I’d been tucked in Shadow since Stini slipped into the temple, a moth flattened behind a lantern.

When the attack hit him, I almost burst out like a spark jumping off steel.

I swallowed the rush, patience icing over me like frost on stone.

Yakfarro isn’t the “kill-your-sister-to-attain-enlightenment” type; that blade sounds holy but cuts crooked.

And a Hero rarely dies on first glance, not like a candle snuffed by the first draft.

Only when Yakfarro started dropping his pants did I sight his throat and let the Greatsword fall like a guillotine.

From a historian’s perch, I stole Princess Golia’s part, a swan sliding into the wrong scene.

History went messy from the first beat, like ink spilled across silk.

Not my fault; may the time god Tim not pluck me like a weed from his garden.

In the original record, it went like this, leaves laid out in order.

Headmaster Augustus led the faculty to tour nations, a caravan of quills and laurels.

The Academy’s old war-hawks marched out; only young teachers and students stayed, like saplings in a storm.

Stini, Gloria, and Raven were set to do the Ironwood Forest practicum, boots on roots and smoke on wind.

Raven’s an alchemist, a craft that stacks power like bricks prepared in advance, but stumbles on sudden quakes.

When the ambush began, second-year Raven wasn’t with the first-years, like a thread pulled from the weave.

Zorral’s push split Stini and Gloria’s teamwork; Raven tangled with a bloodsucking banshee, like a moth in thorn-vines.

The banshee’s skill “Indiscriminate Drain” sipped her life like a leech on a river, until she blacked out.

The Demon King Army grabbed her, a net thrown over a lone swan.

Gloria and Stini formed up: one pure physical breaker, one blended Hero who can go full berserk and walk the Asura path.

They beat the mid-boss “Chaotic Zorral” without much sweat, like two hammers cracking one shell.

As for loot? Don’t look at me; that chest’s a fogged mirror.

Next, they led students and teachers—because those two shine brighter than most faculty, like twin suns in a gray sky—back toward the City of Heroes.

They linked up en route with upperclassmen who had fought civilians out of the carnage, a battered flock regrouping.

Only then did they grasp Yakfarro’s twin-line assault, a pincer like cold moonlight on both wrists.

A note on the Silver Era: everything’s easy like water flowing downhill, much like the Mud Age.

Movement and comms lag behind, gears grinding in wet clay; the tech is there but the locks are loose.

Purified Nation Helena tried to mass-produce comm magi-tech and public teleport circles, bright beacons on a dim coast.

But Demonfolk lurking among humans kept twisting the lines, like hands smudging a map.

Galenor’s legendary warrior was once teleported only half, a nightmare sculpture of broken marble.

After that, no one pushed for mass use; the story froze like winter in a bell.

In wartime, don’t trust comm systems; they’re reeds in a gale.

Back to the road: Stini and Gloria wanted to strike fast before the City of Heroes was fully turned into Demon Realm ground, a wall before the flood.

Yakfarro kept peeling off units to hit civilians, hyenas snapping at the herd, so most students and teachers refused to split forces.

You can guess the rest: the two hotheads marched straight to Yakfarro’s main camp, like thunderheads crashing a temple.

They freed Raven, then hammered Yakfarro back to the Demon Realm, a tide pushing a shadow off shore.

Aside from being late and Raven getting raped, everyone cheered—bitter sugar on a cracked plate.

This time…

Raven was injured before and lost a slice of power; even so, she shielded most of the Hero Academy’s breakout, like a cloak in sleet.

Ironwood’s gap had me to fill with AOE, a scythe sweeping tall grass, so casualties stayed low.

Stini fought solo, his already wounded body rotting like wood under rain.

Raven wasn’t raped or further hurt this run, but what we need is her knowledge; her battle power didn’t climb, like a flame refusing fresh oil.

I’m not sure I can fill Gloria’s slot, a mask that doesn’t fit my face.

I held my Greatsword, posing at the altar’s heart, a statue acting cool in torchlight, and replayed the earlier talk.

…

“Your Highness, please lead everyone toward the Academy,” I said, a river asking a mountain to move.

“Why?” she breathed, a bell that rings in short strokes.

While the survivors caught breath, I drew Gloria aside into the trees, shadows braided like black silk.

No special meaning; just whispers under leaves.

“Wraiths are bundles of feral negatives, storms of Slaughter,” I said, smoke curling in my chest before words.

“They don’t talk. If this one speaks, it’s been beaten and leashed, which means a higher boss—like a Son of the Demon King who can access Authority domains.”

“Don’t get it,” she said, head tilting a sliver, like a sparrow listening.

That tiny move on a deadpan face—adorable, a snow-lotus blinking.

Too many deadpan types lately, a parade of winter masks.

I used to emote so much Dad joked you could read me like sky at dawn; I trained myself into a corpse-face to stop the weather.

Vega in bed is actually… well, she just looks serious, a blade in a silk sheath.

Gloria thinks expressions are unimportant, like a clock that only cares if it ticks.

The roles differ; the drums beat in different forests.

“Simple version: protect the injured and drift toward the Academy, slow as fog,” I said, a hand offering a lantern.

“I am, confused. We can, camp, here,” she replied, words chopped like bamboo.

“Why, risk, ambush, by moving?”

“Because the Academy is under attack too, which means the students left behind will break out with civilians, like fish fleeing a burning lake.”

“I believe Your Highness can shelter them,” I said, a bridge laid across a chasm.

“You sure?” Her eyes glinted with some nameless light, stars behind a veil.

“How do you, know… forget it. That’s, fine. But it sounds like, you’ll pick, a different path?”

I did overreach; the premonition was a hawk flying ahead of the hunt.

But Vega, through her “multi-threading,” just fed me fresh intel: Stini snuck alone into the occupied Academy, a moth flirting with a candle.

She’s asking to die; in history, Gloria should have tanked the hits, and this time her old wounds haven’t healed, stitches fraying in rain.

I have to save her; otherwise future-Hero Stini dies, a star cut before rising.

“Your Highness won’t agree to everyone counterattacking, right? Too many injured; someone must guard,” I said, a chess piece set.

“Then you?” she asked, a quiet arrow loosed.

“Your Highness is enough for them. I have someone I love to save,” I said, a heart burning like a lamp in wind.

“Liar,” she said, a snowflake needling skin.

Am I the only one who thinks my acting’s decent? Why does everyone see through me like glass?

“Still… go,” she said, voice soft as dusk.

“Eh, Your Highness?” I blinked, a cat at a window.

“You mean no harm. I can feel it, like warm tea in winter.

“So go. Love or not, I hope you pick the right road,” she said, a prayer laid on a stone.

Did she just let me off the hook, a judge waving a minor thief away?

Gloria turned without hesitation, a sail catching a clean wind, and left me standing with my own fog.

…

“That’s the story. Somewhere I dropped a stitch. Somewhere I stepped wrong,” I muttered, poking the ground with my Greatsword like a bored child carving mud.

“Everything looked smooth, yet it feels off, like a drumbeat that misses the heart.”

“What did I mess up to land in this not-up-not-down ture end?” I asked, words falling like dull rain.

Life’s a crappy game, a board with missing pieces.

“Who are you, to interrupt the king’s entertainment?” came a voice, honey poured over a blade.

“Do you have the price to pay?” it asked, a coin pressed to a cold tongue.

Yakfarro looked handsome even in just shorts, marble under morning sun.

In priest’s clothes, he’s a holy son hiding among men; half-naked, he’s the most graceful plaster cast, a museum’s favorite sin.

I still hate him, a thorn stuck under a nail.

“Die,” I spat, a middle finger raised like a dagger.

It wasn’t a battle pump-up; it was a curse from the gut, fire-black and ash-thick.

The kind a legendary archmage of the Flame cult throws at a smug normie under a crimson sky.

There are many Demon Kings in the Demon Realm, a mountain range of crowns.

Sometimes, a Demon King’s child with Demonfolk will be born a Son of the Demon King, fingers on Authority domains like keys on a zither.

Sometimes it’s just a regular Demonfolk; we call those “bastards,” sand in the royal wine.

In a way, every Son of the Demon King is a craft of the Ocean of Darkness, siblings by salt and shadow.

Yakfarro and I are true brothers; his father and mine are the same ancient Demon King—Saster of the “Brutality” domain, a storm with a throne.

Even as brothers, I still hate him, a mirror I want to crack.

“Yeah, let’s just chop you to death,” I said, a scythe humming in my wrists.

“What are you saying? That muddled thinking reminds me of someone I despise,” he said, smile thin as a blade.

I’d said too much; my rule is never talk unless showing off, but a hated face loosens the tongue like wine.

“You guessed wrong. Die,” I said, words flung like spears.

Demon Kings are strong; that’s a mountain fact.

They have bad habits that become fatal in bright rain.

Maybe it’s the arrogance of the apex, or the need to intimidate like thunder before lightning.

At the start, they always do one thing.

They take the opponent’s first strike head-on, pride opening its mouth to the storm.

I used to, too, until I went full rampage and killed on sight; bad habits burned out like old bark.

I swung Valor, ripping the air like cloth, cutting down his centerline, a comet cleaving a night river.

The rebound almost tore the Greatsword from my hands, like a boar hitting a shield.

I hadn’t touched skin; ten centimeters from his clean forehead, my full-force strike got stopped by a single drifting petal.

I jumped back, widening the gap, distance like cold water between stones.

I didn’t gasp “What—” like a random mob and wait for Yakfarro or Stini to narrate, a student begging the bell.

I knew it: a magic weapon forged by Yakfarro through the “Lust” domain, silk that hides steel.

Its name is Enticing Frost, winter smiling with red lips.

It floats like lotus petals, a thousand quiet knives.

Knowing doesn’t help me force a kill; my burst is short like summer rain, and high-tier magic might hurt the humans bound below, ants under glass.

That strike was just a measure, a finger dipping into dark water: is Yakfarro still as strong as back home?

The feel says he’s stronger, an iron vein thicker under earth; troublesome.

As step one in my conquest of the starry sea, I’d prefer he toss a few tough lines and then die clean, a curtain falling on cue.

“Is that all your triumph amounts to? Disappointing,” he said, a king bored with the jester.

He couldn’t know I wanted to crawl back into bed for a second sleep, a cat seeking sun-patch.

He shook his head; more golden petals appeared from nothing, orbiting him like lazy comets.

“Foreplay’s over. You know my consort and my queen?

“Then your death will deepen their despair, a well in winter.

“Mortal, this is one of the few things your king expects,” he said, honey over poison.

Demonfolk love blood and cruelty; their taste is a rot that never heals.

He stepped slowly to the center of the second tier of the altar, a moon taking the high stone.

Below, citizens and students of the City of Heroes moaned inside a foul dream, reeds bent by black wind.

I lifted the Greatsword to guard, steel a gate before a flood.

No, “nervous” is a lie; I just feared a sudden strike at Gloria or Raven, two cranes I refuse to let fall.

He’s unlikely to harm them now; my brother prefers mind-games over flesh, a gentle sadist, probably.

We aren’t close; blood isn’t bridge, only river.

But he did just stab Stini in the abdomen, a skewer to kill movement.

If he does that to the girls for the same reason, we’re in trouble, a dam cracking.

HolyWater is costly; Gloria only gave me two bottles, now all in Stini’s belly like light poured into a broken cup.

I’ve got no item to refill life; I’m a blade with no oil.

Right now, our two are unprotected; casualties could climb like smoke.

Looks like I have to pull aggro first, a bell ringing at a tiger.

Ahem, then let’s do what worked back in the Demon Realm; when I say this, Yakfarro fails stealth no matter how deep the shadow.

He’ll pounce even knowing he can’t win, poisoned by taunt like wine.

“Die, ED boy! Fix your erectile dysfunction, then fight!

“Eight millimeters long, two millimeters wide—trash,” I said, the middle finger a banner.

“Good. You’re dead,” he said, and the holy glow on his face went black, a sunrise smashed by storm.

Seeing that shadow flood him is my joy every time, like throwing ink on a pure-white robe.

Sadly, I don’t have the strength to flip him with one strike this round, a ram that can’t fell the oak.

“Andor, careful!” Raven cried, her voice a bell thrown into a pit.

She cares about me; did her affection meter tick up, a heart-flower opening one petal?

It’s fine; I already traced how Stini got taken, a chalk line around the fall.

Trust me, I won’t get one-shot like that idiot, a shield learning from a spear.

Yakfarro vanished; when his outline shimmered wrong, I was already tight as a drawn bow.

The next instant—clang—

Metal met metal, a thunder trapped inside the sacred hall, echoing like rain in a vault.

“How… did you know?” he whispered, a knife asking a mirror.

I stabbed the Greatsword backward over my shoulder in a snap, a snake striking behind its head.

It caught his hand aimed at my back-heart, a hawk blocked by iron.

No damage, but I rolled forward on the push, a wheel saving itself, and lived.

Obviously. With the Demonfolk’s venom in their hearts, they’d strike from behind; I brace my back like a barred door.

Of course, it’s a one‑use defense, a paper talisman that burns once.

When he zoned out for a heartbeat, I swept the Greatsword like a scything wind and cut his calf; Yakfarro’s slight frown said it landed.

Before I could savor it, he stepped on my blade like a hawk pinning prey. His other foot blasted me into the wall; I’d just settled my qi and blood when his hand clamped my throat like iron.

It wasn’t an instant kill, but yeah—still got one‑shot, a candle snuffed.

His face twisted like storm clouds; he snarled:

“You knew? The move I honed to counter my brother—how did you break it? Answer me!”

That little skill took you years? Against me at full strength, it’s pebbles thrown at a cliff. What a holy‑light lightweight…

“Take a guess, weakling.”

“You—”

Yakfarro’s noble mask crumpled in fury, eyes burning like torches as he glared.

I give him dead‑fish eyes, flat as a still pond.

“If you still won’t talk—”

I finish settling my qi and blood, then jab two fingers straight into those bright eyes like chopsticks into twin lanterns.

No damage, but it drives him mad; he lifts his hand high, wrapped in the day’s brightest gold, like noon sun.

“Too late,” I say, a bell cutting the storm.

He can’t bring that hand down, as if heaven pinned his wrist.

“Check.”

From behind, Stini scythes through his arm and, in the same breath, drives the Holy Sword into his heart like a falling star.

“You—” Yakfarro’s face is inked with disbelief and hate.

I cut him off before he can finish “you despicable—” and shout:

“I’m not fighting alone!”

My right fist floods with Shadow mana, a storm‑black wave loaded with malice, and I smash it into his perfect face.

And, for good measure, I send a shameless kick to the groin, a scorpion’s sting.