“Is it good now?” she asked.

“Mm. It’s good now,” answered the other will that never left her side.

Unease first, focus second—she still drifted in the realm of Shadow, like a child refusing a mother’s arms, like a lazy worm clinging to warmth. She steadied her mind.

This is how Berenz’s thoughts linked inside the world of Shadow.

In the Shadow’s world, only shadow may exist; all other concepts get rejected.

Maybe not. I still have awareness here. Perhaps the material concept is denied, but the base concepts remain. The master said worlds are woven from concepts, and the material is just a mortal’s direct impression…

Fine. Maybe. I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter.

She gathered the scattered parts of her soul—like a body flattened by a steamroller, raking veins and organs back inside, reclaiming human shape.

Berenz is a blood-child of the Ocean of Darkness, closer than Demon Kings who are only adopted. Even ignorant, even uncomprehending, they can wield darkness by instinct.

She focused, called the vast shadows that are hers, tangled them, and rose toward the material world.

Or maybe she pulled pieces from other shadow-things. Who knows?

She floated up through a small patch of shadow, outside the Slaughter Demon King’s hall, quiet as dew. Shadows knit into hair, flesh, and even clothes. Wraiths are formless, but bound by concept and shape they gain thought; power falls, wisdom rises. Berenz decided that was a fair trade.

All around, the concept of Slaughter reigned. This place had fully turned into the Realm of Slaughter. A body woven of Shadow chafed here; she spat, disgust sharp as frost.

She stepped from the shadow, drew a serrated blade from her skirt’s hem, raised it to tear the maid dress—then stopped.

Vega said we should walk away whole, right? The master’s mana ran dry?

“Ah, fine.”

Vega sighed, swung the saw-blade, and cut down a lesser familiar of the Realm of Slaughter—a Hollow Doll rushing in.

The edge skimmed the bloated, corpse-like torso, parting flesh and bone with smooth inevitability.

Her heel bit earth; behind her, shadow spilled like ink. Countless blurred beasts leapt from the dark and crashed into the gathering Dolls.

Berenz commanded the Shadow realm’s lesser familiars—the Skulking Shades—to charge.

Not for justice, not for revenge, only to pour out a hunger to destroy. In the human world, work like this is rare.

Her lips curled; a wicked joy bled through.

How I comforted comrades, how I beat enemies, how I joined Abigail and set aside old grudges—

Honestly, none of that matters.

I only need to perform the script already written.

Catherine’s rampage was counted. Liebich, who should have saved the scene, got tangled by Vega. Most hero-tier professors had returned to defend their countries. But Gugwen remained, and Saint Mire wasn’t far. With two legends here, even Liebich—darling of the Demon King’s favor—would struggle. Catherine, blessed only by Slaughter, had no chance.

No passion, no faith—the rest is smoke and mirrors.

After a hard fight—well, maybe not—we sat on the ruins of the old arena. Saint Mire, the High Divine Healer, treated us with a high-tier Divine Art: Hymn of Life.

Supreme light sank from the sky and bathed us. From hanging-by-a-thread, we climbed back to merely dying.

The audience had been evacuated. Only we remained.

“The next question is—what do we do with her?”

I lifted an arm gone limp after the adrenaline crash and pointed at Catherine, sealed for now by Saint Mire’s high-tier Divine Art: Lightbound Cage.

Her clothes were shredded, wounds pierced through and through. Her demon wings were snapped. She looked closer to death than we did. Yet she howled, hysterical, clawing at the cage.

Elina, silent throughout the fight, stood and gripped her chain flail tight. She walked toward Catherine.

“Wait, Elina!”

“Andor, sit down. You want to die?”

Saint Mire’s rebuke cracked like a tether. Leaving the Hymn of Life’s glow, organ failure bared its teeth. My whole body tore at the seams. Pain slammed me to the ground.

Before I hit, Elina caught me. Honestly, for the badly wounded, that’s not friendly; it worsens injuries. Don’t do it unless you’ve got healing skills.

She’s a good girl. Good people should be repaid with good.

I braced on Elina’s shoulder and said:

“I’ll do it.”

“Andor…”

“Wait! Is there nothing else we can try?” Raven stood and shouted. She wasn’t wounded, but Slaughter’s concept had seeped in; she was under treatment to stop future rot.

“What else could there be? We all saw it. Catherine died. Killed before us. We witnessed it.”

My voice was calm enough to scare me.

“But—but we have a chance. Look, we’ve captured her. Look at her—see, she’s crying. Maybe she’s begging us…”

“She’s beyond saving! Not even a Divine Being can save Catherine!” I performed empty passion, tried to sound fierce, but my tone stayed flat.

“I’ve restored many lost alchemical arts from the Golden Age. With modern magitech, and Saint Mire’s Divine Arts, we can bring Catherine back!”

Raven used her whole soul to shout. After the Tower of Final Stars, she did so much. She blamed herself, she refused despair. She worked to mend a sad ending born of her weakness.

It’s futile—unless a Demon King steps in. Like me.

“Raven, do you want to become another Sorek? Stini’s uncle who broke the taboo?”

“…”

“If it’s within three hours, resurrection Divine Art can help. After three hours, the soul returns to the domain of Death. As the Divine Beings say: Thou shalt not pull the dead back to the living. That’s the divine deathline. Never cross it.”

“But…” Raven still fought it.

“So, if you can’t do it, let me.”

I closed the debate.

“I’ll carry the sin and the mistake. Blame me. Hate me. Let me do it.”

I staggered toward Catherine, dragging the Greatsword Valor.

Raven didn’t stop me. Abigail didn’t. Elina didn’t. Gloria’s system worships correctness; she’d never stop me.

I didn’t look back. I felt their eyes anyway, knotted with conflict. I was doing good, yet branded evil.

Cruel correctness. Understandable, yet unacceptable. Later, their grief might blossom into favor. For now, being good is a thankless task.

Luckily, I’m a villain. I only need to weigh the evil I’ll do.

“We all hope Catherine’s alive. We also all know she won’t come back.”

I cupped Catherine’s face, wiped her tears, and kissed her brow.

“Rest, Catherine. May your pain end.”

Now, I should kill her.

The script says so.

Not killing would be strange. Or confessing my weakness. That’s not a hero’s way.

But throwing away expectant eyes, betraying loyal hearts—can such a one be called a hero? I don’t know. Since the Creator died, the human world holds no absolute justice. The Demon Realm no absolute evil. God or demon, we wander inside meanings we made ourselves.

At the final moment, seeing the emptiness in Catherine’s eyes, I broke script. I whispered into her ear, “Fight to live.”

Only an ordinary line. No grand emotion. Not in my script.

Anna would find it baffling. Catherine, remembering my earlier encouragement, could grasp my real face.

Honestly, I didn’t need to say it. I risked exposure, however small.

I won’t admit I softened. But Catherine is pitiful. To kill the one who loves you, or be killed by the one you love—both grind the soul.

I thought Gugwen would finish Catherine, or she’d escape. Reality wasn’t so kind.

A small push of hope costs nothing. Catherine won’t snitch to Anna.

I raised Valor.

Then someone had to die—and it wasn’t Catherine.

It was me.

I let the Greatsword obey gravity and fall.

The blade wind clipped a few strands of her hair, then couldn’t budge an inch.

The sky went dark at once. For a heartbeat, it felt like stepping into the Godspeed Realm, but the void bit harder.

All things hollowed—first, most honest impression.

Reality wasn’t as hopeful as words.

Air was killed. Light was killed. Land was killed. Elements were killed. Order was killed. Fragile lives near us—no need to mention.

An endless will of Slaughter burst from Catherine, remaking the area into a single concept: Slaughter.

This wasn’t the Demon King’s realm. Slaughter cannot stand alone. The border between world and void began its primal clash.

Mortals can’t fathom that event. We closed our eyes and waited for the world we knew to return.

As planned.

We saw nothing, heard nothing, yet kept a shred of sense—that surprised me. I should have died. The others—prepare to lose half.

A wraith detonation, most favored by the world’s dark root. If it spares too many, the stage is wasted.

When sunlight came back, we saw it again—the vast, towering humanoid incarnation of Slaughter.

“Demon King, Anna,” I murmured without thought.

Her familiar ku-ku-ku laugh rippled. The Giant Scythe fell in harmony.

Good. A bit slower than planned, but still on pace with the plot. Before my mind cut out, I confirmed:

Andor, confirmed dead.

Raven, confirmed dead.

Abigail, confirmed dead.