“My long-plotting master, your vile plan looks ready to snap shut like a spiderweb.”

“Don’t call it vile… fine, maybe it is. But we absolutely can’t look vile.”

“Right, right, my rotten-tempered master. You handled the Top Six like a surgeon with a steady blade.”

“I just told Elina to slow the fight. Abigail will go for my throat, so I must drop him fast. That way Catherine won’t get an overkill on Elina. Watch the timing, and we’re golden.”

“o…overkill?”

“Ah, nothing. Not important.”

“So close. So damn close. I figured Abigail had some chops and could stall Andor—then he surrendered! Damn it!”

Liebich snatched a glass and hurled it at Catherine by the wall. The glass smashed on her brow like ice cracking on stone. Blood slid down her face, and she only sneered, still as a statue.

“To keep our masks on, we had to deal small cuts, then kill with ‘friendly fire’ in one stroke. Just a hair short. If Abigail had held thirty more seconds—no, twenty—we’d be done. Damn it. Now we wait for the revival bracket.”

Liebich drew a long breath, then collapsed back on the bed, waving Catherine away like smoke.

“But the finals… and the task from my lord… it all feels off, like the wind turning before rain…”

“Be honest. You just wanted to call me foul-tempered, didn’t you?”

“Yes. So, do you want coffee while you write the plan?”

“…”

“…”

“…That way of talking is sly.”

“And because it’s sly, will you stop adding sugar to your coffee?”

“…You’ve got a sharp tongue, but thanks for pouring the coffee.”

“I should be the one thanking you. No matter how I stab with words, you forgive me. After I hand you a cup, you still give me that gentle smile. Maybe you don’t think it’s a blessing, but most Demon Kings treat their thralls like chained beasts.”

“I know. But I think this attitude draws out a team’s fire. No point choking efficiency for some empty throne. Being good to you is being good to myself. Don’t dodge—this is when a head pat works better than medicine.”

“I’d love to chat, but my ever-slacking master, don’t put on the face that says, ‘Since you asked, I must pause work and explain.’ Please keep working. Don’t stop.”

“Vega, a girl saying ‘don’t stop’ doesn’t belong here. It should be soft, in bed…”

“Work.”

“…Fine, fine. Wait. I’m the Demon King here!”

“So you’ll kill a vassal who speaks plainly?”

“Mm… no.”

“Then get to work, my lazy master. Or you’ll miss tomorrow’s semifinals.”

Raven was painting her armor a deep red, like sunset poured over iron. She didn’t like attention, but ad letters on plates meant coin from merchants. Not much, but for Raven—who ate one meal and gambled on the next, and refused to beg Andor the golden goose—it was bread.

“Last stripe… done. Princess Golia, you can put me down now.”

Princess Golia lowered the hoisted Raven without a word, dusted at the splattered paint, and found the stain clung like rain to stone.

“Your face still looks like a Construct’s mask, but you seem gloomier… All right, all right. Dinner’s on me. Let’s go.”

“I think, even as, teammates, Raven, you should, buy a proper, lift rig. Doing this is, being irresponsible, to yourself.”

Even so, Princess Golia picked up the pace and led the way to her favorite restaurant, like a swan cutting through reeds.

“For us in the Magitech Department, a lift rig matters, sure. But I can’t afford it. And I don’t have a magitech workshop. It’d just collect dust.”

“Then, you can, rent, someone’s workshop.”

“Too pricey. I asked you for help, remember? Hey, wait, that place was only for when Andor was paying. I don’t have that kind of cash…”

Raven felt Gloria’s cadence was stiff, like something not quite human. But when she saw the pout and quick steps toward the inn, she grinned. Sure enough, Gloria was still her friend, warm as a hidden ember.

“No heavy drinking. The semifinals are tomorrow. The prize for Top Four and first place is close, but since we’ve come this far, why not chase the peak? Wait—don’t you dare order that wine. It’s expensive!”

“In the solo bracket I ran into Gloria. She’s got magic immunity now. She broke my elements and mana like straw in a mill. I got sent to the revival match.”

“And then you handed the last Top Four slot away?”

“I did not hand it away! I wiped every foe in the revival free-for-all and pushed Raven into Top Four. She’ll at least pocket the Top Four prize. Lost the match, won the life, right?”

“First, my boastful master, you’re Demonfolk. Second, your life doesn’t look like a win.”

“Is it that hard to let me be happy for a minute?!”

“It’s hard to let my mouth be unhappy for a minute.”

“…Fine. ‘Venom’ is your nature. I knew that. The Academy’s quiet for now. That’s good. Next are those problem children I hate.”

“Meaning?”

“Stini, Anna, and Augustus. Three freewheeling fools. Because they’re fools, you can’t plot their next step.”

“What we can do is limited. Whether the plan succeeds is just odds. I wonder if there’s truly a Divine Being of ‘Fate’ in this world?”

“I swear on my old man: there’s no such disgusting Divine Being. Relax, Vega.”

“Even so…”

“I can’t explain now… time, time… let me see… Right. By now, Anna should be hunting ‘Dispute’ to wreck the Council. We need to bait her into a clash with Augustus.”

“Both the intel and the plan sound rickety.”

“Don’t say that, Vega. You go—”

Berenz, long missing, stood atop a heap of corpses like a child on a hill. She happily licked blood from her saw, crimson clinging like syrup.

Around her, stealth wraiths—Andor’s lower thralls—sank into the Shadow like ink into water. The air was heavy as fog on a grave, and then grew stranger.

Someone stepped out of the Shadow and flicked Berenz on the head.

“Go pack the grain. That’s a priority order from the master.”

The little girl grinned. Her teeth were bone-pale, still smeared with red.

“Ah, Vega. I thought it was another wave of Heroes.”

Another flick, crisp as a pebble on a drum.

“If that were true, you should have a headache, not be happy. Your first task is the grain. Not indulging your tussles with Heroes.”

“It’s only grain. Though… there’s a lot.”

“Don’t slack. The master was vague, but from the hints, I suspect this grain is stockpiled by a Divine Being for the world’s end.”

“Oh?”

Berenz let her body loose and fell backward into the corpse pile. It held like reeds over water. In truth, she wanted to sink like a swimmer slipping under, floating up and down in the Shadow.

“Then we should be careful. Put more heart into it. Give those lofty Divine Beings more trouble. The thought alone is sweet. Oh, by the way, you came as a split body this time, right?”

“Mm? What about it?”

Vega tucked a strand behind her ear, curious as a cat at a pond.

“Then I can finally take revenge. This is the price for bullying me!”

Berenz sprang up and lunged at Vega like a fox pouncing.

Three minutes later.

Vega rubbed her wrist and spat at Berenz, who lay facedown like a dead thing.

“I’m not always a clone when I come.”

With the strength of an upper thrall, she kicked hard. Berenz’s body skidded away like a tossed ragdoll.

“Quit playing dead. Once you finish with the grain, attack Princess Anna’s domain. No—wait. Wait until the Combat Festival’s final begins.”

“That’s all the same to me.” Berenz bounced up, unconcerned with the blood blotting her maid dress. “Point, and I’ll fight. Do I need to die this time?”

“No. In fact, if you clash with Princess Anna, run. Our lord’s mana is in the red. There’s no spare power to resurrect you.”

“Then what’s the point of striking the ‘Slaughter’ domain? We’ll just burn lower thralls.”

“It matters a lot, Berenz. You must make sure Princess Anna learns that her upper thrall, and Catherine under training, were exposed during the Hero Academy Combat Festival.”

“What’s the bad trick this time?”

“I can explain. Will you understand it?”

“Even if I would, I won’t have the patience. Point me at a fight. That’s enough.”

“As long as you serve the master’s plan, that nature is fine.”

Vega tucked her hair back again. After a scuffle with Berenz, her maid uniform remained spotless, moonlight on porcelain. Beside her, Berenz was a wreck, a smear of storm after rain.