Garcia was born common, a child of dust with no proud surname to fly like a banner; he entered the Hero Academy because his mana harmonized like a bell in clear air.

He took pride in that common birth, like a blade forged without a crest; results earned by his own hands shone brighter than silk-born names.

So he turned down noble invitations that felt like collars of gold; his pride refused a surname that closed like a leash around the throat.

He thought if he lived brave and clean, like snow refusing soot, such effort might stir the heart of the girl he loved.

A senior in the Magitech Department, she’d looked stormy at first like a thunderhead; with time, she proved warm as a brazier, a student council star.

“R—Raven, Miss Raven…”

Rumor said she’d been close lately with a guy from the martial arts track, like two shadows walking the same road.

Even with his abdomen split and blood running like a broken gutter, jealousy flared in him like oil touched by flame.

Still—

Maybe his words, or that man whose muscles alone shattered the gym’s barrier like glass, could save Miss Raven.

Garcia clenched his teeth, hoping to cast Accelerated Regeneration one more time; his mana still pooled like a dim lake, but blood loss dragged him under, and he couldn’t chant.

His bleeding slowed, not like a wound closing, but like a river drying; pressure fell, death pressed cold fingers to his pulse.

His awareness blurred like frost on glass.

If only he were stronger; if only he could cast healing without a sound; if only he could finish the Construct still on the bench; if only—

Maybe he’d live?

Shame pricked like needles at that small thought; he hadn’t even thought of saving his senior?

Hah. Impossible, right. The one who took her was too strong, a one-man city-destroyer; Garcia lived only because one blow felled him and his Construct, and the foe had no interest in a second cut.

A monster fixed on him then, drawn to the limbo of his breath like a vulture to heat, and came padding closer.

He’d picked up a life, only to drop it like a wet stone; it was almost funny.

Fine, ending here is fine, he thought, like a candle guttering in wind.

In this brutal era, miracles don’t fall like rain.

Facing death, he lifted his head as if straining toward sunlight; a proud, bitter smile cut his face like a scar.

The monster opened a blood-slick maw and sprang like a thrown net.

Then demon blood sprayed like crimson sheets.

Only because a figure stood between them, a shadow like a drawn blade; he was—

“Please—go save her, save Senior Raven!”

Garcia had never thought the quiet, bookish him could roar so loud; the sound rang like a temple bell.

…

By results alone, the talk went well.

I told Augustus I didn’t plan to carve the mortal world into my domain, like rot eating wood; he still didn’t believe me, but he promised not to strike first.

Even if the Primordial Nine Races found me and called a hunt like a cordon of wolves, he’d lean toward letting me slip the snare.

After that came a coil of haggling and chumminess, like reeds in the wind; Augustus hated it too, so he teleported away.

It was a good outcome. The mortal world has other powers—like the Order of the Sacred Light and the Iron Forest Praetorians, and walking calamities like Stargazer Porphyrina, Douglas of the Ruined Babel Tower, and the Nameless Sword Saint.

But the strongest is still Augustus, a man of many bynames, a Hero’s bloodline who ignores Authority Domains like stepping over lines in sand, and can solo a Demon King.

He’s a living legend, the authority on demon-hunting like a hawk over a field; if he shelters a Son of the Demon King a little, and I stay gentler than my siblings, I won’t be beaten back to the Demon Realm.

So long as I don’t go psychotic and attack the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom like lightning against a shrine.

Even so, a small snag slipped in like a thorn.

To ease Augustus’s mind, I couldn’t look eager to off Yakfarro; if he asked where I was going, I couldn’t say, “To your daughter’s place to show off,” like a peacock in armor.

So I ran my mouth with nonsense and annoyed him into leaving, like smoke in the eyes.

The Endless Faces of Evil look scary, like masks in a nightmare; but I haven’t killed a single Demon King, so they’re empty shells, good only for spooking.

That was the riskiest part; thankfully, Augustus didn’t catch it before he left like a gust dying at the door.

Good result, good road.

We’re sprinting toward the Ironwood Forest at full tilt, feet drumming like rain; I can use teleportation, but it’s imprecise, and it leaves a fat mana trace.

I can’t explain why I’d be tossing around that kind of high-tier space magic like pebbles in a pond.

“Hang in there, future heroes.”

I muttered that while running, breath white as fog.

By the time we arrived, battle was already blooming like a black flower; a swarm of lower thralls of the Authority Domain of Lust—bloodsucking succubi—were slaughtering unprepared students.

Second- and third-years held better, like reeds that bend but don’t break; they had tasted war and could answer a succubus’s bite.

First-years lacked even guard strength, like hatchlings in hail; many were already dead.

Blood and bone, eyes rolled loose like marbles, brain matter like pale mud, guts hanging from branches like flags; some from succubi, some from humans, some from other races.

In death they looked the same, like driftwood on a shore; whatever talent, resolve, or dream they had, here they were only cold remains.

This is war, race against race, a grindstone that erases meaning; its meaning is to break all meaning to ash.

The struggle of light and dark, the Sea of Light vs. the Ocean of Darkness, always turns meaning into dust; from gold to black iron, this brutal epic never stops.

Across years like dunes, I went from roused, to sick of it, to seeing it as weather, to silence.

No moved heart, no quickened pulse, no feeling—only still water.

I glanced back at Vega.

Elation carved her face like lightning; her stiff mask hid eyes rolling white—the spark was obvious.

Demons are like this, most of us, leaning toward evil like iron to a magnet; we drink Slaughter like wine, dream of endings like winter.

Demonfolk and the Ocean of Darkness lean on each other like twin pillars; Demonfolk are the Ocean made flesh, and the Ocean is our root and marrow.

So killing stirs us. It’s a species thing, like wolves and blood.

“Hey, don’t get off on it, Vega. Our plan was to wait till Yakfarro’s Demon King Army thins the humans down to a handful, right?”

I crouched in the grass like a hunting cat and asked her.

“Ah… mmm.”

“…”

I gave her a beat, like holding breath under water.

“Sorry, Master. I’m terrible at reading faces; what did you say?” she whispered, like rain on slate.

“I’m the one who can’t read the room? My fault? You’re the one messing up!” I hissed, like steam from a kettle.

“Say it straight. Don’t you see how tight this is? Acting fast matters more than anything!” she shot back, voice like a thrown knife.

I breathed deep, let the heat drain like ink in water; arguing would never end.

“In the plan, we’d save the last few still alive. They’re the Academy’s brightest. Near death, with me wounded but stubbornly saving them, they might pledge to me.”

“But I miscounted one thing.”

“You mean the one fighting like a storm?” she said, pointing at a blood-drenched reaper.

Yes, that one—killing monsters so hard even allies flinched; my classmate, the Iron Kingdom Colonna’s princess, Gloria.

Succubus claws and fangs tore her clothes but not her skin, like rain on stone; her hand chops split foes cleanly, no drag, like a razor.

She fought like the sharpest sword and the most efficient machine; she slaughtered Demonfolk like Demonfolk slaughter humans.

Her golden hair was stained russet like autumn wheat in blood; her lead-gray eyes flickered with an inhuman, icy, rational light.

“Merciless work. I never thought the Iron Kingdom Colonna would reveal Gloria’s power in a mere raid,” I murmured, like wind under eaves.

I had thought they’d wait until Yakfarro took the Hero Academy before authorizing her true strength, like a seal saved for crisis.

I don’t know all the details of Yakfarro’s first strike—the Ironwood Forest battle—but I did consider Gloria erupting and reversing the slaughter like a tide.

“So we change strategy. With Gloria here, this fight will end in Yakfarro’s defeat.”

“Why, my suspicious Master? From what I see, Miss Gloria isn’t using any special heavy skills, just strong body stats,” Vega said, brows knit like knots.

In the Demon Realm, peak power is Authority Domains, battles fought with keys to reality; even in the mortal world, Augustus uses mana to amplify might.

But she hadn’t imagined how far pure physical numbers can go, like a mountain made of muscle and will.

That girl is a relic of the Golden Age, the Sorcerer Emperor’s legacy, the Creator’s gift; a living weapon later feared enough to earn the title “Demon Slaying Sword”—Gloria Colonna.

“Here’s one tip. Gloria doesn’t get hurt. Her attacks always penetrate defenses. She can focus without limit, like a star that doesn’t blink.”

“Even if every other student dies, she can take her time and kill every monster alone.”

“Why?” Vega asked.

I rubbed her head, letting the irritation settle like dust.

“Because that’s her spec.”

Gloria is a setting that reads like a joke, a spec that breaks the game’s ladder, like an author’s pampered, one-and-only lead.

But life goes on, even under the strangest specs, like a river around a rock.

“Now grab a Greatsword. Make sure it’s a Greatsword. Kill a lot of succubi away from the center; I need to make up the kills I missed while I was gone.”

No loose ends, no odd traces, like a clean blade.

“And you?”

“On paper, I’m teamed with Gloria, and I’ll steal credit. Also, use Multithreaded Thought to send avatars to guard the ones I save; an unknown hero isn’t my goal.”

If the ones meant to be saved all die, the hero stops being a hero; saving others makes a hero, like light makes dawn.

“So you want the spotlight kind of hero?”

“Yeah. Girls like not just the hero who saved them, but the hero everyone salutes,” I said, grinning like a fox.

“Got your epithet ready? A world-saving hero needs something stylish; epithets are a core component,” she teased, body coiled like a spring.

“Already do.”

I broke into a run toward the students in the worst shape, feet striking like drumbeats.

“World Saving Demon King. Tell me that doesn’t sound fantastic.”

I took one step—really a flat, straight leap—and swung, using Valor’s weight like a falling gate.

The succubus attacking the student didn’t even register who killed it before it parted from its lower half like a cut reed.

Blood sprayed in sheets like torn banners.

You okay?

I was about to ask when the dying one flared like a candle at the last, and screamed hoarse:

“Please—save her, save Senior Raven!”

Yeah. I know.

All of this is already written, like history etched in bronze.