Most Sons of the Demon King carry a measure of immortality, like embers that refuse to go out.

Anna’s kind of self-suppression doesn’t count; she clamps down on her undying trait and uses death to ignite her domain. Most not yet ascended as Sons are the Demon King’s forerunners, the undying root, like seeds buried in black loam.

Divine Beings and matched-rank Demon Kings embody another face of the undying. Before Endless Demon King Andreas and Eternal God Feriel emerged, none of them could truly die, like constellations that wouldn’t burn out. A god’s or demon king’s death would mean a concept dies; who can erase every concept under heaven?

You only reach for immortality on the cliff’s edge of defeat. Look at the oldest Demon Kings of the Demon Realm: we know they’re hard to kill, like mountains, but before Andreas, no one knew how deep their immortality ran.

No one ever forced them to the brink where immortality must be used. Those who hold authority tip the scales; mere numbers can’t match them.

Back to the point: my immortality sits at the summit. For me, “death” doesn’t exist, like a void that refuses to recognize my name.

I know this bone-deep. Anna doesn’t see it so clearly; to her, it’s only a stronger strain of immortality, like mist that blurs a lake.

Which brings us to a question: what is “Slaughter”?

We must stress it: “Slaughter” isn’t “Death.” Otherwise Anna would be one face with Death. In my former life, I used Andreas’s authority, the “Endless Evil Facet,” to kill Anna and seize the domain of “Slaughter,” so I understand the fine print of concepts, like ink scratched into stone.

“Slaughter” is the process, the method, that steers things toward “Death,” like a river channel guiding water.

For now, Anna’s only opened this much, a door left barely ajar.

I can’t kill her; she can’t kill me. From the Demon Realm to the mortal world, that’s been our rule, like two grinding gears that never slip. If we deadlock in sheer carnage, Anna won’t be satisfied.

So she worked up a new application of her domain—

“Life-Return Interdict.”

No trial, no nuance. She shoved my mind and soul straight into “Death,” to face the true god—Death.

“If it were any other little brother or sister, they’d be truly gone…” A candle snuffed in one breath.

I fell out of the dark, like a stone dropping into a well.

That’s not quite right; here, there’s no up or down, no light or shade. I hung inside pure black, like a leaf caught somewhere between stillness and drift.

It felt like nullity—too quiet, a chill silence that iced the heart, like a winter pond sealed over.

Time to go back, or I’ll miss Augustus’s return, like a train pulling out of the station.

I reached upward—no, toward the way I came—and called to my domain. Far off, where distance has no meaning, I faintly felt my body in the mortal world, woven of Shadow.

I tugged that unseen thread like an angler’s line, to reel myself back…

My body grew heavier; something dragged at my back, like silt clinging in a slow current. It couldn’t be the dead—obsession and spite dissolve here, and they rest in endless peace.

Then only one answer: the master of this place, a hand on the keel.

“Dis—Death.”

I gave up on clawing back. In a god’s domain, you don’t beat a god. I let the pull guide me, sinking deeper into “Death,” like a diver slipping into the abyss.

No real danger here. With other gods, I’d spear first, then run like hell, and blow myself up if I had to, like a wolf that bites, then bolts.

But the Primordial Deities are different. Born from the Creator’s shed husk, the Twelve aren’t like later gods formed from clustered concepts. They’re more like bedrock under the sea.

“For ‘Death,’ this is a corner where even time forgets itself. A moment is ten thousand years. Don’t worry about being late.”

That was his first line. No hostility. I wasn’t surprised, like finding no dust in a sealed cave.

I sat in a small boat. He sat at the other end, swaddled in an oversized robe; no skin showed. The oar leaned on his shoulder, unmoving, and the boat drifted on ink.

“Dis, why call me here?”

He answered in a voice neither young nor old, stripped of self, like wind through reeds: “Can’t I talk to you for no reason, Andor—or Andreas?”

“…”

“Don’t look at me like a knife. I know, but I’m not your enemy.”

“I know. You startled me, that’s all. So this is the ‘Death’ domain—eye-opening.” A curtain lifted on a stage of black.

Beyond the boat and the two of us, everything was black. Above and below were the same shade. But it wasn’t the darkness I know.

Dark needs light to define it; even the Demon Realm holds the concept of light. Here, in “Death,” there was nothing.

Not nothing—dead stillness.

“To me, ‘Death’ doesn’t look like this,” I said, a mirror misaligned.

Dis tapped the oar on his shoulder. “It’s only what you think, so you see this world, and you see me, like this.”

“Then what is ‘Death’ really like?”

Gods rarely bother to lie. I really didn’t see time here. After that fight with Anna, a talk with a god felt like cool shade after heat.

“True ‘Death’… how to say it… it’s the kind of ‘nothing at all.’”

“Unexpectedly, that resonates with me,” I said—like Andreas’s deepest dark and Feriel’s eternal light, two poles of one sky.

“Ha, Your Majesty Andreas is good at talk. Sadly, I’ve no pastries here, no Wien-brewed wine—only plenty of ‘Death.’” An empty table set with silence.

“No tea here either. I’ve got leaves, but they’re outside, in my ‘Shadow’ domain.” I pointed upward at the same black as below.

“And Andreas, ‘Life’ and ‘Death’ oppose each other. Where there’s light, there’s shadow; where there’s birth, there’s end. We are both needed, yet wholly different.” Yin facing yang, like two halves of a coin.

“Like Sane’s ‘Light’ and my ‘Shadow’ can’t overlap? One must yield, yet both must exist, or all collapses into void.”

“Literal, but not true in practice. You and Sane aren’t on the same tier. Don’t game out how much I know. I mean to talk, sincerely, cards face up.”

“Fine. I apologize.”

“Mm. I think you get me. My elder sister, Lif—Life—often walks the mortal world. She blesses the young as a mortal midwife. She loves newborns. Have you seen her? She’s lively, a bright girl.” Spring breeze through a doorway.

“Like Stini?”

Unlike the fear people paint, Dis laughs easily; he chuckled. “No, not a shy schoolgirl—she’s fuller, more mature. She embodies ‘abundant life’ after all.” Fields heavy with harvest.

“Mm. And?”

“Easy. Look at me. I can only remain here, day after day letting the departed rest. As two sides, how do you see our ways of being?” Two banks of one river.

“You mean ‘it needs balance; everything needs balance,’ right?” Other than Head, I don’t hate the other gods. I know how much they sacrificed for the futures they wanted. But that doesn’t mean I’ll play dumb to carry the topic.

“Yeah. You get it. We live by our own ways,” he said, like footprints diverging on wet sand.

“I know. If this is one-sided preaching, spare me. I’m heading back.” A door half-closed, hand on the latch.

“Andreas, you grasp Demon Kings, the future, Head. But gods—do you truly get what we are?” Dis kept friendly, like he didn’t hear my burr, a warm cup in winter.

“‘Life’ is changeful, passionate, many-formed, free, impermanent. Lif is ‘Life’; she moves through the world like spring—rain, then sun.”

“Go on. I’m listening,” I said, ear tilted.

“And ‘Death’ is quiet, still, lifeless, blank—only one way to be. No matter how dazzling ‘Life’ is, it returns to the same ‘Death.’”

He stood, back to me, as if watching the countless sleepers in his domain, an ocean of closed eyes.

“No right or wrong. No true or false. Death is death. No exceptions. Only the manner differs. All flow to one river.”

“I get it. You should call yourself the Endless Sea,” I said, hearing waves where none moved.

“Sigh, even if you hear me out, you won’t get it. We don’t grasp ‘Endless’; you won’t grasp ‘Primordial.’ We Twelve Primordial Deities are the most essential concepts—twelve pillars. As long as we don’t fall, the world keeps on.” Pillars holding up a sky without stars.

“That still doesn’t change that gods and demons are enemies,” I said, like two swords crossed.

“You’ve visited the future; you know it’s—what’s your word? A setting. Yes, a setting we authored and passed down. And Demonfolk’s enemies are the gods, not the Primordials.” Script ink drying on parchment.

“Interesting. First time I’ve heard it put that way.” I applauded, honestly—this trip wasn’t wasted. Palms echoed on wood.

“For example, the human shape of a Son—doesn’t that come from ‘Rules’—Appoint and Narrow? And those the Sons kill—don’t they meet ‘Death’—me? We are everything, everywhere.” Threads woven through the cloth of the world.

“So the Primordials don’t just uphold the gods; they uphold the Demon Kings too?” A bridge linking both banks.

“Don’t paint us as fence-sitters. We hold to duty. We apply authority fairly to all. You treat Primordial domains as common sense—time passing, the living dying—taken for granted, unexamined.” A clock ticking in a quiet room.

“Duty? What duty?” Chains laid across shoulders.

“A duty we chose to bear. Primordial power is like the most dangerous authorities held by the oldest Demon Kings—never used lightly. We must keep silent, keep fair, or everything ends.” A blade sealed in wax.

If that’s true, then among the Primordials…

“Right,” Dis’s eyes under the hood seemed to read me, twin embers. “Among the Primordials, the ones who can move freely, use authority with purpose, lower their rank to touch the mortal world are: Element, the Twin Gods of Strength, Lif, and lastly…”

“…Head, that one.”

“Right. Their concepts are flexible. Even if they tweak their domains, the mortal world doesn’t lurch. And Head… he’s too clever. He placed himself in a ‘Wisdom’ that won’t rock the world, and won’t drop his rank too low.” A knife dancing on a hair’s breadth.

“By your logic, that’s suspicious. Why did Andreas fight all the Primordials days before Doomsday? You weren’t supposed to enter the field…” Drums before a storm.

Dis seemed to freeze for a beat. I felt I’d said the wrong thing—maybe he hadn’t seen that far, like a crack running through ice.

Fools go with the current, the wise wait for their moment, and those who see through everything stay silent—river, hawk, mountain.

Dis says nothing, does nothing, keeping Death’s purity and grandeur. He watches the world with a noble stillness; that’s why his rank is high and his sight far. But he’s not Head; he isn’t all-knowing, all-powerful, like a lighthouse that doesn’t move.

“Ha, don’t mind it. I’m only surprised my end turned out like that… So Head arranged it so. Fine… I’d felt it coming. The finale was downright dramatic, full of epic flavor. Good, good.” The curtain fell, and the echo lingered.

“Hey, you…”

Now, let’s get to business. Dis finished laughing, cut me off with a firmer tone, and said this, like an oar thumping the hull.

…