Walking the world of Shadow feels downright pleasant, like drifting a moonlit river where the water remembers everything beneath its surface. I can see what lies under the shade—things people think they’ve hidden well.

A kid who flunked an exam, fingers clenched inside his sleeve like a trapped sparrow. A girl turning away from her lover, a single tear hanging at the corner of her eye like a glass bead. A young man at an interview, nails hooked into his thigh beneath the table, pain used as a private anchor. And under the hem of a skirt, something trembling inside her panties—an egg vibrator? Kidding. Relax.

Traveling the Shadow’s highways is truly fun. I get to see what can be concealed, the secrets rotting like damp wood in the heart, the words that never find a mouth. I’m just a bystander, an outsider, looking on with the gaze of a Divine Being.

Laugh out loud, or lean into mockery; point at someone else’s life and draw circles in the air. Watch others’ joy, others’ pain, others’ struggle.

Admire the grandeur and courage of those who live as protagonists. Feel the dullness and smallness of those cast as supporting roles.

Everyone should try it at least once in a lifetime.

All right, drop the playful mood. I’ve got work.

I need to find a tiger-man named Kisma. I recall the dossier Vega dug up and sorted with brute effort.

His hometown was a tiny settlement, wiped out by Demonfolk. He was the only child who survived.

Then came the cliché: a revenge saga. He made Slaughter his life’s goal, trained, hunted, killed Demonfolk. Maki saw his resolve and invited him into the Heretic Inquisition—yawn. Not my thing.

Honestly, I can already fill in the dialogue:

“Demonfolk! All of you deserve to die!”

“I appreciate your strength and resolve. That fierce sense of self… would you become my companion?”

“Companion?”

“The necessary evil of this world, the Heretic Inquisition. Everyone will forget your name. In endless solitude, you’ll hunt true evil, while you wait for hope and justice to descend.”

“What do you need me to do?”

“No different from now—exterminate all things harmful to humanity.”

That’s about the shape of it.

Boring. A fool blinded by hate. That so-called fullness of self is just hatred stuffing every crack until nothing else can fit.

He can only do what strength can do. He can’t do what lies beyond strength. Just like Stini in a previous life, trudging forward blind.

Only his mind interests me.

It’s brimming with hate for Demonfolk.

He doesn’t hunt heresy “for justice.” He kills because he “loathes evil.”

The gap there is huge.

Kisma’s Slaughter of Demonfolk feeds his inner satisfaction. The outcome just happens to look close to “pursuing justice.” Maki didn’t see it, or saw it and hoped Kisma might self-correct his thinking.

I’ve been setting pieces in SkywardCity for almost a year—terrain scouting, defense estimates, key-figure profiles, all pushed hard.

One time-sink I shoved onto Vega was a personality sweep—flag anomalous types who might wreck the peace conference.

Then I had Victor kill them all.

Victor is the hitter I picked up recently. People call him Victor the Flamehandler. He joined on one condition: “There must be a reason to kill.” No freebies; no killings just because he loves or hates someone.

I guess he wants to give his little sister, Hattie, the impression he’s actually a decent man. His only demanded payment was “keep Hattie safe.” Still, I pay him a monthly salary and the full benefits package—though, what even goes into that again?

See? You soften after you fall in love. If Victor were still a lone wolf with no attachments, he wouldn’t need to take my hand.

This time I move personally because Kisma never self-reflected. After becoming a Heretic Inquisitor, the burning hate only grew. He built a private basement under his villa, just to torture Demonfolk—

—to torment and butcher.

If I exposed it, his position would collapse. I planned to nudge Maki to notice and have Kisma executed.

But then I read Vega’s latest report and saw who the captive Demonfolk was. I decided to change the plan.

I rose from Shadow. Shadow thickened into matter. I walked quietly down a spiraling stair.

I moved like a shadow moves—no sound, no breath.

Blood in the air, a rot stink, a sour reek of feces drifted up. Not heavy. Right—too much smell would rouse suspicion. Looks like Kisma cleans with Divine Art regularly.

The whip cracked. Leather thudded into skin. A low moan pressed against the walls like damp fog… Sorry, I got a little excited.

Demonfolk instincts.

I stepped into the lowest chamber. Not small, but three big cages ate most of the space. I stayed by the door; otherwise Kisma’s swinging whip might clip me.

“Filth! Slut! Mongrel! Abomination!”

He spat a slur with every lash.

As I expected, Kisma got spooked earlier in Andor. He needed to do something he enjoys to cheer himself up. He has one hobby: torturing Demonfolk.

I need him present to complete the plan.

The woman under the whip had twin horns crowning her brow. Shackled to the wall, head drooped, she let fresh blood carve new lines across her skin.

She looked twenty to thirty. Her wavy hair had matted into dirty clumps with blood and mud.

She was my target.

No reason to wait. I’ve got a date later. All right, move.

I stepped in and caught Kisma’s whip hand.

“You, unjust man.”

I leaned to his ear and breathed a whisper.

“If you’ve killed, then why torture? Is that not unjust?”

I didn’t use much force. He still shook. Instinct told him the thing behind him was beyond any hope of resistance. Don’t move. Don’t look. Or meet a fate worse than death.

I am one who holds authority, standing above men, a rank with the power to end mortal lives.

“Of course, I’m no judge. I have no right to judge. I will do nothing.”

I said it long ago. I neither kill nor fight.

“I’ll just watch. And, sure, the shackle on that Demon woman’s wrist might break from age, or rot. That’s possible, right?”

The cuffs have no Shadow as a concept. Even so, I can aim Shadow at “stability,” “toughness,” “metal,” and shred them at the root.

I broke the handcuffs in concept.

When the woman felt her hand free, she crawled and scrambled, diving into a corner, too afraid to lift her head.

What a hassle.

“Is it fear? Fear of that face? Fear of this whip? It’s fine. I’ll give you a reason to take revenge…”

What can crack the cage around the spirit, pry apart the fingers holding her eyes shut?

It’s simple. The most basic, pure, heavy human emotion—

“I don’t know your name… My file didn’t list it. But I know what happened to you.”

—is anger. Anger that burns everything.

“You were born in the eastern mountain settlement among Demonfolk. You had a husband, a child, a happy home, a broad piece of land—until the Heretic Inquisition stormed in.”

When Demonfolk live in the human world long enough, generation after generation, their souls soak in the Sea of Light. It’s like how the Ocean of Darkness stains a Hero’s soul when he enters the Demon Realm. Some of those Demonfolk stay as vicious as their ancestors. Some become very human.

They look lovelier, yes. But inside, they learn right and wrong like people do.

Even so, Demonfolk’s harm is too great. I already have many spies placed. If I trigger them all, I can paralyze the human world’s military for a week, politics for two days, and communications for three hours.

If I meant to destroy the human world, that’s a juicy opening strike. Also, even among Demonfolk living in the human world, the violent kind who loves Slaughter is still the majority.

So the human world’s unified stance is: kill all Demonfolk. That’s why Qing’s peace pact isn’t popular. At least until the peace conference convenes, Demonfolk aren’t formally recognized by the Primordial Nine Races.

So wiping out a Demonfolk village feels natural to people. Only a Hero might wonder, “Am I doing wrong?” and then sink into gloom for a long time.

“Maybe you didn’t see. Your husband died first—the spear punched through his chest. Your father, your mother, coming home after a day in the fields, had their heads cut like harvesting wheat…”

The woman trembled harder, a thin scream leaking out.

Any normal human who hears that scream would feel their chest ache, eyes going wet.

Too bad I’m not normal. I’m Demonfolk. I have no human heart.

Grieve, and let it hurt. Then rage. Hate. Dance for me, my beautiful chess piece.

“And your child—did Kisma promise to spare him? In truth? Would you believe him? You know it’s a lie, that Kisma kept a tiny hope alive just so he could torture you longer. Once back in SkywardCity, your child was already dead. Kisma tore out his heart. He tossed the body off the city’s edge. The heart, if I recall right, he kept in—”

The woman’s eyes flushed red. Like a lion in fury, she sprang and slammed into Kisma.

Now it’s rightful revenge. Gentlefolk, let hate set the rhythm. Dance.

I let go of Kisma’s hand. That was the bell for a duel.

The duel ended the moment it began. Call it a difference in will.

Kisma, trained and neat, punched her right cheek. Half her teeth shattered. She used those broken teeth to rip open her own cheek and bit down on Kisma’s fist.

She chewed through flesh. She ground the bone. Half his hand vanished between her jaws.

She took him down. The chamber held only his screaming.

She drove long nails into his chest, clutched, and pulled free a line of ribs. Unlike the torture I’ve known, she didn’t need him alive.

She plucked lung, spleen, liver. Carrying her hate, she tore into his face and throat, chewed, and swallowed.

Kisma opened his ragged mouth, working it, like he wanted to speak.

An apology? Repentance? A vow to never forgive me even if he died?

I don’t care. I’m not interested in your life, your will, your vows.

Too ordinary. Ordinary hearts, ordinary joy and sorrow, ordinary good and evil. Nothing worth praise. Nothing strange.

To me, no special color. Not beautiful. Not even ugly. Simply… plain.

I yawned. I haven’t slept in a while. I’m getting drowsy.

She finally tore out his heart. Blood splashed her face. She didn’t care. Her broken teeth shredded her own gums.

She didn’t care. She crammed, chewed, kept eating.

Kisma’s flesh. Her own torn flesh. All swallowed.

When she gulped the whole heart down, she stared at her empty hands and burst into sobs.

She collapsed and dry-heaved, her body convulsing like it wanted to throw out her organs.

I patted her shoulder. Rest easy. I won’t pity you.