Many days have drifted by since Augustus’s wreckage, like dust settling after a storm. I’m shamelessly slacking—fishing for time—while I heal, a leaf on a slow stream.
According to Vega, she planned a sapphic route with Raven, then convert Raven into a thrall. There’s no real progress yet—just the occasional “accidental” graze, like a moth brushing a lantern—so she hasn’t reported.
If she can grope Raven and Raven doesn’t blow up, isn’t that progress? That’s over the line. And Vega can’t perform the conversion rite on Raven; it would drop her rank like frost on spring buds.
As an upper-tier thrall, Vega can at most relay access within the Shadow domain to convert mid-tier thralls. That would waste Raven’s high potential, like fitting a hawk with sparrow chains.
So I unilaterally halted her “strategy.” She’ll pivot into Raven’s friend and assist me, like wind helping a kite catch height.
After many patient explanations, we can’t claim a full capture. But at least Raven’s affection isn’t in the negatives; no winter chill now, if not yet spring. Vega keeps presence during Raven’s free hours, sometimes takes her out, planting pebbles along the path. Raven and I are “acquaintances.” If one hundred affection means marriage, we’re at about seven—a candle stub, not yet a torch.
The road to conquest stretches long, like a mountain path swallowing mist.
After the Augustus incident, many classrooms lay smashed, like shells after a wave. The school couldn’t resume classes and simply assigned students to repair the campus as practicum, turning rubble into a lesson.
The martial arts kids hauled bricks like ants. The Magitech Department raised houses with new Constructs, gears humming like cicadas. Magitech Applications ran errands, broom and bucket like oars. The Alchemy crowd brewed new building mixes, bubbles like little moons. Diviners sketched plans, lines gliding like cranes. Destruction kids fired bricks and cooked, flame licking like fox-tails. Mythology kids layered blessings, whispering like rain on pine.
Everyone worked too happily, speed outracing quality like a river outrunning its banks. The main hall warped into a twisted Demon King Castle, a grinning silhouette under the sun.
Then the principal—ah, the principal already ran like a startled hare. The vice principal waved a big hand and said tear it down and build again, wind-swept decisiveness.
The new term had barely begun when my coursework paused, a bell cut mid-ring.
By the way, I’m one of the two heavy casualties from the “Hero rampage” incident, so I got leave approved. Each day is wide as a valley, time to lay foreshadowing stones and recruit mid-tier thralls.
I also finished moving from the student dorm to Stini’s estate. Her place is lined with demon-head décor, grinning like masks under lantern light.
The other heavy casualty, Stini, also got leave, and she’s not happy, like thunder trapped under glass.
Stini carries a Hero’s bloodline, but humans rank lowest among the Primordial Nine Races. She’s half-crippled for now, a bow with a cracked limb.
As I said, to pay debt, Stini sold her estate to me. She kept some spare coin and checked into a hotel, a swallow nesting in a borrowed eave.
How to put it—Stini can endure the open sky as an adventurer, wind in her bowl and dew on her pillow. But at heart she’s a pampered lady, silk under armor.
She can’t manage money; she buys whatever she likes, like a magpie chasing shiny things. She doesn’t plan, and she’s... cheerful, sunlight even in rain.
So with all that mixed, three days after we signed, Miss Stini dragged her sickly body to her own house—now mine—and asked for a job, pride folded like a fan.
I was on a date with Raven then. According to Vega, Miss Stini had sold all her gear except the Holy Sword Yingfeng. She showed up in a thin dress, pitiful as a willow in late autumn.
Considering I want to pursue both routes—Raven and Stini—Vega signed a five-year maid contract with Raven. The strictly non-bedroom kind, tea and dusting, not sheets and sighs.
Fine. If I suggest it, it’s abrupt. If Stini jumps in herself, it lands like rain on thirsty soil.
Everything stays peaceful—
Except my dear brother Yakfarro. He’s done nothing, which rings louder than drums. That’s why we stay alert, eyes on the tall grass.
Against peers, my mana use is rough-hewn, and my senses are dull as fogged glass. I’ve sealed myself into human form; I’m not at full strength. I feel no ripple in the pond.
Vega’s the fine-operations expert. She often catches that “obscene, filthy stench that could corrode a nose”—Yakfarro’s residual mana, a smear on the wind.
“That’s how it is. Every day’s busy,” I say, words like tired feathers.
I can’t date Raven every hour. Most of the time, I rely on Vega’s “multi-line operation”—autonomous shadows like split streams—to monitor her. That’s my thrall’s signature skill, Wily Shadow-Wander, footsteps like ink flowing.
My thralls know skills I don’t. Back in the Demon Realm, I put enemies down with one sweep, and built a bad habit of hating practice. My blade sang; my discipline slept.
“I do enjoy your jokes, Master. You either date or think about how to date. You’re not busy at all. You’ve contributed nothing useful to the Demon King Army’s current situation. It’s been half a month. Raven’s affection ticked up by a whisper. She even complained to me that your invitations are a bit much,” Vega says, voice like a cool gust.
Raven really said that? And why complain to you?
“Quit nagging. I’m thinking about the future of the Demon King Army,” I mutter, lifting the blanket, my tone limp as damp paper.
Why does Vega’s voice get worse every time after our bedchamber time? Is that the girls’ “sage time,” a post-bloom chill?
I don’t like that kink that only pleases masochists. It’s thorns without roses.
“I’m also using a Son of the Demon King’s method to scout Yakfarro’s plans,” I claim, tossing a pebble into the pond.
That line’s false. In Andor’s full prime, I could use mana resonance, a high-cost spell, to sense his moves like fish under moonlight. Now I’m merely a strong human. At most, I can guard against surprise by instinct, like a cat bristling. Fine-grained sensing is beyond me.
Yakfarro’s stealth shines among the Sons of the Demon King, shadow within shadow. Maybe because I disliked his temper and beat him often, he learned fine operations and stealth to dodge me, a fox learning to flow under brambles.
I won’t admit that’s my fault.
Vega reads my awkwardness and lets it go, sighing like wind through reeds. “In short, your blood brother has plotted long. It won’t be a small action. My useless master, please keep your vigilance and don’t drown in romance.”
“Relax. Romance is work, not play. I have no余韵 to enjoy peaceful days yet. I know well the storm and blood we’ll stir. Also—”
I tilt my head to the starfield, ink-deep and unbleached. I think of the kingdoms among the stars, the gods, the Primordial Nine Races, visitors from beyond, the future, fate—and Ferrel, a name like a blade wrapped in silk.
The weather’s superb. Only a few shreds of cloud drift, ornament on a vast canvas, making the sky tower higher. It’s a day meant for going out, boots and breeze.
By my count, the timing ripens like fruit.
By Hero Academy custom, every three years the principal leads a team of professors on a tour of nations for academic reports. This year the principal bolted, a hare over a fence. The vice principal stayed on campus, but the professors departed days ago, luggage clacking like beetles.
Without the strongest to suppress them, who knows what feuding professors will spark abroad. What’s certain is that inside Hero Academy, only Vice Principal Gugwen remains. Our power is hollowed out, a hall with echoes.
It’s the best time to invade, a door left ajar.
“Also, I think Yakfarro’s moment will be that official practicum—the three-day trial to hunt monsters,” I say, tasting iron like rain.
The Academy splits into two groups. Sophomores and juniors lead the freshmen into real combat, like older cranes guiding fledglings. The powerful seniors remain on campus; after repairing buildings, their mana and stamina are drained. Perfect for being picked off, stones rolled one by one.
No better chance in the near future. For me, and for Yakfarro, bait and hook dangling on the same line.
“Let’s see who’s the mantis and who’s the sparrow. Who swallows the bait and spits the hook. Who takes the blame upon themselves. Let’s test it, dear brother.”
Finally, a sentence worthy of the Demon King—though aimed at internal strife, a blade turned inward.
