We walked toward my arena together, our footsteps flowing down the corridor like a quiet stream. Halfway there, Vega recalled my earlier move and asked, voice like a pebble tossed into still water.

“Right, my slacking-loving master, what was that visit to Catherine about?” Her curiosity flickered like a cat’s tail in the grass.

“What, you’re curious? Or jealous?” I tossed the words like a leaf into the wind.

“Not really. It was just a passing remark.” Her tone drifted light as dust in sunlight.

As we walked, Vega handed me my rationed potions, sliding the vials into my tactical pockets like beads into a worn pouch. A century together had carved grooves in habit; she knew where my hands reached and where my tools nested, like stones knowing their riverbed.

“If you want to know, it’s simple. I went to encourage her.” I rolled my shoulders, feeling the joints creak like old doors in a temple hall.

“Remember how we train feral wraiths? We shatter the mindless rage into gravel, then remake it into the shape a Demon King desires.” My voice carried like a hammer striking anvil.

“This was the new life you granted us who were mindless.” Her words bowed like grass before the tide.

“Say it like that and I’m happy, Vega. But turn the lantern, and it’s a cruel process.” I let the thought fall like a stone into deep water.

If it’s a wraith, it howls like a winter gale, a storm without a face. Form and essence lack all pattern, not even life, just a calamity crawling like frost. Kindness or malice meet the same end—obliteration, like waves smashing a sandcastle. Beating such a thing isn’t inhuman; it’s weather against rock.

But if it’s a person with reason, carving them is too cruel, at least by a common gaze that trembles like candlelight.

“Under Anna’s training, Catherine’s heart will wear down, like a blade dulled on bone. Even if it doesn’t crack yet, it will scuff. She’ll start to doubt what she trusted and what she hated. I went to brace her heart.” I spoke like tying a rope around a falling tree.

That means a simple encouragement. One, give Catherine a path back to the human shore, a pier in fog. Two, slow her descent so Anna’s eyes get snagged on another thorn. I’m curious about Catherine’s seat among the Divine, sure, but top priority right now is to unsettle Anna, like salt in a wound. The game I’m weaving is long, like a river winding through mountains.

“That’ll expose our side to Her Highness Anna,” Vega said, her concern folding like a paper fan. “She probably still doesn’t know my master hides in her visual blind spots and has been growing roots in the Hero Academy. Being found isn’t your wish, like a hunter’s trap sprung too soon.”

“Normally, yes. Mention her domain and I risk being watched, like a moth near a lamp. Talking to the one she watches most and whispering encouragement is worse.” I raised a finger and plucked at the air, tugging the part that belonged to Shadow like teasing a thread from silk, signaling her to look.

It felt… dry, like bark in drought. Authority isn’t a machine; I can only judge by touch, like a blind man reading knotted wood.

“I usually avoid meeting Catherine, like a fox avoiding a snare, to lower the chance of Anna noticing. But there’s a good window that briefly cuts Anna’s sensing of us. The Divine descent during the Academy’s Top Twelve matches.” My smile was a knife sheathed in velvet.

Diffused divine power seeps like corrosive poison. Touching my hand, it burns soundless, colorless, like frostbite in summer. It makes linking my own domain hard, like rowing through black tar.

“Divine power will snap Anna’s feelers to our domain for a moment, like thunder drowning whispers. She’s strong, but not at the Demon King’s all-knowing height. I get about ten seconds. In that sliver, I can say anything to Catherine.” My words ticked like a sandglass.

“Did you go with the classic ‘Once this war ends, let’s get married’?” Vega’s tone twirled like a ribbon, teasing as sunlight on wine.

“Even I wouldn’t waste a rare window on a gag line. Though ‘Before I die, I don’t want to die a virgin’ did hover for a breath like a moth around flame.” I rubbed my neck, a laugh flickering like a spark.

“What’s the difference? Both are about hooking up with a girl, both crude as muddy boots.” Her eyes narrowed like slits in iron.

“Vega, a girl shouldn’t toss ‘hook up’ around. Say ‘roll in the sheets.’” I lifted a finger, mock-gentlemanly, like a paper fan touching a cheek.

“That isn’t any more elegant, like swapping clay for dust. Don’t stray. My master who feigns culture, are you sure you encouraged Miss Catherine?” Her gaze pressed like a thumb on wax.

Right. I’d drafted the script. Ten seconds. Maybe three lines, each a nail hammered straight.

First: “None of this is your fault.” The words were a lantern lit in a cave.

“Start by comforting her. Wax the scuffed heart, like oil on a bowstring. Let her know the world still holds people who stand with her, not wag fingers at her.” I spoke like placing a hand on a shaking shoulder.

“You could’ve said ‘Leave it all to me,’ like you always do when you’re flirting.” She raised a brow like a blade lifted.

“That’s why you don’t understand hearts.” My answer cut like a thin reed whip.

Vega arched a brow in doubt, but didn’t push, silence pooling like ink.

Vega and the other wraiths are children of the Ocean of Darkness, pure, innocent chaos, like snow before footprints. We molded them into human shapes and gave them personas, like potters giving faces to clay. Their thoughts are extensions of our own, echoes in a cavern.

Creating monsters more complete than their maker belongs to horror tales. Wraiths themselves are hollows, like gourds dried in sun. Even if I pour content in, I only craft incomplete artifacts, like statues missing hearts.

I can’t claim I understand people. So Vega understands even less, her mind a mirror without memory.

She won’t grasp how blame and self-blame gouge a heart, like chisels on jade. She won’t grasp how hope matters like fire in winter.

She can’t see why among the oldest, strongest, most terrifying Demon Kings, there’s a seat for Despair, and a seat for Disillusionment, thrones carved from ice and ash.

My second line: “All suffering will pass.” The words fell like rain beyond a shuttered window.

“…That’s plain,” she said, lips flat as a turned stone. “You, my master with shallow schooling, offered no awe, no shock. It’s just a common, hollow sentence, ripples on a pond. That’s probably why girls don’t like you.” Her teasing poked like a twig.

“A person fallen into a well doesn’t need brocade. She needs a rough hemp rope. As long as it isn’t a snake, she’ll grip it like life.” I held her gaze, steady as an oar.

The Silver Era is an age without redemption, iron skies over iron fields. When redemption arrives, that’s a miracle, like spring breaking ice.

My last line: “I will save you. Andor will save you.” The promise stood like a bridge cast over fog.

Vega stayed quiet a moment, resignation pooling like tea left too long. Then she said, a touch helpless, “So you want to conquer Catherine too? I thought my cold-blooded master had already discarded Miss Catherine. Looks like our war plan’s getting rewritten, like ink washed by rain.”

“No, no. Don’t wear the face of a wife who swallows her anger because her cheating husband holds the purse strings.” I waved it off, words like a fan cutting heat. “That pitiful role doesn’t suit you. The plan won’t change. I’m just planting a seed. Whether it sprouts is another spring.”

This line is a stake in Catherine’s mind, a pillar to keep her hope standing like a lantern on a long night.

No matter if I can pull her out, I’ll arrange a way for Catherine to return to the world of people, like opening a side gate in stone. If a Demon King saves a girl of crucial standing, my reputation rises like a kite finding wind.

I need alliances beyond the humans rallied under Augustus’s banner. The Primordial Nine Races must be woven into my pact like threads into a brocade. The winged folk know Catherine’s apotheosis eligibility. They keep to the hidden valleys and avoid the human stage like cranes avoiding markets. Chances to befriend them are rare as rain in drought.

According to news from Berenz, the Grand Knight-Commander of the Holy Light Guard has moved, a blade drawn to hunt Anna, like thunder rolling toward a peak.

And there’s a small, not-so-important reason… The Silver Era has no tobacco. When I look up, the “sky” is a corridor ceiling, a lid like a bowl. Memory tastes dull; even nostalgia isn’t stylish, like wine gone flat. Thoughts of Catherine rise unbidden, not handsome, just honest, like a scar in a mirror.

I won’t say I feel guilty for resetting history, for the string of tragedies that wrapped Catherine like thorns. That’s not on me; that’s a storm I didn’t summon. I’m the Demon King, after all. I don’t enjoy self-flagellation, and any “responsibility” I can shrug off, I shrug like rain off a cloak.

But I remember before Anna’s scythe struck, Catherine pushed me aside with her last strength, like a wave shoving a boat from a reef. I’m confident Anna’s blade couldn’t pierce my heart. And yet, and yet…

It feels like I owe something, a small coin in a forgotten debt. So I’ll keep a card in hand and won’t squeeze Catherine’s usefulness dry, like not wringing a soaked cloth until it tears.

Thinking that, I really wanted a cigarette, smoke curling like ghosts under a low roof.

Vega walked me to my prep-room door and nudged me into the arena, gentle as a breeze pushing a paper door.

Under the light of the Divine Beings, the glow felt too bright, like the sun, like justice, a flame that turns you to ash if you stand too close. I squinted, lids like shutters against noon.

I’m not interested in Divine Beings, nor in nameless opponents, shadows without faces. I scanned the ring. Raven hadn’t come—pity, like an empty chair at a feast. Princess Golia met my gaze and waved her bottle, glass flashing like a star.

At the gate, Vega shaped silent words, lips moving like petals. I couldn’t hear, but I read the shape as:

“Go get ’em, my most beloved master.” The blessing fluttered like a red ribbon.

And:

“Whether you love, or not.” The vow hung like a bell in mist.

Heh. My maid who refuses to be liked, a thorn with a blossom.

After the low-tier prelims, under the witness of the Divine Beings, the Hero Academy’s Martial Festival—Top Twelve—begins, drums pounding like hearts and steel singing like rain on stone.