Alina Helen—a beauty with water-blue hair like a river under dawn—third-year senior, proxy of the domain-wide Divine, Infinite.

Among the clerical orders, a Proxy isn’t a blade like a Judicator, nor a ritual loom like a Priest, nor a balm like a Divine Healer.

A Proxy marks a rare height, the kind touched by a Divine Being, like a hawk chosen by the sky.

Mm… one walking warhead, Gloria, was already a ticking thundercloud; add a Divine’s Proxy, and our team’s suddenly “blessed,” like a caravan under too many comets.

For a Demon King like me, that lineup’s all thorns and salt.

“Delighted to meet you, Vice-Captain Andor; this humble one is Alina Helen.”

Her warm smile flowed like spring sunlight, rinsing stillness through the heart, and she dipped a small bow like a willow nodding in breeze.

Polite kid—good clay, fine glaze.

That Helen surname… if I’m guessing right, it’s the royal line of the Purified Nation Helena—so, another princess, like moonlight wearing a tiara.

But the cat-ears on her head and the tail flicking outside the robe said beastfolk, not human, like stripes under silk.

No clue beyond that; since she offered no more roots, I won’t nail a label to her bark.

Mm, and the second one: Catherine Breeze, a first-year peer, an Aerian archer like a gull born with a bow.

Tall and striking, hair silver-bright like frost on steel, nearly one-eighty in height like a pine on a ridge.

Wings on her back, ears a touch longer than human—classic Aerian lines, quick hands and quick feet, all her dossier looked neat like stacked parchment.

Only hitch—I remember her, like a faint scent after rain.

Not recent, so older—an echo from the time of the Endless Demon King Andreas, a season of iron and blood where only monsters made of storm left marks.

Which means Catherine’s one who’ll blaze in the late Silver tier, like a comet scheduled for winter.

“Hello, I’m Catherine—Catherine Breeze, archer; Vice-Captain, I look forward to your guidance,” she said, saluting me like an officer greeting the wind.

Her motions and tone felt like Vega’s—whole person humming with duty, like a clock wound tight.

Ah, perfect—the curtain rises and two heavy hitters stride out, like twin tigers into snow!

Where did Stini fish them up, like pearls from a muddy bank?

Given her style, she probably slapped a “need teammates” notice on an academy board, and fate did the rest like ants to sugar.

These high-tier folks popping out now… eight times out of ten, Head sent them to watch our “deal,” like lanterns placed above a card table.

My motivation’s leaking like sand; too many surprises—maybe we ditch the run like a leaf refusing a flood.

I folded my gear with a tired breeze in my chest, thinking exactly that, like dusk collecting in a bowl.

Forget it—Vega, help me check their identities, like a hound tracing threads in dew.

Please and thank you, world’s number one maid, like a starched ribbon on a blade.

Everyone sorted equipment at my place, which used to be a Hero’s home, a nest with a sparring yard and an armory, like a little fortress under city light.

Before heading out, we shared prep and loads, like ants balancing leaves over a stream.

Plenty of gear needn’t be doubled—tents, for one; Raven and I, or Vega and I, can share a single canvas moon.

Smack—

Raven, cheeks puffed like apples, gave me a slap that rang like a quick drum, and everyone laughed, warm as a campfire.

Not hard—barely a breeze.

“My brain-sick master,” Vega sighed, dabbing ointment on my cheek like rain smoothing a stone, “you know Miss Raven blushes like sunset—why poke the nest?”

Because the other nests have vipers, and I prefer sparrows, like picking nettles over nightshade.

Tease Vega, and we end up in the bedroom, and the door eats the day like a snake eats eggs.

Tease Stini, and with her dad back, she’ll banter all the way until Augustus snags me, and the debt slips out like ink into snow.

Tease Gloria, and I die, clean as a blade through paper.

Tease Alina and Catherine, and I’ll sour the first impression like milk in summer—and who knows what cards sit under their sleeves.

No way—I refuse to be sent back to the Demon Realm over a dirty joke, like a stray kicked across a border; Yakfarro and my father would gut-laugh me raw.

“Don’t say impossibilities, Vega—think, then speak, like weighing a stone before a throw.”

“No, my ignorant master,” she said, cool as moonwater, “you shouldn’t use dirty jokes at all.”

“Ah, that’s the heart of it,” I said, scratching my head like a cat at a door.

“You should be more of a gentleman, even you, my beast of a master,” she murmured, fingers brushing her chest like a moth landing.

“Hush! You’re leaking far too much, and—Vega—are you still chasing your gentleman-route plan like a fox chasing its own tail?”

“I maintain my plan is flawless, like a perfect lattice; only my ham-actor master failed to carry the lead, like a horse spooked at bells.”

Mm… hard to say; I think my acting’s fine, like a mask that fits.

Maybe people can’t truly understand people—let Head judge next time, like a gavel wrapped in light.

“Then we try your route—wait, we have bigger fish; come here, I’m summoning the second maid like calling a star down.”

“Am I not enough, my greedy master?” she asked, eyes thin as blades.

“You know what I mean—move,” I said, tugging Vega upstairs like hauling a stubborn kite.

You hear “sinister ritual” and picture a cramped cellar, damp as old bread; I refuse the cliché, like tossing a moldy script.

If a certain Hero—yes, I mean Augustus—comes to check his daughter’s workplace and spots a shadow-ritual, what happens—thunder first or guillotine first?

Do I say “I’ll be back” and get swatted into horizon like a fly?

Do I say “You finally noticed…” and get one-shot like a candle under rain?

So our rite must look pretty, like a festival under gold lanterns—call it a blessing rite dressed in silk.

For example:

“The magic circle gets painted in gold, not blood, like sunrise etched on stone.”

“All mana-stone lamps on, brighter the better, like noon pouring from glass.”

“No goat heads or bloody bones—put flowers, or crosses, like gardens in a chapel.”

Vega crushed her brush, wood handle splintering like dry twigs.

“My omniscient, omnipotent master—perhaps you should do it,” she said, eyes cold as snow.

My hands are clubs; you know that like a table knows its dents.

“Sorry—please remove the cross mark on your forehead,” I said, wincing like a dog under thunder.

“Besides your unreasonable demands, all is done—anything else, my nagging, fussy, bored, trouble-hunting master?” she rattled, words like peas in a pan.

She did look truly mad, sparks dancing like fireflies.

“Mm, just feed me mana next,” I said, stepping into the circle like a boat into a black lake.

I poured mana, spoke with the Shadow Authority Domain, and linked to my vassals in the Demon Realm, like tossing lines into a deep sea.

Normal circles need ritual trinkets to steady success, like pegs in a bridge; but I hold Shadow Authority, so I can pour in concept directly, no props, no chant, like a smith working bare-handed steel.

People think walking is normal; trees do not, like roots judging feet.

Demonfolk find direct magic easy—no tools, rare chant, like lightning cutting across clear sky; humans find that unthinkable, like fish watching fire.

So I get the difference in views, like two mountains in fog; but feeling it—no, that’s tough, like wearing another creature’s skin.

“Vega, do I summon Dulan of Sorrow’s Feast, or Berenz the Manic?” I asked, voice like a kettle about to whistle.

“Could you not speak like you’re reading box lore,” she said, face flat as marble.

“Less talk; clock’s ticking, like sand from a broken gourd,” I said.

“Then call Berenz,” she said, crisp as chalk on slate.

“Berenz it is; better to bring in someone with spark and sun, like a red bird,” I said.

The long-held mana surged into the circle like a river into mill channels; Shadow elements drew circuits like ink vines on stone—first stage complete.

When I bargained with Augustus, one perk was touching Anfran’s corpse, cold as midnight iron.

He took all the drops to sell, of course, like a merchant emptying a cask; but everyone knows—in RPGs the Demon King dies and becomes black mist, like night dissolved in wind.

Close enough: a Demon King’s body converts to mass mana, belonging to the Ocean of Darkness, like tar waves under stars.

Augustus can’t use that deep-dark mana, so I took it, honestly having aimed for it like a hunter aiming for heart.

Game Demon Kings staying in the Demon King Castle like shut-in owls has a magical basis—this world brims with mana of the Ocean of Light, like sunlight pooling in fields.

If a Demon King burns their own mana here, they can sip Light and slowly convert, but it’s slow as honey in winter.

So a Demon King in the human world runs a debuff—Slowed Mana Recovery—like frost shackles; they leave most tasks to lieutenants tuned more to the Ocean of Light, like reeds working wind.

Me, I’m only the Son of the Demon King, so my recovery’s like a human mage’s—normal here, instant in the Demon Realm, like water refilling a spring.

But summoning a vassal’s true body from the Demon Realm eats mana like fire eats oil.

Projection’s cheap; true-body costs the same regardless of tier, oddly enough, like tolls without weight.

If a mage wants a demon to study, summoning a lesser demon costs the same as a headhunter demon, like two doors with one lock.

A Demon King can’t come due to the Primordial Accord, like a law carved into mountain bone.

So summoning management-level vassals is inefficient, like hauling oars into desert; see, I haven’t even completed the trio of upper vassals.

Anfran’s mana crystals and Yakfarro’s mana crystals went into the circle like coal into a furnace, and the lacking part came from me, like blood tide into moon.

If that still falls short, I’ll ask Vega, like borrowing fire from a neighbor.

We waited, tight with nerves, for the circle to spin up, like eyes on a storm clock.

Mm, boredom crept in like ants.

“You know, mana crystals are usually little spheres, like dew beads,” I said, casual as wind. “So when I extracted Yakfarro’s, I made black cubes instead, like charcoal dice.”

“I thought the shapes were wrong!” she hissed, tail twitching like a metronome. “No—stop talking—focus on the mana flow, please,” she said, words like clamps on wood.

She was right; I felt turbulence, like a river snagged on roots—my cube crafting probably sloppy, mana currents messy, the circle grinding unevenly, like gears with sand.

If this blows, the City of Heroes gets renamed the City of the Dead, like a candle snuffed by a tidal wave.

I could ask Vega to help stabilize, safer like ropes around a cliff; but if I admit it’s my fault, she’ll scold me into ash, like a kiln venting fire.

My pride refuses such petty pleading, like a cat refusing boots.

Besides, the feel’s good—I think I can hold it, odds decent like rain promised by swallows.

“Wait—my noble master with martyr eyes—what’s happening?” Vega said, panic bright as sparks. “Why’s the mana swelling like a thunderhead?”

Her fear-face is rare, and adorable like a rabbit flaring ears, a terrible time for that thought.

“Not the moment to call me cute!” she snapped, voice sharp as sleet. “It’s about to explode, right? I can feel annihilation brewing—wait, wait—”

Winner takes all here—do I go home like a leaf blown across a border, or pull a new girl through the gate like a pearl from dark water?

“Find out next time,” I muttered, grin crooked as a fox.

“Find out next time your head—aaah it’s really going to blow—aaah—” she screamed, words tumbling like stones.

Boom—

The world went nuclear—yeah, no; the house shuddered like a bear shaking snow, but the sky stayed blue.

If I go home, the story ends; once kicked back to the Demon Realm, the Son of the Demon King can’t reenter the human world, like a fish barred from a lake.

So even if I’m dust-smeared, even if the girls downstairs take scrapes, even if Vega’s rage crowns and she threatens to dismantle my head like a clock,

This magic will succeed, like a seed breaking stone.

“Good morning, Berenz,” I said, breath smoky as a spent match.

“Good morning, Master,” sang a small voice, sweet as fruit. “May I—”

A petite girl in maid dress, red hair and red eyes like embers, looked around with curious gleam, tidied her twin tails like tying ribbons to flame, and finally saw me sprawled like a fallen scarecrow.

“—may I eat you?” she asked, pink tongue touching red lips like a petal tasting wine, smiling at me sweet as candy and sharp as a knife.