Thoughts settled, I lifted my beloved halberd and swung toward the sound, moonlit steel slicing the dusk like a cold river.

The shock bit like bone beneath bark; wet spray kissed my face like a bitter rain.

The question isn’t whether to kill. It’s how. The blade is a river; the path it carves matters.

“Dulan, you’re late. If it were a Hero and I couldn’t see, I’d already be dead.”

I turned toward the lazy footsteps behind me, slow as a cat over ash.

“I didn’t nod off mid-way; that deserves praise. Master, you should hug me… nah, too much hassle.” Her words drifted like smoke from a tired hearth.

“Don’t act like making love is a hassle! I know your inclinations are skewed, but that cracks a man’s pride like thin glass.”

“So what about the last one? Looks like your estimate missed. Wisdom God Haydon hasn’t descended; the clouds kept their shutters closed.”

That’s a slap to the face, stinging like winter wind.

We swore that wiping this village would lure Head. Now there’s one child left, and not even Head’s Shadow shows up, just empty twilight.

“Maybe it’s not enough. Dulan, kill him cruelly, grind ice into the wound.”

I thumbed toward the child sprawled over a woman’s corpse, shrieking “Mama,” a fledgling crying against a storm.

“Cruel method?” Her voice smiled like a knife in fog.

“Use your creativity. Lean on the cruel instincts the Ocean of Darkness gifted you. You can ride that tide.”

“Even if you’re talking like a Hero landing the Demon King’s last blow… We’re born of darkness, avatars of chaos and ruin. We don’t do creation; we master destruction. But since it’s your will…” Her tone was midnight glass.

Dulan yawned as she drifted past me, then flicked her katana clean. Red rain leapt from the edge like scattered petals.

A scream tore the air, thin as ice. Then quiet. Only the wet slice of flesh, like a saw through soaked bark.

“You cut the child’s vocal cords?” My words fell like cold ash.

Nothing left for me to do. I sat back among the ruins like a broken shrine and wiped my face with a handkerchief, unsure whether the smear was blood or brain-stem seep, iron-dark and slick.

I licked the back of my hand—medulla, copper-salt, winter iron on the tongue.

“No. I cut his lung.” Her reply was a dull bell in mist.

Dulan’s voice never changed, still drowsy, a rain-drone over old roofs.

“Though I’m the same kind as Vega and Berenz, a fierce spirit, torture and slaughter barely move me. Not that I’m numb, but if I’ve got time to kill, I’d rather sleep,” she said, drifting like a cloud toward a pillow.

“But your pupils have shrunk to pinpricks—that’s a killer’s stare, needles in the dark.”

I cradled my forehead, posing like the Thinker in a rain-washed square.

“That’s instinct. Like you groping Vega while she’s cooking—she thinks you’re a nuisance, yet heat and steam make her excited. Emotion calls it a hassle; instinct can’t resist. Wait, aren’t you blind? Ah, another cool line by accident.” Her words clinked like spoons in a pot.

“Even if you resist your instincts, it won’t help. Humans always betray their own expectations, like rivers abandoning old banks.”

“That’s what devils say. A Demon King should go, ‘either way, you’re doomed.’ Either way, it doesn’t suit you. Nothing you say sounds cool.” She yawned, fog over lanterns.

“Can’t you indulge me? You and Vega both—fill my lamp with a drop of oil, make me happy.”

“I’m afraid talking to you makes me lose focus. You know my attention scatters like mist in wind…”

I heard an artery part. Blood hissed—sssh—and jetted three meters, a red fountain raining arcs.

“As you can see, it turns into this,” she said, watching the crimson curve like a falling ribbon.

“You idiot, staunch it! He’s the last candle in this village!”

“Fine, let me think—how do mortals treat wounds again…” Her murmur rustled like pages in a damp manual.

I heard gauze, cloth, paper, and iron tools clatter and scrape, a drawer-symphony in a night surgery. I was curious how Dulan “treated” him, but I couldn’t remove the blindfold; if a Divine Being learned I did this, the board would flip, the game over.

“…Is it done?” I waited; her side held still like a pond at dusk.

“Ah… hm? Master, you called me?” Sleep pooled in her voice.

“You fell asleep again! Focus!” My shout cracked like thunder under a low sky.

Then came the chainsaw’s bzzz, a devil’s cackle, the shrieks of souls caged in a soul prism, muffled sobs pressed under a palm, and chain-clanks of something struggling against iron that wouldn’t yield—a midnight carnival behind torn curtains.

What even is this? A suspense horror skit on my stage of smoke.

A doctor’s voice: “We might not save him. Please prepare yourself,” soft as a gavel in fog.

A middle-aged man: “Please, save my son. Whatever it costs,” his plea spilling like rain on tile.

Funeral music, sobbing, fire crackling. A woman cried, “Son, I’m sorry. It was your father’s fault—chasing his office, he denied you justice.” Ash and incense braided the air.

Now it’s a family melodrama? What is Dulan doing? Stage lights flickered in my mind.

Eerie BGM swelled, faint laughter. A child’s whisper—“Let’s play”—like wind through paper doors, then hysterical shouts: “It’s your fault, you killed me!” The room held its breath.

“Alright, treatment’s done,” Dulan said, releasing a long sigh like steam slipping from a kettle.

“Are you kidding? He’s dead—absolutely dead! We’ve leveled up from magic into ghosts!” My voice shook a cold lantern.

“Don’t worry. It’s a Demon Realm exclusive—Eerie First-Aid Kit, one of a kind.” She held up a lacquered box that seemed to breathe cold.

“I only see the ‘eerie’ part,” I said, feeling a mist-chill.

Probably another devil-made toy. They love twisted crafts. When one or two slip into the mortal world, temple hands seal them with care, wax and black cedar.

“That kid isn’t dead, right? If wiping this village doesn’t bring Head, we’ll have to pick another and kill—but my mana well is running dry!”

“Rest easy, Master. I’m not Berenz. Besides the narcolepsy, I don’t slip at critical moments.” Her tone tightened like a bowstring.

“You just slipped! You just opened his artery—a scarlet ribbon on stone!”

I clown; Dulan swats me cold. She plays tricks; I’m stuck doing the serious complaint, embers shivering under a winter breeze.

I’m exhausted. Night overtime is never blessed; the lean lantern burns low.

The dull knife scraped meat again—grit on bone. She yawned, bored, working on and on, moon sawing through frost.

“Girl, what is ‘cruelty’ to you?” My question was a blade’s shadow sliding over water.

“Classic lines don’t suit me, and jokes lack material. Master, you want to pose serious? Maybe enjoy the quiet and this village’s grief,” she said, like fog settling over reeds.

“Shut up. That’s your kink—don’t pin it on me! Must you expose me every time? Every ‘no, no’ you cry, I carry it through with care!” My words beat red curtains.

“Different matters. Fine, I’ll play along. I think… hmm? What does cruelty even mean?” Her hand hovered over a cold stream of thought.

Dulan paused, thinking, eyelids heavy as rainclouds.

Here it comes—Dulan’s doubting too! A ripple crossed our still pond.

“Literally, it’s the opposite of mercy, but that scope is thorny. What does cruelty mean in practice?” She paced a field of briars.

“It’s inhuman, right?” I said, holding my hand off the fire.

Dulan resumed, blade tapping like rain on eaves. “For example, I killed the child’s mother. Is that cruel?” A raven crossed the sun in my mind.

“Definitely,” I said, dropping a stone into a well.

“But I didn’t let her suffer. A single blow. Is that still cruel—or merciful?” Snow covered a grave in the pause that followed.

Compared to dying in torment versus without pain, is it just degree? If all of it’s “cruelty,” then the word dissolves like salt in rain, because to Justice, cruelty is evil and evil must be punished, the scales tipping under storm-light.

No room. No doubt. Kill all—like a guillotine at noon.

For Justice, easy thinking. For evil, no retreat, ice walls closing in.

No matter the degree, evil faces culling, no room for regret after the act. In a sense, Justice’s blaze drives evil deeper into trench-dark, a tide pushing shadow down.

“Didn’t you say only humans require meaning to act? Why do we think about this?” Wind skimmed empty fields around us.

“Because we walk in the mortal world. To go farther, know your possible enemies and future friends,” I said, tracing a map under starlight.

For me, rooted in the evil faction, it doesn’t matter. Killing is killing. No unease, no doubt—a blade sleeping in its sheath like winter.

But the Silver Era holds more black heroes and antiheroes. I hope to understand them, constellations smeared in soot.

“Another question: Is cruelty the malice itself, or the act?” Flame or burn mark; which draws the eye?

“Is there a difference?” Two mirrors faced each other.

“In most novels, no. Villains carry both malice and act. A merciful hero can kill such ‘complete evil’ without guilt. Novels are lovely—paper heavens like fresh snow, untainted worlds. No need to think; just wield power, win with friendship and courage.”

I let my halberd Nandu assume its true form—unnamable, a dominion over all Shadow, a moon swallowing its own light.

I rose and faced the spot within my authority—Shifang Ye Jinming—where the strike had landed, the night’s boundary humming like a black bell.

Reality often produces only one: malice or act—a partial evil, half-shadow on a wall. How to chastise, and should we? That’s the question.

“The mortal world sets laws to judge, right?” Ink pooled on slips, then dried.

“For example, one kills to save the many. If he fails, he kills and saves none—act without malice. Versus one who wants to destroy the world but accidentally saves it—malice without act. Which to punish? People still argue,” I said, watching scales hang under thunderclouds.

“So, no verdict,” she sighed, a gavel over smoke.

“The mortal consensus is: both die. Malice punished. Act punished. Justice is harsh, never compromises… No, it keeps itself pure, rejecting any speck of evil,” I said, feeling a white flame that burns even dust.

Pure, pristine, unsullied Justice—an ice-white sun.

It shines too fiercely; even its followers can’t bear its glare, snow-blind on a bright pass.

“So… absolute justice is dead, right? Compared to the Golden Age, the Divine Beings have lowered the bar,” she said, a tarnished halo slipping.

Is Justice strong because of purity, or weak because of exclusivity? Only Head knows, a riddle sealed in jade.

But He’d never tell me the truth, a smile hidden behind a fan.

I told Dulan this while twirling Nandu, a hawk circling in twilight, waiting for a Divine Being to arrive.

“I thought Ferrel and Stini changed you. In the end, nothing changed?” The voice was a boy’s, fourteen or fifteen, still high as new reed-flutes.

His staff scraped the ground—clack-clack—like sleet on stone.

Yet that sound carried an unspeakable sanctity—incense over ice—clearly, not a common man.

In this field sealed off from the outside, only one barges in fully armed, like a comet through closed clouds:

My dealer, lifelong nemesis, a liar whose goals mirror mine but never my trust—two wolves circling.

Sometimes we kill each other, sometimes we cooperate; in the end, we betray, a dance on thin ice.

Wisdom God Haydon—Head.

“Not so, not so. If a beautiful ending needs no killing, I’d gladly lay down the blade like a reed,” I said.

A silk ribbon blinds my eyes; I can’t see His face, yet I know it’s storm-dark behind the veil.

If Head gets annoyed, I’m delighted—a cat batting a god’s halo.