Life keeps snagging on thorns; plans trail one step behind the storm. What we want is choked by weeds we don’t, and it all washes away.

Expected or not, some things arrive like fate carved in stone, barging in and shoving our lives off their rails.

We have to accept it—this is the weather of being alive.

We run into it often; we should wear the rough wind like old clothes.

We can grumble, but the road keeps unrolling like a long river.

A thin sigh slipped out, like steam on a cold morning. I straightened my mask and watched a would‑be fallen walk away.

The spark was still the Hero Academy’s Martial Festival.

It’s a grand event, a drumbeat of fights, one round each day.

Even if you enter solo, duo, and team, you only fight three times a day.

I’m in solo and the duo with Elina. The times stagger like lanterns on a path; no problem.

The snag lies in me, a Son of the Demon King trespassing in the mortal world.

Big festivals are moonlit tides for Demonfolk to stir.

When hearts run hot, gaps open like cracked ice.

Those craving the crowd’s gaze yet ending as the hero’s stepping stone—ripe fruit for temptation.

Recruiting them drops in difficulty like autumn leaves.

Good news, yes, but the workload swelled like floodwater.

Vega looked eager to harvest every missed fruit at once, launching a crazed, covert campaign at all potential fallers.

Her plan was flawless on paper.

Even with lower difficulty, mortals tilt stubbornly toward the sea of light.

Few choose the dark, like stars refusing clouds.

Maybe our pairing—me and Elina—or Raven and Gloria—stole the stage like twin comets.

Our power drew classmates’ eyes like moths to lamps.

More answered Vega’s lure than expected, hungry for strength.

Her split bodies, the “multi‑thread” avatars, began to run thin.

To atone, she knelt naked before me—solemn as a ritual under moonlight. I ate my fill, then forgave her.

She’s no all‑knowing Divine Being or Demon King within a domain.

At most, she can split into a bit over a hundred.

She also manages our Demon King Army’s temporary base.

Now too many answered; her hands ran short like sand through fingers.

So I pitched in. Demonfolk are silver‑tongued; tempting humans is like fishing on a calm lake.

My dear classmates thought they’d called a devil with summoning and were making deals.

A note here: devils have decent PR in the mortal world.

Evil by nature, yes, but they obey contracts to the letter.

Everything sits black‑and‑white on parchment. Both sides must follow the ink like tracks in snow.

Devils are crafty, yet they rarely lie.

Their prices are clear as lantern light.

You sign thinking you profit; only at the end you discover a deep loss, like a net torn open.

In short, devils profit by feeding mortal stupidity and greed.

Few admit their smallness.

Most mages who think they’re clever have summoned a devil at least once.

In terms of summoning devils, the gods made no outright ban.

They—especially Wisdom God Haydon—know it’s better to teach the danger than hide it.

Curiosity bores through stone; warnings plant thorns.

So my classmates get giddy when a pliant devil steps from the circle.

But when I raise the payout again and again, while asking only for their soul after death, they balk.

The word soul chills like winter rain.

So far, I’ve met dozens of students, face‑to‑face or by many faces.

Only one signed readily.

Maybe he had his own calculus.

Maybe he planned to break with me, the villain in the shadows, from the start.

No problem. I fanned myself with the file, paper whispering like reeds.

I checked the thin sheet again in the folder.

I promise a set measure of power.

The contractor promises his soul to me after death.

It’s a common form—the post‑mortem soul transfer, inked like a river seal.

The contract meets code and bears Appoint’s recognition.

I don’t fear backtracking; the god of contracts watches like a fixed star.

That closes this order. I roll my stiff shoulders like loosening ropes.

I flip my schedule.

My gaze pauses on the crossed‑out line: “Raven and Princess Golia’s team match—bring flowers and cheer.”

Then I scan the next tasks.

Next work… no more meetings with potential fallers.

But I need to pick up goods from a devil.

Hmm… this…

“Your Highness Andor, isn’t your current business model edging into infringement?”

He popped out on my right, abrupt as a shadow stepping from dusk.

No sound, no ripple.

He felt like he’d always been there, a servant waiting centuries for his master’s return.

He wore a modern suit, understated yet costly, pairing with his graceful manners like tea with porcelain.

For a blink, I thought him the perfect gentleman—if he weren’t a devil.

Talk to a devil and you’re already in a snare.

The more you chat, the deeper the fall, like stairs into fog.

I know this, so I kept it blunt:

“Where’s my Invisible Cloak? You didn’t come empty‑handed, did you?”

“Impossible. Satisfying clients is our north star.”

“But we should speak first about you using our reputation to recruit mid‑tier followers.”

“I’m sure you have reasons.”

“We’d like to understand your bind, but consider our interests too.”

The devil smiled, eyes crescented, voice humble yet precise, like silk laid over steel.

They’re always like this.

In the Demon Realm, devils are a mystery among mysteries.

In theory, they wield power and authority akin to gods and great demons.

Their status should outrank mine.

Yet they act humble, talking to everyone, high or low, like rain on all roofs.

They’ll deal with anyone who summons them.

As I said, if a Demon King is a terrorist, then a devil is an arms dealer.

These secret‑keepers can produce whatever you want, hoarding resources like mountains behind veils.

“That’s unrelated to our contract.”

“I pay, you deliver, right?”

“Dulan solved the money.”

“I want my goods now.”

“Exactly.”

He sighed, raised both hands.

The empty air grew a concept not of breath, then concept braided into substance, taking shape like frost.

“Your Invisible Cloak has arrived. Please inspect.”

“As for you trading under our name, upper management has decided.”

At worst, they’ll tell me to stop.

I never called myself a devil; they can’t pin it on me.

No worry.

By the time this batch dies, my mid‑tier followers will be enough, like grain in the granary.

“You may continue your current method.”

“Just don’t use fraud.”

“Otherwise we’re troubled in that domain too.”

“That’s the upper line.”

“Seems they rate your future rather high.”

Terms that loose are strange.

They’re letting me borrow millions of years of devilish credit like a river loaning its bridge?

“So, that’s investment?”

“Not yet.”

He smiled and shook his head.

“Devils are generous.”

“If it were real investment, you’d get a larger gift, not just this courtesy.”

“So we’re in observation?”

“Yes.”

“You’re the only Son of the Demon King in this era to break the original accord.”

“The upper floors are very interested in how far you’ll go.”

“You know?”

“We know some.”

“How much that some is, you can only guess.”

“Or we can trade for the details.”

He vanished as abruptly as he came, slipping into the void like a fish into deep water.

His figure was gone, but his voice flowed back, clear as a bell:

“Your Highness, one more question, if you’ll answer.”

“How did you know the fishfolk’s Sorcerer Emperor, King Dipei’s taboo alchemy—the Invisible Cloak—was in devil hands?”

“It’s not a normal Invisible Cloak?”

“I wondered why it was so pricey.”

“So it has that grand pedigree!”

“...If you don’t want to say, I understand.”

“Sorry to trouble you.”

The voice faded like mist and didn’t return.

With that unexpected tidbit, I weighed the Invisible Cloak in my hands.

Curiosity pricked like thorns.

How many old monsters know I led twenty‑four Sons of the Demon King into the mortal world, against the original accord?

In the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom, at least Haydon knows.

Other gods sit under his weight; I worry less there.

But the Demon Realm holds many madmen.

A promoted Demon King can’t invade again, true.

Their underlings might still make trouble, like hornets stirred.

“Not many.”

“Your exit from the Demon Realm already shows the ones who know chose silence.”

The devil seemed to read my thoughts, shattering my neat estimate like glass.

As expected, devils are maddening, like cats knocking cups at dawn.

I thought that and donned the full Invisible Cloak, pulling it on like clear rain.

Though called a cloak, it’s more a transparent raincoat.

Once worn, it extends into a complete layer, wrapping the wearer.

Ordinary eyes can’t see it, like glass on water.

It’s King Dipei’s taboo alchemical creation, a relic of the Golden Age.

It renders any wearer invisible—no conditions, no limits, no prerequisites, like night swallowing a lamp.

No magic or domain can detect it.

With it on, I’m effectively absent from the world.

Flames and ice spikes pass through me like wind through fog, leaving no harm.

Even Anna across the way can’t sense me.

In other words, I can walk through walls, like a ghost through paper doors.

I leaned on intent to float.

I kept thinking, Up, up, like a kite tugging string.

My viewpoint rose.

I drifted along the corridor, light as pollen.

About ten minutes, and the cloak’s handling felt simpler than I’d imagined.

Good. With this, my plan can step to the next stone across the stream.

Once the thrill of a new toy ebbed, I went to do the thing only this cloak makes possible.

I left the student dorms.

The cloak lifted me, carrying me toward the teaching building like a quiet gondola.

I headed for the underground zone I’d scouted many times.

The wards there were tight as drumskin; I’d never forced it.

Places like the Hero Academy, old as weathered stone, keep secrets by the dozen.

The one I’m headed for is the heart under the mountain.

I stuck out my tongue at the lurking Assassin by the corner.

Invisible, I slipped through his body and back, like mist through reeds.

His keen instinct shivered him.

He glanced around and found nothing.

Done playing, I reached my destination.

A door sealed by countless chains, like a steel spiderweb.

I slid through layers of legendary wards with ease, like water finding cracks.

I found two lovely girls.

One was bound head to toe in iron chains, no consciousness.

If not for the occasional breath, she’d pass for a beautiful doll.

The other wore a plain long dress.

She sat on a broad chain, eyes empty, staring into a far, gray sea.

I lifted the cloak’s hood, and greeted the one still aware:

“Morning, Sun.”