Nivifar, silent since the fight began, finally drew a deep breath. She faced the human remains tangled in the monster’s carcass and exhaled like incense fading in a cold shrine.

Her face held only gravity, a stone mask with no other shade.

Questions circled like crows—who had died? What should we do? Were their deeds brave?

We didn’t know. We knew too little, a mist in the mind. Mere witnesses to the fallen, we had no right to press Nivifar.

Nivifar was a terse soul, joy and anger kept behind frost-glass, her feelings locked in an iron chest.

Maybe that sigh carried grief, maybe sorrow—rain behind a curtain—but we couldn’t tell.

She turned to us as if nothing had happened, and said:

“Are you lost? This is the front where monsters and men clash; regular adventurers don’t come here. If there’s nothing else, I’ll escort you back to town.”

The iron-blood scent of battle still coiled around her like cold chainmail; meet her on a street, and I’d dodge that blade-walker’s danger.

Princess Golia doesn’t talk much—no problem there. Stini, our natural airhead, I can’t leash; she kicks like an unbroken colt.

“Don’t we need to gather these bones?” Stini pointed at the human remains, blunt as a hammer.

“No. Mercenaries accept burial in foreign earth—unknown place, unknown cause. We’re all like this; we don’t need pity or sympathy. It’s our choice.” Nivifar shook her head, the earth swallowing names without ceremony.

“But it wouldn’t be hard to bring the bodies back…”

“I said no.” Nivifar cut her off, voice level, eyes sharper than a blade, her mood a brewing storm. “If we tend every corpse, we waste time and strength. Let them decay where they fell—that’s mercenary law.”

“But you’re crying, aren’t you? You’re hurting. Do what you want…” Stini’s tone rose like a drumbeat, nearly a shout.

That went too far—line in the sand crossed.

Stini’s meddling pushed past her usual bounds, a step onto thin ice.

Heroes act with wild freedom, yet they mostly respect others’ will. This time Stini overstepped, like a sun straying too close.

For Stini, it was instinct tugging her sleeve, a reason even she couldn’t name.

“How about this: Miss Nivifar can mourn here. We’ll keep watch around you, as thanks for escorting us back.”

I spoke to cool both sides, pouring water on embers.

My role, from the start, was keeping our justice-obsessed captain from burning bridges—to be the one who mends the torn net.

Understand needs, understand creeds, lay planks over the ravine so both can cross.

Seems being vice president of a student council or vice captain of a Hero Squad is hard either way. I wish I could play dumb, a rock in the stream.

I nodded to Nivifar, slipped an arm around Stini’s neck from behind, and hauled her away like a fisherman towing a stubborn catch.

Princess Golia helped lift Stini’s legs, a silent partner in this awkward ballet.

“Parents want their children home. When we have time to gather the bones, shouldn’t we do it? What’s wrong with doing it?” Her words reached for lamplight in a mist.

Even in a chokehold, Stini thrashed and shouted, a tethered colt kicking.

And stop trying to knee my groin, you idiot, Stini!

“Don’t you want to? Why cling to that rule?!”

But even a cry poured full of soul rarely moves others. We drew farther. Across the trees, Nivifar only stared at the bones, wordless as stone.

“Stini, you went too far! That’s Miss Nivifar’s affair. It’s not ours!”

I rarely preach that hard; my words felt like hammer blows.

“But Nivifar’s hurting! She’s hurting!” Heroes aren’t good at persuasion; they stumble through fog and wake new strength only when others advise them.

“It’s none of your business!”

“…”

“That’s Nivifar’s story. Whoever died, whatever bond she had, isn’t for us to meddle in.”

“…”

“It belongs to her alone.”

Stini shot me a rare, hard look—flint striking steel.

As that cryptic musician said: language has limits; it struggles to link hearts yet easily severs them, a blade on a taut string.

Ah, I hate being the fool who pleases no one. But if I don’t, Stini and Nivifar’s first meeting would crash worse than now.

Though Stini meant well. Our foolish Hero can sense the right path by instinct, but a compass without a map won’t teach her how to show care.

A fool’s fixation starts many tales. This is the domain of Dispute; I’m on good terms with Daviya, who holds that Authority, so I have my views—sparks in dry grass.

We were a ways off the battlefield now. Stini still boiled, but she wouldn’t sprint back to shout; the pot had cooled to a simmer.

“Idiot! Andor, you idiot! Gloria, you’re an idiot too!”

Stini burst into tears without warning, boxed my chest, grit her teeth, then ran off like rain breaking from a heavy sky.

Thankfully, she didn’t run toward the way back, but flickered away like a fox into brush.

“Is ‘idiot’ the only insult she knows? Ah, Stini’s doomed in Elvish class. Ahem.”

“You… are you okay?”

Princess Golia came to where Stini’s punch had sent me stumbling, bent down, and looked me over.

The combat attire of the Silver Era favors utility. Sadly, Gloria wasn’t in a deep-plunging cut with visible cleavage. A high-collared leather cuirass and loose pants left man’s romance with nowhere to land.

Otherwise we could play the old routine: fire-breathing monster; oh no, my clothes are burnt; it’s fine, wear mine; don’t peek; I won’t, I’ll turn around; hey, you lied. That stage script never fails.

I recall a construct spell whose mimic can dissolve clothing. What was the incantation again…

“Andor. No problem. Go. Keep watch.”

“No monsters will come. Within a Thornback Scarab’s range, there are no other predators—monster or not, they get killed by the scarab. Don’t worry.”

“You promised.”

Gloria’s lead-gray eyes fixed on me, emotionless, like a reptile watching its prey.

It gave me the chill that breaking my word meant a quiet execution.

Princess Golia isn’t someone who jokes.

“Fine, fine. I’ll keep watch,” I said, resigned, like a man pushed into rain.

Her Highness stared a moment longer, then slipped into the neighboring woods, circling the battlefield.

Stini’s punch had plenty of noise, thunder without lightning; it didn’t hurt much.

I brushed my coat. The back was already stained with blood; I’d have to wash it today. Eh—let the dirt stay, old road dust clinging.

I resonated with the Authority I bear. Through the Shadow Realm’s feedback, I sensed Stini and Gloria had gone far, patrolling at a distance.

Nothing nearby… no, one monster—the other Thornback Scarab.

A mate? Not sure. Monsters range from formless beings woven of dark mana to lives with full ecologies, a spectrum from mist to bone.

As for the Thornback Scarab, I haven’t studied it—an empty square on my chart.

On my way toward Nivifar, I detoured to find the scarab, my path bending like a reed in wind.

With Raven not using the perpetual engine now, the Ocean of Darkness had calmed; even if I cast my soul into it, Andreas wouldn’t descend early.

I raised my rank within the dark domain, let my true form manifest, shadows clotting around my ankles, and walked to the scarab.

“…Already sworn as a vassal of ‘Hierarchy,’ are you? What a waste.”

This Thornback Scarab looked stronger than the one Nivifar killed. I’d wanted it as my vassal, but it had already bent to that ‘Hierarchy’ fellow.

A monster that has bowed to one Demon King won’t bow to a second. Not a decree of the Ocean of Darkness—just a dull choice by dull minds. For fickle mortals of the light, it’s satire in a mirror.

It roared and charged me, a boulder tumbling downhill.

“…Pity.”

Monsters aren’t clever, but leading a charge is work fit for a hero-grade beast.

But it wasn’t mine.

Hence, a real pity, wine spilled on stone.

I seized the concept within it called Shadow, drew it out, hauled it upward, then slammed it down.

Part of the scarab turned on itself. Its building concepts crumbled like a sandcastle in surf, collapsing into unnameable dregs.

Those who bear Authority can cut down the mundane.

The fight ended in a single heartbeat. Without divine rank or a Hero’s Immunity Privilege, a mortal challenging a Demon King meets this end.

I lifted my soul from the Ocean of Darkness, lowered my rank, and returned to a human shape, daylight settling like a cloak.

I straightened my collar and walked on toward Nivifar.

Across the trees lay Nivifar and that heap of bones. I stopped here, and faint sobs reached me, hoarse, broken words like threads in wind.

Nivifar was crying—no, cry-shouting, a storm breaking against iron.

She didn’t want to be as cool as her armor promised; the mask had slipped.

I had my answer. I slipped into shadow and returned to the stretch I should be patrolling.

One last check—Nivifar was indeed someone I knew in my previous life, a name rising like a ghost.

Strictly speaking, someone I’d heard of, not seen.

She was the daughter of the Hero Augustus, Stini’s sister, a hero with half a Hero’s blood—yet she betrayed the human world. Her legend is famous, a star falling into a black sea.

One rumor says she shares some measure of heart-sense with her sister Stini; strings between hearts humming. That would explain Stini’s fury today.

On a normal day, I’d welcome meeting her. But Nivifar’s a long-arc quest character, and I’m short on time—clock hands ticking hard.

So I’ll have to wrap this side up fast, cut the knot before it tangles.

Inwardly, I began to rethink the plan in broad strokes, redrawing a map in wet ink.