What a Demon King carries through centuries isn’t just a savage itch to burn it all down. It’s thought, layered like silt at the bottom of a dark sea.

Storybook Demon Kings plan to end the world, steal a princess, butcher humankind. Strictly speaking, that’s not wrong, but it’s a passing impulse, a gust, not the whole weather.

Real people aren’t painted like protagonists, either. A thief is more than a thief; sometimes he steals to feed a child, a lantern in a dirty alley throwing his shadows in two directions.

At the level of a Demon King or a Divine Being—things we call “great”—their minds don’t fit inside human frames. Their evil, absurdity, and madness are mist without a name, glimpsed in shards.

Mortals who look straight at a Demon King’s true form get their minds stained, like ink spreading through water. They stagger away with one crude idea: the Demon King wants to end the world.

Even the Sons of the Demon King split into doves and hawks now. The direction changes, like wind shifting on a cliff face, but the depth of their malice stays the same.

Mortals can’t understand. They sort the world by warmth and frost: who hurts me is foe, who helps me is friend. That scale doesn’t weigh right in the supernatural.

Ah well. That kind of thinking treats me kindly enough.

So don’t write Anna off as a kill-drunk mad villain. See her as a mature, antisocial mind, one that weighs cause and effect like a jeweler balancing gold.

Her sneaking into our Hero Squad wasn’t whim. She measured it, chewed it, and chose it after wrestling with her own shadow.

The drive system still had parts loose. I was the only one here who’d passed magi-tech, so the last tuning fell to me, as natural as rain finding a groove.

“Naiche, hand me the level on your right.” That’s the name she gave herself. I played along, mask answering mask.

“Okay.”

She smiled at me, warm as a hearth, passed the tool, then hopped away to help Nivifar adjust her armor, boots hitting the floor like light drumbeats.

…As I recall, that wasn’t her.

…She used to be softer, more timid…

…wide wet eyes, flaxen pigtails, fingers clutching my hem, whispering “big brother, big brother,” like a sparrow pecking seed…

—Ah. The rest won’t come back.

Live too long and still cling to a self, you get more human in shape. Humans forget what the heart deems small; early years fade like chalk in the rain.

Which means those childhood scraps hold no weight for me. No value. No meaning. Windblown chaff.

One thing’s certain: the face she wears as Naiche is Anna’s first face—the face she hated most, a mirror she once wished to break.

But the original Anna wasn’t this quick with people. She couldn’t wear a smile that feels truer than joy itself, a practiced spring over stone.

In a way, that means Anna grew. It’s just not my business.

Now I know why Head let me go save Raven so readily. He’d set a snare here through Anna. Damn it. Crossing someone who can see ahead is like dueling a shadow—unwise.

Back in the eastern mountains, I posted a mission to rescue Raven. I wanted Nivifar to walk beside me in daylight and leave no regrets. The moment she accepted, this one jumped out.

It was for Nivifar, sure. But it went through proper channels, so refusing looked bad—like spitting into the wind.

“Drive system’s fixed. Everyone, over here. Time to split jobs.”

I waved them in. Tools clicked quiet, and they gathered before the armored car like birds coming to a call.

“First, a Construct needs power. Any Construct does. Raven left before the core was mounted.”

“In other words, I need a battery.”

“Qualified candidates are only you, Andor, and Stini.”

Anna lifted a hand to second me.

That’s true enough.

I swing a Greatsword often, but my class is Shadow Sorcerer, a mage branch. My mana runs deep as a covered well.

Stini… Heroes are universal tools. Say no more.

As for the rest—Anna, hidden class: Daughter of the Demon King; Nivifar, hidden class: high-ranked retainer; Princess Golia, hidden class: artifact. If someone went berserk, mana wouldn’t be our problem. But nobody here will use their true hand yet. Count them as three legendary warriors in mana.

By the math, my current mana tops the other three together. Yet one Stini equals everyone here plus Raven, who’s also a caster. Ridiculous.

Heroes’ base stats are broken. Inhuman, like a mountain shaped with one swing.

“I’ll be a power source. I’m not fit to drive. Outside me and Stini, anyone else as power is wasted. Let’s pick a driver. Princess Golia first. Can you drive?”

“If it’s a tank, I can.”

She pronounced it oddly, but she meant a multi-purpose heavy-firepower tracked vehicle. Close enough.

“…No. Not qualified. Next, Miss Nivifar. Can you drive?”

“Ah, mm, my father bought one back home. I kinda know…”

“Not qualified. Miss Naiche?”

“Heh-heh. I can drive. I even served a duke as chauffeur and bodyguard…”

“Not qualified. That leaves… well, I won’t hope much. Stini, you can drive, right?”

“No!”

“Then why’d you buy a car?”

“Raven said it’s sturdy! Hard to break!”

Unexpected reason, but for Stini, it lands like a coin in the slot.

“You know the steering wheel and the gas?”

“No!”

How can someone shout “no” that brightly? I don’t get Stini’s crooked circuitry.

Didn’t dent my mood. I grabbed her shoulders, firm as a pledge.

“You’re our driver.”

“No problem! Leave it to your reliable captain!”

“Hey, wait, what!”

Anna burst out.

“Why put a non-driver behind the wheel!”

“Because we’re punching through a war zone.”

“What’s that got to do with Stini driving? We’ll crash!”

“The car can handle the war zone. The problem is after we pull Raven out. How do we explain ourselves to the Heretic Inquisition? Have you tallied the cost?”

Silence fell like snow.

“A proper driver follows rules. Bound by them. If they break them knowingly, the fines are heavy. An amateur gets off lighter.”

“You mean… ignorance is innocence?” Stini’s eyes went wide, but her gaze held steady, cutting through fog.

Sharp. Laughter scattered like startled birds.

There’s a string called Justice in a Hero’s head. Don’t pluck it and they’ll joke forever. Touch it, and their thoughts sharpen like a honed blade.

A Hero holds a word like evil in unspeakable contempt, like dirt that won’t wash out. They’d rather die than wear that stain.

Call it inherited spiritual fastidiousness.

“Stini, hear me. We’re not going to be heroes. We’re going to ‘do evil under a hero’s banner.’ Yes. We’re the villains this time.”

“But if we… maybe we could…”

I know what you mean.

“Talk? Solve it with words?”

“Yeah. That. We could speak to the Heretic Inquisition and—”

“Then Raven dies, like another Nagash.”

“…”

She said nothing. Her eyes pressed on me, will heavy as a storm front. A posture with a name: defiance.

“Hey. Save that glare for the Inquisition. Aiming it at me just wastes weather.”

I sighed, pulled out the booklet Abigail gave me, and showed them. I flipped to a page—a Heretic Inquisition dispatch to the Beatrice Kingdom. One line read:

…We’ve confirmed the Inquisition President’s special attention to the girl named Raven Segrito, suspected inheritance. Her attitude toward the Inquisition is “acceptance.” Final disposition is…

“…execution…”

Stini whispered the last two words, voice shaking like a plucked string.

“If we don’t go for Raven, she’s dead.”

I snapped the booklet shut. Judgment passed like a gavel.

“This time, we must wear ‘evil’ to fight the ‘justice’ the Inquisition claims. When we pull her out, the stain sticks to us. I’m cutting that price down.”

“…Maybe there’s another way…”

“There isn’t, Stini. I say there isn’t. If you want to be a Hero, do what Heroes do. You don’t save those you’re not allowed to save.”

If you refuse to give something up, the thing you’re begging for won’t come. The door won’t open without a toll.

I shook my head, hard enough to shake loose the dust.

“Whatever you think, I’m going to save Raven. I’m going.”

“I’ll ask once. Are you coming with me?”

As Stini said back then.

When we first faced the rampaging Yakfarro—hatred like the sky caving in—Stini walked forward smiling into the wind, and told me those words.

Back then, she’d die to save someone. Now, she’d rather die than be stained by evil.

At some point, a single life became a unit on a scale.

Asking her to come is like asking for her life.

So I ask once. I won’t burden her twice.

She said:

“Mm. Sure.”

As I said back then.

Wearing a forced smile. Maybe I wore the same mask then. Who knows. I’ve already forgotten.