I can’t touch the chain with a stain of malice, or the sealing array will flare like frost-lit runes.

If the Light Orb strikes me, it’s a spark in the rain; but if Augustus or another guardian marches in and sees the Light Orb has become a human girl, that’s trouble.

I haven’t finished carving the Light Orb’s worldview, like shaping jade under a midnight lamp.

The array only triggers on malice—the will to break the seal.

If I only wake “Abhorrence,” the Demon King, it’s like tapping a drum without tearing the skin.

I’ve already mapped the array’s gears, like reading currents under moonlight.

I steady my breath, then sway the chain where the Light Orb perches, like plucking a cold string.

Hey, Sun, waking her won’t violate your terms, right?

My voice drops like a pebble into still water.

I look at the girl with hollow eyes—empty as fog over a lake.

She flicks me a lazy glance, then shifts to sit more comfortably on the chain, like a cat on a warm sill.

After a pause long as cloud-shadow, she adds, voice falling like dry snow:

You can’t wake her.

Her mind and body are locked together, like iron and ice.

Without my permission, she can’t act, can’t even think.

Really?

I’ve no reason to lie to you.

My brow knots like tangled brush.

I’d planned to wake the Demon King and negotiate her reward for leaving the seal, like merchants haggling under lanterns.

Seems that won’t work.

I’ll have to unseal her first, then collect the fee—paying the goods before the coin, a cart before the horse rolling into dusk.

What a…

What a… stroke of luck!

I’m thrilled—like thunder rippling through a child’s chest.

Sun, Sun, if I strip her clothes, I won’t be breaking your rules, right?

No, but what exactly are you trying to…

The Light Orb looks puzzled, like mist snagged on thorns.

Then, then, if I inject a little fluid into her, that won’t break your rules either, right?

There’s a tiny chance she might bleed—like a pricked rose.

My face is always deadpan, a stone mask.

So I keep my tone calm, like rain on tiles, and let my expectation play as farce.

Besides, I’d bet five hundred Colonna coins “Abhorrence,” the Demon King, isn’t a virgin.

Anyone want to wager?

The room hangs quiet as an abandoned stage.

Ah, you mean… No! Simply no!

Her confusion clears, and for the first time her voice carries emotion, like a flame under glass.

She glares at me, eyes sharp as splinters.

You intend to…

Language is part of the concept that makes up the Light Orb; she spoke the moment she was born.

Even so, she searches her own lexicon for a long breath, like riffling leaves:

…you intend necrophilia?

That’s too much!

You can’t accuse me of that.

Sun, you owe me an apology.

She’s still warm, and she’s soft.

I squeeze “Abhorrence” the Demon King’s chest, like testing ripened fruit, and show the Light Orb.

Sorry, then how should I say it?

She bows and apologizes with almost childlike sincerity, clear as river glass.

That honesty makes me hesitate, like a knife catching light.

Bondage kink? Dissociation kink? Close, but not quite…

Mm, call it a sleep-assault kink.

No.

Her voice keeps low, like a rolled drum, but the tint of feeling is audible, like sunset in a word.

There’s value in teasing her—pulling threads to widen that part of her.

After all, in the Demon Realm they say, “Every feeling rises from desire,” like wind born from heat.

If I can give the Light Orb desire, the day she leaves her sealing post won’t be far—like spring breaking ice.

Ho ho ho, that rule isn’t in your charter, right?

You shouldn’t stop me.

But I know public intercourse isn’t proper conduct.

For a girl built outside human sentiment, she knows a lot—like a book fed by rain.

This isn’t a public place, and there’s no one else here.

Why would you call this public?

Because I’m here.

I’m the outsider.

That carries a touch of pique, like a finch fluffing its feathers.

You can leave.

No.

I can’t leave my station…

Her voice is a fixed star.

Then shut your eyes.

I respect your work; you should respect my desire.

Only when people understand each other can the world be peaceful, like wind softening waves.

…Keeping the world peaceful isn’t my duty.

Then what is? Guarding the seal?

Mm… Yes.

But you’re not human.

You were originally a cluster of concepts with great power, a star of meaning.

No one expects you; no one sees your effort.

What’s the point of your vigil?

Where’s the value—like a lantern in a blind alley?

These are words aimed at the heart, blades under silk.

I want to shatter this newborn girl’s sole, strongest obsession and remold it, edit it to my taste—like reshaping clay with steady hands.

Just like when I trained Vega, Berenz, and Dulan—though now I can use only language, not violence, like weaving with thread instead of iron.

Without me, you’re nothing.

Even after you’re born, you’re still nothing, unable to become anything.

You know nothing.

Why won’t you accept what I say?

No reason.

You should think for yourself.

You’re no longer an object; you’re a person, standing equal with any living being under the sky.

If you cling to your own view and refuse to think—arrogance and sloth—you’ve already touched two deadly sins.

That’s what your self-styled nobility won’t accept, right?

…

Talking with Stini and Raven is different.

Stini always digs out a strange flaw mid-monologue, then unknowingly drifts the conversation off course, like a kite snagging a gust.

Raven doesn’t enjoy arguing head-on, but her language has logic like interlocking gears; hard to overturn.

The Light Orb lacks experience; often she can’t answer.

When she can’t, she sinks into silence, like snow packing a field—and I can keep up the attack.

Relaxing work, like a picnic under pale clouds—no, I came here to unwind because I’m sick of hosting would-be degenerates.

…Fine. Call it overtime.

What’s wrong?

Nothing.

A bit of stomach pain, like a knot in a rope.

Let’s continue.

What’s your conclusion?

I… I think I should respond to what others expect of me.

Sun, no one expects anything of you.

I just said—

No.

Others do expect things of the Light Orb.

For the first time, she cuts me off, her will flaring like a banner:

Humans expect the Light Orb to function properly and seal the Demon King.

I’ll guard that expectation.

It may not be valuable, but it has a meaning that’s mine.

Mortals change easily; hearts turn like leaves.

How long can you guard?

How much will humans answer your effort?

Divine Beings never pin their hopes on mortal striving and can ignore mortal overreaching hope.

Why not act like Divine Beings?

Because I’m not a Divine Being.

You constructed me, so you should know—

I’m not a Divine Being, nor do I have that ancient wisdom.

I can only do what I can do—only what I believe is right.

Betrayal doesn’t matter?

Blame doesn’t matter?

Is mere giving enough to satisfy you?

Can you judge so cleanly?

I can.

Of course I can.

She lifts her chin, proud as a swan on black water.

But she can’t.

As Andor, Son of the Demon King, who helped forge her soul, I can say this like a seal pressed into wax.

The Light Orb is not Princess Golia’s puppet; she is human—truly, wholly human.

So she wants to be as great as current humanity, born toward good like dawn toward blue.

She will also be human: weak at times, hesitant at times, afraid of loneliness, like a candle fearing drafts.

She may guard for a hundred years.

But a thousand? Ten thousand?

She, like mortals, is no all-knower, no prophet, no transcendence.

She became human and cannot keep a thing’s pure purity.

She’ll love someone.

She’ll hate someone.

She’ll waver, like willow shadows on water.

One day, the rush inside her will break the shackles she set for herself, overturn her human spirit, and crush the will she cherishes, like a river eating its banks.

O foolish one…

Mortals lack immortality not for physics, but for spiritual fracture, like porcelain fissured within.

The Demonfolk have studied this for thousands of years—can you, newborn, understand?

I stroke her hair, voice low as evening wind.

Lately I’ve grown fond of this touch.

Vega’s hair is a bit stiff, like straw brushed with frost.

Berenz’s hair is not straight and often oily, sticking together like damp reeds.

Stini usually dislikes my sudden hand on her head, except on certain days.

Raven… each time accuses me of harassment, like a hawk crying at dusk.

So having the Light Orb—soft, smooth hair, like silk washed by river water—and a girl who won’t refuse, pleases me.

Don’t understand…

Take it slow.

I’ll tell you—your ignorance, the Divine Beings’ ignorance, mortals’ ignorance, and mine.

We have plenty of time, like stars that don’t hurry.

You’re leaving?

Yeah.

I’ve still got work, and it’s a headache, like smoke stinging eyes.

Or I could keep slacking—go to the library, flirt up that cerebral literary girl, spend an afternoon over coffee like warm twilight…

Vega would curse me out.

So I’ll just think about it.

I pull up my hood on the invisibility cloak, dress tight as night, then look up—straight into the girl’s hollows, eyes empty as wells.

Then, see you, Sun.

Wait—um, will you come again?

Of course.

I still haven’t told you my name.

I stamp my foot, checking nothing’s showing from a stretch, like a cat testing its balance.

You’re called—no, tell me next time.

I set down a few snack packs I recommend, like small offerings on a shrine, and drift outside in the invisibility cloak.

Right, you don’t really like me calling you “Sun,” do you?

We can change it.

For now, only I know you.

I don’t like “Sun”...

What should I be called?

How about “Light Orb”?

That’s your former name; it’s specific to you, and it sounds nice, like a bell of glass.

“Light Orb,” huh…

She rolls the name on her tongue, like tasting clear spring:

Then… call me “Light Orb” from now on?

Yes.

I’ll be troubling you often, Miss Light Orb.

Mm… mm-hmm.

Goodbye, mister-who’s-not-yet-known.

I take one last look.

As she waves, her hollow face seems to catch a flicker of pleasure, like sun threading a cloud.