I gathered the conceptual shards in my domain that belonged to Berenz, like sweeping fallen starlight into a lacquered box. Concepts were reassigned, then projected into the material world like moonlight poured through a window. It burned mana like a furnace, and the revived retainer would lose a slice of memory, like a torn page drifting away. Aside from that, it was a perfect resurrection, as clean as winter snow.

A red-haired little girl pressed her forehead and rose, slow as mist lifting off a river.

“My head hurts. Huh… a ceiling I’ve never seen, like a strange sky.”

I felt that pinch of pity, sharp as a thorn. Berenz had barely touched the human world before Anna cut her down. With missing memories, she probably thought we were still in the Demon Realm, like a fish dreaming of its old lake.

“Don’t steal an iconic line, okay? Also—welcome back, Berenz.” My voice was calm, like a lantern shielded from wind.

“Who are you, you creepy mask? I’ll eat you.” Her eyes skimmed me up and down, bold as a hawk over snow.

“…”

I admit my mask looks bad, like cracked bark on a dead tree. But I made it with time and care, like carving a charm in midnight.

“…Ugly or not, you don’t get to say.” The irritation pricked, hot as pepper.

One sweep of my halberd flipped her, like a kite yanked by a sudden gale. Let her reflect in the dirt. The rest of the exposition I tossed to the ever-capable Vega, like passing a scroll to a court scribe.

“This overwhelming strength… is it—Master?! You went to the human world to die, like a candle thrown into rain. Why are you still in the Demon Realm?” Her words stumbled like loose stones.

I sent her flying with another halberd smack, playful as flicking a chess piece off the board. Berenz took it like slapstick, arms and legs bent like a protagonist in some cheap film getting hit by a carriage.

She popped up fast, brisk as a spring sparrow, dusted off her maid uniform, then waved to Vega as if the wind had never touched her.

Tsk. I hate this—deep as a splinter under a nail. Wraiths are concepts wearing shadows; their bodies are projections, like moonlit reflections in a well. Physical strikes follow physical laws, sure, but you’re just hitting an image, like punching smoke over water.

It’s hardly punishment—like smacking a ghost. Forget it. I’ll save the real discipline for the bed later, like locking a chest for the night. Work first.

“Vega, explain the current situation to Berenz. Fill the memory gap like stitching a torn robe. Then brief me on the status of the Andor Demon King Army.”

Vega split into two, quiet as cells dividing. One guided Berenz toward the torture chamber, lantern-steadies in hand. The other walked to me with measured steps, like a metronome in a silent hall.

I’d almost forgotten—our retainers share a universal skill, Multiline Operation, splitting the individual like a river braiding into channels. The requirements are high like a mountain pass; even I can’t use it. Of my maids, only Vega can. Over time, I’d let the thought slip, like a leaf into a stream.

“…So, Berenz, that’s the situation,” Vega said to the other, voice smooth as oiled wood. “Visit Nan Lu in that chamber first. I’ll explain your work details later, like adding ink to outlines.”

“Nan Lu? You caught her? How?” Her shock snapped sharp, like a twig.

“Normally, impossible… but thanks to you.” Vega’s tone carried a hidden smile, like cloud shadow over wheat. She patted Berenz’s shoulder and pushed her into the chamber, gentle as a gate closing.

“Wait, how—oh, it really is Nan Lu. Hahahaha, you finally got yours. That messy look is perfect! Try this!” Her laughter spilled like broken bells.

“No, that’s too big! Don’t— I’ll break— uuuh…” The scream inside tore like cloth, and Berenz’s laughter rattled like iron on stone. Vega Number Two stood impassive beside me, face smooth as porcelain, and bowed.

“By your orders, we’ve grown two mid-tier retainers inside the Hero Academy, like lilies planted in marble. But due to contract terms, they can’t serve as combat strength anytime soon.”

“So, the contracts are soul claims after death, not hourly hires?” My tone cooled, like frost on slate.

“Yes, Master. You cast a long line,” she said, patient as a lake. “We wait for the fish.”

“So we still can’t expand the Demon King Army soon…” The heaviness settled like fog on low reeds.

In most two-dimensional tales, a Demon King Army officer leads a pack of lesser retainers or monsters to raid a human city, like wolves in harvest fields. The hero defeats the officer, and the volume flips to a flashback, smooth as turning autumn pages.

But in the Silver Era, power is stretched to extremes like chains pulled taut. Officers and monster swarms aren’t fodder you beat with rabble, not anymore.

A single officer can match a full army, like a volcano against a village. And when monsters lose their leader, they don’t scatter; they go rabid, like wildfire in dry pine.

The Silver Era births heroes like stars after rain, yet fighting the Demon King Army stays brutal, like grinding stone with bone.

It isn’t easy for us either—

“So right now, the only ones who can run monsters around are you and Berenz. Dulan’s still in the Demon Realm, tallying my old estate like counting beads, no help for now.”

“My poor Master, precisely speaking, only I can lead troops,” Vega said, cool as tea. “Berenz charges first when war starts, like a spear thrown at dawn. She can lead the main assault, at best.”

The Demon King is the personified Ocean of Darkness, and the whole army leans that way—savage, bloodthirsty, strong yet unbalanced, like a storm with no compass.

We can’t be like the Ocean of Light’s knightly orders—neat ranks, square formations, discipline clean as frost lines. Our lower-tier retainers and monsters traded reason for power and numbers, like candles exchanged for torches. They struggle even with crude commands. Upper and mid-tier retainers have strength and reason, but their numbers are stubborn, like seeds in poor soil.

That’s why a Hero Squad can infiltrate Demon King lands and bump into wild monsters everywhere, like deer in dark groves. We compensate with density—pack monsters thick, like briars—to cover for the lack of sane patrols.

As for officer-level demonfolk, I’m not being picky; at minimum, they need to be rational, like anchors in a tide.

Mid-tier retainers are hard to create. Upper-tier retainers, who can stall a Demon King, are worth years of training—like tempering steel in winter. My three maids need centuries to convert into potential upper-tier retainers, by my count.

But mid-tier retainers sit in a cramped niche. In the Demon Realm, plenty of demonfolk want to defect, like moths to a brighter flame. In the human world, flipping mortals is near impossible; most Demon Kings have too little time here to train low-value mortals, like trying to paint a mural during a fire drill.

We don’t have many lower-tier retainers, but they’re expendables—use and discard, like paper charms. Kill and you get troops; they’re easy to acquire. Most Demon Kings don’t care how many lower-tiers sit in their domain. In war, numbers snowball fast, like a rolling drift down a white hill.

But officer-level forces who can actually command and fight? Only Vega and Berenz. That’s the choke point constraining us, like a narrow gorge.

My opening is a normal Demon King’s hand—black tech, strength, sly schemes, all in my sleeve, like cards inked with midnight. Aside from my temperament, I’m orthodox.

But the officers are too few. Others have Four Heavenly Kings, Seven Star Lords, Nine Pillars, Twelve Apostles. I have three maids and a lot of silence, like a temple with one bell.

Other Demon Kings can be worse. Anna has only Nan Lu and Libixi as upper-tier retainers, like two peaks on a flat plain. Yakfarro has one, Zoral. And my Vega can use Multiline Operation, a split to handle affairs, like a spider weaving multiple threads. From that angle, I should be content, like a monk with warm tea.

“Still, we’re short on combat power,” I said, the ache like winter in my bones. “No brilliant fix yet. Tell me about the main base construction.”

“Yes, by your orders, this serves as a temporary base, ready to move, like a caravan city under stars. Most mindless lower-tier retainers have fixed tasks and can sustain operations, making mass-production alchemic weapons for monsters, like an ant mill. The living zones for future mortal staff are nearly built, ecologies self-sufficient like terrariums. But forgive me…”

“Granted. Speak.” My patience was thin, like paper, but I held it straight.

Vega looked troubled, a ripple crossing her calm, then spoke.

“Why doesn’t my wise Master intend to make this the Demon King Castle?” She gestured at the vast cavern unfurling like a black sea beneath a stone sky. It stretched out of sight, wide as a prairie, pillars rising to the dome like petrified trees. You could mistake it for night on the surface.

“It’s hidden, deep underground by kilometers, spacious and solid, like a whale’s bones. In the past days, my splits led lower-tier retainers to expand space, clear massive boulders, and set up alchemic rigs, like cranes on moonlit quarries. Besides lacking a true Demon King Castle, it’s top-tier as a main base. Why not build the real castle here?”

Explaining this is tangled, like knots in silk. Still, for my own people, I should answer, like pouring tea before speaking.

“First, I’m not dissatisfied with your work.” My tone softened, like dusk rain.

“Of course. What you hand me, I render perfect,” she said, pride gleaming like lacquer.

“Now that’s a touch arrogant,” I muttered, a smile like a nail half-hammered.

“You know, after this, I won’t come here again, like a moth choosing a different lamp,” I said. “You too. Except to relay orders to Berenz, minimize your presence here.”

“That’s what puzzles me, my teasing Master,” she said, eyes bright as lake ice. “My splits handle affairs as efficiently as I do. Why trouble Berenz?”

“It’s not trouble, nor a test. I need us able to stand aside when needed, like stepping off a stage. Remember when I said, ‘You handle the heavy work, Berenz handles the dirty work’? I need your high-level capability always aligned with me, like a compass to my hand.”

“Then why stand aside at all?” she asked, voice like a silk blade. “Why pretend to be good? As long as your targets don’t discover us, we’re fine.”

“The thought’s good, but the Divine Beings know. They see everything, like stars over roofs.” I pointed upward, through rock and dream, higher than any sky—the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom.

“If we plan to compromise with justice—if not now, then later—it’s written like a prophecy. We can’t leave handles on our actions, not for anyone to grab, like ropes trailing from our cloaks.”

“You mean… even if we do evil, our deeds must remain forgivable, like stains that can be washed?” Her mind turned, quick as minnows.

A maid with sharp comprehension is a blessing, warm as a brazier. Vega might be the poster girl for Proper Maids, new edition.

Though being airheaded is also a maid’s charm, like a crease in a smile…

“That’s the gist,” I said. “All-seeing gods will awaken their folk in countless ways, like bells in fog. Betrayal and lies drop our credibility, like coins lost in a river.”

Gods and Silver Era mortals are fussy patrons, hard to serve, like nobles with delicate palates. Earning fealty is a hassle.

“That’s why you push all dirty tasks to Berenz?” Vega asked, voice like a thin knife.

“At the end, I might kill her as a banner sacrifice,” I said, cold as iron. “But don’t be unhappy. You’re my hands, my authority. I can only rely on you.”

“Indeed, indeed. No matter how vile your Demon King temperament, we maids can only nod, like reeds in wind,” she said, wrapping my head in a gentle hug, her chin raking my hair like a cat’s nuzzle, teasing stitched with warmth.

“Kidding,” she said softly, voice like midnight sugar. “My Master who chose to be a villain and still feels uneasy—don’t mind it. Use us as you like. Berenz and Dulan share the same resolve.”

As always, at the last crucial moment, she reset her mask and struck me with gentle contrast, like spring after snow.

She saw through my measures, through my concealments, yet chose obedience, like swans choosing the lake.

“Has anyone told you your all-knowing tone is annoying? That kind of thoughtfulness is disgusting,” I grumbled, the heat a flickering ember.

“Yes, my Master,” she said, smile like a crescent. “I think you already trust this—we all trust you won’t fail us.”

She released me and bowed, graceful as a willow.

“Thanks, Vega. You always understand me best,” I said, gratitude like warm steam.

“It’s my duty, my pretending-to-be-not-gentle Master,” she said, words half-silk, half-thorn.

It was sarcasm, or truth—I couldn’t decipher the meaning of “pretending not to be gentle,” like trying to read dew. But I knew the feeling brimming there was love, loyalty, trust—bright things, like lanterns in snow.

They don’t belong to the Ocean of Darkness. So I can’t accept them openly; I fear loss, like a bird fearing empty sky.

This can wait… maybe until Volume Six.

“Oh, one more thing. These are for you.” I pulled several items from my collection, their glints cold as stars, and handed them to Vega with usage notes, clear as lines on jade.

“These are precious,” she said, brows like drawn bows. “By your logic, they’re unusable—many cause devastating harm, unforgivable, like plague on wheat.”

She pointed at the viral concentrate, vicious as black oil.

“Of course we won’t use them. Those things are anti-human, anti-justice, anti-hero, like rot in grain.”

“Oh… so you mean—”

“Right. Give some to Berenz. You keep the rest. You two are not allowed to use them,” I said, voice firm as a seal. “You get my meaning?”

She returned to a proper face and nodded, solemn as a shrine.

I meant: we can sell these balance-breakers, like passing a thunderstone to eager hands. Sell them to my siblings; let them use them. Then I’ll resolve the crisis with my familiarity, like a locksmith opening his own trap.

That will anchor my title as World Saving Demon King, like a banner planted on a hill.

I won’t be guilty of anything. It’ll all be Berenz’s unilateral acts, like a rogue wave. Even the gods will have no grounds to blame me, like judges without evidence.

I’m the villain; I move like a knife for the cleanest cut, and the bodies on the floor aren’t my ledger.

I mean to ally with Justice, a handshake with light, but a saint steering a faction? The moon can’t helm a ship.

So I’m not wrong; I swallow the bitter pill for the world, plant seeds for the future.

To do evil for a greater good—mud on the boots to raise a dam; Head should grasp that too.

It may not unfold as smooth as the map suggests, yet the road itself lies wide and walkable.

The odds look worth a toss of the dice.

Calm settles like cool tea; I lace my fingers and rest my elbows on the table, letting that thought breathe.