She clutched her throat and retched, like a snagged hook in a winter gullet, yet nothing came up.

It was already digested; Kusma’s flesh had sunk into her, like warm iron poured into bone, turning into her strength.

That’s the Eater‑Fiend bloodline—power that fattens as it feeds.

“Disgusted? You should be glad,” I said, voice like cold rain on slate. “You carry a ghost’s seed, demon’s blood, a golden heirloom. They kept you alive.”

“...W‑what...”

“Kusma. Elder of the Heretic Inquisition. An elite fighter. You thought he’d go down easy? He struck back at the brink, fists like meteors, pulverized most of your organs, your spine, your ribs. Now look at yourself. Aside from the blood, what’s wrong?”

She chewed and swallowed even as she breathed, drawing flesh like embers into a cracked kiln, mending herself. She probably didn’t even know she was hurt.

Even her teeth had grown back, like new ivory beneath snow. The Eater‑Fiend bloodline is strong in the Demon Realm; they grow by eating, like a forest after rain, and steal a taste of what they consume.

In short, they level fast—swift as wildfire. With a little coaching, she could sprint into the role of a quick‑made “villain” for this peace‑pact drama between humans and demonfolk.

My aim, after all, is spectacle.

That’s why I enraged Kusma—I needed him to die here, on cue, like a drumbeat under a storm.

“Thus, the overture to your revenge begins,” I said, a bell tolling in mist. “You have the right to seek it. You could also walk away. I’m handing you a chance.”

Listen, then, to a demon’s whisper.

I lowered my station, like dimming a lantern behind paper.

Low enough that seeing me wouldn’t fracture minds, no madness spilled like ink; earlier I’d flared too bright for effect, to terrify Kusma.

It’s like the radiance in Head’s eyes—too vast, too clean; ordinary souls scatter like leaves in a gale. Hm. The woman didn’t look at me, did she?

She spoke, so she likely didn’t. Her spirit hadn’t shattered.

“...What do you want...”

“At least not your harm,” I said, voice like dusk over a river. “Trust me a little.”

“I don’t want... to kill... anyone...”

She covered her face and cried, tears like rain on broken tile.

“As you wish. Then brace to be killed,” I said, a blade resting on ice.

“Why! I didn’t do anything wrong! I just wanted a quiet life! Why give me this miserable fate!”

Her lips peeled back to fangs, and she lunged, a starving fox at a shadow.

“Your misery isn’t my concern,” I said, iron cool under snow. “Don’t vent it on me.”

I pinched her face and lifted her, held her in mid‑air like a moth cupped by night.

She flailed and clawed, hands like reeds in wind, but how can matter strike Shadow?

I said:

“I haven’t wronged you. I didn’t kill your husband. I didn’t kill your son. I didn’t torment you. I even bestowed one‑sided grace—a chance at revenge. You should thank me—though I don’t need thanks. At least, you lack the right to hate me.”

“Mmph...” Her groan rasped like a rope tightening; she was close to choking.

“All right.” I set her down and tapped her shoulder, a calm palm against storm. “Now—cool head?”

“Okay... I’m calm... calm.”

“Good. Since you’re calm, we can talk options. First—do you want to live?”

“...I do...”

“Then this gets simple.”

To guide even a village girl with no letters, I drew a blackboard from the Shadow, slate rising like a moon from the reeds, and sketched.

I was a meticulous teacher, rain on thirsty earth.

“Your bloodline is Eater‑Fiend. It’s excellent in the Demon Realm. You grow when you feed. To be precise—raw flesh. The fresher the death, the stronger the effect. If you can rip it off the living, better. And for the source—humans are best.”

Across the Ocean of Darkness, the Primordial Nine Races wait; kill them, and the Ocean of Darkness embraces you. Even a Son of the Demon King gains from it; many who can’t enact their domain ascend by slaughtering humans in droves.

For an Eater‑Fiend, demonfolk from the Ocean of Darkness are already potent food; humans are a feast, hot as spiced wine.

“I won’t! I refuse to eat again!”

She shook her head until her hair scattered like willow, then sagged and scooted back on the floor.

“But how do you live?” I asked, like frost creeping over a window.

“...If I explain to people...”

“But you ate people.”

“But... it was him...”

“For them, the one thing that matters is this: ‘you ate people.’ It tolls like a single bell.”

“Then... then I’m... I’m doomed...”

“When you strip the world of hope, people lose the courage to walk. Right? I’ll hand you a reason to walk. Hear me out.”

I tapped the board, chalk dust a pale mist, and pointed to stick figures and notes.

My line work was decent; she got the gist, and her face went ash‑gray, like ash under rain.

She gagged again, throat working like a pump in drought.

First drawing: a stick figure held a heart and ate, smiling like a child with candied haw; a neat “x100” floated beside.

“First, you eat a hundred hearts. Living ones. The heart carries... consider it ritual weight. You’ll be honoring your blood, carrying a dark soul like a seal.”

Second drawing: blood at the figure’s lips; a strongman pose; a heart in each hand, like twin coals.

“Then you grow strong enough. Your body hardens into the toughest stuff under heaven, so that you—”

Third drawing: the figure dives; above, a small SkywardCity hangs like an island in cloud.

“—can leap from SkywardCity and not die on impact. It’s the only way off besides the magi‑ship, and during the peace conference they inspect those hard. You won’t slip past.”

I’m buried deep in SkywardCity; getting her a seat would be easy.

But why would I help her?

I need a “villain” to play the role I wrote, not charity for a perfectly cast actor to flee the stage.

I’m the villain here.

“I can’t! I won’t eat people!”

She clung to the word “human” like a lifeline, teeth set like a trap.

But that notion—

“—the human heart, human ties, the human code—forget them for now,” I said, like night closing on a lantern. “If you want to live, for now, drop the human skin. Use the way of demons. Struggle ugly. Live ugly.”

“There must be another way! There must!”

“There isn’t.”

“Impossible!”

“Stay in SkywardCity, boxed in by roofs and rules, and you’ll be found. Try it; you get one roll of the dice. Too weak—you die. Wrong guess—you die. Will you hand your life to the ‘humans’ who killed your husband and child?”

“Stop it! Shut up!” She clamped her ears and shook, like a reed in a gale.

“Curse me if you want,” I said, voice like a gong under snow. “But don’t shut your eyes. Think. Live or die—think.”

I caught her hands and forced her to face me, to face the mask like a moon in a dark pond, to face my Shadow.

“Choose now,” I said, cool and clean as a blade. “Live filthy, or die small. Tell me.”

She locked on my eyes, a deer under torchlight, and froze.

I let her go, stood, and returned to the blackboard.

“What’s wrong? Lost in the sight?”

“...No.”

“Then?”

“...Then... if I eat—no, after I leave here—where could I go...”

Good.

I almost laughed, a ripple across still water.

She was thinking of the future; that means she expects the future. If she can think without drowning in despair, she’ll walk the path I’ve set like a river finding the sea.

Because my answer is the optimal route.

“Go anywhere you want,” I said, plan neat as folded paper. “Head for Swordgate on the Arctic Tundra and enter the Demon Realm. The guards there won’t stop those seeking the Anti‑Magic City. Or stay in the human world and hunt your chosen targets. Or seek another Demon King. After a hundred hearts, you’re strong enough.”

“...Can I pledge to you?”

“If you survive the peace conference,” I said, bowing with theatrical tilt, “the Demon King Army of Andor will welcome you.”

I flipped the board. This face wasn’t stick‑figures; the lines were sharp, clean, like frost etching. Vega had hand‑drawn a map of Skyward City Atlante.

“In twenty minutes, two Heretic Inquisitors will arrive at this villa,” I said, a clock chiming in fog. “I’ll teach you how to ambush, assassinate, vanish.”

I shut the pocket watch—pure flourish. When I raise my station, time’s threads lie clear like grain in jade.

“Now, Teacher Andor will teach you who stands where,” I said, chalk ticking like rain. “I think you want to kill Heretic Inquisitors. Remember well. Your next days depend on it.”

—

“What do you want me to do?”

She swallowed the last mouthful of flesh; her voice lost its first wobble, steady like rope on a winch.

Was it the steadiness born from killing three? Or the bloodline waking?

I prefer the latter—the Ocean of Darkness cut its sigil into her heart, let her hidden cunning and cruelty bloom like night flowers. She knew she mattered to me.

Though she still gagged now and then, like a tide snagging on stone.

“Honestly, if you stay alive, that’s good for me.”

“That’s all?” Disbelief stood in her tone like a bristling cat.

“Ah,” I said, chuckling like wind under eaves. “You don’t see the view above the mortal fog, so I can’t explain. I do have a small favor.”

She assumed help implies a price; mortals love ledgers.

Truth is, the revenge plan already fits my script; she’s done what matters.

I’ll toss her a filler task, a ribbon on the blade.

“When you hit the Heretic Inquisition’s Abyssal Gaol,” I said, voice like ink over rice paper, “there’s a captive named Andor. Bring him out.”

“Hmph.” She sneered, thin and cold as a knife’s chirp.

No worries. I don’t truly require it.

Your rampage will suffice; this just adds gold leaf.

“I’ll drag him out. Then what? Hand him to you?”

“No need. Drop him where there are people. A plaza. A market. Let the crowd be the drum.”

“Isn’t he close to you?”

“Close?” I laughed softly, like snow on bamboo. “Don’t guess. Between us stands... a thread of fate, nothing more. As for why, not your concern. You can refuse; I won’t explain.”

“Whatever. Ah, one more thing.”

“What? No supplies,” I said, a scale settling. “For balance, I only give ‘knowledge.’”

“Kairi.”

“What?”

“Kairi. My name. I’m not ‘hey,’ and I’m not ‘you.’”

“Ha.” I couldn’t help myself; the laugh rang like a bell. “If you survive and walk free on human soil, I’ll come in person, call you by that name, and invite you to the Demon King Army.”

“I’ll refuse with a straight face. I hate your type—the ones who think they hold all strings.”

“Premise first,” I said, a finger to the board. “Eat more. Survive.”

“I remember,” she said, like flint sparking. “Eat more. Survive.”