Combat should have been flat, like chess on a board, blades meeting on dirt or spells skimming the ground like wind over grass.

But you can’t net the Demon King with ordinary thought, like trying to catch a storm with thread.

Alpha had once seen a battlefield where heaven cracked and earth heaved, like mountains prying themselves from roots.

Just like today, a mirror of ruin under a cold sky.

Mountains and lakes kicked skyward by the Demon King’s blow hung like broken constellations; Alpha slammed into a flying slab, then kicked off and dove like a hawk riding a gust.

Other rocks, other clods, flashed past; at that speed, front, flank, even back became footholds, like sprinting across a sky of stepping stones.

Not enough. Still too slow, like wading through tar while thunder chases you.

Kukuku. Mortal, was it you who harmed my servant? Her voice curled like smoke in a cavern.

On a battlefield of shattering debris, everything paused for a blink, the still eye of a storm with no glow and no special effects.

Along a slanted plane, all things were bisected, paper under a razor, Alpha included.

From skin to muscle to bone and soft organs, everything was cleaved in a single stroke; a body hard as steel meant nothing before a scythe that murdered all, like grass under frost.

Mince and blood fanned out like red rain, yet before they touched earth, his body knit back together like wax reflowing.

Pain first, sharp as ice in the gums; then the thought came: good thing it’s me, Alpha mused, mouth twitching.

What do you do against an enemy who can “kill” anything, like asking a candle to argue with wind?

The answer is don’t die, a rock set against the tide.

Gods and demons aside, in the human world only the Lunarfolk hold true undying, moonlight sewn into their marrow.

The Creator forged them as the prototype of warriors, hammered strong and tempered undying, like blades quenched in night water.

Their strength, too great, pressed on their minds like a storm in a small room; elders spent centuries grinding those gifts down like an edge against an anvil.

Warriors who could fight forever were pared to a legend: undying under the moon, unbroken on earth, a line carved on old stone.

Even a sliver of undying is still undying, an ember that refuses ash.

Alpha trimmed his posture in midair like a swallow re-angling its wing, and he slipped sideways to open distance from the Demon King.

The Rose Saint, Saint Mire, had raised a great barrier, shifting the Hero Academy into a pocket space like a glass city under the sea; Vice Principal Gugwen, master of magitech, was stuck maintaining the core and couldn’t fight.

A pocket needs a nail in the mortal world, an anchor lest it drift into the endless void.

That anchor had been Saint Mire herself; yet dragons lack the undying, and she was soon wounded, a great wing torn by storm.

She has withdrawn with the Academy into the pocket to rest and, it seems, to block the escaped Stini like a chain thrown across a gate.

That heir to the Hero would rush out at this sight, a fledgling darting into hail.

If he really did, why in the world are we bleeding for this, he thought, a dull ache like rain in old bones.

Saint Mire is dragonkind; they don’t show themselves, but she swore a Vow of Restraint, never to attack, and in return gained greater healing and warding, prayer beads traded for claws.

Only by trimming her own edge could she stand as the Academy’s last guardian, a lantern in the wind.

Me too, he thought; I meant to limp through the rest of my life like a rusted blade on a wall, yet the instant the Demon King appeared, instinct flashed like flint.

All of it so the growing Hero, Stini, wouldn’t be cut down like a sapling in a gale.

Stall the Demon King, hold the tide, wait for Augustus to return, and then together we could end this, a lighthouse waiting for a ship in fog.

This is my last martial festival, damn you, Demon King, he muttered, like a drumbeat fading at dusk.

It was less a roar and more a complaint, steam hissing from a kettle with no whistle.

The impact tugged his body like a hooked fish; he hit the ruined ground hard as falling masonry. Even stepping back on stage as a Hero, he looked shabby as a scarecrow, his roar thin as thread.

The peerless girl burst through rubble, Giant Scythe wheeling like a crescent moon; her elegant poise clashed with the raging world like a swan in a squall.

Something this bloodless dares come forward? She laughed high, a bell in a storm.

She only flicked her hand, and the magic blast he had banked for so long shattered like glass in a hammer’s path.

Mana, magic, gravel, gale—everything that rushed at the Demon King fell to nothing at her words, like salt dissolving into sea.

That was a way of fighting that overturned common sense at the root, the world’s axis turned in a palm; her slender arm outmuscled him, she vanished here and bloomed there, and a single swing threatened sky and earth.

Alpha couldn’t grasp what was happening; such things lay beyond human measure, a mountain speaking to an ant.

He didn’t plan to understand. He kept his own definition like a talisman—just a plain man, a mortal waiting for the Hero to save him, a candle on a temple step.

He was before; he will be after; he’s never the protagonist, a shadow beside the stage.

Now was no different. He failed to reset his stance and crashed. He tried to stand and failed again, a puppet with tangled strings. He knew his body could do it; the failure was in his hands, not his frame.

Effort enough, talent not; the only praise he earned was for drilling failure, rehearsing falls like a dull whetstone taking scrape after scrape.

He forward-rolled to dodge the Giant Scythe that fell like a guillotine; the shockwave churned his guts like boiling broth, and then the Demon King dropped from above and booted him skyward like a kicked tumbleweed.

Kukuku, your roll is amusing, mortal, she said, voice like sugar over steel.

So rehearsal still counted for nothing, like cards scattered by a sudden gust.

He meant to leap away from the next strike, but the freshly broken leg screamed like an iron brand. He knew it would mend in half a heartbeat, yet his body still curled on reflex—and a flash of blade-light halved him again like lightning splicing a tree.

The dodge game was at its end. He didn’t panic, a lake under frost. The scythe’s aftercut lifted him back into the air; gravel bit into his back like a spray of nails. It wasn’t as painful as he expected, a dull snow instead of sleet.

He rose like a tossed stone and fell like a pendulum; the Demon King didn’t follow through.

What’s wrong? Out of breath? Is this all a Demon King can do? His taunt dropped like a pebble into a deep well.

Alpha pushed himself up, brushed at his ruined clothes, dust shimmering like gnats, his tone as lazy as a cat in sun.

No... how to say it? This isn’t the fight I want, she said, toeing a hump of dirt like a bored child; without the Giant Scythe at her back, the scene could have been a painting.

Then what? You want me to stand still and let you kill me? Not happening, girl. I might die here, but I’m not enlightened enough to call all this empty, he said, a dry chuckle like a door hinge.

You’re not even old; but six hundred years does make you older than me by a lot... I want a head-on fight, not this game of tag, she said, a bell struck with a fingernail.

I’m already at full. Old men don’t brawl head-on with Demon Kings, he said, shrugging like a fallen leaf.

He made it sound like idle chat, but his body was almost healed, bones knitting, muscle regrowing, blood filling like threads pulled taut on a loom.

He was sure he could take another round, and maybe that one round would buy enough sand in the hourglass for Augustus to return.

Your name rings loud in the Demon Realm, “Burning Moonlight” Alpha. I know what you’re worried about. I did think about just erasing the Hero Academy since Augustus is away. But I remembered—you’re cursed, aren’t you? That “can’t save anyone” curse, she said, her voice a snake coiling through grass.

...

He had it, the weight of a chain on the heart.

If he set out to save someone, someone else died to senseless fate, dominoes falling in a crooked line.

If he acted with power, it twisted to failure, sandcastles meeting waves.

So Alpha didn’t use his Legendary Magic, so he wouldn’t solidify the intent of “saving the Hero Academy,” choosing fog over a sharp line.

Don’t think much. Don’t think deep. Just move. He charged the Demon King on instinct, refusing the why, because analysis always led to a neat, deadly conclusion, like a maze that ends at a pit.

Six hundred years hammered that lesson in, a lock even a Divine Being couldn’t pick, rusted and stubborn.

Still, use the bare minimum, or even a Lunarfolk would die, he thought, glancing at the bright moon above and the silver light draping his shoulders like silk, tongue clicking like a flint.

Hey, I’ve got a proposal. I lift your curse. You go all out. We have ourselves a good fight, how about it? she said, like wine poured into a waiting cup.

Mom always told me not to listen to devils, he said, hearth-warm sarcasm in a winter night.

I’m Demonfolk, not the same species as devils, she said, a teacher correcting a child’s scribble.

From the Demon Realm, devil or Demonfolk, it’s all the same to mortals, he said, the horizon washed in one gray stroke.

If you think of me as a sleazy merchant, fine... Here’s the deal. I’ll use Slaughter to kill your curse, kill the concept of misalignment, and then you can open your Legendary Magic, right? she said, easing her Giant Scythe forward, a wicked smile like a crescent cut of moon.

How about this. I heard Augustus is away. You hurt my servant. I came to butcher a city as a stroll after dinner. If you can force me to use my Authority, you win. I’ll spare the Hero Academy’s students and the civilians, how about that?

I don’t trust you, he said, a stone dropped on the word.

Then that’s that. I’ll kill you now, then level the city— she began.

He cut her off like a blade cutting a rope. But it looks like the best way is to take your terms. So I’ll agree. Even if it’s a deal with a devil, even if I have to bow in mud, I’ll fight for the lives of those I love.

I hate that teasing style of yours—stringing people along and letting them down. It reminds me of two brothers I don’t like... Whatever. I’ll undo the seal, she said, annoyance like a wrinkle in silk.

The Demon King raised her scythe, the shadow of its arc like an eclipse ready to fall.

No need to trouble yourself. If your mood turns and you kill me, that’s a mess. This old man will handle it himself, he said, playing with the fuse like a juggler of knives.

Hey, hey. Demon Kings tell lies, but we always heed our promises, she said, law carved in cold iron.

She frowned, storm gathering between her brows; the fight’s difficulty ticked up like a mountain gaining height.

Alpha gave a wry smile and shrugged. He drew his flask from his breast, lucky it was unbroken, and drained it in one long swallow, fire down the throat.

He’d spent half his month’s pay on that good bottle, yet it tasted flatter than his usual cheap swill, ash where there should be smoke.

Maybe the blood-scent was too thick, he thought, as he tossed his father’s old flask to the ground like a coin to a shrine, pulling up memories of old despair and old resolve like banners in rain.

First comes my Legendary Magic, Burning Moonlight, he said, voice steady as a drawn string.

The high moon swelled to twice its size and began to burn, a silent bonfire in the sky; he raised a hand to catch the moon-white flame as it poured down like a silver waterfall.

Flame wrapped Alpha’s body, and the rules of matter softened, wax under a summer sun.

His soul, his will, his spirit all poured into that Legendary Magic; to read the spell was to read Alpha’s heart, an open book written in light.

Aren’t you unable to act with clear intent? You don’t need my hand in this? Anna asked, drawing the Giant Scythe back, curiosity like a cat’s tilted head.

Easy. After thirty, you handle things with more lingering cadence. Also... he said, smoke of humor in his breath.

You didn’t think I only had one Legendary Magic, did you? Resigned Resolve.

Nothing seemed to happen. The moon-white flame still burned brighter than the sun, neither waning nor flaring, a calm lake under stars.

But something fundamental shifted, the world’s axis tilting a breath.

All right, I’m warmed up too. Thanks for the breather, Your Majesty the Demon King. I’m good now, he said, knuckles cracking like dry twigs.

Then let’s have ourselves a merry slaughter! she said, drumbeats rolling in her grin.

Alpha sighed, a pine bending to wind, and readied to meet the charge.

He didn’t expect a hand to catch his fist mid-swing, soft as snowfall and sudden as a bird’s alight.

White, clean, slender, a girl’s hand, cool as a frost lily on stone.