Gloria might’ve been guileless, but her timing cut like a hawk through cloud.

She back-kicked off a trunk, leaves spiraling, vaulted over me, and crossed her hands like twin blades.

Colonna military technique—Cross Decapitation, hand-blade variant, a strike like wind shearing bamboo.

It still carved only a hollow phantom, smoke in moonlight.

Damn.

In the Demon Realm, one halberd stroke ended fights like lightning splitting a tree; here in the physical field, I was slogging through mud.

Pain throbbed like a drum; I hefted the Greatsword and swung Valor, a river of steel against a mirror of fog.

Valor parted his shadow like reeds, then the phantom stitched itself back together like night knitting shut.

Ee-hee-hee-hee. That won’t kill me, not at that level.

Zoral’s voice drifted between trunks like mist rolling low over roots.

It couldn’t be helped; this kind of wraith shrugged off steel like rain off oil, and magic or elements bit like dull teeth.

Look at my Vega—an upper retainer just under a Demon King; in a game she’d be a hidden boss, a reef under black water.

Not always stronger than the final boss, but always a grindstone for your bones.

Unless you hit the weak point, a wraith was a walking “almost immortal,” a stone in a river that never wore down.

Your Highness, he’s a wraith, a species that exists as a concept, like a word without paper; we don’t even know if it counts as life.

What we do know is physical blows won’t do much, like fists on fog.

Then what do we do?

Gloria wasn’t wounded, but her clothes were in ribbons, red as maple leaves in autumn—eighteen-and-over, not for lust, but for gore.

Both of us dripped with scarlet rain; the difference was mine was my own, and hers belonged to she-demons we'd cut down.

Zoral still hadn’t used his full strength; he was playing, a stray flame that danced and gave us breath between burns.

That’s a flaw in chaotic natures; they leave you a lungful of air before they drown you.

Your Highness, I grew up in the western Pioneer Garden, a strip of green carved from thorns; I saw a wraith once in a monster tide.

Might as well lay down a few setting hooks now; a heavy past is bait that draws a girl’s heart like the moon pulls tides.

Not that I plan to romance Gloria…

I’ve seen how strong this thing is—and my father was killed by a wraith like him, a name cut into stone.

Girls share information like swallows pass spring along; please, Miss Gloria, carry my shadowed past to Stini and Raven.

You… have a way?

I do. I tried to look noble as a mountain, but my face stayed stiff as frozen bark.

It’s simple. How do you delete a boss with no sweat?

Use a bigger boss-class skill and step on it like a giant on an ant hill.

I’ve been preparing for today for eight years, carving marks into bone; that helplessness won’t be here today.

I’ll use a specialized spell. Your Highness, when I pin him down—kill him clean, like a thunderclap.

And hey, you students still breathing in the bushes—broadcast my valor like sparks on dry grass.

Sure, in a novel this move is so cool; but planning the beats and striking poses left me oddly hollow, like a drum with no skin.

With that sag in my heart, I reached for the Ocean of Darkness, a cold tide under the world.

Resonate the Shadow Authority Domain—this is the top of boss-class skills, a black crown over the board.

Solo or sweep, it can do both; it’s how gods wage war, storm to storm.

What was I supposed to shout here again? Vega left me plenty of spare ultimate names, lightning bottled for showtime.

Heaven-Scorching Dragon Annihilation Art!

I plunged the Greatsword into a shadow like a stake into night, deepening the Domain’s grip on the mortal stage.

Shadow became the ruling concept of space, a night tide shouldering out light like wolves driving deer.

Or rather, light was expelled, a white flock scattered by a black falcon’s dive.

Shadow, roar, devour, execute!

It wasn’t a chant for show; it was an order, an imperial edict to Shadow under absolute authority.

The shadow cast by matter, the shadow cast by light, even the shadow coiled in a heart—they all bent like grass under wind.

Ee-hee-hee-hee—if that’s all you’ve got—huh? You’re—

Zoral first sneered, then felt his own shadow writhe outward like roots tearing soil; he recognized me, a face under the hood.

Too late.

The concepts that made him up betrayed him like soldiers changing flags; his control slipped, and his essence wrestled itself.

If he didn’t turn material, he’d self-erase, torn by contradictions like ice cracking under thaw.

From outside, to Gloria and the students, it looked like a forced transmutation, a ritual pinning mist into meat.

That’s right! I’m Andor Mephy, the one you spared eight years ago; I spent eight years in self-reproach like rain on stone.

Now it’s your turn to regret. Go to the Demon Realm and regret not killing me then.

Joking. Eight years ago I was sipping tea in the Demon Realm with maids like cats in sun.

No—you’re that—

This stroke is for my father, who died to protect me, a name buried under frost.

I commanded Shadow to drag Zoral into the material world, like a net hauled tight; now my blade could bite his flesh.

This stroke is for my mother, who labored without complaint, a lamp in long winter.

By the script, only my father died to a wraith; my real father’s fine in the Demon Realm. The other deaths came from another monster tide, but battle and bravado like a drumline—better to shout them all.

This stroke is for my sister, frail yet kind, a plum blossom in snow.

She died of illness in the backstory; don’t dwell on it—keep the rhythm like hooves on a bridge.

This stroke is for my brother with grand ambitions, a star that walked west.

I don’t actually have a brother, but I tell people he left to grow stronger, a wind chasing horizons.

This stroke is for the hard-working folk of the Pioneer Garden, hands like roots in black earth.

That reason’s the most reasonable, but without blood ties it sells softer; I saved it for last like spice at the end.

There. That’s about enough.

Zoral loved bullying with a conceptual form, so he lacked the calluses for material fights; one Greatsword combo carved half his life like harvest across a field.

I held back; this mid-boss had a quarter bar left, enough to let him hit phase two so I could erase him on the drop.

I flashed a hand sign to Vega in the dark like a raven wing; silence him before he says my true name.

As in, remove him at “So you’re the De—” and let the suspense hang like a blade.

Still, if possible, I prefer the classic Hero versus Demon King cadence, a drum you can march to.

Hee-hee. I didn’t notice. So that’s how it is. I thought you were dead. No, it’s my mistake—my stupid master didn’t finish you. Ahaha, interesting.

That’s why I came for revenge, like thunder returning to a mountain.

Good thing Zoral’s mind was chaos on stilts; otherwise this play would’ve tripped and broken its neck.

I couldn’t make the right face, so I let the body speak; scholars say a third of speech is sinew and bone.

I tensed every muscle till they sang, gripped the hilt till my knuckles went pale as chalk.

This time, I won’t leave regret behind like footprints in wet clay; I’m not who I was eight years ago.

Ander? Andar? Andora? Ee-hee-hee, too much trouble. Die.

Chaotic or not, bloodlust doesn’t change; rot smells like rot in any wind.

He hunched like a springing wolf, coiling a spell that felt like a storm drawing breath.

Interrupt him.

Gloria’s words were flint; she rushed in like a spear of rain—

Don’t!

Even without my warning, she’d have been fine; she holds the Authority Domain of Stability, a fortress ridge.

In history, even the Endless Demon King Andreas couldn’t hurt her clean; she’s a cliff the sea can’t chew.

In short, Gloria’s error margin is wide as a plain; no need for me to fuss.

She caught him and drove a hand-blade into his chest again like a spike into ice; Zoral chuckled, a saw on bone.

The wound split open from back to front, bulged like a blister, then spread into nothing in every survivor’s eyes.

His presence thinned like breath in winter, and the gloom thickened like ink poured into water.

He severed every “Shadow” concept within himself and diffused again over the Ironwood Forest, a night fog rolling back.

Can’t… attack.

Right. He’s conceptual again, and my secret art won’t bite; that’s his strongest move, his final fang.

Wraiths are natural disasters even in the Demon Realm; the Demonfolk policy is simple—kill on sight, like stamping out sparks.

They’re closer to the Ocean of Darkness than a Demon King is; closer to raw chaos, so they can’t use a pure Authority Domain.

But they can do what even a Demon King can’t—without a magic implement, they can summon the Ocean of Darkness straight into the world.

Your Highness—

I know. We can’t let that come down. Whatever it is… we stop it, no matter what, like damming a flood.

Dark rings spread like ripples from a stone; no one knew what would follow, only that with every second, our lives tilted toward dusk.

Andor, please.

At this level, I can’t do it, Your Highness; my hands felt like ash.

Don’t trust yourself? The strength you forged over eight years like iron in a kiln?

She met my eyes like a spear meeting a shield, steady and true.

But if I fail, everyone might—

Only you can. Will you stand still while the wind begs the tree to bend?

But—

Andor. Andor Mephy. I will remember your name not because of your fear, but as a banner against it.

Princess Golia’s words struck stone; even if they were still stiff, they carried her true feeling and a soul clean as snow.

Go. I believe in you. Your valor and fearlessness will have their return; whatever the result, that is what’s worth singing.

So cool.

Resolve? Trust? I’d never read such things in eyes; maybe I just can’t read the room, a blind man in lantern light.

But her words held power like a bell peal over fog.

Come on. I wanted a low-profile school life… but after hearing you, Your Highness—

I raised the Greatsword overhead like a mast; Gloria crouched, ready to leap like a cat.

With the Authority I held, I stirred the concept of Shadow, a tide under a moon.

How could this not set me on fire?

Of course, that was me lying to myself, embers grinning under ash.

Pitch-black Shadow slammed against the dim sky like surf against cliffs, silent as if “sound” had been edited out of the world.

Only color shifted, only dark grinding against deeper dark like glaciers meeting; they gnawed and devoured each other, abyss to abyss.

This lightless, somber struggle still felt vast and grand, a storm without thunder over a sea without waves.