No hot blood, no blaze of passion—only fated plots and abacus-cold calculations left behind.

Not tragedy, not comedy—only puppets with hollow chests and creaking steps.

Such a life is dull as stale tea.

When you know everything, life is already over—maybe the Divine Beings keep a few amusements, but mortal love and hate thin like mist; you stop being human.

[Then why not be the Demon King? Like last time—kill who you want, rape who you want, seize what you crave.]

[Live for today’s rush, never mind tomorrow’s famine.]

[If someone approaches, you cut; if someone blocks, you kill—no need to fuss over trivial weeds.]

[Isn’t that sweet, clean joy?]

That twists my intent, bending it like warped wood.

I’m bored by a future I already know—proof like stone in hand that what I aim to do outranks that boredom.

To let Ferrel see with her own eyes the world she loves. For my promise to her, I’ll stomach this tasteless drought.

[Even if you do all that, the world breeds more beings who chew pain for tomorrow.]

[Like Wisdom God Haydon, Time God Tim, the “Brutal” Demon King Saster, and countless devils.]

[Can you kill them one by one, till the list runs dry?]

I don’t need them all dead. I only need Ferrel back.

[…]

Save your counsel, Your Grace of Folly. For devils, boredom is worse than death. Don’t brood over my dullness and sour your own wine.

My will is nailed down.

[Truly no second thoughts? Maybe we can bargain with gods and demons. Better you remain the Demon King…]

I don’t trust you, don’t trust the gods, don’t trust that father who smiles behind sleeves. To dodge lying, you crafted deeper tricks. Truth or lie, I won’t buy.

I trust myself. I have authority and strength—why lean on you?

I’ll stand with mortals like a planted stake. Whether good judges or evil spreads like mold, you won’t push me off.

[…The world will tilt because of you.]

Not my concern. Worst comes to worst, we reset the board and sweep the pieces.

[You think your heart is truly what you claim…]

Don’t tease me, Your Grace of Folly. That routine’s worn thin. The mortal field has its limits, and even at the edge it can’t move me.

If you want the world back on the old track, steal me the Far Eastern Star. I’ll return as Demon King on the spot.

So the devil fell silent, his shadow folding like paper.

Then the Demon King, in a boy’s shape, woke from the dream. He rose, stretched like a cat, took the cup by his bed and drained it—his morning rite.

The devil stood in the corner like a smudge. No one could see him, as if he never existed—true, he doesn’t exist “in the world,” he only “happens” to glimpse certain things.

This is a devil’s power—unnamable, like mist without shape. Mortals can only parse the slice their minds can hold.

As for the whole figure? Impossible, unless a mortal climbs into godhood.

Yet now, in a morning plain as rice, a devil as grand as a mountain observed an unimaginable terror.

Everything in this world ties back to that Demon King. Every person, deed, and thing holds a shard of his body. He rules the dark side, owns all, and gifts all.

He—Endless Demon King Andreas—grips half the world’s scepter in his hand. The other half hangs in the heavens, at the Far Eastern stars, belonging to Eternal God Ferrel.

He is one, and he is myriad,

and if he declares dark as good, light in this world would gutter out like blown candles.

He is the absolute negative, the gods’ great foe, the Final Calamity—cataclysm no mind can grasp.

Only, he hasn’t awakened. In that human shell, the root of darkness sleeps. Vast gloom breathes peacefully; its muttered dreams can whip the Ocean of Darkness into towering waves.

At that thought, the devil rubbed his head in vexation—if this shape even had a brow.

Andreas knew what he was, so he knew what the world was. But he isn’t Andreas now. He walked back from a finished future into the past. He is Andor, and so he forgot—forgot what he can do and what he cannot.

Folly is a mortal’s privilege. The higher the rank, the more you see, the less you move like a fish in water. Freedom is the Creator’s finest gift to mortals—on that, no dispute.

How did that line go? Right—great power seldom grants great ease. His Grace of Swaying told himself so.

Andor caught that fine dividing line like a fishhook. He forgot the unimportant and set his rank to remember only the kernel he needs. A notch higher or lower, and it fails.

Much like Haydon did—stepping down into the mortal streets, grandmaster of a board where the world is the pieces, meddling in fate.

Andor rose. He resonated with his authority’s field and checked the room like a hunter’s breath. No one nearby. He ordered Shadow up his body, and clothes from the Shadow Realm wrapped onto him.

He set water to boil like a mountain spring, slid last night’s dough into the oven, and twirled the timer to its mark.

Then Gloria pushed in and stood before Andor. If it were Stini, that Hero might have kicked the door like thunder. Gloria’s manners never fail; Andor didn’t flinch.

“You, yesterday…”

“Don’t. I drank too much yesterday and had a nightmare. I dreamed Stini and I went out to wander—ah, you were there. Halfway, Stini and I messed around and split up. So you got lost, and Stini and I had a date, hehe.” He scratched his head; his face was blank as stone.

“And…”

“Hold it, I’m not done. Then, for some reason, Nivifar raged and lunged in from the side, her body carved in demonic sigils—bad ones. Then… what then… I think I forgot…”

“Andor!”

Gloria’s voice carried no color, but the volume rang like a struck bell—she was serious.

“Your Highness, that was a dream…”

“You know…”

“It isn’t, right? A newborn half-heart hurts with every beat because it doesn’t match the old one. But I hope it’s only a dream…” Andor tucked his face between his knees and hugged his head.

“Dreams, always, wake.”

“I know.”

“Stini—got—taken.”

“…Is that so?”

“So what—should—we do?”

“…” Andor curled up, still as a shut shell.

Gloria tilted her head, mechanical as a clock bird.

“So what—should—we do?”

“Don’t know…” His voice was small as a mosquito.

“But you’re—the vice-captain.”

“For big messes, you find the captain! Why me!”

“But—the captain—isn’t here.”

“…”

“If you don’t—go—save her, maybe—later—she also—won’t be here.”

“…”

“Choose. Be like—a Hero—who leads—everyone—to escape. Or—be like a Hero—and meet—the enemy?”

“Your Highness is… gentle. You don’t load me with blame. But I’m not fit for such gentleness… Have you heard my story?”

“No.”

“Right. I’ve never told anyone.” Andor let out a bitter laugh and lifted his face, painted in despair:

“When I was young, the Western Development Grounds saw a monstrous tide.”

“Six years ago—the ‘Silver Serpent Calamity’ that killed over a thousand pioneer heroes?”

“Yes. That one. Our grounds were a frontline then. When such heaven-sent wrath fell, works on earth shattered like pottery. Our position broke into pieces and soon would fail. We faced a hard choice—hold and wait for the kingdom’s rescue, or retreat to the rear.”

“And then?”

“My father had died in earlier fighting. I was thirteen, yet my merits were highest among those present. So the choice fell to me.”

“…I—can guess.”

Andor sagged back on the sofa and clenched his teeth like he could crush something vile.

“The choice I made was retreat. I thought I could shield everyone. Result… two hundred seventy-nine broke out with me. Only eight returned to the safe rear.

The rest died. That was the first time I learned—this world holds no miracles.

I carry the weight of two hundred seventy living souls. My family, my subordinates, my beloved. I wanted to be a Hero not only for me, but for them.

After all, they died because of me.”

“That wasn’t—Andor’s—fault.”

“It was my fault. I harmed them—if I had shifted the breakout two hours later, the rescue led by a Hero would have arrived and no one needed to die! All my fault!”

Gloria shook her head, heavy and steady as a metronome:

“That wasn’t—Andor’s—fault.”

“You don’t get it! Without my arrogant self-directing, they’d be eating breakfast with their wives and kids, chatting about today’s news! All because of me! All my fault! So please, don’t smear more blood on my hands. I don’t want anyone else dying because of me! Spare me!”

But Gloria kept shaking her head, like a willow in wind:

“That wasn’t—Andor’s—fault.”

“You…”

“You just—guessed—wrong. Andor—within what’s—possible—did—the best. Andor—wasn’t wrong.”

“They all died because of me…”

“Maybe the grounds—would have fallen—anyway. Andor—didn’t harm—anyone; instead—he saved—eight.”

Andor suddenly laughed—a pale, weak sound, transparent as glass. Easy to hear it was a front.

“Your Highness, are you comforting me?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t worry about me. The decision for this time already has its answer. I’m just scared, slow to decide. I don’t fear dying; I fear others dying because of me.”

“Andor, I—will not die…”

Gloria seemed to brace for a vow. She opened her mouth. Andor covered it with his palm.

“No need. I know Your Highness’s adamantine body wasn’t carved by training alone. No need to explain. Aren’t we teammates? We respect each other’s privacy.”

Andor clapped his hands, rose from the sofa, and his eyes lit with battle will like flint.

“Know why I’m content to be a vice-captain?”

“Afraid?”

“Yeah. Afraid of that burden, I kept a blindfold on and lobbed all the weight to Stini. That was cruel—crushing such pressure onto her small shoulders. Lucky she bore it.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine, Andor, if you—don’t want to…”

“The captain isn’t here. Let me shoulder a share. This cowardice, this panic, this hesitation—what I should have swallowed—returns to its proper owner.”

Andor set his hands on Gloria’s shoulders and eased her through the doorway.

“Now, as acting Hero, I’ll do what a Hero should do.”

“Andor, weren’t you—unwilling?”

“Even confused, even afraid, even facing a Demon King, with hands and feet shaking, you still swing the blade. That’s what Heroes do. Stini set too many examples for us common folk. She’s not here now, so I’ll stand in. Give me ten minutes. I’ll get ready and come.”

Gloria peered in from the hall, wanting to speak. She chose silence, nodded to Andor, and went to wait in the Sanctuary of Life’s main hall.

Andor waited for Gloria to leave, closed the door, returned to the sofa, and beckoned toward the devil’s corner.

“Come down. Of today’s uninvited guests, only you remain.”

He poured two cups of tea; steam curled like mountain fog as he slid one across the table.

The devil lowered his rank, stitched shadow into flesh, and, curious, asked:

"By rights, you shouldn't see me. I don't 'exist' in this world. So how did you spot me?"

Unimpressed, Andor let the ripple pass like wind over reeds.

"Everyone's got their black tech. Keep fussing and it never ends. Spit it out—what's the job? I won't be the man who keeps the clock waiting."

"When you were playing coy, you weren't exactly worshiping efficiency. You put on a lovely show. I must say, your story was woven well."

"Most of it was true, thorns under the lacquer."

He reached into the shadow for a greatsword, fingers closing on absence, then remembered he'd pawned it to the city Watch.

"Except for the part where, during the breakout, I killed Andor and took his name—everything else was real. Anyway, talk fast. Move slow and Stini will be on the altar."

"Don't worry. Nivifar won't kill Stini for four hours—enough for you to save her. I'm here to outline my work. First, I raised a calamity-class tide of monsters, a black storm off the horizon. Then I guided and signed a second pact with Nivifar, ink riding dark wind. I summoned His Highness 'Rank' to grant her authority. And I drafted your hero‑saves‑the‑beauty script. My tasks are finished. This is where I exit."

The devil watched Andor's face. It was a calm lake, nothing special rippling.

"Right, I don't need you for anything else. This morning, in my dream, you urged me to abandon Ferrel; I'll let that slide since you helped. But when you say exit, do you mean walking far away, or standing where you are, watching a guy who could break the world?"

His tone stayed light, but his soul thumped like a hidden war drum. The devil knew how much he feared him and sighed, wind through reeds.

"You surely have a plan. The devil does want real cooperation—no masks. Please don't meet us with hostility; peace cuts both ways."

"Tsk. You people... Fine, watch. I do nothing that can't stand under noon sun."

His subtext was clear: until Ferrel was saved, everyone would read him in the worst light, like storm clouds fingering the cliff.

"Exactly, exactly. A Demon King as aboveboard as you is almost extinct. Now, two matters. First, you don't trust me, and you plan to use the Reaper's 'Death' to kill His Highness 'Rank' on your own. I need to tell you, in detail, what that will trigger."

The devil had already seen the future: Andor would save Nivifar, and she would step into his harem like moonlight into a courtyard.

They never hid their sight. They often spoke stray threads of "future" and the "past" the subject thought buried, and when a contractor heard his future and went slack with shock and panic, the devil savored the mortal flavor like spice on the tongue.

A small vice—but with "future," you don't joke with Andor. If the Endless Demon King rampaged, the world would lurch off its set track. The devil felt a nip of cold and kept still.

Andor looked unworried, a stone in a stream.

"Mm. I'll listen, but I might not accept. What's the second?"

"The second is this: your tea is as bad as last time. You're miles below Miss Vega."

He tossed the tea back in one swig, the bitter like burnt leaves, and, beneath the mask, the joke warmed him like a hidden ember.