What… is that, my all-knowing master?

Vega stared at the thorn-plain gone barren, a field breathing black, venomous haze like a dying swamp. Inky poison ran where clear rivers should, and the earth split like parched lips. The plants that once carpeted the land lay dead, or had twisted into something else—horrors with sap for bile and leaves like fangs.

It should’ve been a green plain, thorn-flowers in bloom like stars scattered on jade.

Only when she wants something does Vega praise me with zero respect, a cat purring with its claws out.

She means no harm; she’s malice by nature, not by intent. I’m magnanimous enough to let it slide.

What do you think it looks like?

The Demon Realm.

Right.

That is the Demon Realm.

A Demon Realm birthed by the negative mana that spilled when a Son of the Demon King died. Like the gloom hanging over any Demon King Castle that still stands in the mortal world, the Demon Realm forms when the Demon King erodes the human realm with a domain of negative authority. After Anflan was cut down by Augustus, all that mana burst free, and the battlefield curdled into this.

In other words, if I wanted a Demon King Castle, it’d be easy—find a little brother or sister and kill them. They’re villains who merit worse, and I still owe them for that ambush.

Mm, later. First, the body. But the mana miasma’s too thick; I can’t feel where the source lies…

Are you demonfolk as well?

The voice cut my sensing like a blade through cobwebs.

What—

A heartbeat ago, nothing. A breath ago, only air. Then a knight in silver armor stood there, abrupt as a dropped star. Space seemed to hollow around him; his mere presence pressed down, pinning the negative mana like a boot on a serpent.

I knew he was only human—the weakest of the Primordial Nine Races—yet he carried himself like he could hold up the sky with one hand.

Greatness, grandeur, hero—he had long since outstripped those words like a river outgrowing its banks.

Strongest of humankind. Strongest under heaven.

He was—

Vega, look. The debtor Hero showed up—the Hero who owes fifty-three thousand Colonna gold coins.

…

…

Not funny? I just want a bright, relationship-building opener. We didn’t come to fight, after all.

Vega, Vega, look—the debtor Hero—no, the debtor’s his daughter now. Ahahaha. Raged and ran, tossed a mountain of debt on his poor lonely girl, and bolted—some Hero, right? Pff—hah!

…

…

Why won’t you laugh with me? I thought trading barbs meant we were getting along.

Do you really want to die?

Mana roared from the silver armor, a storm breaking from a sealed sea. Wind-pressure shaved a layer off the ground. The miasma blew away in a single blast. The shock slammed into me; I almost went down, skidding like a leaf in gale.

Fine. Then I’ll use your head for a battle standard—no, I’ll send it to the Temple of Value, get a bigger loan, and save Stini!

Still paying loans, huh. A real player clears the quest list for the list’s sake, not for the reward. For a Hero of Augustus’s rank, that’s about as down bad as it gets.

He should just join the Demon King Army. We’ve got full benefits and a pension, all paperwork legit, and we welcome anyone with ambition.

Wait—what actually comes in that benefits package again? I made it to the late Black-Iron stage and still don’t know.

Another surge of mana hit, a tide pounding a pier.

I didn’t step back. I didn’t fall. No matter how strong the enemy, a villain doesn’t lose face. That’s our one true technique.

In other words, you’re posing. My hot-blooded master, shouldn’t you retreat? He hurt you just by releasing mana, whispered Vega.

It’s just a scratch; I’ll be fine in a few seconds. Augustus’s release wasn’t even an attack, more like pre-battle warmups and slogans.

In this human-shift of mine—

I can’t beat him at all. I can say that with pride.

I can be proud of my judgment.

By the way, Vega, why did you treat fighting as our default plan?

Running into Augustus wasn’t on the chart, sure, but I prepared for encirclement. Did everyone think villains, like protagonists, scream and flail when the plan bumps into a surprise? When you’re invading and bump into someone like Augustus—righteous, powerful, and worst of all fond of wandering—I planned for that.

You plot success, you plot failure, and you plot the sudden squalls. Only then can you claim the plan is watertight.

Only then do you qualify as the protagonist.

I pulled a white flag from my shadow, cloth pale as a moonfish. Time to wield a power despised by the world in the Silver Era—the power of language.

I come in peace and don’t wish to fight. Hero, will you hear me out?

Show goodwill, and show power.

I loosed a sliver of the power I adore, despise, and fear—the power of the Endless Demon King, Andreas. I call it—

the Endless Malefic Visage.

Behind me, a darkness too deep and foul to name unfolded, a night-ocean that Augustus’s gale could not ruffle. An unutterable, murky color seeped outward from me like ink in snowmelt.

A sorrowful face rose from that drowning black sea, then a sullen face, a hating face, a sly grin, a numb mask—

None had contour or color. They weren’t masks, weren’t features, were only the naked emotions themselves, as if those emotions were the whole of the face.

This is my true power as a Son of the Demon King—or rather, the true power of Andreas. If not for the Heroic line’s inherited technique, Immunity Privilege, just seeing those visages would foul his mind beyond combat.

Augustus lowered his spear’s point, stepped back, and held a cautious distance as steady as a drawn bow.

He was curious; until now, his dealings with Sons of the Demon King had been ambush and counter-ambush, hunt and be hunted.

No exceptions—until today.

He could feel the greatness caged in the visages. Though the Primordial Pact between gods and the host of demons shields Heroes from mental interference, he still sensed my true strength was at least not beneath his.

Add in a higher-ranked familiar than Vega in our shadow, and Augustus chose to avoid a clash.

What is that…? You probably won’t answer. Fine. Let’s hear you.

Heh. Protagonists—always so readable, so usable.

I’m one of the few doves among the Sons of the Demon King, the kind of demonfolk who wants peace with humans. After all the hunts you’ve lived through, will you say all demonfolk are evil?

Yes! His answer fell like a guillotine.

…

Why aren’t you playing by the script? You’re supposed to hesitate and say, “Some demonfolk are indeed good.” Then I’d say, “The good ones stand against war, and I happen to lead them.” You’d doubt me—“If you’re the leader, why not push peace among demonfolk?” I’d explain, “The hawks are the majority; speaking up now gets us crushed, so we must play the long game.” You’d stay wary, and I’d prove I truly oppose the war of gods and demons with actions, yada yada. Why topple the whole procedure at the start?

Because you’re evil! Again, crisp as steel.

Ah. That’s why I hate the intuitive types.

I haven’t told a single lie!

But you laced it with logic traps. I can’t point them out, but I know you’re on the evil side!

A muscle-bound Hero who knows the phrase logic trap—how novel.

I admit I bent a few lines. Then try this—

I brought my fingers together and raised my hand to the sky.

I swear to the Contract God, Appoint: I have never initiated malicious attacks on humans, never wished to plunder the sky and earth of the mortal world, never committed meaningless Slaughter. I believe light and dark will only destroy each other, and I’m willing to let this evil body yield to justice. With that said—Hero Augustus Saya, will you trust me?

You…

He looked as if the sun had risen in the west.

You know this—Appoint is a Primordial Deity. An oath sworn to him binds demonfolk absolutely. I admit I’m no good man, but you also know good men never lead.

Right. You’re right, but…

Demonfolk loathe the gods, resist the gods, overturn the gods. No demonfolk swear to a Divine Being. My oath is rebellion against the Ocean of Darkness. I’m ready for that.

Will you trust me?

…

He was decisive by nature. He didn’t flounder long. He pointed at my face and said:

Your mask.

What?

You’re wearing a mask. I still don’t think you’re sincere.

Well— I tapped the hand-made mask. You know demonfolk can reshape their faces. I see that as deceit, even less sincere. A mask is concealment. I deem it necessary to hide—for reasons.

Meaning you absolutely can’t let me see?

Yes. You should understand—I’m not without lines I won’t cross.

We faced off a moment. Maybe he judged it wasn’t urgent, because his tone eased; this time he truly lowered his spear.

Fine. I’ll trust you for now. What do you want to discuss?

Excellent. Then we have plenty. For starters—allow us to reclaim the body of the Son of the Demon King, Anflan.

I smiled behind the mask.