Back in town, we shared a dinner as bland as boiled straw, and Stini wore a smile like chipped porcelain—no mask could hide the rain under her eyes.

Heroes are mostly idiots, skulls packed like bricks in wet clay.

The job of being a Hero’s companion was done; I pushed the cheap inn’s door, its hinge creaking like a rusty jaw, and tossed my coat like a shed snakeskin on the sofa.

I stretched like a cat under a winter sun, then brewed coffee, steam curling like morning mist over black water.

The cake I baked this morning sat snug in a warming charm, like coals banked under ash; I pulled two slices for a midnight bite.

A hot shower washed me like summer rain, and I slipped into fresh clothes like a second skin.

My spirits were crystal-bright for a heartbeat, a moonlit lake without ripples—yeah, sleep sounded sweet.

Not really; night’s leisure had been skimmed clean like cream, and it was time for the iron work.

I slapped my cheek like a drum to rouse blood, holding up my drooping soul, getting ready for the Demon King’s tasks.

Should I self‑charge again, like cranking a hand‑lamp? Forget it; if I keep lounging, this night will rot like fruit on a bough.

The excuse “worked hard, need rest” is a blanket too short for winter, and I won’t let it cover everything.

I pulled a crystal ball from the Shadow like a pearl from black tide and fed it mana like coal to a furnace.

“Good evening, my owner drooping like a dead fish on river silt.”

“Ha‑choo… Vega, if you’d stop cussing like a gutter crow, you’d be popular. What happened now, storm‑wise?”

“Berenz is unsatisfied, like a starving wolf; he culled an orc tribe.”

“That kind of rain can fall where it wants. Anything else, thunder‑wise?”

“Hero Augustus killed two more Sons of the Demon King who struck Hero Academy.”

“Idiots die and drop like autumn leaves; plenty remain on the tree. More?”

Where’s my coffee? Without a sip I’ll drift like a leaf on dark water.

“Lady Elina passed a Divine Being’s trial again; her strength rose like a tide. Saint Mire received an oracle, a white dove in dawn light.”

“Strong or not, she’s support—just a lantern by the road. Not important. More?”

“Mm… Miss Stini’s finals came in; three subjects failed like frost‑bitten buds.”

“I prepped her cheat sheet, clear as starlight on ink; all she had to do was copy. She still flunked! Fine, splinters don’t fell the tree. More?”

“My owner who speaks in shadows, I’ve got nothing for now. Mm… right, nothing.”

“You paused like a cart stuck in mud… and you never heard of tact? If you know I’m hinting, think harder, like grinding rice.”

“Too inefficient, my owner who mystery‑poses and fails like a firework in rain.”

“I didn’t fail… any movement from the Heretic Inquisition, like ants under a rock?”

“Some oddness, like fish circling deep; no obvious mobilization, my owner who knows the answer but keeps it shelled.”

“Enough! I do know, and I want one classic scene, like a clear bell—let me play the one who sees through everything.”

“That’d make my image look foolish, like a peacock in snow, so I refuse.”

She’s a girl who’s hard to like, a maid whose bow carries pride like a thorned rose.

I downed the coffee like night swallowing starlight, bit into cake, sweet as ripe peaches—good, my craft hasn’t dulled.

I set my mood like tuning strings, and slid into the role of the hidden hand again, like fog over marsh.

“Any stir from the Truth Seekers Assembly, ripples on the pond?”

“None. Did you find something? Great master—hold it! Why are you the all‑seeing eye? I’m the one behind the curtain!”

Across the crystal, Miss Vega’s face twisted like stale lemon.

“Because even if my tongue rots like a dead eel, I won’t say ‘great master’ with syrup.”

Trading barbs with a maid whose bent is venom only curdles my mood like sour milk; I’ve learned that lesson.

“I’m done playing. You should’ve noticed—Heretic Inquisition and Truth Seekers Assembly are moving like storm fronts. They’ll clash. I suspect Head’s meddling, trying to kill Raven.”

“I can understand the Divine Being’s thought; Raven is dangerous, a blade of black glass.” Vega nodded deep, a reed bowing to wind.

“Don’t push it. I don’t want Raven dead, so wherever she goes, you stick like a shadow beside her, and stop any Assassin.”

“Can I show strength, like steel unsheathed?”

“No. If your friend suddenly grows strong like a thundered tree, she’ll doubt. Make it look accidental when you drop the Assassin.”

“But if the Heretic Inquisition attacks Raven head‑on, I can’t hide my strength and guard her, like shielding in open sun.”

“About that—” The second slice went down like a setting moon; leisure ended. Shadow wound around me like cold smoke, my soul settling like black ice, and my eyes took the Demon King’s chill.

“Contact Berenz. The Truth Seekers Assembly will prioritize Raven, so have Berenz lead the Demon King Army to suppress the front. Keep both sides from a decisive battle till I return.”

That means the buffer zone between the armies gets covered by Berenz like snow tamping down flames.

We’ll swallow both advance forces like a pit of thorns, make each side think the other is a lion, and choose to hold.

It won’t end the war, but if I push the duel of fate back, I’m content like a farmer delaying frost.

“How much time do you need, like shadows on a sundial?”

“Five days… three at least, before I can return.”

“As you will.” Vega dipped a bow like a willow, “I’ll drive Berenz to spend her life if needed, like blood on iron.”

“You too—put your life on the line, like flint and spark!”

“Well then, my owner bored enough to work like a millstone, any other trivialities you want me to dance to?”

“You’re dripping malice like ink… No, that’s it. Wait—I want to play ‘the one who sees through everything.’ You flatter me once—come on.”

“Go work, you lazy lump, like a rock in wet moss.”

“You said it! This time you dropped ‘owner’ like a broken bead! You hid malice in long clauses before—now it’s naked imperative!”

“What… My ‘great, holy, strongest’ owner sees farther than the horizon? Forgive me; I lack your hawk’s sight.”

“Why did you start on your own! And you don’t sound humble—just bored, like a cat swatting yarn!”

“Tsk. Do you mean… My ‘great, holy, strongest’ owner suggests—”

“You clicked your tongue! Is it so hard to play with me for a minute, like kids chasing fireflies?!”

“Fine. My ‘great, holy, strongest’ owner, you saw through Head’s plot like clear glass; the brains of the Demon King Army—me—feel shame!”

“You’re not the brains, don’t talk like I lack one. And your falsetto drips sarcasm like vinegar!”

“So work seriously. Rare talent is like spring water; if unused, it goes stale.”

“Why’d you turn into my superior! I’m your owner, like the sun to your shadow!”

“Sorry—being the smartest in the Demon King Army yet so foolish is a tragedy, like a poet tripping over a word; how can I face my even more foolish owner?”

“Vega, get serious…”

Vega must’ve had enough; she bowed like a drawn bow, then cracked the crystal ball with her forehead like a hammer.

The call cut like a snapped string.

That girl… I’ll punish her on the bed when I get back, like tying a ribbon around a stray cat.

Mm, for her it might be a reward, a sweet fruit with a worm.

I stretched again, shaking off the last lazy shadows like dust off sleeves.

There’s no room left for leisure; what remains is a road of ash and iron, hard enough to bleed, with no rest.

First, I locked down the whole Shadow Realm like sealing a storm jar, keeping shadow mana and concepts from rioting.

Then I tore off the collar at my neck like breaking a chain and took the scepter back into my fist like gripping lightning.

Even bound, the Shadow’s concept chattered like sparrows and cheered like a night market.

They praised their king returned, like drums calling at dusk.

All right—work. From the Shadow Realm, I pulled a notebook bound in human skin like pale parchment, took a quill made from a raven fledgling’s first true feather like a black thorn, and dipped it in ink mixed from powdered soul prism and bone‑etching water like midnight ground to paste.

I wrote a devil’s contract on the skin, names curling like snakes, listing the devil I sought to trade with.

It’s ritual, like burning incense; the devil sees the contract as if peering through smoke and decides to agree or adjust.

I offered all industries in the Demon Realm I couldn’t carry, like fields left behind, in exchange for the devil’s hand.

The devil who likes to wear a youth’s face answered fast, like a fox at a henhouse; before my ink dried, the signature burned onto the page like frost.

Devils seem to watch you always, owls in a winter wood, and that’s why mortals fear them like wolves beyond the firelight. To a Demon King, devils grew along a different river, but the spring is the same, and we know each other’s tricks like gamblers swapping deck cuts; no feelings needed.

Still true: a Demon King is a terrorist, a storm in alleys; a devil sells arms, a merchant with smoke in his sleeves.

I lifted the skin book and checked the contract twice, like counting coins. There’s more later; we’ll talk face to face tomorrow, so no rushing now.

From the Shadow I drew a pre‑inked magic circle like a pattern on frost and poured mana into it like wine into a cup.

It’s been a while since I revived Berenz, so my mana’s climbed back like sap in spring; plus reclaiming Excess’s corpse gives me enough to summon another high retainer.

My last retainer: Dulan of Sorrow‑Delight, a blade wrapped in silk.

Nagash used the aberrant blade “Divine‑Not‑Sacred,” a star cracked in iron, to kill the Son of the Demon King “Excess,” and dragged every concept above mortal rank down like falcons to ground, turning them into ordinary mana—handy for my harvest.

Mana crystals are usually spheres, smooth as pebbles; last time I squeezed one square, like a dice, and almost blew the rite sky‑high.

This time I shaped it like a sea urchin, spines bristling like midnight stars; what mischief would that invite?

…Nothing. Even if I play dumb like a clown, no one’s here to jeer, so there’s no point juggling alone.

With that dull mood like gray rain, I guided the mana flow bit by bit like adjusting a loom, and the spell completed without surprise.

I know that girl’s silhouette, lines like reeds by a lake; even with color unfilled, I’d recognize her.

She slept quiet at the circle’s heart, curves like a sculpture a tide polishes, beyond anything Berenz could match.

Her waist‑long brown hair spilled like silk richer than kings’ brocades, glossy as river water at dusk.

Her face was beyond compare, a moon carved from a clear night, and the starry river only existed to frame her light.

If Berenz and Vega are beautiful girls, then Dulan is a goddess, a mountain lily; only Anna, when disguised, could stand beside her in my memory.

Dulan is the Divine Being’s masterpiece in form, but pity—she’s my making, and like bloodthirsty Berenz and venom‑bent Vega, she’s a flawed craft, with a crack in the soul like a fissure in jade.

I stepped into the circle, rolled my ankle to coil force like a spring, and kicked her face like a hammer on a bell.

Dulan’s body flew, her skull thudding into the inn’s wall like a thrown stone, then fell and bounced twice like a dropped apple.

“Up, Dulan. Work time, like dawn’s bell.”

“Mm? Ah, master… I remember I was managing real estate in the Demon Realm, like ledgers in dust…”

The girl rubbed her eyes like brushing dew, pushed herself up, and sat on the floor, pitiful as a stray fawn.

“I transferred those to devils, smoke to merchants. So I summoned you to the mortal world.”

“I see. We start now, like marching at sundown?”

“Yeah. We’re going to kill, a clean cut like a winter blade.”

“No problem; if it’s your will, it’s wind in my sails.”

She stood, leaned on the wall like a slim tree, and brushed dust off her maid dress like snow from cloth.

In that brief breath, Dulan fell asleep again, drifting like a leaf.

I had to punch her awake once more, a drumbeat on flesh, and she climbed up smoothly, fixing her appearance like a crane arranging feathers.

Give Dulan a task, and she works diligently like a steady ox; she’s the prettiest of the three maids, temper mild as spring water; in battle, she surpasses the others, a storm that can meet a Demon King.

But I’ve slept with her the least, a river we seldom cross.

Her tendency is “Sorrow‑Delight,” a flavor like bitter honey, and outward it’s hypersomnia, a sleep hunger.

If a woman nods off mid‑lovemaking like a candle guttering, it’s a knife to a man’s pride.

And the sleep fits can strike anytime—during sex, during work, even mid‑fight—so Dulan is my ultimate weapon, a sheathed thunderbolt, but unreliable like rain in desert; I don’t set hopes too high.