"You have nothing." (Yet you lack the cold steel to cut every tie, like a winter blade that won’t bite.)
"You know nothing." (Yet you don’t have the resolve to watch a tragedy to its last act, like a watcher who shuts his eyes at the cliff’s edge.)
"You can do nothing." (Yet you won’t just turn away with wind-in-the-sleeves grace, drifting off like a breeze through reeds.)
"You—you're amusing." (Foolish and funny, like any mortal chasing fireflies under dusk.)
"Miss Nivifar." (A person who will never be a Hero, never first, unremarkable as a river pebble, bereft of charm.)
Each line spread the venom behind the words into her heart, like stormclouds smothering sunlight, weighing Nivifar down till breathing felt like drowning.
Her already fearsome expression twisted even more, like a cracked mask. A child who saw it might cry, tears falling like sudden rain.
"Shut up, demon!" Her roar tore through the dark room, like iron striking stone.
Rage surged first, hot as steam under a lid. Nivifar bit down hard and spoke low, voice like a smoldering coal. She clenched the alchemical bomb in her palm, as if to crush it like a stone fruit.
It was identical to the alchemical bomb Andor had shown.
"It’s all your fault. I could’ve been the lead. You botched the setup!"
"No, it’s your fault. You couldn’t abandon Andor. You couldn’t bear to let him die. You broke every plan, like a hand shoving the board."
The demon, shaped like a young man in a black suit, smiled. He leaned close and whispered at her ear, like a cold wind.
"Shut up. You’re too loud."
"In our plan, everyone who moved to stop the Drifting Sin-Beast would die—except you. Only thus could you own all the glory. It’s your fault. You saw the Hero Squad arrive at the battlefield, so you chose to shield them, to share that glory, to keep their lives, like a host covering guests from rain."
"Shut up…"
"You must give something up to gain something. I told you that, gently, like a careful teacher. What a pity you never cared, lost in the compensations I promised, like a moth circling false light."
The demon shook his head theatrically, like a reed swaying.
"But… I already paid you a price. Why must I sacrifice my friends again?"
"I said, ‘All who went to block the Drifting Sin-Beast would die, except you—and anyone who lived would divide your glory.’ I hid nothing. I proposed the plan. You agreed. The trade was made. That’s all, like a contract carved in stone."
"But…"
‘But I evacuated everyone outside the Sin-Beast’s path—why did anyone still go?’ You want to ask that? Heh. A girl who always angles for clever advantage won’t be liked by boys. Thinking she’ll win, thinking she’ll gain, thinking she’ll trick fate—who can say? It’s like throwing dice in a storm."
Nivifar, flushed and shamed, slammed a crushing punch into the demon’s face. He scattered like fog, then reformed before her with the same crescent smile.
"I know your little tricks. But what you did never crossed our contract’s lines, so I did nothing extra. Still, demons see many things—necessity, chance. Even if you grabbed every task slip in the area, the moment you left, the Adventurer’s Guild posted a rush-order to hunt the Swift-Shadow Wolf. That’s the old saying—human plans fall short of heaven’s, like a ladder that ends in mist."
"…"
"This has nothing to do with me, truly. I swear on my True Name. Even if you paid a steep price and gained nothing, it’s just a sad, laughable accident, like slipping on a dry leaf."
"…"
"Lost even the breath to rebuke me?"
"…"
"It’s only two hands gone and half a face. What’s worth all this sighing? I won’t take them now. Sigh at forty, when autumn comes."
"…"
"How dull."
"…"
Mortals are always like this.
The demon watched Nivifar, her spirit a candle shivering in the wind, and exhaled in contempt, like cold fog.
They think they can hold everything. They think what they throw away is trash they don’t need. Only when the demon finally takes it do they see the line crossed, and weep, begging to get it back, like a river clawing at its banks.
He had planned to keep talking.
From “Nivifar agreed to the contract, which means she planned to let her own people die for glory,” to mock her as a hypocrite Hero, like a banner soaked in wine.
To “You let strangers die but refuse the death of the ones you love; that’s unfair,” to jeer she’s neither great nor just, not justice at all, like a broken scale.
To “You knew someone might die, yet for your conscience you performed meaningless precautions,” to scorn her as foolish, clumsy, and blind, like a bird pecking at its reflection.
But now Nivifar said nothing. She bore every accusation in silence, like a traveler taking the storm head-on, as if acknowledging failure. And for a neck-bared surrenderer, the demon had no interest in another stomp.
There are too many mediocrities in this world, and too few sages who can match a demon point for point. It left him bored, like a hunter watching docile sheep.
The time was about right. The demon didn’t check a watch; he simply knew the appointment with Andor was near. After all, this “young man’s shape” was only a terminal. He dwelled deep in the Ocean of Darkness, and that indescribable, all-knowing, all-powerful true body sent him word, like thunder rumbling under black waves:
Where the future would turn; how Nivifar’s choices would shift with her acts; what Andor wanted to do.
"Mm. Got it."
The demon muttered and pulled the curtains open. Harsh sunlight stabbed in. Nivifar winced, raising her arm like a shield.
The demon basked like a mortal truly favored by light, enjoying the sun’s grace like warm milk.
"Miss Nivifar, you know, some things truly are eternal. They exist. But they’re few. I don’t think you’ll see one in your lifetime, like stars that never rise for your horizon."
"Idiot, what are you doing? What if someone sees you?" Nivifar rushed over to close the curtains, hands like fluttering sparrows.
"Most mortals won’t see me. Only those with a special eye on me can. Don’t worry—I won’t drag you down. You should worry about yourself. You know how delicate—how brittle—your tie to Mr. Andor is, like glass under frost."
The demon pointed at a couple strolling arm in arm—Andor and Stini. They were sweet and lively in the market street, picking gifts for each other, laughing and teasing, like swallows skimming water.
Nivifar turned to bolt. The demon gently pressed her head, palm light as falling leaves, and said:
"Ambiguity is beautiful, like mist over a lake. But even a tragic shattering shouldn’t make you look away. If you keep running, you’ll never get the forever you want, like chasing the horizon."
A demon never uses force to compel another. He didn’t pin Nivifar. He only gave the girl a reason to face it, so she could tell herself, “I didn’t want to watch; the demon forced me,” like a fig leaf held up to a mirror.
Mortals dislike choosing. To choose something means to abandon something, like pruning a branch to let fruit ripen. If someone guides their thought, they gladly follow, like boats drifting with the current.
The demon had already confirmed his victory, yet felt no pride. Too easy, like countless mortals he’d tempted—no singularity, no challenge, just soft clay.
"This… shameless. Right in broad daylight…" Nivifar trembled head to toe, finger stabbing at Stini, who had draped a skirt over Andor’s head, laughing like a fox under a fan.
"Dog and whore. Slut. Lewd. Pervert. Which one do you want? Vocabulary’s free this time, like rain offered to dust."
She’ll choose “slut,” the demon thought, like a gambler feeling the dice.
"…Slut." Nivifar ground her teeth, anger crackling like dry twigs.
Guessed right. The demon slipped behind Nivifar and smiled soundlessly, like a crescent shadow.
He knew he didn’t need to speak or move. Everything would follow Andor’s plan. His task was simply to trim any stray branches beyond the script, and let the story return to the page, like a gardener cutting wild shoots.
So he waited, quiet as night, for the girl to speak first.
Nivifar, pressed to the window, grew quieter. Her movements shrank, like a cat before a storm. The demon knew the blaze of jealousy and anger had reached her limit—“blindness” was his domain, his subjects—and he knew, like a magistrate counting pulses.
At last, as Andor and Stini neared the end of the street, still holding each other, they began to kiss. Stini, almost carelessly, flicked a glance this way. The string in Nivifar’s mind finally snapped, like a bow breaking.
"Demon! I want—"
To be the strongest in the world;
To gather all love and care;
To be the one everyone watches;
To win the recognition of the Divine Being;
To lead the world’s direction;
To make her mother proud;
To defeat Stini;
To prove the world values more than Hero blood.
The girl’s racket rose like drums. The demon only listened with a smile, like a moon over a restless lake.
Nivifar roared and raged, pouring out every lovely and unlovely wish in her heart, like a river in flood. No one knew how long it lasted. At last she tired, and fell to her knees, sobbing, tears like beads striking stone.
Then the demon acted anew. He stroked the girl’s head, his touch gentle, like a Divine Healer offering counsel.
He said:
"Then—do you want to be the new Hero? Augustus has only two descendants: you and Stini. If Stini dies—dies in a ritual manner—you become the new Hero. How does that sound, like a crown offered on a silver plate?"
No matter what Nivifar desired, he would guide her toward this contract, like a river herded into a canal.
Though letting mortals choose their own way to their ideal is the freedom the demon preaches, most mortals find that “freedom” exhausting. They don’t even have the imagination to reach it, like birds who won’t dare the open sky.
A thin smile of malice touched the demon’s lips. No one saw it. It was like frost that bites before dawn.
Well then, such “freedom” is too luxurious for mortals. Recommend what the customer can afford, or the salesman’s score drops, like a shop tally dipped in ink.
So the tale unfolded exactly as Andor’s script wrote it, like ink drawing its own fate along paper fibers.
