, earthshaking and near-miraculous, like thunder written into steel.

Maybe he wanted to prevent deaths. Maybe he feared our Godspeed collision wrecking the arena. Maybe he meant to snip our duel and reel his blade back.

Either way, he missed a hair, and the shockwave hammered the ground like a meteor.

Dozens of students were injured in the arena. No deaths in the main hall, but injuries were still being counted, numbers like ants under a boot.

The arena’s barrier shattered completely. Potion and Applied students were rebuilding, weaving light like tailors mending a torn sky.

The potion gardens lost many precious plants. The potion students fought to save them, hands moving like bees in a bruised field.

The main hall’s maze-lock was badly damaged. Vice Principal Gugwen held it together, hands steady as iron on a wavering door.

Classes kept most students in the hall, so no one died in the damaged residential blocks, but the loss bled coin like a cut artery.

When the dust settled, the bill landed like a mountain.

“Stini, will you sell me Galewind? I’ll pay high.”

White is what a hospital tastes like. Even the Goddess of Life Shrine paints its wards white, a world bleached to bone and cloud.

White bed, white sheets, white curtains. If not for the window’s color, you’d think you’d fallen into a black-and-white dream.

I set down the damage report and liability ledger Vega gave me, turned my not-yet-mended body, and passed the school’s bill to Stini.

We were wardmates by chance, twin boats moored beside each other; her dad had already run, hiding like mist in ravines.

…

She wouldn’t take the bill. She hid beneath the quilt, playing dead, not moving, her emerald hair dulled like leaves after hail.

Ah, a life’s a circle of debts and dodging collectors, shivering in ruins for a few days, heart skittering like a startled bird.

Things don’t always bend to strength; some knots need thought, wisdom, work. And maybe a job, Ms. Hero… pfft.

“Andor, you laughed! You definitely laughed… hiss—”

She flung the quilt, glared, sprang like a coiled spring, and then collapsed as pain bit like a steel trap.

Yep, meltdown. Then she curled and played dead again, a hedgehog ball under cold moon.

Her usual quick tongue vanished. Stini was tangled up inside, a bright-flame girl smothered to embers.

Hard to force a girl of vitality into quiet like that. A rare moment; mocking her now would be a waste… and a sin.

“I mean…” I shut my mouth. Silence fell like snow.

Forget it. A demonfolk doesn’t plant future trouble for a moment’s cheap line.

Hmm… try this instead:

“Stini, your family owes a mountain, right?”

…

“Your dad, the current Hero, ran. Even if you reach him, he can’t pay, right?”

…

Of course. Why else would Augustus bolt like a ghost?

“Your mom, the elf saint Ibella. Can she cover it?”

…

Seems not.

“In the Seven Kingdoms, or among the Primordial Nine Races, the Hero has friends. Will any of them pay for you?”

…

So the great Augustus lived half a life for nothing, couldn’t even find someone to lend him coin.

“Then how about I lend it to you?”

We lay in neighboring beds; hers was by the window. She faced away, a cocoon under white cloth. I couldn’t see her face.

But her body went taut the heartbeat I finished speaking, a bowstring under frost.

She still played dead, breath tucked like a fox in winter grass.

“You know this. Back when you carved me up, I still had money. I can lend you enough to pay the bill.”

Right, time to grind the Hero girl’s favor, ticking hearts like lanterns lighting a street.

“Ha…”

What did she say?

“Hahahahaha—ahh. I, Stini Saya, am reduced to charity!”

She flung the quilt and botched it, tugging at stitches. She sprang and fell again, pain stamping her like a hoof.

No, I said lend, not give. You still have to repay, rain or shine.

Also, why did you force me to spell out numbers?

“It’s just fifty-three thousand Colonna gold coins. You think I can’t earn that?”

I think you can’t, even if you sold yourself, even if you turned moonlight into coin.

Colonna gold coins are minted in the Iron Kingdom Colonna, pure and well-enchanted, used for big trades, shining like wheat in sun.

One coin covers a month’s living in the City of Heroes, bread and roof, not glory.

She was too hyped. I waited for the heat to burn down, like embers settling.

“I @#$%$%—”

Meaning unknown. She burned out after that, smoke thinning to sky.

Two seconds later, she popped up like a dying candle’s last flare and lunged at me.

“Idiot! Don’t rush me! If it doesn’t hurt you, it still hurts me!”

“Please, lend me the money! Dad ran. Mom’s fighting him and won’t pay. I’m wounded and can’t flee. Please!”

“Or else I’ll be a sacrifice to irresponsible parents! Or else, or else I could…”

She started tugging my pants, desperate fingers like claws in the dark.

I didn’t want this to cross the line, not now, not like this, not tangled in stitches and need.

But it’s consensual, a tide pulling two boats. Maybe…

“Then my future husband becomes my real husband, and my future husband’s money becomes my money, hehe.”

I’ve doubted this a hundred times, but again—this girl, a Hero? I flicked her forehead, a pop like a pebble on ice.

“Let go of me!” “No!”

We wrestled on the bed, two wounded cats clawing air, pain ringing like iron inside bone.

Five minutes later…

Two idiots who hurt each other lay on the same bed, faces flushed, panting like oxen under noon sun.

Don’t misunderstand. It started as a clothing tug-of-war and escalated into joint locks, nothing else, no blush beyond heat.

“Haah. So, now you get it—selling yourself won’t make real money, right?”

“Haah, haah. That’s not even a saying.”

“I mean this. As a woman, your value is purity, candor, independence, making men reach but not touch, like stars above water.”

“If you turn your value straight into cash, selling yourself is the sharpest way to devalue yourself.”

Devalue literally. Turn jade into gravel. Burn silk for a single night’s warmth.

I couldn’t accept that, not as her fated rival under the same sky.

“Really?”

“Now you’re calm, right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Then let’s talk?”

“Let’s talk.”

“First question. You tugged my pants for real, didn’t you?”

She turned her head away, dodging my eyes like a deer avoids lanterns.

“But I’m desperate. Dad left a mountain of bills and ran. Mom went home. It’s just me, bearing it alone.”

She gripped my sleeve, knuckles white like frost on rope, then let go, jaw set like a blade.

“I just felt something off in you. My future husband shouldn’t be like you. He should look at me, only me.”

“I don’t have time to wait for you to change. I don’t have time to watch you slowly turn. So I acted out. So I dueled.”

“I can’t accept it. For such a simple reason, I ended up owing this much money,” she said, voice quiet and airy, like bells in fog.

“That’s the second question. Why did you block me from getting closer to Raven?”

“Andor, there’s no love in your eyes. Not for me, not for Raven. You’re not holding feelings.”

She was right. The arrow landed like rain on dry soil, no sound, all weight.

“Then why am I approaching you?”

Strip Andor of masks, and you find a hollow packed with plans and reasons, a demonfolk of frost, bloodless and tearless.

I didn’t love Raven. Stini felt that truth, a cold stone under warm water.

“Andor, you come because you need to. Because there’s a reason. That reason isn’t love.”

She hesitated, a sparrow at a window, then flew on.

“I don’t know if I should stop you, or how to stop you. I don’t even know if my ideas are right.”

“I’m confused. I don’t know what to do. So I can only knock you down and block you.”

Her logic sounded tangled, threads crossing like vines on an old wall.

Think hard, and it’s true. She’s like that—her wandering matches the image I have of her, a blade lost in fog.

After Augustus dies, she will wander more, hiding doubt behind strength, cutting demonfolk to fill a hollow that never fills.

Even Heroes get lost. She turns that lostness into strength, chewing granite until she finds a path, even if it’s foolish.

“Poor—no, pitiful—little one…”

I wrapped her shoulders, letting warmth speak, saying I was here, a lantern in rain.

Then I let go, telling her I wasn’t pitying her, not looking down from a tall horse.

This time, I’ll lie. I’ll spin a world with words, a myth with breath, like weavers making skycloth.

I sighed so lightly you’d mistake it for wind.

“Stini, do you know what love is? Have you been in love? Have you received love? No?”

“Then how can you be sure I haven’t fallen for Stini?”

“No. You haven’t.”

People with sharp intuition are annoying, like needles hiding in silk.

“Then what about liking? Admiration? Praise? Yearning? Wanting to become lovers, wanting to learn to love?”

“Those aren’t love yet, but are they sins? Where did I err?”

“Ah, that…”

So sharp doesn’t mean right. The compass spins in a thunderstorm.

Keep the flow, keep the lie rolling like a river after rain.

“So you get it. Even without love, liking her and walking toward love is blameless.”

“Still wrong. You feel colder, more calculating, more… rational.”

A trick of talk is to throw mist over paths, use unprovable threads to tangle thought, like fog on a cliff road.

“Hey now. Do you actually want to marry me? I like Raven. Can the Hero’s house stomach a harem?”

“Two brides at once? Are you demanding the title of main wife?”

“H-harem…”

She blushed, cherry over snow, confusion blooming like peony in sudden spring.

Good. Thought tangled. Next—

“Could it be you’re just jealous of Raven?”

“Besides, if you think I’m your future husband, have you fallen for me yet? There’s no love, yet you shackle me alone—that’s a one-sided chain, not fair.”

Heroes have vices like any folk, but in the Silver Era they were the chosen, those cradled by the Sea of Light; their souls stayed clean—fairness, respect, love of peace, and the courage to sacrifice, like a banner in clear wind.

A Hero can’t bear crossing their own line in the sand. For those with crushing power, the world can’t leash right or wrong; keeping that line is the only mirror they have left.

Also, what I said is true—or even if it’s smoke, you can’t catch it to prove otherwise.

Stini’s mood sank like a dimmed lantern. Good—now the fault drifts onto her side like a tossed hot coal.

Still, I shouldn’t press too hard; I’d rather keep the bridge unburned between us.

I hauled myself up like a creaking door and took out paper and pen.

“I’ll lend you the money—no interest. But write IOUs, ten of them. Each IOU is worth 5,300 Colonna gold coins. When you’ve got money, redeem them one by one. How’s that?”

Stini’s brows drew tight like a bent bow.

“That good? Then you—”

Truth is, what I value most is raising a Hero’s favor, like filling a hidden gauge.

“As the price, I want your house and Galewind—each offsets one IOU. Things like a Holy Sword can’t be priced; if it can be bought, no matter how costly, the money goes down. That’s how the rich set their scales.” I laid it out, chips neat on the table. “What do you think?”

Stini still hovered on the ledge of doubt like a bird in wind.

“But Galewind is my family’s heirloom. I can’t give it to you…”

“Then Galewind’s ownership goes to me, but usage stays with Stini Saya—return on death. Title with a lifetime lease. Deal?”

Forget it—getting her house alone is a solid stone in the hand.

“Mm… fine.”

Unwilling, she said it and wrote eight IOUs, ink drying like dusk.

If anyone’s taking the bitter herb here, it’s me.

Whatever. Money means little to us Demonfolk; a Hero’s IOU is something no mountain of coin can buy, like a winter fire.

I scanned every line, each clause like a stitch—sound, legal, binding. Maybe one day, when my mask rips, this thin paper could be a talisman to spare my neck.

Eh—more likely she’d strike colder then, kill me clean, and take the paper back like plucking a leaf.

“Good. Now you’ve got cash to settle the bill, Stini. Cheer up—I’ll buy you a drink.”

“But my house is gone, and Galewind feels like a kite-string slipping from my fingers.”

She dabbed the corner of her eyes, a smile cracking like porcelain.

“Hey, Andor, you’re treating, right?”

“No problem! Ah—your wounds are worse. Mine are fine. I’ll go get the drinks. Wait for me.”

“Mm. I’ll wait.”

She gave a honey-sweet smile and sank back onto the bed like a petal to silk.

Someone expects you, waits for you—what’s that feeling called? Gentle as a lamb? Or… the hearth-light of a home? Don’t make me laugh. I don’t need it.

“Oh, right, Stini—one more favor.”

“What is it?” She lifted her head a little, like a bud tipping toward sun.

Her tone had softened, like warmed water. Because of the debt?

“Would you… ah, sorry. Forget it.”

“Come on—if you haven’t thought it through, don’t tease me with it.”

I’d wanted to invite her to my place as a maid—not that kind. Good bonds grow by steady contact, like moss on stone, one slow green layer at a time.

Forget it. The maids I have already fray my nerves. And letting a Hero into the Demon King Castle—the dorm, for now—isn’t wise. I don’t want Stini sweeping in while we’re planning to conquer the world.

I changed into going-out clothes with weak, jerky motions, stepped from the ward, and slid the door shut for Stini like closing a paper screen.

I halted, heels settling like pins.

“Report, Vega. What’ve you got this time?”

From the blind corner by the door, the black-haired, black-eyed maid dipped a small bow, a teasing crescent on her lips.

“My amorous master, while you were courting thunder, I recruited your first mid-tier retainer. Also, one of your younger siblings slipped into this school through a crack in the Hero Academy’s ward-lock, like a hatch in a shell. Think they came to visit their still-aching brother?”

Of course—dagger in the sleeve, not flowers. Vega added it with a smile.