—You know this, right? The one who hits should be the one who gets tired, like a boxer punching fog.

—The one who hits only swings a fist, like tossing a pebble into a pond. The one who’s hit must fall right, tense like a drawn bow, and bleed strength by bad calls.

—That’s a rookie mistake, like slipping on fresh ice.

—I don’t make it, like a blade that never nicks.

—Exhausted and bedraggled, that’s you, like a stray soaked in cold rain.

Think back. Where does the plan still leak, like a roof under autumn drizzle.

In order, then. First, Qing marched alone to the Council of Sages’ headquarters, like a lone crane crossing snow. I trailed his shadow, like ink flowing behind a brush.

When Skyward City Atlante gathered every sage and power-holder, a ring of steel and whispers, Qing held himself well. He met curses and drawn blades with courtesy, like tea set on a storm table, and offered a peace pact to all.

But my adorable little brother is still too naive, like a sapling bowing to wind. You think mercy in your heart will resonate with humankind, like strings tuned on their own?

You think Heroes and sages are pure and fair, like mountain spring without silt?

If you grovel, you don’t harvest respect. You invite more demands and crooked blame, like wolves circling a kneeling deer.

Qing, you know this. Only when both sides stand eye to eye can we say “peace,” like two swords touching without clashing.

Parity means parity in stance, in rank, in force, and in mind, like four pillars holding one hall. You tick none of them, my adorable brother, like a lantern without oil.

So when the meeting froze—fine, when it tilted into a rout like a river breaking its banks—I put on my mask and stepped out of his Shadow, like night spilling from a jar. Let a dependable big brother teach you the art of terms.

—If you pull a rib, don’t let it snap inside the chest, like a twig stuck in a reed bed.

—No, I don’t care, like stone under rain. But it’s hard to mend with Divine Art. You’ll tire out. If bone shards pierce my heart, your leftover grace might not keep my wick lit.

—Angry? This isn’t interrogation. This is venting, like a kettle hissing with no tea.

—The ugly one is you. If I say that, what ground do you have to refute, like a mirror you won’t face?

After I proved I could kill everyone present, even with Heroes and bodyguards there like statues with dull eyes, I let the Shadow fade, like mist off a lake, to show I had no malice.

I made it plain I’m a villain, and that evil is vast and unending, like a night sea you shouldn’t stir with a stick.

I also made it plain the pact is a ribbon on my sleeve, not my bread and water. It’s me showing goodwill, but for you humans it’s different, like fire to frost.

Cooled off yet? Need another taste of the threshold of death, like a foot over a cliff edge? Good. Now we can talk as equals, like two boats on the same tide.

The sages have steadier minds than those short-sighted leaders who only chant “the Demon King is the enemy,” like drums beaten thin. They didn’t panic from the start, like pines under snow, and when I scared them, they didn’t show fear, like masks carved from cedar. Naturally, the Council of Sages became my chief counterpart.

We set a time for the peace conference, we sketched the topics, and most of all, arranged security, like laying stones on a river ford.

Qing, of course—had no good ideas, like an empty quiver.

He’s always been like this since childhood. If he plans ahead, he works wonders, like a loom with a clear pattern. If things drift off script, he flails, like a fish on dry boards.

In other words, he makes a fine subordinate, like a steady hand at the rudder, but not a fine leader, like a star that can’t guide ships.

He isn’t far-sighted either. He often runs around flustered, like a chicken in wind. Hah, centuries wasted, strength not much, spirit not grown, like moss that never flowers.

—Skinning, ah. Less pain than fear, like hearing the knife sing behind your ear.

—Most methods lean on fear. Chop off a finger and jam it into the mouth, like feeding ash. Split the belly and draw out the intestines inch by inch, like red rope in cold air.

—Do I look like someone who fears, like a shadow flinching from moonlight?

—When you paste the skin back on, line it up, or you’ll spook the next inquisitor, like a portrait hung crooked.

So I proposed I join the defense, like a wolf circling the fence line. I’d watch the perimeter. Everyone else would patrol as usual, like gears turning. Any Demonfolk they see, they kill. My people won’t step into their sight.

I need no one’s cooperation. This past year, the Demon King Army of Andor spent most of our breath scouting SkywardCity, like wind sifting through reeds. I’ve mapped every organization’s patrol mode, the who, the when, the routes, like a net drawn in charcoal.

I’ll avoid all of them and send my subordinates to find the infiltrators, like snakes slipping between stones.

They looked shocked, like lanterns flaring in wind.

Good. That’s what I wanted. The slap and swagger tasted sweet, like wine on an empty stomach.

—Even a red-hot iron rod thrust in now would feel like warm rain.

—But you know, nerves endure pain only so far. Cross the threshold and they dull it by reflex, like snow muting sound.

—Heat is worst. It burns nerves. It’s bad for interrogation, like overcooking fish.

—Electricity… not bad. You can try, like thunder bottled in a room.

After that, Qing stayed at the Council of Sages. I had plenty to do, like a juggler with too many knives. I don’t have Vega’s multi-threaded thinking to split myself, like a spider weaving ten webs, so I must handle tasks one by one.

It’s a vassal-race trait of my familiar, yet I can’t use it, like a sword hung out of reach. When work was light, it was fine. Now, at a pinch, it’s a real pain, like a pebble in a boot.

I’ll go learn, hard, like grinding ink before dawn.

Then I returned to the City of Heroes. I found Raven to refit the Soul Component and fit it into Gloria, like setting a jewel into bone. I got my right hand chopped off and was sent to SkywardCity to await trial, like a package tagged in red.

The trial date comes earlier than the peace conference, like winter before the plum blossoms.

So far, my people and I have done well, like a drum with no cracks. Nothing’s slipped outside the plan.

—Why target a prisoner’s genitals, like cutting the root of spring?

—Oh, let me think. You’re Sera, right? You joined the Heretic Inquisition after Demonfolk violated you, like a storm shattering a paper door.

—Are you here for justice or for rage, like fire dressed as law?

—Do you still deserve the word justice, and crave honor for what you do now, like a tarnished bell rung for show?

—Fool, bungler, weakling. I, a heretic, call myself purer than you, like snow unstepped. Can you refute that?

Next, I plan to lure a “villain” to SkywardCity, like bait set in shade, to give Stini something to chase.

That airheaded Hero will make trouble if he’s idle, like a monkey stealing incense. So SkywardCity gets two threads: one to sign peace with the Demon King, one to set Stini on a villain’s heels, like twin rivers down one valley.

I recall the trove of profiles Vega gave me on SkywardCity’s people, like dossiers stacked like tiles. I’ve got another, more playful plan. It won’t change the endgame. It’s a casual move, like dropping a stone on a Go board. Nice if it lands. Fine if it doesn’t.

No one can flip my board now, like a table nailed to the floor. As long as we don’t blunder, the grand shape holds, like a constellation fixed in frost.

With a cheerful heart, I said:

“Impalement is bad for interrogation. It’s for butchery, like hanging a boar on a hook.”

“With a stake through, the prisoner keeps bleeding, like a cracked jar. Wood makes it worse, and they can die slow like dusk drowning in night. If you pierce viscera—spleen, liver, kidneys—there won’t be much time left, like candles with drowned wicks.”

“Even with Divine Art, impalement is mostly spectacle, like fireworks in rain.”

“I’m wondering—does interrogation lean on pain or fear, like two wolves on one leash? Which makes the tongue loosen?”

“Either way, pain or fear, I don’t care, like a stone in a stream.”

“What do you think, Mr. Cosma, Seventh Elder?”

“You—you know my name!” His voice rattled like a bowl on tile.

“Of course. Your disguise skills got you through the Elder exam, like silk over a blade. Or say rhetoric, not lies. You simply didn’t state what you hide in your heart. Hatred, perhaps? In any case, nothing to do with justice, like smoke wearing a crown.”

“Nonsense, you heretic!” His shout cracked like a whip.

He tightened every muscle, took a stance, like a beast facing something nameless.

But I’m just a prisoner, chained in iron, wounded to the core, unable to move, like driftwood nailed to the shore.

“Calling me heretic to my face—isn’t that a bit arrogant, like spitting at the sky?”

“I’ve done nothing against my conscience!” He barked like a dog at thunder.

“Too loud. Shouting at me only proves guilt, like a drum hiding a dent. You have a corner in your heart no one can accept. I know it. You know it, like a stain under snow.”

“Shut up—shut up!” He grabbed an iron sword and swung, like lightning in a cramped room.

Character aside, his swordsmanship’s decent, like a butcher steady with the cleaver.

With a blunt blade, he chopped through my arm bone in one cut, like splitting wet bamboo.

Blood spattered his front and half of me, like red plum blossoms on linen.

This time the left arm went. The left hand still hung in the cuff, swaying and spraying, like a shaken gourd, then the flow thinned and the sway slowed, like wind dying at dusk.

It hurt, but not beyond bearing, like ice biting the skin.

I pressed down the tremor and feigned calm. I said:

“Too bland. Is your anger only this petty, like a candle’s flicker?”

“What do you want to see, like a stage with no script?”

“Tears and kneeling? Begging for life? But your cherished pain tops out at this, like a drum that can’t thunder.”

“Finding pleasure in Slaughter and cruelty is normal, like wolves howling to the moon. Not shameful at all…”

“…Of course, by the standards of evil, like night judging night.”

Clang.

His sword dropped and rang in the cramped cell, like a bell in a well.

Ah. He ran, like a fox into hedges.

“Someone like that can be an Elder of the Heretic Inquisition, like a brittle reed called a spear.”

I muttered to myself, like rain talking to stone.

“My bedraggled master,” a voice like frost brushed my ear, “no matter his kinked heart, his debating is enough to call him a sage. Thought, perhaps not. Eloquence suffices, like lacquer over rot. Against humans, that’s enough.”

The cell lies underground. From a barred window above, a few shafts of sunlight fall like pale spears. They can’t drive out the gloom and stench of blood, like incense failing against smoke. Even a Heretic Inquisitor lights candles here, like stars in a pit.

This is my native territory, like night returning to a cave.

Vega rose from the Shadow behind me. First, a hand, cool as porcelain, climbed onto my head. Then her icy-beautiful face slid from the dark, like the moon from cloud. She kissed my neck and licked the blood freckles on my cheek, not yet dry, like a cat tasting cream.

“Tasty?” I asked, like a knife teasing silk.

“Exquisite,” she purred, like snow melting on the tongue.

“Then come out. I got your message. The ‘villain’ has arrived, right, like a sparrow in the net?”

“Yes, my ice-cold master. You can start the new plan. The one you said… for spectacle, like lanterns at a festival.”

“Mm. Then switch,” I said, like two masks trade faces.

Vega stepped fully from the Shadow, like a figure from a scroll. She turned and took my right hand, like a vow in winter.

Then we swapped appearance, will, and mind, like mirrors exchanging reflections.

We’re beings woven of Shadow. Swapping the seat of spirit is simple, like trading places on a mat. Vega will stay here in my stead, like a stone left to hold a place.

“Remember to talk lots of trash,” I said, like a coach handing a whistle.

“You as well. That’s my precious body. Please don’t profane it lightly, like muddy boots on silk. Self-pleasure in it, I don’t mind, but don’t awaken a new gendered persona at this time, like a chrysalis cracking mid-storm.”

“I won’t!” I snapped, like a fan snapping shut.

I donned the mask. Shadow wrapped me, like water finding shape. My slim arms grew and stretched, like willow shoots, into my usual silhouette.

I became the World Saving Demon King, Andor, like a title settling on a helm.

We’re made of Shadow, so changing form is easy, like clay under a potter’s hand.

“I’m off,” I said, like a leaf taking wind.

“My cold-blooded master, may your martial fortune rise like the long sun!” she said, stiff as a banner.

“No, not for here. I won’t fight… Fine, I taught you that. Let’s keep it,” I sighed, like steam from a cup.

“Mm,” she answered, like a bell tapped once.

“Ah, and thank you. It’ll hurt, I guess, like needles in snow.”

“To shoulder pain for my frail master is my honor,” she said, like iron promised to fire.

Vega lifted her head. The face was still mine. Same deadpan, like a calm lake in winter.

Even when beaten bloody, it shows no anger or fear, like stone under hail. No—those feelings are thin for us, like ink washed twice.

Having Vega take my place was the right call, like a stone placed true.

I nodded to her and slipped into the Shadow, like a fish into night water.