"Andor—no, Master. What did that mutter mean?"

Stini sprawled on my bed, lazy as a cat in sun, chewing the dragon-tail fruit I bought for three gold—blessed daily by elves.

She still wore a maid outfit, yet lounged freer than her boss, like a breeze inside silken walls.

"Why do I have to do my maid’s homework?!"

I growled, but my hand didn’t stop. I kept ghostwriting her final paper, ink flowing like a small river.

"Not that. You said the Demon King won’t die—what’s that about? And you’re helping because you’re scared I won’t level up, right?"

"If a freshman girl keeps strolling into a senior’s class, cracking jokes like nothing’s wrong—forget scheming Alpha, even Principal Augustus will chase me. Vice Principal Gugwen, kind as spring rain, has already talked to me several times..."

"I said they could come hassle me, didn’t I?"

"You’re the Hero. Who dares hassle you?"

"You’re still a big hero, aren’t you?"

"The Hero’s reckless intuition gets results everyone sees. Break into a house and grab their prize, folks believe you’re helping them. Heroes like me are different. Without a good reputation, we’re just thugs under a red sky."

"Hmm. I apologize—no, I thank you. So the Demon King not dying, what’s the deal?"

Stini spoke around a bite, voice light as drifting petals. Even her apology held no weight, steering hard toward what she wanted.

…Fine. I’m used to it. A headache like iron filings pressed my temples; I rubbed them, then explained.

"It’s nothing. I skimmed books from the Council of Sages about the Demon King. In short, the Demon King anchors in a special space. In that space, only a single… how do I say it?"

"A concept?"

Bored, she wandered over and kneaded my shoulders, fingers like blunt knives on sore rope.

"Right—ow, easy! Off you go! …That world holds only one concept. It ranks above us. Our mortal wisdom can’t grasp it, like trying to catch fog."

"I’ve heard Dad say similar. But really, I can’t picture a world with only one concept."

Stini scratched her head, then shoved the half she didn’t want against my lips, like offering a crescent to midnight.

Indirect kisses don’t bother her. Wasting anything does, fierce as winter.

"That’s why it’s higher than us—unknowable. In that world, the Demon King is omniscient and omnipotent. So of course, they don’t die."

"Like a god?"

"Exactly. The Demon King is a peer to a Divine Being, mirror to its throne."

"Mm. I see… sort of."

She nodded, half-understanding, like a reed catching wind over water.

…

I warned them this far before the fight. If someone dies now, it’s beyond our reach, like a star slipping the net.

My Legendary magic hasn’t hit its end, but my heroic-spirit shell creaks. If I drop it, I’ll faceplant the instant the light fades.

"Something feels off. The Demon King doesn’t seem dead."

Stini’s face tightened like clouded steel. She warned everyone, voice a bell in mist.

"Stay sharp. Don’t get ambushed."

I lifted my Greatsword, a wall of iron against a storm. Doubt hissed in my chest like rain on coals.

No. Anna is actually dead.

She’s not like me. She has no absolute immortality, no ember that won’t dim.

Among the twenty-four Sons of the Demon King invading the human world, she’s the easiest to kill, a poppy among pines.

But for Anna, death doesn’t kick her cleanly back to the Demon Realm.

At the Tower of Final Stars, Sorek was blessed by Anna. Killed, he could revive nine times, nine sparks in a gale. So as a holder of an Authority Domain, what’s Anna’s limit?

The answer: infinite. No cap. Kill her, she revives, like a phoenix on repeat.

Humans are killed, then they die. That’s shared knowledge in this realm. For higher beings beyond mortal thought, it’s not so absolute.

She calls herself the core of Slaughter—killing, culling, annihilation. It sounds inflated. A unified concept belongs to a true Demon King. Anna hasn’t ascended, but she isn’t far, like dawn before sunrise.

Even at god-and-demon tiers, nothing stops Anna’s loop of killed—revived. In the Demon Realm, I locked horns with her countless times. Nothing came of it. I cannot die. She dies, then rises, like a tide returning.

I’m stronger. I knock her down every round. But the stubborn woman keeps resurrecting, then dragging herself back to her feet, grit brighter than steel.

We usually fight till both too lazy to move, grill whatever innards fell on the ground as bar snacks, and call it a draw under smoky stars.

Twenty years before we came to the human world, that balance changed sharply. Our relationship soured, and kept souring, like milk in heat. The cause…

Raven’s construct giant had its dead black-tech "Galactic Forge" rekindle in both palms. Heat poured out, rising like a furnace sunrise over iron fields. Even as heroic spirits layered with multiple buffs, we found it unbearable, sweat cutting tracks.

"Raven, enough. I feel the heat twenty meters out, like standing in noon."

I knew what was happening, but feigned ignorance like a moon behind thin clouds, cool over hot brick.

"Shut the forge down. Our fight may not be over. Conserve mana, save the river for drought."

The construct giant didn’t respond. Heat kept climbing, a fire vine around cold iron, hissing like snakes.

"Raven! What is it? Answer!"

Only broken words crackled from the speaker, static like sleet.

"Don’t… malfunction… something happened… at the forge… be careful… kzzz…"

"Damn it! What’s going on…"

Stini drew the Holy Sword, hesitating at cutting into the control chamber, blade hovering like a crescent. Our opponent made the choice for us.

"Mortals, your acts deserve praise. Your merits deserve reward. Killing me marks your life with glory. So, before you die, I grant each of you a promise."

Slaughter’s Authority Domain application—Burning Molt.

Her ink-black hair flared, streaming into abyssal dark behind her, like night pouring from night. At that spot, no dead flesh remained, as if death had never stained it. The flawless woman stepped from steel and flame, wielding the Giant Scythe that enacts Slaughter, moon-sickle over a forge.

The Demon King’s child, Anna—fully revived.

Yes. That Authority application lets Anna resurrect on the spot in an instant. It also crushed our fragile truce, like heel on glass.

…I’m absolutely undying. Any innards or blood cast out burn to ash, then return to me, embers to hearth. Using Burning Molt speeds Anna’s resurrection—at the cost of the original corpse vanishing into soot.

…Which means, after the fight, no more grilled innards for drinks. So we split, both annoyed, like rain on fireworks. Sure, we could bring fresh meat and roast it, but it never tastes the same…

Mm. In short, Anna and I don’t get along, oil and water under lightning.

"Hey, hey. Is this fight going to drag on forever?"

Stini’s lip twitched, like a bowstring pulled too long over frost.

Of course it drags on. Reality isn’t a game. You don’t always get a lifeline. Sometimes Head hands out tasks dipped in despair, night with no lantern. In the Silver Era, the world was a mess of bugs. Only in the bronze that followed did Head patch a few, hammer on anvil.

"No wishes? Then forget it."

Anna watched us shocked into silence. Bored, she bounced upward along the construct giant’s arm, light as a raven skipping over ice.

"Wait, what are you doing?"

"Naturally—"

Her voice hummed with joy, like a blade tasting rain on stone.

"—to kill."

The Giant Scythe fell. I leaped with everything I had, but only reached her back, shadow chasing lightning. My left hand went numb. I could swing with my right.

Who knew Anna would pick Raven first!

To save Raven, I pushed beyond my theoretical limit, bones singing like wires. I’ll need to explain later. Defiant Death grows stronger the heavier the wound, fire fed by oil.

My Greatsword chopped from Anna’s right neck to her left flank in one breath. A mortal’s final end, clean as winter. Yet I was late. Her Giant Scythe already cut toward the control room, wind howling.

"Too slow!"

She spat blood and laughed, wicked as a thorn fire under night.

"No. Not at all."

A vast sword light swept, tearing the construct giant’s upper half like paper. It skimmed above the control room, blocking Anna’s scythe, a comet across iron sky.

He swung like a god. Even gravely wounded, his presence was a legion’s banner, a destined king in storm.

"Andor. If you couldn’t buy the Demon King a heartbeat, that would be truly too late."

Abigail panted, face dark, wrapping his left hand over a split bandage. He gripped his thin sword in one hand. He said it like a cold bell at dawn.

Anna’s carcass fell lifeless, then began to heat, then burn, like coal catching. I hurried to haul Raven out of the control room, regrouping with the others, breath clouding.

"Abigail, you’re not dead! Damn it, you’re late!"

"Late? That should be Augustus! We’re students. Why are we doing what a principal should do?"

We complained, but happiness warmed us, a campfire after rain. He lived. I lived, hearts tapping like drumsticks.

"Save the boy talk for tomorrow. Today’s girls are furious. Go smooth them down."

Even in a bitter smile, Stini’s energy sparked. She pointed at Anna—renewed, standing again, ash turning to light.

"Then go. May you not die."

I set Raven down and led the charge, boots pounding like hail.

Anna couldn’t use Authority’s direct attacks, but bound to the physical world, she drew out her peak. She fought with resolve, honoring the foes she had to face, eyes like twin knives.

She attacked, spending her life each time. She died, then rose each time, like waves against cliff.

And the worst part—each rebirth made her stronger, iron tempered in fire.

Burning Molt is the concept made flesh: burn the leftover body, rise from ash, phoenix law on steel.

She may have broken physical limits. Even Stini’s Throne Shatter couldn’t fully bind the most dangerous bearer of a scepter, thunder chained to wind.

Every clash left someone gravely hurt. Elina’s healing Divine Art couldn’t match the power of rebirth, spring water against wildfire.

Someone will die. While I parried a scythe, a heavy blow drove me to one knee. Raven detonated an alchemy bomb and blew off Anna’s head in time. But with this blood coughing, I won’t last two rounds. Except for Gloria, everyone looks just as wrecked, petals trampled in mud.

Another choice. Head loves giving us such tests, crossroads under storm. We must choose who dies.

I watched the others bottle Anna’s not-yet-burning corpse, teleporting it away with space magic—futile ritual like tossing driftwood upstream. I thought in silence, the night pressing close.

Someone among us will die. Even if Augustus arrives in time, I need a fallback plan. If I don’t choose, then Anna chooses. That’s worse—wolf picking the lamb.

It’s decided. I’m sorry. It’ll be you.

In the next fight, within allowed error, I left a deliberate gap, a hole in our weave. I gave Anna an opening. That gap pointed to Elina, a candle in gale.

The Giant Scythe swept like a reaper across wheat. It met a block mid-arc, metal screaming.

Unlike the novels, you don’t use your heart to block for someone. Stini took the hit with a roll, angling the scythe to slide along bone, parrying past her vitals, grit like granite.

Sorry, Stini. I knew you’d throw yourself in front of Elina.

Elina’s the only one here who can restore wounds. She’s more important than a Hero, spring after drought.

She’s not dead yet. Still has strength to trigger Throne Shatter. Anna’s disappointing. I handed you such a clean assist, like a served moon!

We’ll swap targets now.

When Stini fell, our formation scattered like leaves in wind, rhythm broken.

Among us, only Raven isn’t a trained fighter. Her focus flicked away from her defense, drawn to the fallen Stini, eyes a startled bird. Anna aimed at that heartbeat of distraction, serpent through reeds.

This time, it’ll be me. For the shock, I won’t roll with the blow, I’ll take it like a pillar in storm.

Cold certainty bit like a winter wind: my heart and spine were severed in one sweep of the Giant Scythe, like bamboo cut at dawn.

Silence slammed shut; for a single breath, my vision and mind plunged into blackout, like a lantern snuffed by rain.

Fine. The curtain drops; my first battle is over, ink drying on the page.