You know what? I like playing dumb, like laying a fog blanket over a moonlit pond.

When a key question turns sharp, I’d rather blur it, like rubbing ink with wet fingers until it runs.

Digging into grand philosophy feels hollow to me, like chasing a mirage across hot sand.

I’m no philosopher; forcing a “truth” feels like hammering jade till it cracks under frost.

You see it in novels—the classic back-and-forths, neat as paper lanterns—but they always feel a bit stiff, like reeds tied with string.

Sure, it looks cool on the page, like lightning in a bottle, but we live on dirt roads; repeating it in real life is just cringey mist.

You ask what chuuni is? Picture a kid craving legend, like a swallow pecking at a bronze mirror—edgy-teen fever, more smoke than fire.

No, it won’t backfire much; when I play dumb, the one tossing deep questions usually ends up awkward, like a rooster crowing at rain.

See the upside now? I can romp as I please, like a stray cat under alley lamps, and let the snarkers sweep the confetti after.

I love that easy way of living, like sipping warm tea in drizzle; imagine a whole squad doing bits and quips.

Fighting and joking, laughing even on the cliff’s edge—storm at our backs, grin in our teeth—that’s the story I want.

I don’t like straight-faced tearjerkers or tragedies, and epics leave me cold, like carved stone under snow.

Because, look, we’re Demonfolk—antagonists by moon-shadow—we like winning; “being moved” isn’t a chord our blood plucks.

We’re strong, too, like ironwood on a cliff, so there’s no talk of resonating with the weak across the river.

True strong ones live alone, like wolves on a ridge, proud and unwilling to bend, hanging themselves high as a pale sun.

Only the weak huddle, like sparrows under eaves, or they get picked off one by one in the wind and rain.

The humble among them envy the stronger, so the flock sands down quirks, growing needy and clingy like vines on a wall.

A no-name musician told me that in a tavern I frequent, his voice thin as reed-flute smoke in lamplight.

He called it pointless muttering—truth trimmed head and tail—nonsense served to whoever needed it, like watered wine.

Reason only gains meaning from circumstance, like a sail only swells with wind, so reason itself is empty until someone fills it.

He said that line was absurd too, like a paper boat in rapids, yet I felt it rang true like a bell in fog.

No, he’s no big figure, just a common thinker, twisted inside like a knot in old pine; forget him.

Ah, enough about him; back to my side of the river, where the lanterns flicker.

Even if I think this way, our battles have stayed stern, like iron bells—since Anna showed up, the wind lost its laughter.

Yakfarro’s campaign was fine; after meeting Anna, the Hero Squad stopped smiling in combat, like a stage gone dark.

Serious fighting is fine—steel under frost—but I don’t like it when the air won’t breathe.

Stini still clowns now and then, like tossing pebbles at a lake, but she’s reined it in; the ripples die quick.

Yeah, yeah, efficiency first, like arrows slicing rain—but without jokes my own efficiency dips, like a kite in dead air.

Don’t mock me with cold drizzle; you’re supposed to guide gloomy me back to shore, not push me deeper.

You say I should go full cold type? That’s too tiring, like wearing armor in midsummer; I’d have to rewrite my bones.

My personality’s not trash; I’m not deleting my save and rerolling, like burning fields in spring.

I’m tired—heavy as wet robes—and I wanted to vent, yet after pouring out the bucket my mood feels muddier.

Sorry—truly—I know you’re multithreading to contact the Demon King Army, spinning plates like a juggler in wind.

So what do we do? You say there’s no way? Don’t give up; push a little more, like stoking coals till they glow.

What if I crack jokes mid-fight, like tossing fireflies into smoke—would that warm the squad’s air again?

Nah, it won’t fly; they’ll think, “Is this idiot short a screw, joking under thunder?” and the clouds will press lower.

But I’ve banked some goodwill, like savings under the mat; that image of me looking after everyone in the Hero Squad still shines.

If I keep playing dumb, maybe they’ll think, “Andor must have a reason,” like reading brushstrokes between lines.

Maybe they’ll even think, “He’s tanking his image to ease the grief over Catherine, to bring laughter back,” and lift me in their hearts like a lantern.

Yeah… that’s naive, like fishing the moon with a net, but the plan’s workable, right? The girls in the squad are kind.

I do mean well, like setting out hot soup in winter; they’ll get it, won’t they?

Alright, I’ll test it first, like tapping the ice before stepping.

Even if it flops, I’ll keep at it; getting looked down on is fine—I’ll joke anyway, or the act’s half-carved jade.

Thanks; you always back me when the wind turns, like a steady oar on a dark river.

Demonfolk like joy too; we just call the feelings we favor “joy,” like naming stars—people or demons, we all chase warmth.

Okay, that’s it for tonight; good night, like drawing shutters against the moon.

Good night to you too, Vega, like a bell faded into dusk.

I cut mana to the Long-Range Communication Crystal Orb—Shadow Realm mod—and toss it into the Shadow Realm like a pebble into deep water.

After the confession, my chest feels lighter, like mist lifting; I’ll sleep early today.

I climb onto the inn’s rough bed—less cozy than home—but with my mood cleared, even sleep settles soft as snow.