Click-clack—fingers tapped the rim of the glass.

Glug-glug—liquor flooded down my throat.

Haa—barkeep, another round!

My mood curdled like old rain. What’s with these girls? Their talent for trouble sticks like burrs to wet cloth.

Once we got cozy, the four of us drank together often. Miss Vega, dutiful as a clock, never joined.

I don’t know when it began, but the bill drifted to me, like a leaf always landing in the same gutter.

They say girls like gentlemen—paying, being kind, showing respect. The world’s number-one maid, Vega, coached me to play that role.

The result is this mess. Three little devils latched on like barnacles to a hull.

Even flawless Vega confessed, shadows kneeling in her eyes, saying she hadn’t thought it through.

I never expected the classic scene. A girl murmurs, “I can’t handle drinks,” and I’d say, “I’ll teach you gently.”

I’d watch her first sip of a fiery liquor, her cute face scrunching, tongue flicking like a startled sparrow.

After a night of music and lanterns, we wake in the same warm bed. I smooth her tousled hair and whisper, “Sweetheart, now we really must marry.”

I never hoped for that. Not even a little. The thought drifts off like smoke.

But at least don’t leave me as the friend you confide in after a breakup. That role tastes like cold tea.

Barkeep, another here. Make it the pricey one.

Me too. Mix me a “Spotlight,” thanks.

They drink harder than me. Maybe it’s the Hero Academy—mostly adventurers. The equation feels simple.

Adventurer equals high death chance equals seize the day equals love of drink. Rough math, but it fits like old boots.

Right now they treat me like a fat purse. With a rich friend, why not feast like crows on a harvest field.

Raven Segrito, golden hair and sea-glass eyes, cute and puffed like a little storm. Next student council president, born from a fallen noble line.

Stini Saya, the current Hero’s daughter, half-elf, ponytail green as spring, eyes like fresh leaves. Her dad wrecked school property, leaving a mountain of debt.

Those two being broke and scamming food and drink off me—understandable. But Lady Gloria…

Gloria Colonna, third princess of the Iron Kingdom Colonna. The strongest physical fighter—no second place. A noble princess of three “no’s,” training at our Academy.

I’d rather not draw close. Seducing her gains me little. Worse, she’s too strong; if she spots my Demonfolk nature, I wouldn’t even get to run.

No meat? Only drinks will turn greasy on the tongue.

Her lead-gray eyes flash with a cold, mechanical sheen. She turns a drinking table into a banquet, and assumes her purse stays shut.

This shouldn’t be. Does Colonna fail to fund a princess’s life? No reimbursements? Aren’t princesses the type who buy the whole bakery for a loaf?

And where’s the modesty and grace of girls? Show it not just when chewing, but when choosing.

Vega’s analysis rings true. They sensed my bottom line by intuition, then frolic just above it like cats on a windowsill.

Proof? They never invite other classmates to drink. They know I dislike paying for strangers. It’s restraint, dressed as courtesy.

Makes sense. If it was only treating these three, I’d feel bothered, not angry. A small stone in the shoe.

But they won’t ask other students to cover the tab. Which might just mean they’re carving slices off a whale.

My mood sinks like dusk into a glass. I drain my “Jubilance” in one go.

Truth is, I don’t know human-world liquors. I usually order what’s most expensive, like picking the brightest lantern.

If raising favor slowly is fine, then so be it. Suppose one hundred favor equals marriage.

Raven sits around thirty to forty. Making her fall in love, then turning her into a retainer—that horizon is very far.

But there’s another problem. My money is running out.

This matters. Let me say it again.

My money is running out.

In RPGs, it’s common. Right before the Demon King Castle, you clear a few rooms, sweep the small fry, then step out to resupply.

The Castle pays in fat experience and coins, so players loop it, climbing gear and levels like vines up a wall.

In short, the Demon King is usually rich. Like quest rewards are guaranteed, or new companions always get nerfed—rules hard as iron.

I still have plenty, but the usable funds on the books are thinning like late winter streams.

I keep every document precise and clean. No one should find a seam. Caution guards my plan from collapse, but it cages my moves.

Andor Mephy is a forged identity. I can only act the way Andor would, staying inside painted lines.

The Pioneer Grounds paperwork and cash-flow records were certified by Kadula, a Son of the Demon King who holds the domain of “Value.”

She’s a rare dove among Demonfolk nobility, with her own human-world consortium. Not out of mercy.

Kadula aims for a society that kneels to money. So she opposes, or at least declines, large-scale war.

The problem? Her documentation is too perfect. I can’t even massage my incoming funds. The ink feels like stone.

Fronting Stini’s bills drained a swath of liquidity. Investing to earn is blocked. Meanwhile, these three keep hauling me to feasts to sign the tab.

Maybe I should dig up treasure. Then a sudden surge of assets fits the map and the story.

Where to? The Tower of Final Stars calls. Reach the top floor.

After hardships like climbing knives, defeat the final boss, Sorek’s Obsession. Then watch a sky smeared with stars.

A perfect date—no. A perfect operation plan.

Speaking of the night sky—

He said it suddenly, turning his chair to face me like a compass finding north.

The noisy feast fell silent at once. Time seemed to stop, a pond without ripples.

No—only inside the tavern. Outside, people still flowed past like a river.

Yet no one noticed the tavern’s hush. It was as if the whole street forgot this place in the same breath.

Could you tell me, in detail, about the starry sky of the Era of Soil? I’ve always wanted to see it with my own eyes.

Light burst from his eyes, too sacred to meet. Truth blazed there like noon on white stone.

The thought behind that light was too vast. No one could stare into it. My gaze dropped like a leaf.

The reunion hit too suddenly. My mind stalled, gears grinding dry.

I’d rehearsed it—hate him, despise him, admire him. But seeing him, I could only rasp in a stiff, parched voice.

Head…

The mastermind who sent Endless Demon King Andreas and Eternal God Feriel plunging into the Endlands.

The one who holds the authority domain of “Wisdom.” The Primordial Deity—supreme, ageless, undying, all-knowing, all-powerful.

Sovereign of Thought among the Twelve Thrones. Leader of the gods. Seer of futures.

Savior of the Silver Era, and also its destroyer.

Head, why did you come for me?

I forced myself calm. I met his gaze like a blade, and asked.