Without awe and a horizon you can’t touch, people lose the urge to chase; blind souls fester like fruit left in a damp cellar. Divine Beings exist to draw the shoreline—where humans may walk, and where they must never wade.

Wind slashes our faces as we sprint; Maki lays down his verdict in a hard tone, like a chisel biting stone.

Humanity can’t develop unchecked, or it invites its own ruin like a wildfire eating its own forest.

Overworking the earth bites deep—forests shrink like shadows at noon.

Raise too many chemical plants, and smokestacks stain the sky like ink spilled on silk.

Introduce new energy too fast, and unforeseen calamity cracks the ground like ice under a hurried foot.

People always want to run—all speed, all shine—but if one step lands in the void, the faster the sprint, the crueler the fall, like a cliff meeting a falling star. We choose to forget that, by accident or design.

I think that’s the truth Maki wants to carve into the air.

“What Nagash did wrong was letting humans guide their own future? That’s his offense?”

“Maybe one day his theory will be the right key, but not now—mm, at least not now.”

“Why? I think Nagash is right. Don’t the great kingdoms choose their own policies, led by their royal houses?”

“It’s different, Andor. Kings are wise, leaders are clever, but cleverness needs bridle and bit to run true. If the gods step away, that same wisdom turns into a blade at humanity’s throat.”

“You mean… our wisdom isn’t whole?”

Mortals can’t see the horizon beyond the mist.

Warm words may not melt the ice in a mind set on dying; sometimes one harsh sentence breaks the frost like a crack through winter glass.

Good intentions can sour like milk; a mistake can bloom into the right answer like a lotus out of mud. It happens often.

Raven keeps reaching for new things, a comet chasing a new sky, but her creations are too grand; they stir the Ocean of Darkness, and the backlash drags our world toward ruin like a rip current.

“Ordinary people walk straight lines; they rarely do great good, and rarely do great harm. Sages are different. They use their gifts to bend the world toward light, and most days they succeed; so they can also bend it toward the opposite of salvation.”

“That’s why Divine Beings must restrain mortals—I get it. But it feels harsh; can’t we trust people a bit more? The gods don’t directly interfere now; mortals choose within a wide lane. Maybe we don’t need divine guidance…”

“We can’t afford to lose—not even once. A sage’s gift lets them see what’s hidden, the truths stuffed in dark corners, the world’s night-side. Then—by choice or by chance—they reach for taboo like a moth to a lamp. You stand beside the Hero; you know this world’s fragility—it’s porcelain on a stone floor.”

“…True. I feel that in my bones.”

“So I’ve been thanking you in the shadows—thanking you for what you pour out for the world.”

“Isn’t it wrong to say that to someone trying to stop you? Shouldn’t you show me your knives?”

“Haha—only because I see your potential.”

“Lots of people say that. I don’t blush anymore.”

“I mean potential as a Heretic Inquisitor. I want you with us.”

…Is this a class change quest?

Think about it: if I become a Heretic Inquisitor, I get more authority, more keys. As a ‘Shadow Sorcerer, Andor Mephy,’ I’ve hit my current ceiling; I’ve been racking my brain for a next growth path. If I switch into a Heretic Inquisitor and take the Oath of Vigilance, my build gets stronger… but that switch drags in a nest of trouble.

Hunting heretics, chewing philosophy—those eat time like locusts and don’t help with flirting at all.

Better not. I’ve got dates to keep with Raven, Stini, Elina, and Vega, like moonlit appointments I won’t miss.

“Ah, that—no thanks…”

“Entry to the Heretic Inquisition means nine elders take turns throwing you a thesis to debate. If your worldview is strong enough to stand, we let you in. I believe you’ll pass.”

“Mister Maki, I said—no thanks…”

Maki ignores my protest, musing like talking to the lake:

“You may not have high philosophy; combat strength is a separate need. Most of all, you’ve got your own spine.”

“Nope. You misread me. I’m a plain fighter, the kind who goofs off with my Hero. That’s all.”

“Ordinary people don’t stake their lives on a girl’s wish. I think you’ve got a hidden obsession.”

“Right, I’m a dyed-in-the-wool obsessive. So stop recruiting me.”

“It’s fine. Most Heretic Inquisitors are obsessives—obsessed with justice to the edge of the blade. Many in the Inquisition once stood one step from heresy; we guide those who come.”

“But I really don’t want to be a Heretic Inquisitor.”

‘If you come, I’ll treat you as a brother, lay out bread and wine and meat, and share my joy; if you don’t, I’ll treat you as my kin, whisper your name and drink what’s in my cup, accepting this Divine will.’—from the Book of Praise, chapter three, verse four. If, one day, your existence feels hollow and your obsession wears you down, come to the Heretic Inquisition. My brothers and I will unknit your knots.”

“Then… thanks…”

I don’t think a Demon King needs a Heretic Inquisitor’s counsel, but his voice is gentle as evening rain; I can’t spit a hard refusal.

He’s a villain on paper, yet his character burns bright like a lantern.

I hope I won’t end up a side character in his shadow.

I don’t resonate; I said before I hate that chicken‑soup talk. So I joke a lot. While talking with Maki I mostly nod along; he says three lines, I give him half a line.

Mm, so what did these last two chapters tell us?

Language poured full of feeling doesn’t always move the heart. Effort doesn’t guarantee a harvest. If you yearn for justice, it won’t make others yearn for it too.

…Feels like something a friendly nihilist would say.

Ah, not important.

Maki worries Stini will swallow Nagash’s crooked theory. I don’t mind. If Stini stays the same, my plan keeps sailing.

If she agrees with Nagash and starts doubting the bond between gods and mortals, all the better—wind in my sails.

I’m the Demon King; I enjoy needling the Divine Beings like tossing pebbles at a temple bell.

Besides, if I’m going to win Stini over, she must choose the dark on her own. Otherwise the conversion ritual for a familiar won’t take.

She has to accept the will of darkness and deny the side of light, like someone turning their back on sunrise.

If Nagash can make Stini question the gods, I’ll thank him. I’d give him a fine place in the Ocean of Darkness… no, he’ll get erased by the Divine, not even ash left. I’ll thank him in my heart, like incense burned in secret.

Then my thoughts drift to small ripples—what to eat for dinner, what local gifts to bring back to Raven and Elina, what breakfast tomorrow, the human body’s humble needs calling and my limbs too weak to answer—all of it truly trivial, like leaves bobbing on a stream.

I don’t know how long passes. Maki finally sets me down from his shoulder and sits cross‑legged on a rocky knoll by Blue Moon Lake, facing Stini and Nagash as they keep debating—storm eyes meeting calm water.

As expected, Stini can’t persuade Nagash to repent.

“…No. No, Divine Beings wouldn’t do something so cruel!”

“I’ll show you the gods aren’t absolute in their holiness… ah, girl, debating you is joyful—really, truly joyful. But today’s tide ends here.”

Nagash laughs free and bright, pats her shoulder, and gently pushes her toward us, like someone closing a book with relief.

That smile looks like release, like a job completed, too easy, too ominous; Stini’s guard shoots up like a spear.

“Go to your partner. That boy named Andor is waiting.”

“Wait, we aren’t finished…”

She stumbles a few steps, then hurries back—but a Heretic Inquisitor in full black with a peaked hood blocks her path like a door in a narrow alley.

The other Heretic Inquisitors take their places, taut as bowstrings, ready to strike the instant Nagash twitches.

“It’s over. Nagash, your sophistry ends here. Stop staining our world’s hope like soot on snow.”

Maki wears proper enmity like armor; he steps between them, face set like granite:

“You won’t run?”

“If I can’t escape, why would I run?”

The cute girl’s flailing arms are paper against the Inquisitors’ killing intent; even the Hero can’t halt the world’s grindstone when it starts to turn.

Feeling the spark that will become a blaze, she knows she can’t stop it, so her eyes fly to me like birds seeking a branch.

Hey, hey. Look at me—I’m a heap of sticks. Don’t expect too much.

“Wait, what’s happening? Ah—Andor, what happened to you?”

“Sorry. I couldn’t stall Maki. That’s the story.”

“Who are these people? Who’s Maki? Why does it look like a fight’s about to break like thunder?”

Stini’s eyes brim like a pond before rain; honestly, that look doesn’t suit you. I want to help, but Nagash’s death is written here like ink on a decree. No one can change it.

Stini needs to learn a hard lesson—reality’s stone is heavier than courage’s feather. Not everything yields to effort and bravery.

Reality and ideals stand like two cliffs facing a chasm.

“The man who talked with you—chair of the Truth Seekers Assembly, Nagash—is a heretic. Don’t tell me you didn’t hear it in his words.”

I point, with the little strength I’ve clawed back, at Nagash ringed in black, then at Maki:

“And that grim one—‘Madman’ Maki. Never heard the name that scares children silent? The notorious chair of the Heretic Inquisition. I wanted to stall him, to buy you more time with Nagash, but… I couldn’t win.”

“Andor, you…”

“I’ve done what I can. What happens next, and how far you take it—that’s on you.”

I try to give a thumbs‑up; my hand won’t obey. It slides instead like a door closing, a small, awkward gesture against a night that’s about to break.