"I don’t admit it—he blew himself up, like a torch snuffed by its own spark."

Princess Golia finally let me go. No iron fingers on my throat, no clutching my neck to hack like smoke‑choked heroes in cheap novels.

Still... faking a cough sounded kind of fun, like a cat working up a hairball.

"No—cough, cough—not me. I did my best—cough."

Princess Golia glanced left and right again, reeds in a wind, but Stini still didn’t darken the doorway.

Snark wasn’t her native field; panic fluttered like a caged bird. She took a reluctant breath, cold water down to the lungs.

"But... yes. Dead." Her words dropped like stones in a well.

She’d panicked into broken code. Head down, stance set, Gloria looked ready to crash like a frozen lake.

"Sorry. I pushed the joke too far," I said, string pulled too taut.

With Stini, that level’s just the warm‑up; Princess Golia’s build is too low, a sapling needing seasons of growth to stand on our cliff.

I didn’t want Her Highness to glitch and trigger the Demon Slaying Sword, then yeet me back to the Demon Realm—lightning from a clear sky.

She’d almost popped my head like a ripe pomegranate.

I put on a sober voice, trying to say, I don’t admit fault, but I want to discuss this. My face stayed corpse‑flat, a stone mask.

"He saw me cast a binding spell and blew himself up without blinking—ruthless as a blade in frost."

"Not you used... explosion?" Gloria’s gears clicked in confusion, teeth snagging.

"How bad is my trust score? I only botched that treant. My record’s still shiny, like a polished shield, right?"

"Like jokes. Trust... not good," she said, words like pebbles skipping.

I’d sworn days ago to make the team breezy again. That vow now wobbled like a lantern in wind.

A small gloom pooled, dusk in a bowl. Why can’t dependable and funny live under one roof?

"Forget it. Let’s see what we can harvest. Small fry to us, sure, but small fry with city‑killer spells. For most protagonists, beating it wraps a volume; for us, that’s the prologue."

I crouched and pinched the leftovers, ash crumbling like dry snow.

I’d pressed the binding spell, Nightbound Gaol, across its face. It read the intent and chose martyr‑blast without a heartbeat, fire under its own feet.

Frenzy. Risk. A hunger for Slaughter and ruin. That’s the Demonfolk’s soul, a blade sharpened on both edges.

It means life holds little glue for them—others’ lives, their own—rain on oil sliding clean.

Their logic goes: live, because living buys you more Slaughter and ruin. When the noose tightens, it turns to: hahaha, finally death—the one feast you only taste once.

I know, to children of light, Demonfolk are idiots. Aside from Heroes and philosophers who chew useless questions, most won’t think; they let rage flare like dry grass and pin every misfortune on demons.

Personally, enemies are easier than friends. An enemy needs only malice, blade drawn; a friend asks for heart and time, a garden to tend.

So we like mortals who declare war at hello. Kill or be killed, clean as thunder after heat.

Heroes or philosophers... the Demon King usually steers clear. Later, at a review council, over ten Sons of the Demon King ganged up on Qing, holder of the Pain Authority Domain, stormclouds in a ring.

But I’ve never heard of Sons of the Demon King teaming up to murder a Hero. And the Council of Sages? Never heard of a Demon King striking them, not even a shadow.

I think they like simple lines. They enjoy being lone villains; when faced with someone beyond good and evil who gets them, the blade hesitates like snow on a warm palm.

Sons raised on indulgence, happy to fight and kill, don’t like fussy knots; they won’t even go looking for that kind of trouble, like hunters ignoring small tracks.

So... if the Sons of the Demon King avoid Heroes, maybe we don’t need to chase trouble either, like fish staying mid‑stream.

It’s only shards, but with my Authority Domain I can sift his remains like tea leaves and read plenty, steam curling with secrets.

For one: once a mortal adventurer with three kids. During a siege, a Hero abandoned their district to save more lives. His faith in stern justice cracked like ice, and he fell into the dark.

Another: he became a mid‑tier thrall only recently, fresh paint on old wood.

And he served the Authority Domain of Excess, fat on the bone.

If I recall, this stretch belongs to Hierarchy, that guy’s turf. In the Demon Realm, each Son of the Demon King roamed their parent’s lands, no friction; in the human world, a claimed territory grows claws—you don’t wander.

See how every time a Hero storms the Demon King Castle, the Demon King’s home? Never once out on business, hearth still warm.

Alright. Gather the threads, weave them tight.

One: that mid‑tier thrall said, "His Majesty the Demon King is dead." I scoffed inside, a quiet spark.

Two: Excess rules the northern icefields, far from here. I saw no teleport from this thrall; he didn’t jog here, did he, across snow like a mad hare?

Three: he wasn’t that strong, just scraping Hero level. Strong, sure—but in this Silver Era, with Heroes prowling for trouble, he’d never cross north to east alive, a candle in wind.

Four: the fight’s cooled, and Stini still isn’t back, a missing star at dusk.

"Your Highness... this monster seems like a close minister of the Demon King."

"Mm..." The sound hung like fog.

"No, Your Highness, that line needs no quip. Don’t look around for Stini. Don’t panic. I don’t clown on every line," I said, hands raised like lids over boiling water.

"Oh."

"And don’t look relieved when I say no quips. Your job is fighting, not subbing in for Stini and me in comedy."

"Ah."

"Also, stop with the sparkling eyes and the ‘so that’s real banter’ face. I did nothing praiseworthy, not even a leaf’s worth."

"Then I can rest."

"No no no no no—five nos, for emphasis." My words rattled like beads. "Your Highness, don’t you find Stini’s vanishing suspicious?"

"Yeah."

She nodded along, yet her shoulders loosened like ropes after rain, knots melting.

Is joking with me more tiring than fighting the Demon King? Don’t do me like this—it stabs the heart like a thin needle.

"Stini, no problem."

"No. This isn’t trust. A close minister of the Demon King showed up. Stini could be soloing the Demon King. Details fuzzy, sure, but when it’s the Demon King, a Hero wedges in. Isn’t that a law, like tide after moon?"

"?"

Somehow, Gloria spoke a question mark, a lone hook in air.

Punctuation shouldn’t be a whole sentence, even for a quiet type. That’s a bit much, like a bell without a tower.

She tilted her head, confusion blooming like a pale flower—fine, you’re cute, I’ll let it slide.

"That one said, ‘Demon King dead.’ Stini. Legend of Valor," she intoned, words like stacked stones.

"About that." I stood, brushed dust from my hands, and faced Gloria, dawn on steel. "The Demon King who held Slaughter got killed once and came back stronger. Edge case, sure. But Demon Kings are hard to kill. Break the body, and they still don’t die."

"Beheaded. Heart pierced. Still won’t die. Don’t know why." Her voice was winter‑flat.

"Right. That monster probably saw Stini wreck the Demon King’s body. A Hero can kill a Demon King, but once or twice isn’t enough to temper one—iron needs many fires."

Gloria’s eyes sharpened, steel catching light. Talk of battle and Demon Kings flips her switch like flint to tinder.

"The Demon King is, simply, a monster."

An edge that must sever, a bulwark that won’t break. Certain kill and not‑dying in one frame. You’re a monster too, I almost said, and bit my tongue like frost on lip.

Both of us count as out‑of‑spec, leaves outside the book.

Ah. Right. I’m specced out‑of‑spec too, a note off the scale.

"Anyway. Our captain may be in deep trouble. We should find her," I said, voice steady as a drawn line.

I invoked my Authority and stirred the Shadow around us to search for Stini. Nothing answered, a lake without echo, black glass unbroken.

"Think Stini won’t have problems."

"Mm... I think so too. Toss her into the Demon Realm and she’ll return with souvenirs. I know it’s dangerous there, but I can’t get fired up," I said, a hearth refusing flame.

I hefted my Greatsword, no path in sight, and set it down like a fallen banner.

"It’s Stini, after all."

Gloria’s eyes are usually mineral‑still, yet a wry curve rippled under her blankness, a ripple under ice.

"That line fits every mess Stini makes."

I said it with a crooked smile, a cracked cup holding tea.

"Indeed."

"That said... we should still look for her. Our dear Hero is greedy and lazy, naps through class, loves dirty jokes, and is useless except when it counts. Leaving her alone before the Demon King feels inhuman, like tossing a lamb to a tiger."

"Stini is gentle. She takes burden and danger on herself. Hopes to save everyone. Pretends not to care. Pretends to be the villain. Shares her food with me. I like that Stini," she said, words like beads on a thread.

"That last one’s bullying. She tossed you the veggies she hates. Still... her virtues stick out as sharp as her flaws. You can’t ignore her, like a bell in fog."

Our job site was Blue Moon Lake. The bounty was to cull the overbreeding Balo rabbits. But we hit quota on the road, snares tripping themselves like luck in a breeze.

We could head back and idle the afternoon. Forget Stini; she’ll return safe, trailing a new tale of Valor like a banner. Maybe she just got lost, and we’ll spend a day only to ferry our wandering captain home.

Maybe we head back to town first?