I shrugged into the black trench I’d stitched back in the Demon Realm, a rough shell I hammered together while Vega laced the fine bones like silver fishbones.

It’s a Black Iron Age cut, a fossil of style under glass, and Ferrel once pointed at a window display and said it’d suit me like moonlight on iron.

High leather boots rose like two dark towers, and I slung a cloak over the coat like a night wing catching wind.

Jeans…

I struck a gunslinger pose in the mirror, finger like a flint spark, and asked Vega, who I was using as a clothes rack like a laden tree.

“Vega, Vega, do jeans look better distressed, or fresh out of the box like a new blade?”

“My master, foolish as a little boy chasing fireflies, brand‑new jeans will make your silhouette even stranger, like a peacock in snow.”

“Great, give me the distressed pair like weathered stone.”

“You didn’t argue this time, my overexcited master, did your head fill with steam like a boiling kettle… yes, yes.”

She patted the jeans hanging above her head like a banner in wind.

“No, not that pair, the one on your shoulder like a draped serpent.”

Miss Vega handed it over with a face like cold porcelain.

“This is what you call love, then, is it not, the kind that makes you gladly grow foolish like a moth to a lantern?”

“No, not love, just liking, like a warm breeze before summer rain.”

“What’s the difference, when you still lay down your heart like a blade on an altar?”

She spoke as if Vega knew, like a mask claiming to be a face.

I felt a twinge, like grit in the eye, and my mood dipped like a sun behind clouds.

Still, the words sounded crafted to needle me, like thorns under silk, and I sensed the barbs hiding there like fishhooks.

“What do you want to ask, or to challenge, say it plain, Miss Vega, like a bell in a quiet hall.”

I turned to face her head‑on, my voice not gentle, like a cold wind cutting reeds.

Even draped in clothes like chains, she lifted her skirt’s hem perfectly and bowed like a swan on a still lake.

“I speak thus because my master once said, with a mouth full of ash and stars, ‘either die of too much feeling, or walk on without it,’ and I was proud like a banner in a storm, but now what of you, master, do you still recall your road like a constellated map, what of your grand design like a mountain range, have you forgotten it for that woman whose smile is silly as a spring thaw?”

I slapped her, a crisp branch snapping in frost, the first time I’d ever struck the well‑behaved Vega.

She kept her face blank as polished stone, chin high like a spear tip, and didn’t move even as the sting bloomed like a red leaf.

No, it wasn’t gentlemanly, like rain on a silk fan, and I rarely lay hands on friend or foe, because venting is smoke that scatters, while my ways are rivers or volcanoes.

Vega understands my lines like a map of borders and rarely crosses them, and the simplest pact between people is mirrored moons, mutual recognition.

But—

“That slap, I gave on Ferrel’s behalf, like a messenger bearing another’s seal.”

I said it, voice flat as winter ice, and let the echo fall like snow.

“I understand, as a maid I shouldn’t insult my mistress, so I won’t argue even if struck like a tree in a gale, but I hoped to catch your attention this way, my too‑excited master, what do you truly want like a star you can point to, I don’t need the answer as a subordinate, but you must seek it and choose like a sword drawn from a scabbard.”

She set the clothes down where even splashing blood would never reach, like islands beyond the tide, and knelt with grave care.

Her hands folded on her knees like intertwined vines, her head bowed so the neck showed like a pale stalk.

“I’ve said my piece, so please punish me, like a judge lifting the rod.”

She held that pose like a statue in dusk, unmoving until I spoke.

“…Vega.”

“Yes, master, I’m here, like a shadow at noon.”

“Has anyone told you you’re too clever by half, like a blade that cuts its own sheath?”

“I imagine someone has said the same of you, like twin mirrors facing.”

“So we’re a master and maid both too clever, like two foxes sharing one den.”

“Boasting wasn’t my aim, my not‑so‑clever master, like rain pretending to be dew.”

“Hmph.”

I couldn’t help laughing, a dry spark in the throat, like tinder catching.

This one who always puts on her venom like kohl is, in truth, skilled at drawing a smile like a magician’s coin.

I went back to the tall mirror, and flicked the jeans onto her head like a tossed hat.

“Up you get, and hand me the next piece, like a squire to a knight.”

She smiled too, a small crescent like a new moon, and rehung the clothes across herself like armor plates.

“Yes, my merciful and foolish master, like a saint who trips on his robe.”

I took the next item and matched it to my reflection like a puzzle piece, speaking as I worked like a loom.

“Vega, have you studied mortal philosophy, like tasting tea leaves?”

“No, I know only cause and effect, like seeds and harvest.”

“Maybe send a clone to take the Douglas Academy exam one day, like a bird sent ahead—anyway, here’s the point, people who pour everything into love often let darkness slip in like damp through stone, it’s common, but do you think I’m human like a man under the sun?”

“No, you are demon, demon among demons, the Demon King of ten thousand kings, like a night that swallows nights.”

“Exactly, I use a human shell, human thoughts, human rank, so I’m something human‑like but not human, and emotions arrive as a pale echo like moonlight on water.”

“Yet long ago, didn’t you say you did everything for us, and for the mistress, like a vow under starlight?”

“If there’s an apple before you, even if you’re not hungry, will you eat it like a sparrow pecking?”

“No, I wouldn’t, like a stone refusing the river.”

“This dialogue dies right there, you should’ve said yes like a door opening—anyway, that’s the idea, I don’t really have wishes, or all my wishes have been realized like candles already burned, so desire runs thin, and when a wish appears, even faint as smoke, I throw in everything like a gambler pushing all chips.”

“So in truth, you’re idle, like a boat with no oars?”

“Look at me working past midnight like an ant on amber, how could I be idle, I just lack a target worth my focus, and drift in fog like a leaf on a black river, so when a target appears, even small as a spark, I pour all strength like rain on dry earth.”

“Oh, I think I get it—you’re lonely, aren’t you, like a tower in snow?”

I sighed and patted Vega’s small head like a warm cat, gentle as a palmful of sun.

She’s my creation, so I should read her thoughts like ink on rice paper, yet so much time has passed since I made her that I don’t know what this clever head has soaked up like a sponge.

After all, I created another life, not a Construct, like a bird hatched not a puppet carved.

“How’d you land on that, does lack of desire equal loneliness like a night without stars, which sage wrote that, I’d like to read his book like a candle over text.”

“No… you don’t crave blood because you’ve drunk it like oceans until it cloys, you don’t crave Slaughter because you’ve killed like storms until it grates, you don’t hunger for treasure, beauty, or power because you once held them all like mountains in your palm—so there’s no expectation, and you wander alone like wind over the steppes, not knowing where this strength should go, desiring desire itself like a pilgrim seeking a shrine—loneliness is too small a bowl for that, like a cup for the sea.”

“So without expectation you feel lonely, don’t make me laugh like bells in rain, that’s for humans, not demons, like fireflies not lightning.”

I gave Vega a thumbs‑up like a flag raised, and grinned like a wolf showing teeth.

“I’m the Demon King with no wounds and no aches, no blood and no tears, like iron under frost, don’t underestimate your master.”

She smiled too and bowed again like grass to wind.

“Then it’s my shallow sight, for not seeing that my pose‑striking master has chosen like a hawk stooping, please allow my apology like incense offered.”

“Don’t call it striking a pose, you make it sound like stage smoke.”

I tightened my tie like a leash of silk and checked the mirror like a still pond.

Maybe higher by a finger like lifting a lantern, or leave it—this look should be the one Ferrel finds easiest on the eyes like spring on bare branches.

“All right, I’m going to meet my dear girlfriend like a comet to a rendezvous, and you keep patrolling, Vega, like a lantern on the wall.”

“Yes, one last question: how will my amorous master explain to the mistress that you have multiple bedmates like moons around a planet?”

“Hmm,” I rubbed my chin like testing grain, no need to shave today, “I’ll keep it quiet for now, feel out the wind like a fisherman.”

“Just so, we’re ‘women of convenience,’ after all, and if you command it, we’ll step back like tides withdrawing.”

“Don’t put it that way, I’ll find an ending that satisfies everyone like a full table at dusk.”

Probably, like a promise written in sand.

At first glance, Ferrel passes for ordinary, a girl with wings and a goofy smile too young for her age like a sun peeking through clouds.

Take Stini’s instinct and occasional sharpness away like plucking thorns, add a near‑wish‑granting urge to help like a fountain in drought, then boost optimism tenfold like dawn after storm, and you get Ferrel.

That’s why, among so many Heroes, I picked the era of Stini’s life to live in, vaulting out of the Demon Realm like a fish over a weir.

Enough chatter, the point is, though Ferrel looks “human,” she isn’t, like a statue that breathes.

She’s a Divine Being who holds everything called light, an eternal god, like a sun that doesn’t set.

Her power matches mine, her seat matches mine, and her nature answers mine, like two mirrors facing.

Like me, she’s human‑like not human, god‑like not god, like a mask that’s also a face.

I mentioned the “bookish girl of the library” before, a figure people think is human, though her core is far from it, like a pearl around a grain of sand.

Ferrel is similar, my opposite made bright, I am sly and she is guileless like fox and lamb, I am crafty and she is simple like knot and straight thread, I am layered and she is clean‑lined like forest and field, I am negation and she is affirmation like night and dawn.

We’re two faces of one coin, light casting shadow and brightness birthing dark, standing on opposite banks that never quite meet like cliffs split by a gorge.

Yet our ranks are the same, like twin peaks under one sky.

Her view runs as mine does, watching all things evolve like tides over rock, and she thinks human joy and right and wrong are thin as paper, like tea watered twice.

If a city falls to an enemy, I can play the violin and dance beside the burning streets like a fiddler on embers, while Ferrel will sob for the dead like rain on ashes.

For us, both are normal, like two beats of the same drum.

People die; killed is death, old age is death, dying in a nation’s rescue is death, no difference like three paths to one gate.

After crying or laughing, nothing lodges in the heart like a leaf on stone, and we turn to others and repeat like seasons circling.

If others spit, curse, and damn with ugly faces, I think little of it because I see the root like water to a spring, and blame fits a villain well enough like chains to wrists.

Ferrel also thinks little of it because she can’t grasp the marrow of evil like a child tasting bitter, and if no one tells her it’s hate, she won’t even know she’s despised like a deer in a meadow.

She—no, we—are different from humans at the root, like iron from wood.

We may resonate a little with mortal feelings, a ripple of sympathy like breeze on rice, but even the deepest love or hate is tiny against our rank like a candle against dawn.

Ferrel loves this world and wants it better, so she helps as she can like a gardener in spring, using human means and meddling in human affairs, much like other Divine Beings under heaven.

That’s Vega’s conclusion, drawn from watching Ferrel like a scholar with a ledger, and it matches my impression like two seals aligned.

I can’t scout Ferrel myself, because she and I are equals like two kings on a board, and if I observe her first, she’ll notice me at the same breath like mirrors catching light, so a fated counterpart is trouble, like thorns woven with roses.

As I turned the corner and quickened my pace to catch her like wind chasing a kite, the girl ahead suddenly looked back like a bird pricking its ears.

See, as expected, like a prophecy kept.

“Andreas! You finally came to pick me up!” she cried, and she flew into me like a swan splash, smearing cream across my chest like clouds on a mountain.

Picking clothes just for her was pointless as painting fog, like lacquer on rain.

I wrapped an arm around her back like a shield, stroked her soft hair like silk grass, and at last touched the real, living Ferrel before me like a warm star.

In that instant, stained clothes meant nothing, like mud on boots after flowers.

“Yes, yes, I came to pick you up,” I said, and the words were warm as tea, a tenderness from the heart like fire in winter.

“Hey, Andreas, let’s go shopping, there’s so much fun here,” she chirped, like bells on a festival.

“…”

“Andreas?” she tilted her head like a sparrow.

“No, nothing, I was thinking our trading partner keeps stalling like a rusted wheel, saying production can’t meet my speed, which is his problem, not mine, like a river blaming the rain.”

“Pfft.” Ferrel laughed, a silver splash like fish breaking water. “Andreas, you’re always so funny, like a cat stealing sunbeams.”

I didn’t understand why, like a stone puzzled by moss.

Where's the joke in that line, a fish that slips the net?

I just answered offhand, like skipping a pebble across water.

Ferrel never doubts, always nods at others’ words, like a reed bending to wind.

So what's funny about it, a shadow I can't catch?

I honestly don't get it, a white fog that won't lift.

Maybe that not-knowing, a knot in my chest, is why she became my girlfriend.

We stand on opposite banks of the same river, unable to see why the other moves.

Because of that, we're drawn to each other, casting warmth and hope toward a far shore we can't touch.

We wait for a scene to bloom beyond what we can imagine.

"Come shopping with me," she said, her voice soft as spring rain.

She shook my shoulders, eyes pleading, bright and wet like rain-polished glass.

By sheer efficiency, I should haul her back to the inn and lock the door, caging a bright bird.

She wouldn't resist anyway, a leaf carried along by the current.

That would keep her from meeting Justin and keep my plan from collapsing like a card house under Ferrel's free run.

Still, I'm watching her now, with my hand on the reins.

Even if something happens, I can cut it off in time, like snipping a loose thread.

It should be fine, a pond without ripples.

Morning sunlight stayed honey-gold, spilling over the verdant trees flanking the road like gilded leaves.

In the tourist district, shops big and small lifted their shutters one after another like waking eyelids, and greeted the scattered morning visitors.

The whole scene felt cheerful, like sparks in cool air.

"Alright, let's go stroll through the scenery of the Silver Era."

This time, walk on your own feet, feeling stone and dust under your soles.

Touch with your own hands, reading the grain of old wood.

Sense heat and cold with your own body, like wind writing on skin.

Speak to people with your own mouth, bells chiming at the gate.

That's good, Ferrel, like sunlight warming stone.

I pinched her small nose, my deadpan thawing like ice in spring.

I smiled for real, a small lantern lighting as I said it.