My overstuffed, restless master—if one day your mother and your girlfriend fell into the water, who would you save first?

Vega lay on her side on the bed, awake but rare in her refusal to jump to work; her fingers traced my chest like a cat pawing sunlit dust.

I said, lazy as a warm afternoon breeze, “I’d save you first. And it’s you who’s full and picking fights with no-answer questions.”

“Quips won’t always fog a girl’s eyes,” she murmured, cool as midnight rain. “I mean it.”

“Don’t you mean yourself?”

“You know I never play at mortal pouting.” Her voice was a blade wrapped in silk.

“Come on, pouting’s one of the cute traits… cold’s a trait too. Personality’s a good thing. Fine… wait, what do you mean by girlfriend?”

“Miss Ferrel—am I saying that right?” Vega’s gaze darkened like deep tide. “The darkest depth told me: she’s an unspeakable apex, a great one beyond the world. Though I don’t know where my flirtatious master picked up a girlfriend.”

“Vega, if you told me tomorrow you’d become the Demon King, I wouldn’t blink. And I’m not flirtatious!”

“Whatever the case, answer cleanly. If your mother and your girlfriend fell in together, who goes first?”

I didn’t want to answer. That kind of question has no proper shoreline.

Vega kept pressing, a chisel on stone. I’d already slipped the topic aside. I wished she wouldn’t carry her work creed into daily life, especially right after we’d tangled in sheets.

I was about to toss a smoke-screen line when Vega said:

“My cowardly master avoids such talks—out of fear of showing his heart, or out of time-waste disdain. Guessing isn’t my place. But I need an answer, as a bearing if sudden storms force me to plan alone.”

What do I want? How do I act? What do I value? She asked like a lantern probing fog.

Loyal, commendable. But Miss Vega should read up on how to be a good subordinate—keep the boss’s poise and mystery like a jade seal under cloth.

“I’ll save them both! To keep those I love from harm, I’ll keep growing stronger, until I can guard everything I love!”

“My masked, laughing master, you stand opposite the Hero. Why mimic a Hero’s speech and lie to me?” Her tone fell like frost.

“It’s not a lie. It’s a jest—words for sport.”

A lie you can see through at a glance isn’t a lie; it’s a jest tossed for smiles, a paper lantern against wind.

And besides, it isn’t the right answer.

Anyone can talk big. Few can make words into deed. “Save everyone” is a line that makes the tea spill from laughter.

Many things won’t bend, even if you’re strong, because a stronger current pushes back. Violence is a lowest measure, the last door in a burning hallway.

“I’m your Shadow, your hands and feet, your strength, a part of you. Don’t fear me as something apart.” Her words were calm, sincere, like clear water in a stone basin. “Refuse me cleanly or answer me. I’ll accept either.”

I didn’t want to answer.

Yet maybe answering wouldn’t matter.

Truth is, I don’t want fingers on the knot inside me—the thoughts I hid. They’re not important, not worth much, but I don’t want them seen. Like a child clutching a secret hideout under roots.

I thought for a moment and said:

“Save the nearest one, quick, then go for the other. Save one if one’s what you can—maybe that’s what I would’ve said.”

Back then I was foolish and absolute, chasing plain cause and effect like lines in sand.

“And now?”

“I’d teach them to swim, and let them reach the shore themselves.”

“What if they can’t learn?”

“Mm… then they die.”

Now I try to think of others—to understand their obsessions, their good and evil, their aims and dues. I’ll help by pointing the road, giving hope and an idea—odd words from a Demon King’s mouth.

Then the effort and distance traveled is theirs. Whether they die, I won’t meddle, like a moon watching waves.

If I grant destruction, I’ll still respect the will before me, admit the foe’s thought, let them die with a held ideal—a strange mercy. Is this my belief, or just the least evil this world allows?

I’ve forgotten.

But this is my state now. Less like a Demon King—closer to something godlike, or, say, Head.

Ah, the old saying rings true: you become the one you hate.

“You still didn’t answer me head-on, though you did speak truth.” Vega slipped off the bed as quietly as falling night. Her short black hair stuck to her neck, her small back smooth as porcelain; the fine bones hinted under skin, beauty that beckoned worship. A straight-laced person, caught like this, tempts like wine.

She dressed with a thought, letting the idea of Shadow wrap her body—one-touch costume change.

She said:

“What I truly ask is this: if you must abandon one of what you want, what will you do?”

I don’t remember what she said next. I can recall the Silver Era’s details like etched bronze, yet this blurs. Will I become that man—married to work, cold to family?

The one thing I remember is that I didn’t answer.

It’s a no-answer problem, a knot without a perfect untie.

I looked at Stini, her face drained to chalk. She wants to save people, and she wants justice. Having both is comedy; the Silver Era is a vast heroic epic, which means—you choose the tragedy with the kinder end.

I hope Stini will acknowledge the “evil” I hold. I also respect her will—walk with me or fight me, either is fine. In my plan, the “Hero” role isn’t that important; I just need to watch her and avoid being punched back into the Demon Realm.

I simply laid the world before her, told her this “evil” is the correct route, the most helpless yet optimal path, the closest outcome to her aim.

She’ll still walk beside me. Today’s training—no, guidance—went well.

As for Stini’s tangled heart, I don’t care—though I’ll play at comfort with two soft lines, like a hand on a shaken shoulder.

So then, am I tsundere?

Don’t need it…

Absolutely don’t need it…

I don’t need that trait. My selling point’s the cold, hard, handsome type, all blades and rain.

“If you’ve got issues or complaints, after we pull Raven out, I’ll pin her head and let you vent.”

I led the way into the armored vehicle, pressed the energy coupling rigs onto myself like bandages of light.

Magic surged, roared, rolled like storm surf. It rushed through the circuit into the core, then into every part like blood into veins.

“Now, Stini, smile. Smile like sunlight. We’re going to help the Heretic Inquisition crush the heretic Hero Squad, and rescue our comrade. That’s ‘justice’ in name, so wear a righteous face.”

Her awkward look lasted only a beat. She rubbed her cheeks, then snapped back to her usual bright self. Her small tiger tooth peeked cute as a crescent, and she shot me a thumbs-up.

“Okay, let’s roll!”

The leader’s spirit lifted, and the whole team’s wind rose. Anna brightened too. Through Shadow resonance, I felt Nivifar steady. Even Princess Golia, usually mechanical as a doll, seemed to loosen like a ribbon.

I’m the vice-captain. I can plan fights fine. The Hero Squad has no thorns. Yet I’ve never had that “raise an arm, mountains move” moment.

Is that the famed charisma? A pressure you can smell, that makes ordinary folks kneel?

I understand why people burn or grief, but I don’t get this trust without reason. Humans are a deep species, like caverns under the sea.

Stini sat straight at the wheel—yes, posture’s good—and lightly pressed the gas. The vehicle slid smooth as a skater’s blade… No. Not both feet pushing!

No, this isn’t a Skyward Launcher. Cars don’t run like that.

“How does this thing even drive? I pressed the gas and we didn’t move.”

“Because you can’t step brake and gas together. Lift one foot and try.”

The instant I finished, the armored car jumped—yes, hell jumped—and slammed into the ceiling like a cannon ram.

Those without belts shot up, skulls aimed at steel, a chorus of pain against the roof.

Half the vehicle jammed in the torn ceiling. Half my head jammed in the torn roof.

The coupling rigs ripped off. The engine died like a candle snuffed.

“Stini, what did you mess with now?”

“It’s your fault! I told you I can’t drive! You made me drive and broke the arcane workshop!”

Stini poked half a head out through the roof—driver, seatbelt unbuckled, gunning it. Terrifying.

Female drivers are scary, apparently.

I pulled my head back inside and sighed. No time to drive now.

“Let’s get down first. I’ll show you how to hold direction. Then Nivifar, please open the weapon system and test actual output. Slow and steady.”

Nivifar wriggled her head out of the hole, embarrassed, and nodded like a quiet reed.

We’ve made the City of Heroes our base for almost a year. A Demon King living under a Hero’s eyelid is a joke. But I’ve done my Demon King duty, layering the area as a rudimentary Shadow Realm.

The effect’s far worse than Anna’s summoned domain, feeding back little magic. The domain’s information returns trickle thin.

Still, I’m the strongest Demon King’s eldest son. My authority field’s at divine-demonic tier. Monitoring nearby magic and suspicious movement is fine.

Someone’s rushing at high speed from the human world, straight toward us—black robes, featureless face, steel claws, self-buffed with Divine Art, blessings from a Divine Being at a rare high grade in this world—

No need to guess. It’s the one you meet once and never want again. A fanatic. Maki.

With Stini mixing gas and brake, she’ll definitely cross his path, then cue a scene-dialogue, blah blah.

Well, fine. Novels love this sort of setup. I’m used to it. The script to rescue Raven’s ready. Just follow the branches.

Good news: at full speed, our armored vehicle is faster than he is.