Back in the Demon Realm, I never trained—no forge for muscle, no chisel for stance, no drills etched into bone like carvings on stone.

The Realm was brutal, a sandstorm that never let up; there was no time, no strength left over. As a child, my old man pressed a knife into my palm like a shard of moonlight and told me to cut down whatever beasts had gone fully feral.

Most beasts had a kind of mind—born of the Ocean of Darkness, the thing mortals call the Dark Abyss, a copy of the Creator’s work flooded with shadow and chaos, a tide that obeys the pinnacle of all negatives: the Demon King. But some beasts were worse—Vega’s true form, a feral wraith—things sunk deeper than Demonfolk into that black sea, creatures that worshiped ruin like waves worship cliffs.

So, as the Son of the Demon King, my job was culling the berserk ones, reaping fields of madness with a blade like winter wheat.

The pay was dust, the benefits were none; always on call, and miss a meal, and the bowl stays empty—like rainclouds that pass without dropping a single bead. Worse, we were shoved straight onto battlefields, no rehearsal, no lessons, no training—just the wind and the cliff. The old man said, either you kill those beasts, or they eat you; that choice was a stake in the ground under a black sky.

Live or die—two stones in one river.

Not that harsh, honestly—nothing like the tragic backstories heroes brandish like scars; more like a cold drizzle than a hurricane.

Demonfolk are born with knives in their souls—blood-loving, kill-hungry—the way a storm is born with lightning. And as the Son of the Demon King, my template and growth curve were miles above the low-grade beasts whose minds get swallowed by the Ocean’s undertow. Annoying, yes; apocalyptic, no—just another night without stars.

I fought with what later folks would call “my own style”—no school, no master, a path I carved like footsteps in fresh snow—testing how to work the field of Authority while throwing fists and steel.

The edge? I could read intent like wind reads grass and move my body toward openings like water finds cracks. The flaw? No inherited big moves, no ancestral thunder—the moon without a legend.

For now, it fits just right. I’ve crossed blades with Anna a thousand times; I know the hollows she favors and the seams she forgets. For stalling, I’m the right wall to lean on—a cliff under a relentless tide.

I knock aside the pecking weight of her Giant Scythe—each block kicks me back like a landslide—and that’s how it goes with monsters like my old man too.

Feet rooted in the earth, I guard Stini and Elina behind me like a ridge guarding a valley.

Always alert—eyes like lanterns—watching for ambushes that sprout like thorns from every shadow.

I swing as usual, only the Long Halberd’s gone—today I hold a Greatsword, a slab of midnight.

Shadow power coils around me like smoke around pine, driving a damaged body like a cracked wheel over gravel.

Every heartbeat sprays blood like a broken spring; there isn’t a bone left without a fracture—my frame a field of splintered reeds.

So what? The feeling rises first—stubborn as a sunrise—and action follows like light. I tried; I tried to shield the girls. Ugly to say, maybe, but I’m earned enough to face whatever wreck comes after this storm.

“Impressive, boy. How’d you train that?” The voice laughs like rain on tin.

“Elina, give me ‘Soothing Wounds,’ now!” I shout like a bell in fog.

Most folks use applied magic to reinforce the body; few ever drive magic straight through flesh like lightning through a tree. On paper, direct drive is better—faster, stronger, cleaner—but why don’t they do it? Because the river eats its banks: mana erodes flesh, the idea of the body collapses, and on the physical plane that means necrosis—the rot beneath the rose.

Outside the mana circuits, mana flowing through the body always leaves bite marks, even if it’s your own; so a brawler like me—someone who doesn’t touch applied magic—only does it when the cliff’s at my back and the sea’s at my feet.

If Elina’s Divine Art can scrub the negatives clean, I can stand a while longer—like a candle relit in wind.

Can’t expect help from Raven; Gloria’s shielding her and can’t move. Stini’s half-dead, Catherine’s out cold—like fallen birds under a silent sky.

Only I can keep drawing fire now; but I’m about done—an ember on wet ash.

Maybe because Elina’s more than a normal Divine Healer, a proxy walking under the blessing of a Divine Being, her layers of Divine Art keep me stitched—damage and repair weaving together like night and dawn, and somehow I’m mending.

I knock the scythe aside, unhook the blade, catch the notch; for a breath, I have Anna face-to-face—two moons in one pool.

“Boy, for your courage, I’ll grant you one wish. What do you want?” she says, smiling like a crescent with knives.

In mortal eyes, that grin spills more unnameable Slaughter, a color without a name—so I shut my eyes before my sanity ticks down like sand.

She’s still amused; she still wants to toy with mortals—cat and moth around a candle.

“How about a kiss, Demon King?” I toss her a smile sharp as a pebble.

“Kukuku. As you wish, mortal.” Her voice is silk over steel.

She smiles, flexes, and flings me—man and sword—into the air like a leaf in a whirlwind, then vanishes like smoke. I catch my balance mid-sky, and she blinks above me, stomps my chest, and drives me into the ground like a meteor carving a crater.

I set the blade flat to brace her step, but the sword slams into my sternum and the pain blooms like thorns. My clothes rip like old paper; skin meets the ground—hard as bone, but not stone. It’s a surface without a name, a floor that’s become a conceptless void.

Looks like Anna “slaughtered” the floor—killed the idea of it—like cutting the word out of the world.

I tried to throw her off with a sweep, and only managed to crash harder; that’s Anna when she gets slightly serious—my mortal strikes are weaker than wind pressure against a cliff. If she truly wanted us dead, it’d take less than a heartbeat—lightning between cloud and earth.

My right hand’s pinned under the sword, immovable as a nail; my left is caught in Anna’s grip, a vise forged of flesh. Even without her true body manifest, her physical limit is monstrous; I can’t beat it—I’m pressed under her like prey under a panther.

Hm? Female on top? She wears that predator look—this position is terrible—like a rabbit under a hawk.

Anna reaches out and grabs my face, pulls me close, then frowns—too awkward—and slides her grip to my throat, yanks my head up, and kisses me—two storms colliding.

No sweetness, no warmth, no kindness; her kiss is pure invasion, a blade through velvet. She drinks my saliva and the blood rising from my gut like a thirsty river, teeth nipping with a drunk kind of delight.

Temptation, fall, taboo, indulgence—every negative beauty of Demonfolk crowns Anna like a midnight halo; she’s gorgeous, a rose with iron thorns. Still, in bed or in a kiss, I prefer being the one in charge; even pinned, I bite back.

I tear at her lips the way she tears at mine, drag the saliva back like a tide reversing.

We’re beasts mating—though it’s only a kiss—fangs behind lips.

Her mouth feels like high-grade rubber—dream-soft, springy as a sacred drum—but I can’t bite through it; the surface laughs at teeth.

“Hh—hah. Kukuku. Interesting. We feel familiar, you and I—like my most hated brother—and you wield Shadow, too. Kukuku. Now I want to ruin you even more.” Her laugh is a lantern in a slaughterhouse.

Because the two of us are probably one person, split like mirror and reflection.

She half-lids those vast eyes, painted with colors that words can’t carry, presses a scarlet lip, and wipes away a thread of lust-slick drool—like smearing wine off porcelain.

I wipe my mouth too, reset my stance—breath like a drum—and it seems none of me got “slaughtered” during that close touch; compared to Stini, my lot’s kinder—clouds parting a little.

Maybe she’s done playing; I’ve never read anything from eyes, never caught secrets from glances—but her next strikes grow rougher, clumsy like hailstones.

A toy that’s worn out doesn’t deserve care; Anna thinks that, surely. So I keep meeting her head-on while my mind runs the gears—like a mill grinding under flood.

All right—last plan. Every stalling trick is spent—Augustus still hasn’t shown, and dragging this out is a rope around the neck.

First, plant my feet—wait for her to pose mid-fight—and cut in like a blade through silk:

“Kukuku… You know you can’t beat me, right? You’re a sensible man—why not surrender?” Her words drift like fog over a cliff.

“Because there are people who need me. They’re at my back, and I won’t betray their hope.” The feeling rises first—warm as a hearth—and the stance follows—steel steady as a mountain.

Hands on the Greatsword, posture set—my resolve a pillar in storm.

“Because of faith? Laughable faith. Kukuku. Mortals came before gods—will you bow to what came after you?” Her scorn is frost under noon sun.

“Because of love, Demon King. That, you won’t get.” I let the words fall soft, a gentle breeze in winter.

No speeches—real fights don’t spare time for essays; a faint pity is enough, like a Divine Being looking down through clouds at an ant-hill—mercy from above.

Demon Kings and gods share few things—they’re opposite poles, twin peaks on different horizons—but one trait is common: pride, a crown of lightning.

They can’t stomach disrespect, and mortal pity is a worm biting heaven’s heel.

Then they rage—volcano, sky-splitter:

“Are you kidding me, mortal? What was that look? Mind your tone! Who do you think you’re talking to?!” Her shout is thunder rolling across a dead sea.

The next blade storm is harsher—wilder, hungrier—edges forged of Slaughter cut past me like razors in rain; they hurt like thorns but don’t kill—her fury is a storm that hasn’t decided to drown me yet.

She’s so angry that my death wouldn’t cool her—fire that eats its own smoke.

Good. Anna took the bait—anger burns judgment like paper.

I knock aside the unnameable shapes threatening Elina and Stini; when the force is too heavy for the Greatsword, I throw my body in front—like a shield carved from my own ribs. Anna won’t kill me now; I won’t die—my fate a leaf riding a gale.

One volley, and Elina’s long-hoarded healing gets washed away—her work undone like chalk under rain; my body is beyond “ruined”—it’s a wreck, a ship split by reefs.

Good, good—now the worse I look, the deeper the hook; the heavier the wounds, the greater the shock to Anna—let me be ragged as a beggar under a palace eave:

“Heh. You wouldn’t understand.” Pride first—cold as a peak—and words last, a pebble thrown into still water.

I could say, “The bond with my companions won’t snap; my sword swings to guard; you’re not brave, humans are; death’s fine—I’m ready; there’s nothing left to fear.”

But none of that beats a single, arrogant “You wouldn’t understand”—a phrase that towers like a cliff above the sea.

It’s the tone that refuses to explain—a disdain that every Demon King will choke on like bones.

“Very well, mortal. You’ve managed to anger me.” Her voice is ice cracking.

Her hair, already hip-length, stretches longer—color shifting to Slaughter, the unnameable shade no mortal tongue can describe. It floats behind her like smoke and spills into the depth of blackness at her back—the night drinking the river.

“I wonder… can you keep that arrogant smile next?” Her question is a blade laid against my throat, cool as moonlight.