Alright, drop me here. Vega, keep watch. If some midnight wanderer gets up to hit the bathroom, chase them off hard, like stray dogs. Hear me?

No problem, my swaggering master. Do you really only need me to do that? I don’t doubt your strength, but your body’s been wrecked.

Weariness first, then motion. In night thick as spilled ink, I took the steps and faced the wooden doors of the Sanctuary of Life, and gave Vega her orders.

A breeze combed her short hair; her slight silhouette flickered in the dark, like a firefly about to be swallowed by night.

It was only a trick of shadow. I knew how steady she was, like bedrock under black water.

No big deal. Even weakened, I’m still the strongest, a mountain under a storm.

I waved, pushed the door whose wood groaned with old oaths. Vega lingered outside, saw me enter, and the heavy door swallowed me like a lid.

No need to show off this time. It felt like a post-meal stroll, light as smoke. With Vega, I never needed the mask.

Vega doesn’t even know what love is. Enough talk—come out, Yakfarro.

I walked to the deepest room—the chamber once used to mount the Lust altar, the chains that bound Raven like frost on a rose.

Magic-stone lamps in the dome pulsed gold-red, making midnight glow like false dawn under a blood sun.

I stopped. The desecrated altar lay in ruins; an empty room, and only a few Shadows swayed like weeds in black water.

Come out. You think playing dead gets you a pass? I’m not here at midnight for fun. I know you’re alive. Quit the stage clean; Dad probably has a lunchbox for you.

In the sealed room, the air began to flow. No wind, yet a foul, lust-sick stench crawled like mold.

He’d armed up, but he kept hiding. Fine. I’d drag him into the light like a fish on a hook.

I felt my body, then drew the magic weapon buried inside me—my beloved Nandu, the Long Halberd. Three meters of iron dusk, blades at both ends, archaic and grim.

In the human world, it’s hard to speak with the Ocean of Darkness across your own Realm. So Demon Kings forge authority into matter—magic arms—keeping Demon Realm strength like iron under silk.

That’s why fairy tales tell of a girl stealing the Demon King’s treasure, his power thinning like watered wine, and a Hero finishes the story.

I resonated with Nandu. Demonfolk are the Ocean of Darkness given a face; a magic arm is that ocean given bone. In truth, it’s calling the Ocean of Darkness into the mortal shore.

I wielded Shadow Realm authority and struck the Lust Realm like night eclipsing a fever-red moon.

Concepts ground against each other, overturned tables of law. Light grew strange; rules twisted like warped glass. Rays refused straight lines; matter forgot Brownian drift.

“Shadow” and “Lust” clotted together, thick and obscene, like tar mixed with honey.

He had held his true body intact within the Lust Realm, reviving slowly even after many deaths, like rot healing under damp leaves.

Gods are ageless, deathless, all-knowing, all-powerful—within their Realms. The opposing Demonfolk, likewise. But his pocket Realm was muddied, no longer a lens; even further conceptualization risked Shadow’s stain.

So Yakfarro’s true body surfaced, like a corpse rising in a pool. He floated where the statue of the Life Goddess once stood, yet his shattered form killed any sense of awe.

So it’s you, Andor. No wonder you know my style. Why interrupt me, even try to kill me? We’re Demonfolk. If not brothers, at least allies—

Spare me. Yakfarro, it’s ugly. Exit clean; maybe the extras will still give you a cameo.

What did you say—extras? No, I’m proposing we team up. You know my Realm excels at stealth. With your front-line force—

I know you want to kill me. Say it plain.

Sleep tugged my bones; I wanted this over. I yawned, letting impatience roll like cold fog.

We both know we’re faithless bastards. Drop the honeyed words. Our last “cooperation” died when you ambushed me. Attack clean, die clean.

His face darkened like a bruised sky. He ground his teeth and hissed, Andor, die.

I returned him a single middle finger, a thorn raised to the moon.

Yakfarro vanished, then snapped into place at my back, his claws lancing for my heart like icicles.

Impossible?

He stabbed only air; there was no me to catch, only Shadow that slid like water.

I’m over here. That your big move, Yakfarro?

I’d shifted and sat on the altar, lazy as a cat on warm stone.

It’s only “in-Realm transit,” the tiny trick: “disappear here,” “appear there.” And this is your Realm. You didn’t think that’s a trump, did you? No creation, no purification, no extreme erosion.

Go home and train. Authority’s not a toy everyone can play well.

You—you’re joking—

Say hi to Dad for me.

I seized the collar at my throat. I wear a long coat so this thing doesn’t stand out. Then I tore it free, iron singing like a funeral bell.

You’re kidding. That’s “Azure Bier Exile,” isn’t it? You fought me while wearing that?

Once it came off, demonic power surged like a black tide. In the conceptual Realm, part of me sank into the dark root, becoming unnameable as deep sea.

In matter, I barely changed—save a single horn sprouting from my left brow. Venomous Shadow spread in the sanctuary like frost, and if Vega hadn’t warded the outside, the city would’ve died in silent night.

My short hair unspooled back to its truth, length to the floor, strands like shadow-light, streaming behind me into a vast black.

Only this way could I keep a perfect human shell and not be found, like a wolf in a monk’s robe.

A blasphemous spell made to exile sinners, and you used it on yourself! And the spell itself—

He caught the thought and swallowed it. That spell punishes Demonfolk: makes them human in form and strength, strips all, forces them to taste mortal pain.

Only because I’m too strong.

Even bound, I was beyond common folk. That’s the Demon King’s firstborn speaking, like thunder in a valley.

With a casual sweep, Yakfarro’s flawless magic arm—Seduction of Frost—was blown aside. Its golden petals vanished, shredded by Shadow like confetti in a fire.

The halberd’s blade parted his chest; the haft slammed home. His giant frame rag-dolled, smashed a support pillar, and crumpled into the corner.

One strike was enough, a night’s axe into rotten wood.

With his last strength, he cupped a pool of his own blood and smiled, raising his head toward me like a supplicant.

…So beautiful.

Demonfolk admire death and ruin, a hunger turned inward and outward, savoring others’ ends and their own.

So-so. I’ve watched too many die.

War, turmoil, apocalypse—I’ve seen the future’s teeth far too often.

Aesthetic fatigue?

It just doesn’t matter anymore. The sea goes flat; the heart follows.

Is that so? To me you’re no longer Demonfolk. You’re moving toward the center, toward nothing. Cough—ha! Interesting, very interesting!

Yakfarro doubled over, vomiting blood and laughing, like a jackal in a temple.

Andor! Can your soul still carry your power? I’ll wait in the Demon Realm! Hahaha—

One sweep. The laughter cut clean. I took his head and shrugged like tossing a stone.

The Lust Realm shattered completely. Yakfarro really did go home.

That’s why I’m looking for a new road. Ah, and don’t forget to tell Dad I said hi.

Now it’s proven: even weakened a bit, for now I’m still the strongest, a blade in midnight.