You’re eating way too fast, like a drumroll on an empty plate.

Mm.

You’re being too hasty with it, like a hawk diving too soon.

Mmm.

Hey, hey—no need for that, like lighting a torch at noon.

Mmmm.

I slowly cut into a perfectly seared Fang‑Frenzy steak—the Ironwood Forest’s “newcomer killer” beast. Its tough muscle, tamed by low flame, let the sauce sink deep, like rain soaking bark. The blade parted it and the juices ran silky, like dusk pouring honey.

I speared a slice and set it in my mouth with graceful pace, the textbook etiquette of Colonna nobility—though I’m supposed to be a frontier knight from the Wilderness Kingdom Veneli, like a wolf in silk.

Julia lowered her lashes, stood behind Princess Golia, and swallowed, like a dry reed drinking wind.

Ha, she’s not even a maid yet she forces the act. Watching a girl tangled between “it looks so good” and “a maid mustn’t eat” is amusing, like a cat staring at fish behind glass.

I know you want a bite, and I’ll make a show of eating right in front of you, like a peacock spreading its tail.

By the way, Your Highness, say something too. This banquet’s value isn’t just meat, bread, and sweets—like a lantern that lights more than one path.

I pointed at the wide hall and the pianist on stage—not the one I know—like pointing at constellations on a velvet sky.

It’s all covered in the bill; if we don’t enjoy it, isn’t it a waste, like leaving wine to sour under the moon?

Mmmm.

All right, don’t rush; finish first, then talk, like letting a river settle before crossing.

Gulp… ah, this tastes pretty great, like fire kissed by rain.

Slow down. The princess’s family is paying this time; you’ll eat your fill, like harvest after long drought.

—Princess Golia, please mind your manners; use conduct fit for a princess. If Julia could say that without swallowing, it’d convince more, like a bell rung clear without tremor.

In other words, don’t eat till you’re full, like tethering a horse before the meadow.

Then I’ll take you out to eat… like opening a door to the night market.

…Ahem. But since this is a send‑off feast, I’ll pretend I didn’t see, like snow covering footprints.

Ha, my lady maid, you’re truly witty, like a willow flicking away rain.

Ah, watertight—not a drop of chance left for me, like a jar sealed with wax.

I ate my steak unhurried. Across from me, Gloria moved fast yet flawless, the speediest way to dine without flaws, like a sparrow pecking in measured rhythm.

Do you like it that much, like a moth to a lantern?

You say… what, like fog brushing the reeds?

I’m the villain, yet I still offer respect to another’s will, like a blade sheathed under moonlight.

By my own creed, I let people die holding ideals or live gnawing their conscience—the choice is theirs, like forks in a dark forest.

I set down knife and fork, waved a waiter over for another ice cream, then went on, like drawing a line in wet sand.

I like being alive. I like this roast’s taste. I like Raven, Stini, Catherine, Elina, Stini—like counting beads on a rosary.

—Do you like me, like a blade asking the scabbard?

I’m gonna date a robot, like wiring a heart to clockwork!

—Kidding, of course, like tossing a stone just to ripple the pond.

Chains of Divine Art, invisible to untrained eyes, layered tight around me; a single real move, and I’d be mummified in a blink, like silk threads spun by a thousand spiders.

Colonna’s first swordmaster’s killing intent flickered and vanished. The guards around me and Gloria held nerves taut to breaking; without a righteous pretext, I’d be in pieces already, like a hare on surrounded snow.

Everything was unseen, everything behind the curtain; everyone waited for me to strike first, like wolves circling till the stag stumbles.

At this moment, Demon King Andor stayed unmoving, like a mountain under storm.

Like?—I tapped the word, like tapping porcelain for its ring.

Not as the Colonna Empire’s third princess, the war‑weapon, the Demon Slaying Sword. As the vanguard of the Hero Squad, our friend—Gloria—do you like me, and us, like choosing warmth over armor?

Gloria stopped eating, set down her utensils. Her gray eyes flickered with inorganic light, dimmer than usual, like a moon behind fog.

You are… excellent—the most excellent partners… in the world, like stars ranked in a cold sky.

I’m asking if you like us—by personal taste, personal love and hate, favor unbound to anything else, like a seed choosing soil.

I… don’t know, like a compass without north.

No gloom, no heartbreak; she said it flat, like laying a straight plank across a stream.

I… like roast meat because Father says I like it. I… should fight because Father says fight. I don’t know. I never thought—like reading a script in moonlight.

A lover, like a word tasting of rain?

No, like an empty room after thunder.

Ah, I see, like ash settling after a flame.

That’s enough, like a door clicking shut.

She has no fixation, like a leaf that doesn’t cling to a branch.

Then we’ll do it my way, and that will be enough, like steering a boat with slack wind.

For form, for ritual, I ask one last question, like lighting incense before the blade.

Gloria, you say you don’t know if you like us. Do you want to know the answer, like chasing a firefly into dusk?

I do, like a hand reaching for lantern light.

And why, like asking the wind its path?

Because I should know the things I don’t know, like mapping blank seas.

I see. Then I won’t let Colonna erase you. You’ll have plenty of time ahead to find your own answer. As I told Raven and Stini: leave the rest to me, like setting a watch at midnight.

Mm, that’s enough, like a lid sealing the pot.

What truly bound me wasn’t these flimsy chains of Heretic Inquisitors, nor the weightless pressure of the Colonna Empire, like cobwebs pretending to be ropes.

I just needed a reason, or a request, like a key under the mat.

My younger brother, the Demon King of Dispute, Daviya, once mocked me—called it a “pseudo‑evil” bent: I can’t move forward unless I play the villain, like a mask glued to the face.

Not really. I’m too strong; my wishes can be fulfilled by my own hand. Without self‑restraint on power and skill, I fear I won’t know which acts the world permits and which it won’t, like a river forgetting its banks.

I want to feast, to kill, I crave ruin and blood—I’ve never denied it. But in reality, go too far, step past the line, and I’d share the end with Andreas and Ferrel, like meteors burning to ash.

I know—or no, I don’t know—where to stop. Too strong, I forget what weakness is; that’s my state, like a giant who’s forgotten his own footprint.

So I need iron laws to bind my actions, like rings on a tree counting years.

And now, the fetters are off, like snow melting from chains.

You who are named Good—have you ever seen the true fangs of a thing named Evil, like a smile with knives behind it?

Ah, Gloria, your cuff’s lace seems off, like a petal bent against the stem.

I said it with theater, and rose, walking toward Gloria across the table, like a cat padding over a sill.

I stood slowly, and stepped softly so as not to provoke the Heretic Inquisitors, like leaves drifting on a stream.

The unseen chains thickened into tangible pressure, dragging at my body. The swordmaster’s killing intent blanketed us; one misstep and he’d cut me down on the spot, like lightning coiled inside a cloud.

Whoa—this is… too much fun, like playing chess with thunder.

I halted at Gloria’s side and fixed the lace she’d crushed by messy eating, like smoothing ripples on silk.

M‑Mr. Andor, please go back! Don’t stand here, like a shadow leaning over the candle!

Julia panicked, came to my side, trying to push me back, like a sparrow driving a hawk.

But as Her Highness, a crooked cuff harms royal dignity, like dust on a crown.

P‑Please stop making trouble. Didn’t you say it was just one last banquet, like a curtain call before dawn?

By the way, my ice cream should be here by now… like a moon promised to rise.

I felt no tension, like a stone in deep water.

Julia’s tentative shoves did nothing to me. I listened closely to the sounds around, like a fox counting leaves in wind.

Six o’clock above, three meters. Four o’clock, fifteen meters. And across the restaurant, three Heretic Inquisitors murmuring Divine Art, like bees in hidden ivy.

From the kitchen behind, the hiss of stir‑fry, and the clear ring of a long sword leaving its scabbard, like ice cracking on a river.

Ice cream should be here… like a white cloud drifting in.

I raised my head and opened my eyes, like a stag scenting frost.

Footsteps came—a young catfolk just out from his tribe to train, short on travel coin, working this restaurant, like a stray learning city ways.

His steps were steady, almost soundless. That precise control of movement—a beastfolk birthright—like mist sliding over stone.

So, no one would guess someone like that would trip on flat ground, like a falcon falling from a clear sky.

His foot snagged; he lurched and fell toward me, crashing into me, like a wave tripping on hidden reef.

The game begins here, like a gong struck at midnight.

The Heretic Inquisition has plenty tailing me. Not every Heretic Inquisitor can duel a Demon King like Maki. A few good ones still rotate shifts. Besides, I’m no unforgivable grand heretic. I only saved Raven, and that made them hate my face, like thorns snagging cloth.

That’s what I thought. But the ones sent today are stronger than I expected, like iron under silk.

If I move, they’ll harden those Divine Art chains at once, and I’ll be truly immobile, like a fly snap‑frozen in amber.

Meaning, until they trigger their Divine Art, I can still move free. Luckily, mages and Divine artists struggle with the Godspeed Realm, like fish floundering on sand.

He and I stepped into the Godspeed Realm almost together, like two arrows loosed at once.

I had one chance. He was too old; the Realm burdened him hard—he could only cut once, like thunder saving one bolt.

So he—the Colonna Empire’s first swordmaster—like a cliff casting shadow—

Konosen Kent

slowly drew his blade, then swung, like moonlight unsheathing and falling.

The whole restaurant lay within his cut’s range. His strongest art was his first strike, like a storm that opens with a roar.

Yes—the old man specializes in one‑hit kills. One swing could shear my head. In mortal bounds, without Authority, I have no sure way to block his cut, like straw before a scythe.

Cross‑guarding, deflection, magic—none would matter. Konosen can cleave them all with one cut, like chopping water and parting it anyway.

Konosen once fought Augustus. Even that great Hero let the first sword pass at minimal cost, then seized the offense to beat him, like dodging the wave and riding the pull.

So I won’t escape taking a sword either, like a stamp marked before the letter’s sent.

Provided he first kills the catfolk boy carrying ice cream and Julia, like felling saplings to reach the oak.

Swords don’t turn. Those two flanked me left and right, subtly blocking Konosen’s angle. Yes, I can proudly say I arranged it, like stones set to turn a stream.

But a siege leaves one side open. Force Konosen too hard, and he might cut us all in one sweep. So I left a gap in his view—my right hand—like a window in a wall.

At the same time, my right hand dipped into my pocket and drew a Soul Component, showing a corner of the cylindrical crystal, like moonlight flashing on quartz.

A familiar feeling came from behind—something I don’t understand, something not of this world, crafted by mortals—called a martial stance, like a statue waking under starlight.

From Vega’s dossier on Konosen, his signature technique is called—like thunder naming itself—

“Sleeved Two‑Cut.”

As I drew the Soul Component and moved to press it to Gloria’s heart, a vertical cut cleaved space itself, crossed dozens of meters. The blade‑light traced a perfect arc, lopping a stray lock from Julia’s brow, like a crescent carving night.

It entered at my shoulder, slanted down, and severed my forearm, like winter slicing branch from trunk.

A beautiful cut indeed, like a meteor etched in steel.

Timing and angle were flawless. Even I, who’ve seen many heroes and titans, had to praise its art, like admitting the mountain outshines the hill.

I could almost see the old swordsman behind me wearing a pleased smile, like a fox satisfied at the hunt.

But he miscounted one thing, like skipping a bead on a string—

What’s a severed right hand to me, like losing a glove in rain?

My left hand still moves, like a second oar on a river.

If the left goes too, I’ve still got teeth, like a wolf even without claws.

Even with my heart pulped, I can keep three seconds of life, like a candle that burns after a snuff.

So if the foe keeps mercy and skips the kill in one blow, I win, like a seed sprouting through cracked stone.

Now I just need to endure the pain, grab my severed wrist with my left, and slap the Soul Component—right hand attached—onto Gloria’s back‑heart. That’s my victory, like stamping a seal on wet clay.

After that, I had some strength left. I bore the Godspeed Realm’s pressure, caught the ice cream launched by the catfolk boy’s fall, and set it steady on the table, like saving a falling moon.

Hah, the blood seems a bit much—let’s stop here, like tying a bandage at dusk.

The instant I left the Godspeed Realm, pain and vertigo hit. I saw the cylindrical crystal shatter and sink into Gloria’s body. Shouts surged, screams rose—a storm of senses crashing over me, like breakers pounding a cliff.

I was knocked to the floor by someone. Blood loss dulled my senses, yet I could still see my severed elbow and right hand before me. Blood spattered the luxurious carpet everywhere, like red leaves blown across winter snow.

Ah, the ice cream cone I just caught got slammed too, knocked out of my hands like a gull clipped by a wave. It sprawled at my feet, white as fresh snow, now streaked with blood like rust on frost—totally inedible.

This is why I don’t want to do this in a restaurant—such a waste, like shattering porcelain and pouring good wine into the gutter.

—If you hadn’t picked the restaurant my mid-tier retainer—an orcish boy—just slipped into like a shadow, I wouldn’t have moved here.

Blur creeps in, like fog eating the edges of light. Blood loss, a ruthless blow to my skull, and the Heretic Inquisitor’s restrictive Divine Art—all of it thinning my mind to smoke.

Go on, Gloria—hold the torch yourself now. You can think it through and find the answer, like dawn breaking through mist.

—I meant to say that and look cool, but the Heretic Inquisitor struck too fast, like a hawk knifing through air. Did the words even leave my lips, or just sink like stones?