Ten in the morning, outer ring of the Ironwood Forest, the sun a dim coin behind leaf-armor.

Most trunks here are Fenger ironwood, grain like forged steel and bark like old mail. It’s the forest’s proud export, the hardwood people split and slice against, the timber for training swords and blades, sturdy as an anvil.

It feels like a rain jungle, air wet as steamed cloth. Fenger ironwood spreads broad leaves like shields, swallowing the light. The understory sits black as a closed theater.

Predators creep like thorns under fur. Carnivorous plants yawn like green mouths. It stays dark in day or night, a cave stretched across miles. So logging is hard, like mining in fog. The forest is vast as a sea, yet each year the haul is a trickle.

“Vega, I hate that villain who pops up at the key moment, says ‘I’ve seen through everything,’ then wrecks the board.” My mood was gritty as sand in my teeth. I swung Valor. Bushes snapped like brittle bones. We hacked a path through a green maze.

“I know the author uses that to paint the villain as evil and strong.” My chest felt tight like a drumhead. “But it hands them intel they couldn’t have. It lets them predict the impossible. The darkness feels too strong. The good side gets ground down like wheat. Doesn’t it feel fake?”

Vega followed, a shadow on my heel, rain-damp soil clinging like tar. She thought the forest was too wet, so she hopped stump to stump, her steps light as birds on reeds, always elegant.

“My master, full of grumbles like wind in bamboo, has tasted the pain of starting a business. And now you’re critiquing the stories we swim in?”

“Only the second half’s right.” My heart loosened, a knot untied. “And I’m not full of grumbles. I’ve read a stack of novels just to chat with Raven. Forget plots for a sec. The enemy-versus-us balance is terrible now. Where there’s light, there’s shadow. The brighter the light, the deeper the shadow. Neither wipes the other out. Right and wrong grow together, clash together, mirror each other like twin moons on a lake. That’s a real world’s scale.”

She thought, a pause like dew hanging on a blade. “You mean the usual novels make the enemy too strong?”

“Yeah.” My tone cooled like evening water. “The Demon Realm has monsters like my old man, strong as mountains breaking. The Starry Sky Divine Kingdom has Head, just as heavy. The sides balance like weights on a beam. There’s no crush.”

A lone protagonist challenging a whole nation? A player trying to topple the GM? It’s not science; it’s a boy punching a storm.

“You’re right,” Vega said. Her wrist flicked, a silver arc, short knife spinning like a hailstone. “The last Barloa man-eating rabbit. Please pull its fangs.” Her voice felt clean as glass. “You can’t deny that one side can overwhelm the other in history. Maybe short as a lightning flash, but total overwhelm can exist.”

“I can’t deny that.” The certainty sat heavy, like a stone in a pocket. “If one hero ends an era, or overturns a lopsided power gap, that can be a fine story. I just hate when people exaggerate the enemy’s power to make the hero’s struggle look hard, like putting mountains on stage just to show sweat.”

Every story builds on a setup. Story first, logic next. Even absurd worlds can be accepted, like a dream that holds. What I can’t accept is throwing out logic for drama, or betraying your own rules, like a map that lies.

“The Demon King falls for the Hero. They fight for peace across the continent.” My breath steadied like drawn bowstring. “Sure. But the opposition’s too strong. The Demonfolk tear themselves apart, the Demon King nearly loses the throne. The other side has crushing economy and military. The Hero’s power—the strongest asset—gets stolen by random magic.”

I’d just healed, and here I was swinging like a laborer. Muscles burned like coals under skin, all of them complaining like a chorus. But the fire inside didn’t gutter. Under ash, it licked and kept burning.

“This kind of plot begs to be roasted.” Frustration prickled like nettles. “If those two never met, the Demon King would hold the Demon Realm tight as iron bands. The Hero would unite humans who weren’t that strong anyway. It feels like the author made a super-strong foe because the plot needed one. Being toyed with like that? Awful.”

There are tools, simple as shadows: assassination, framing, shirking. Use them, and the plot can tilt in your favor like a table with one leg sawed off.

A villain wriggles out after a crime with slimy words. A hero makes a small mistake and gets a hammer. Cops die saving a caught criminal, like straw burned to save embers. You could give a killing blow to a criminal doomed by law, but mercy stays the hand. Then comes the stab back. The girl dies to save the hero, her life spilled like a dropped cup.

Put simply, I’m sick of low-IQ novels. My stomach turns like tide water.

“My small-minded master,” Vega said, tone smooth as silk with a hidden crease, “try to forgive. In countless parallel worlds, there’ll be structures like those stories. And across countless copies of the same structure, there’ll be countless different protagonists with different souls. However absurd, however foolish, however fickle, it can exist.”

Then another problem rose like mist.

“What I hate is the overall development.” The feeling came first, sour as green plums. “I hate its lack of reason, not its possibility. If it’s as you say, then I’ll hate the protagonist.”

No power. No wisdom. No awareness. No thought about what they want. No weigh of the price they’ll pay. No leash on their feelings or feet.

“Most protagonists,” I said, cold as a winter stream, “are hopelessly foolish.”

“Undeniable.” She smiled like a knife with no reflection. “On that, we agree, my twisted master.”

Vega bowed deep, her posture like a reed bent by wind. That bow closed the talk like a door.

“Don’t call me twisted.” I grinned, heat like spice on the tongue. “Though yes, I play heavy at night.”

We still didn’t land a clean answer that could be truth with a capital T. Maybe truth doesn’t exist anyway. Among the Primordial Deity, there’s no god of Truth. Ideas are relative, crossing like threads on a loom. In a way, this is Narrow’s domain. Different cases, different answers. No single lecture, no absolute truth.

Then what about justice?

“Hey, Vega, a joke.” My mood lifted like a lantern. “You know devils?”

She didn’t bother, silence like a closed fan.

“Devils don’t match Demonfolk.” I let the thought drip like resin. “Demonfolk rule ‘negative things in the world.’ Devils rule ‘human negative emotions.’ You can’t say that side is stronger. The funny bit? One devil’s authority domain is ‘Justice.’”

So any act or speech under the banner of justice feeds that devil, like prayers feeding a god.

“Hilarious. Before I met that guy, I thought it was an urban legend.”

“Urban legend?” Vega only cared about the new word, her interest like a cat’s flicked ear. “Not funny? A ‘justice’ devil?”

Hmm. Maybe her humor line is high as a cliff. Or my jokes are too bent. Best not dig.

I checked the Barloa fangs for the task, and rabbit meat for lunch. The fangs gleamed like pale moons. The meat waited like wrapped warmth.

Good. Very good.

I’m the kind who finishes summer homework in the first few days, clearing the field like a farmer before harvest. Do the necessary work early, leave the rest time soft as afternoon shade.

Task items submit in groups. No lower limit on team size. Upper limit, six. That’s because higher-tier combat moves as squads of six, a pack like wolves. And it leaves a path for loners with teeth, the ones who walk alone like night rivers.

Which means we spent half a day, two people, and finished a six-person, three-day hunt. Easy as breathing.

Barloa man-eating rabbits stay agile and bright, eyes sharp as needles. They burrow and ambush, simple tactics like snares. An average squad needs ages to kill one.

On our side: I cut the way, machete of momentum. Any rabbit in my sight, Vega kills with a thrown short knife, one hit like a falling star.

I tried throwing my Greatsword too. Three misses, a shame like rain on a celebration. One hit turned a rabbit into paste, meat like red mash, fangs shattered into grit. Unsubmittable, useless as wet paper.

So all kills went to Miss Vega after that, knives whispering like rain.

Anyway…

“While reading, I had a thought.” Curiosity flickered like foxfire. “If villains are too strong and heroes too weak, why not join the villain side?”

Raven and I are both deadpan. Even so, I can read her face when it writes, “You’re a pain. Could you please shut up?” That sentence sits like chalk on a board.

“Think about it.” My mind sharpened like a blade on stone. “Our biggest problem is hiding our tracks, right?”

Novel heroes pull off jailbreaks and assassinations with so much fuss it squeaks. They get exposed anyway, and their methods are child’s play, toys tossed at a war.

“Take a jailbreak.” I sorted it into steps, beats like drum taps. “Get the prison map. Slip in and tell the prisoner to cooperate. Strike when no one expects. Kill every guard. And at every step, no identity leaks. Don’t pretend to be a noble to get intel. Later investigations trace who could’ve gotten the info. Boom, you’re exposed.”

So—

I put on the mask I carved over days, a labor like whittling a totem. It taught me a simple truth: everyone’s gifts differ like fingerprints. “See? With this, we can do so much. No one knows where we went. No one knows what we did. No one knows what we hid. We could assassinate Gloria, princess of the Steel Nation, and no one would know.”

Random killings are hard to trace because motive is a blank wall. Not love, not hate, just a blade in fog.

Kill a person, rob a bank, and I walk free, footprints erased by rain. The suspect pool is a sea. I show no tilt toward crime. The storm scatters the scent like ash.

Police hate sudden events, bolts out of blue sky.

“So,” Vega said, chin raised like a drawn bow, “my proud master, you just want to show off your new mask?”

“Uh…” My face felt hot, like steam under a lid.

“Also, you’re a Shadow being.” Her tone was ice in a cup. “Just shift your face shape. No need for a mask, right?”

“Sorry. I wanted to show off the mask.” The admission tasted like bitter tea.

“Then please shut up.” Her eyes narrowed like slits in armor. “My avatar is reporting enemy movement in the Ironwood Forest. Unlike you, I’m not out here to play.”

“Okay… ah, right…” Her expression soured, a bruise on fruit. Such a waste on a delicate face.

“Since we’re idle,” I said, voice bright as struck flint, “let’s loot corpses.”

“…”

“So, uh, what now?” The wait stretched like taffy. “Before Yakfarro moves, we can only sit on our hands.”

Even I can feel it now, the stink of the ‘Lust’ authority domain, sour as spoiled wine. It tries to seep into student activity zones, to split teams and slaughter them like sheep. At Yakfarro’s current speed, they need five or six hours to make the infiltration bite.

Augustus killed Anfran of the ‘War’ authority domain on the Thornspike Plain, a death like thunder flattening hills.

“Thornspike isn’t far from the Ironwood Forest, right?” My pulse hit quick like drumbeats. “Let’s loot Anfran’s corpse.”

Her eyes went worse, dull as old glass. Did I say something bad?

“...Can’t I satisfy you anymore?” Her voice dripped disgust like acid. “My revolting master, do you really want to work on a cold corpse…”

Stop!

I found the fork in our road, a split like a river branch.

“Let me ask.” I kept calm, water over stone. “In your mind, does ‘looting corpses’ mean venting lust?”

“Is there another meaning?” She wasn’t playing me; her tone stayed flat as slate.

“Looting corpses means searching the body for reusable items.” My words were clean as spring water. “No waste. Nothing gross. No sleaze.”

“No?”

“Really no.”

“Oh. Then fine.” She shrugged, light as a leaf. “Let’s go, my dawdling master.”

Vega finished and ran toward the Thornspike Plain, feet like arrows, escaping like a swift deer.

She’s strict with my mistakes, lenient with hers, a balance like a tilted scale. Good. I’ve got material to tease her later.

Also, this easy talk was a tasty appetizer before a big battle, a small dish with spice.

Warmth in my chest, a soft ember, I chased after her, my steps cutting through the dark like a silver thread.