Raven’s hands trembled; her legs trembled; even her breathing shivered.

When her grip failed, the ritual sword fell to the floor.

It kissed the widening blood, chimed crisp, yet sounded thick with disgust.

I offered her the head; Raven stared forward, eyes unfocused with terror.

Terror tried to make sense of the scene and only multiplied.

Still... no mercy, no permission to despair. That’s the law for heroes.

Whether it’s Head or me, we hold ourselves and others to it.

We can comprehend pain, accept crying, roaring, rage—but we won’t indulge it.

We won’t let pain cancel thought. Cross that line, and you’re disqualified.

No stage for gods, demons, heroes then. You’re out of the play.

This standard isn’t harsh. It’s spirit’s toughness—not strength, not talent.

Anyone can choose it. To rise above, this is the bare floor.

I pressed the head against her chest; she still looked soul-lost.

Her fingers spasmed, cradling Licibela’s head, afraid to lower her gaze.

She stared mechanically at the headless remains, feeling the weight in hand.

She buckled and fell, her voice a tremor.

“I... killed someone?”

“Yes. And remember why she died. One last step—smile, Raven.

Then walk out. When you do, everything ends here.”

“I... killed someone.”

“Smile!” No time to soothe her. The Heretic Inquisition may breach now.

No time to counsel.

“I...”

“Come on, smile! We are victors—heroes returning in triumph,

heroes who purge heresy.”

“How could I? How could I possibly smile?”

“You must! Otherwise why mourn for heresy? Are you their ally?”

“Yeah, I am! I’m a heretic! Kill me too, Andor!”

Raven screamed, grief ripping straight through her bones.

“Please,” I grabbed her shoulders and roared till my throat tore.

“Damn it, please! Laugh for me, damn you!”

Stini covered her ears, pained, at a loss for words.

Facing my rage, Raven trembled harder. Her knees buckled; she sank.

She hugged the head and the body, and cried like a child.

Her sobs were soul-rending; even the cruelest headsman would lower the blade.

I had no words either.

Raven sobbed, choking. “...Don’t...”

“...Don’t look at me like that...”

“...So scary, Andor...”

Damn it. What now? How do I still this storm?

I live with calm beasts who drink while they fight.

A normal girl like this? I’m honestly lost.

Fine... only one card left.

I pressed my mouth to hers.

I wrapped her slender shoulders, pulled her into my chest.

A kiss like plunder; I took her lips like raiders take grain.

Her lips were small and soft, tasting like fresh frontier cherries.

Bright red, sweet, and dangerously delicious.

I licked gently, drank slowly, savoring the sweetness that dazed me.

Her face was tear-streaked; red rimmed her eyes.

Her usual puffy glare melted to fragile softness that tugged pity.

She shook, fought hard, and hammered my chest.

Soon her blows softened; she leaned into me, body melting.

She sobbed in whispers and slowly answered my kiss.

We met tongues, traded breath, gave all we were, and begged for all.

After a long while, I withdrew and licked her spilled warmth away.

“Calmed down?”

“...Mm. Mm-hm.”

“You need to smile, Raven.”

I looked at her and meant every word.

“Mm-hm. I know.”

She wiped her tears and gave me a sun-after-rain smile.

“Up you go. Walk out. Raise your sword. Carry the head.

Smile, and announce our victory.”

“Okay. I... I understand.”

Raven set the body down gently, spared it one last look,

then took blade and head and strode for the door with resolve.

“Hey, Raven.”

“What?”

“Red-eyed yet brave, smiling—you look cute.”

“Haha. Andor, your eyes were terrifying when you yelled.”

Raven pushed the grand doors and stepped from this star-wrapped world.

She didn’t look back.

Stini stood aside, face dark, mouth pouting. She didn’t chase yet.

Yeah. When justice clashes, moods rot.

“Hey, Andor,” she called, rude as always.

“What is it? I’ve got things to do. Stini, go with Raven.

Be careful of Heretic Inquisitors who charge without a word.

Drive them back, then explain. You know, the story we—

no, fine—the colluded story we set up.

Don’t tell me you forgot, Stini, you idiot—”

A kiss cut off my babbling.

A thief’s kiss—before the owner could react,

it stole everything and ate the grain.

Honestly, more a bandit’s kiss.

But Stini’s closed eyes, nervous, single-minded,

were far cuter than her rough technique.

Her tongue rampaged across my mouth. I tried to push it back.

She nipped mine with her teeth.

“Ah...”

Lilac on her lips, and they fled fast.

“You owe me, Andor! You kissed Raven; I get one too!”

She laughed, and ran after Raven before I could answer.

Truly a little thief, I thought, pressing my stung tongue.

“I’ll catch up in a bit.”

Raven flashed what looked like an OK sign. Maybe she heard.

And in the empty place, it was time for what all expected—

the Demon King’s hour.

I put on the mask and called the Shadow.

“Nagash. Come out.”

Nagash holds a contract with me and serves as my retainer.

His gift isn’t as high as Nivifar’s, and he rejects my “dark.”

So he’s mid-tier among retainers—upper middle, you could say.

For ordinary folk, his talent is still fine.

This time I didn’t give him a body woven from Shadow.

Mana cost’s too high; I can’t afford it.

I only need his soul to appear.

Living souls can see each other, after all.

“By the order the gods set after the Creator’s death,

for three hours after a body dies, the soul stays ‘living.’

It can be revived. After three hours, it’s a ‘dead soul,’

sinking to the death-realm for endless rest.

So, you get it, right?”

A phantom rose from the Shadow; Nagash wore his familiar sour face.

“So you want me to talk my disciples into joining you? No.

I refuse. You want my influence, not skill. That’s not our contract.”

This old man is a headache.

I’m the true savior; he’s watched me from the Shadow.

But because I’m the Demon King, he balks on instinct.

Fine. I never counted on Nagash persuading them anyway.

“I don’t need that. Do nothing. Just be here and chat,

whatever you want... But take this. A contract I drafted,

same build as the one with you.”

Words carved from air became language, then an unsigned contract.

I tossed it to Nagash—a template he could copy at will.

“You still hope my disciples will join a Demon King.”

“Hey, what’s your beef with your own shop, old man?

I’m not asking you to advertise. Just don’t kick out volunteers!”

“This is your only plan?”

The old man really loves sparring with the chairman.

“Listen. If someone wants in, give them a contract.

If not, I won’t force it... See them off, if you like.”

I raised my rank and gained a sight beyond mortals.

I nodded to the pale shape beside me—the soul of Licibela.

Whatever Nagash did, I had a second target waiting.

I walked straight into the depths of the Construct machine clusters.

Recruiting Licibela was a side try.

I hoped the Truth Seekers Assembly still hid something I needed.

In my last life, the Heretic Inquisition breached the Hall of Truth.

They took plenty of magitek. One piece mattered to me—

a Sorcerer Emperor’s making, a pseudo-god thesis—the Soul Component.

Souls are gods’ jurisdiction; the Golden Age, the Creator’s.

The Sorcerer Emperors pursued the source and built near-human Constructs.

They forged flesh, mana circuits, brains, bones—human parts in full.

Medicine soared in the Golden Age while the Emperor asked:

These aren’t a person, only parts of one.

So what’s the gap between assembled parts and a true human?

Or rather, what’s missing?

They solved thought loops and logical order.

At the last step—the forbidden piece—

the Sorcerer Emperor chose to forget and sealed the thesis.

Only a black box remained for trials—the Soul Component.

A world-limited run of four, a super collector’s edition.

The Tower of Final Stars should have one, but I couldn’t find it.

Maybe Anna took it, or Beowulf crushed it.

The Submerged Metropolis Atedir has one, but it won’t surface yet.

I can’t reach it for now.

Wisdom God Haydon holds one; I doubt He’ll part with it.

So I’ll look for the Soul Component here.

I checked the time—there’s still a moment before the breach,

as Licibela said—and I quickened through magitek corridors.

No machine sea, however wide, matches a sky of stars.

At a turn, in a bio-Construct’s maintenance pod, I found my goal.

Licibela—a Construct made in her image—stepped out of the pod.

She was still tuning herself.

She wore Licibela’s tight work suit.

Her just-opened eyes were still misty.