Justin returned to the inn, went upstairs, and slipped into his room.

He clamped his trembling left hand—and the blade embedded in it. His lungs spasmed. He finally forced out a breath.

The person he’d brushed past was likely the Hero.

That face was too recognizable. Only the girl herself seemed unaware of her fame.

There was even that rumor in the shopping district—one freebie per person. A Hero took a lap, changed clothes, came back, and got recognized anyway. Irrelevant now.

Darkness from the deep pulsed at his left hand. Each throb stained soul and flesh. He crushed his hand again, fell, and writhed on the floor.

Someone knocked.

“Sir? Sir, are you all right?”

A waitress. Her voice carried worry.

“I’m… fine. Fine. I just fell.”

“Really… do you need… help?”

“No! No, I don’t. I just need a rest. Don’t mind me. Don’t come back. That’s all. Go on!”

“Ah… if you say so, okay.”

Did she leave?

Justin couldn’t care anymore.

The power from the dark surged like tides, wave upon wave, hammering his nerves.

His left hand felt crushed by mountains, kneaded into the shape of a hand, then crushed again and again. Flesh rotted to the limit, then seemed to ferment. A stench rose that made a man clamp his nose. He had no time to use a Divine Art to hush the smell. The sour reek spilled out regardless.

Unspeakable pain welled from his soul. Darkness tainted against his Oath of Vigil, ripping him nearly in half. He almost wished to die.

Not yet. He couldn’t die yet.

He felt the shard in his arms glow gently. That warmth, that tenderness—his only reason to go on.

…

When he could finally push himself up, the sky was already black.

He slumped at the desk, flipped on the lamp, and looked at his left hand.

A blade was set inside it. Only the tip, about four inches, pierced from his palm. The hand was wholly rotten. Somehow he could still move the fingers, but there was no sensation.

He pressed his index finger to the desk, leaving a smear of sickly yellow pus. No sense of liquid. No sense of wood. Nothing.

It really was gone to rot.

He’d seen it many times, yet he still wanted to vomit.

“God, grant glory to the triumphant Hero.”

Justin cast the Divine Art “Bouquet Offering” on himself, suppressing the stench. He baked the rot dry, wrapped layer on layer of bandage. No one would notice now.

What in the world just happened?

He didn’t understand.

Inside his left hand sat the Demon Blade, “Nameless Won’t Kill.”

It was drawn to strength, hungry for blood. If the famed Hero walked by, the blade would slash at her throat.

And Justin’s foes were exactly the strong. Man and blade had sealed a pact.

He knew the blade’s bent when he took it. His question was—why did it stop, suddenly?

Never before had the Demon Blade lost all killing intent in an instant. It trembled, pretending to be an ordinary knife.

Remember. Call it back.

At the peak of killing lust, when the blade thrilled loose from his control—what did his chaotic mind record?

The Fishfolk’s innate art, Recollection, helped him relive it.

…crowds… the Hero… Stini… innocent… unguarded…

No. Not that. Deeper. Buried.

…a neck… slender… beautiful… desire… at any cost…

No, not the blade’s memory. His own. What did he see—

Blood.

Black blood.

Ominous, bottomless black. He saw it for a heartbeat—black spray arcing wide.

An eye.

An ugly eye.

Venomous. Killing intent veiled within. One glance, like peering into an abyssal pupil.

Whose blood?

Whose eye?

They terrified the Demon Blade. The dark power bucked into a rampage.

Justin had watched the Hero, not the… other one. So when someone in a … outfit jumped out to … the Hero …, it felt abrupt—but maybe it tracked.

No. What is this? This wrongness…

I should remember… Her? Or him? The face shape…

Who was it? What did they look like? What clothes? What motion? What expression?

Every detail was a blackout. He remembered only—

Black blood,

Black eye.

Cold sweat washed him. He snapped out of Recollection, slammed both fists on the desk, and gulped air.

Half his freshly won strength was gone. The Demon Blade seemed scared too, shrinking back.

He had cut that person. They were grievously wounded. Yet they showed no response. They passed each other like strangers. He nearly thought he imagined it. No stir from the blade. No blood. No eye.

No. Impossible. Memory falters, but Recollection doesn’t.

Then who was that? They seemed familiar with the Hero. Not a good soul. Why didn’t they grab him?

The Demon King?

Justin kicked his stool aside and rushed for the door. He had to warn the Hero—there’s a dangerous monster at her side!

As his fingers reached the knob, a chill ran his spine. His hand froze midair.

He’d felt it countless times—cast it countless times. Divine Art flowed outside.

“The Heretic Inquisition found me!”

He clicked his tongue, sprang back, and set a fighting stance. He flung the Demon Blade from his left hand and shouted:

“Nameless Won’t Kill! Shred this door!”

— — —

On the inn’s roof, Victor tied the final strand of invisible script around a prepared node.

He vaulted off the eave, rolled in midair, hit back-first, then rose with the momentum.

He landed in the tourist promenade. Sunset had fallen, yet the walk was still crowded.

No one noticed a killer slip into the flow.

He didn’t spill a single drop from his ice cream.

Victor took another lick and found a bench to rest on.

Vega walked out of the inn, bowing in apology again and again.

He squinted, reading her lips. “I’m so sorry, I thought my husband booked here.” “Sorry for the trouble.” “He swore it was this one.”

The act was about done. He waved her over.

Vega looked hot under the collar, grumbling as she came.

Dedicated, Victor thought, and couldn’t help admiring it.

To seal the room, Raven worked inside while he worked outside. Her load was heavier. Working a seal in a crowd was harder.

Strong work. No wonder the boss defined him as “backup when Vega’s swamped or her avatars wobble.”

Vega sat and let out a breath.

“This is basic. No matter how high the craft, a mistake makes it nothing. You killers must say the same.”

“We do. And I did fine, didn’t I?”

“You can do better. At least don’t work while holding ice cream.”

“Hattie wanted it… Okay, Vega, the job went smooth anyway.”

Victor offered his cone in apology. Vega’s face showed clear distaste.

“The boss wants Justin boxed inside the inn. But his Demon Blade hits hard. Did we do enough?”

“Enough for three hours. If, after three hours, the Master still hasn’t found him—she should be Miss Ferrel—I have other ways to bind him inside our script.”

“If you’ve got a way, you’ve got a way. Guess I’m short on sleep.”

“The Master’s anxious too. It’s probably a sudden turn.”

“As long as there’s a fix… Wait, have you seen Hattie?”

“Lost.”

At her offhand answer, Victor shot up, voice tight.

“Weren’t ‘you’ guarding her? How did she get lost!”

“Hattie doesn’t know my avatar guards her. She should grow a little. Learn to go home and refuse bad people. Relax. She’s only lost, and safe.”

Victor’s face knotted with conflict. He fell silent, then chose to apologize.

“…Sorry.”

“It’s fine. You flared exactly the anger you should.” Vega shrugged, the move uncannily like Andor’s.

“I know you’re reliable. I know Hattie needs room to grow. Still… I can’t relax.” He slapped his thigh, helpless.

“From a lover, or a father?” Vega’s brow arched. Off-topic, yet true.

“Probably… both.”

Victor gazed up at the first stars and sighed.

“Victor! A big sister brought Hattie!”

Hattie ran in smiling and crashed into his arms. She rubbed her cheek against his chest.

Then she gave him a blazing kiss.

“Ah, ice cream…”

She looked at Victor, then at Vega’s cone, almost in tears.

“Here, take this one, Hattie. Did you thank the big sister?”

Vega’s voice turned gentle, a world away from her usual cool. Smiling, she handed over the untouched cone.

The little loli beamed, then turned and bowed to the winged girl who’d brought her.

“Thank you, big sister!”

Wings sprouted from the girl’s back. She knelt kindly and wiped Hattie’s mouth clean.

“What a happy family of three. All right, go find your mom, little Hattie.”

Out of courtesy. Out of etiquette. Out of “this is how normal looks.”

Vega spoke.

“Wait. What’s your name? We should thank you properly.”

She stood, hugging Hattie like a real mother, and asked.

“I’m Ferrel. Don’t mention it!”

The girl glanced back as she answered, then waved. She ran toward her companion—a woman who looked about twenty.

Victor stood too, stunned, meeting Vega’s equally stunned gaze.

Hattie pouted, tugging his sleeve. “Why are you just staring at each other!”

Victor blinked, then smiled awkwardly.

“Vega, you know how to reach the boss, right?”