Nagash held his silence for a while, then it shattered like ice under a sudden thaw.

“What if they stop loving mortals? What if the Divine Beings grow sick of us? When we’re addicted to grace, what do we do then?”

“No, the Divine Beings won’t! They won’t abandon us!”

“You can’t be sure. You can’t see tomorrow. Mortals rot and fall. Can a Divine Being stay great forever?”

“...”

“Even if they protect humanity forever, that’s no blessing for mortals. If we stop thinking, if mortals get spoiled by Divinity, used to receiving and never striving—what’s the difference between life and extinction?”

“...No. We still chase our own perfection. Asking the Divine for help only covers what we can’t do. The mortal world is still moving toward the light.”

“Common folk don’t have a Hero’s strength or spirit. How can you ask the weak to be as iron as you?”

They kept arguing, words clashing like blades in a narrow alley. I waved over the two girls left gaping, lost in the dust storm.

“Nivifar. Your Highness. Could you help me out?”

“What are they... doing?”

“Let Stini explain later. First help me keep anyone from barging into this talk, okay?”

“Why... do it? Andor, who do you... want to stop?”

“The Heretic Inquisition—”

“Andor, you spoil Stini too much!” Nivifar cut me off, glare sharp as flint. She lifted a fist like a thunderhead, then let it drop with a huff. “This talk won’t end well. Not with the end Stini wants.”

You don’t become a mercenary captain by being slow. I’d braced for her to feel off about this. I still underestimated how well she knows what a “Hero” really is.

I tried to persuade her, pushing hope like a lantern in fog.

“If she doesn’t try, nobody will know how it ends.”

“Don’t feed me fairy tales! I’m not that girl’s nanny. Stuff doesn’t bend just because she wills it. If she could really save someone—fine. I’m not doing something pointless.”

“Andor... what’s going on?”

Gloria tugged my sleeve, eyes wide, a lake catching clouds.

Nivifar stood a step away, refusing to join, her gaze a drawn bow aimed at me.

Fine. If I don’t explain, even Gloria won’t budge.

“Alright, truth then. Stini wants to save that uncle named Nagash. She hopes to talk him down from hating the Divine Beings.”

“So when you said the Heretic Inquisition, I knew it—no chance. If they mobilize, the target’s a monster of sin, punished straight from Divine wrath. Even a Hero can’t make that kind of sinner repent.”

“I think... at least we can let Stini try.”

“Not happening.” Nivifar’s voice lowered, wrapped in thorns. She flicked a glance at Stini—still mid-argument, too focused to hear us—then faced us again. “The world isn’t a novel dressed in silk. No tidy drama, no legend on cue. What can’t be done can’t be done.”

“Maybe a Hero could—” Right, I keep forgetting Nivifar hates Heroes.

“What can a Hero do? A Hero’s still a mortal. That villain’s will is iron—warped maybe, but iron all the same. One or two lines won’t change it. Andor, do you truly believe Stini can persuade him?”

Nagash may be a wicked man, but Nivifar seemed to understand him; her eyes toward that fire were softer.

“Even if a Hero beats a Demon King, they can’t beat the world.”

She breathed out, small as mist off a river, judging Stini’s attempt.

“Yeah. You’re right,” I nodded.

The Demonfolk are good at lying, but lies bounce off sharp instinct.

With fighters who trust their gut more than logic, honesty hits harder than any trick.

“I don’t think Stini can do it either. She’s clumsy, trips over her own tongue, and I’m always patching her messes.”

“You think so too...”

“But I still want to give her a chance. Stini probably won’t succeed, but if we won’t even grant her a sliver of hope, this world’s too cruel.”

“...”

“So—will you help me hold off the Heretic Inquisition? If those slaughter-trained folks arrive, Stini’s words will freeze.”

“...The opponents are Heretic Inquisitors—power holders who follow a Divine Being’s will. Even if we stall them, what about official charges later?”

“Blame everything on Stini. Say we were trying to fulfill her wish. Officials always go easy on Heroes. We’ll probably sit in a dark cell for a few days, then get let out.”

“Are you truly doing this for Stini?” Nivifar looked at me like I’d grown antlers.

“We’re helping her this much. Letting her carry the blame’s only fair.”

At that, Nivifar started loosening her shoulders, tuning posture like string and bow.

Gloria drew up her Concept Armor, a shimmer around her like dawn light on steel, readying for a fight.

“This feels like a bad bargain. I’ll need several days off. No vacation all year, and I end up chasing a hobby of someone I don’t even like.”

Nivifar tightened her leather straps, letting the battle wear hug her frame, while grumbling like thunder behind hills.

“So this is my personal request. Count it as me asking a favor.”

“I hear you’re loaded. When we get grabbed, pay my lost wages and commission. All of it.”

“Of course. Her Highness will pay you too.”

“I already... worry for Stini. You don’t have to... say it.”

Gloria gave me a light punch—more cloud than stone—and turned away toward one path.

It was gentle. Huh. Maybe a little pep punch?

Nivifar stepped in, quick as a cat, and lifted my wallet out of my pocket.

“It’s yours.”

“If a merc takes too much commission, the guild’ll call it extortion.”

She pulled a single gold coin, tucked it inside her armor, then tossed the wallet back to me.

“Our tab’s settled.”

She said it, then walked off in a direction opposite Gloria, boots whispering like reeds.

If she truly didn’t care, she could’ve refused outright. She’s got her own ironclad obsessions, but she’s a cold face, warm heart kind of girl.

Anyway... I’m glad she agreed to help.

I turned and headed for a third path.

I’d meet the Heretic Inquisition far from Stini, a windbreak so the fight’s noise wouldn’t rattle her words.

First, clear the trees around me. In a normal fight, sightlines and swing arcs don’t matter much, but against a peak-level warrior, you stack every card.

I planted the greatsword Valor in the earth, posing as cool as a statue in storm, hoping to give the oncoming Inquisition a rude greeting.

The wind rose, loud as drums, and danger thickened like smoke in my throat. A blade felt moments from kissing my neck. I touched my throat—no blood yet.

I stared into the oncoming killing intent, like watching lightning walk. I watched for the shape of the strike.

Figures in black robes, pointy hats, popped into my vision like a skipped frame in a flickering reel.

Too abrupt. I didn’t feel them coming. My face got slammed into the dirt.

What!

I saw them appear, but my mind lagged, reflexes stuck like a wheel in mud.

Oh, heavens—worst draw.

I clenched my teeth, shoved with everything, trying to break the hold.

I’ve long suspected they all use a contract spell—a vow of restraint. Like Saint Mire swearing “never to wield power for battle,” and gaining the grace to resurrect every dead soul in an entire city.

Everyone in the Heretic Inquisition has eerily low presence—you forget them the moment you turn your head. Yet their strength is staggering. The less noticeable the Heretic Inquisitor, the stronger they tend to be.

It’s no blessing—to have your existence erased, your merits and sins forgotten, like you never walked this earth, leaving no trace.

The Heretic Inquisition guards peace in shadow, using unbright, unglorious means to erase darkness—what people call “necessary evil.” Their legends aren’t for common ears, and that low presence suits them.

They walk alone, carrying loneliness like rain-soaked cloaks. Yet the Divine Beings back them, and the Primordial Nine Races all have members among them.

People should honor their greatness and sacrifice—an anthem for good.

People should fear their strength and resolve—a warning for evil.

The Heretic Inquisition in this era is holier, purer—but it’s still an execution arm, a fist for sentences.

And this time, my opponent was all too familiar.

Despair almost bubbled into laughter in my throat.

I thought they’d send a few good hands to put down a heretic. I didn’t expect the heavy hand—looks like the high Divine got truly angry.

The one pinning my arms and skull was the Head of the Heretic Inquisition, the “Madman,” Maki. In this world, only he could lock me down while I’m already on guard.

Normally, you can’t remember Heretic Inquisitors’ faces or names—almost like a curse. Yet even toddlers know the Head of the Inquisition is a man called the “Madman.”

I learned his name in blood.

In my previous life, during the Shadow Demon Andor subjugation, Stini sealed my retainer and led the ambush on me. The Hero Squad took point, and more heroes surged in to help.

Among them stood this Madman, Maki. He died in that battle—not because he was weak, but because he refused to die of old age. He marched there to earn a warrior’s death.

In that fight, he pressed the full-power Shadow Demon Andor head-on, forcing me down for a brief span—a feat even Hero Augustus never managed.

Back then he was over eighty, age gnawing at his edge, strength and battle-sense no longer crisp. Now he’s forty-something, prime years where experience and body fuse like steel and fire.

No winning this. His burst can rival Augustus. The “Shadow Artisan Andor Mephy” isn’t specced to that tier yet.

I talked big earlier, but right now? I just want to surrender.