Every tale is stitched from smaller stories, strung like beads along a thread.

The hero witnesses a death, like a candle snuffed by wind. They follow a scent of iron, a trail winding like a river through fog. They meet the true villain, a shadow behind the veil. Because of someone’s sacrifice, like a lamp offered at dusk, they gain a new strength, a blade of resolve. They defeat an enemy shaped like a storm on the horizon. They reach an ending of their own—sorrow like rain on stone, or joy like sunlight breaking cloud.

That’s the common protagonist, the ordinary “miracle,” the pattern worn smooth like a river pebble.

Extraordinary stories begin here and end here, a rising tide that returns to the shore.

But has anyone asked why stories flow in this shape, like grooves cut by old water?

“Because someone arranges it, of course—beings who pierce causality like needles through silk, silent hordes of demons like wolves in tall grass. They—now, that’s us—watch and hand the hero a beginning, a thread, an ending. Stini sees the first sacrifice, then draws her sword like a line of winter light. She’ll chase the blood-scent, and the tale begins.”

“You’re sure it’ll unfold the way you say? What if Stini catches the villain too easily? What if the villain cuts her down like wheat? Your drama collapses.”

“That’s why someone patches holes when the story tears like paper. And we trust the lady Hero won’t end it too soon, won’t die to the first knife in the dark.”

“You trust in ‘the possibilities a Hero brings,’ like seeds on the wind?”

“Close enough. I’d call it faith in ‘the trajectory of history,’ a riverbed that guides the torrent. Heroes satisfy. They play the dramatic role like thunder finding the drum.”

“I don’t know what you’ve done elsewhere. But this ‘beginning’ I’m seeing—now that’s an interesting script, like ink drying on silk.”

We stood under SkywardCity, looking down to watch what unfolded on the other side, like fish watching stars. Gravity? We erased the concept from ourselves within our Authority Domains, as if dusting chalk from a sleeve.

Megatons of steel and stone couldn’t bar a Demon King’s gaze. In our respective domains, Stini’s fluster was plain as a lantern flicker.

My younger brother, the Demon King of Dispute, Daviya, slipped into the topic as lightly as a knife into water and talked with me.

Even dragged from his hiding place like a fox from brush, his calm was the same, a lake in evening light.

Even if I ignored Anna’s moves for the moment, I had to seize Daviya first. With time, his standing at the Peace Conference would climb like ivy.

In my previous life, I couldn’t stand that Qing and the Primordial Nine Races aimed to live in peace. I called in Daviya and a few other Demon Kings to break the Peace Conference, like thunder rolling over a festival.

Back then I used muscle more than mind. Stini, with a few Sages, beat back several of my frontal assaults like waves breaking on cliff. In the end, only when Daviya moved did we kill a few leaders and tear the bond between Qing and the people, like a banner ripped in wind.

Daviya’s Authority Domain, Dispute, isn’t built for battle, but he excels at delicate layouts, spider-silk fine. During the Peace Conference, he hid in the background buzz of worthless arguments like a fly in summer. He quietly fattened his power, even converted parts of SkywardCity into the Dispute domain without anyone noticing, like frost creeping across a window.

If Stini hadn’t burned a quarter of her lifespan, blazing like a comet, to force-kill Daviya, we could’ve stolen SkywardCity’s core and let the city fall like a meteor.

So when Daviya first intruded into Skyward City Atlante, I went to him at once, like a hawk stooping on a shadow.

Either keep him under watch, or kill him on the spot like cutting a knot.

And you don’t strong-arm a brother you’re on good terms with.

“Want to hear it? What I plan to say at the Peace Conference?”

“Of course. I’d answer that either way—since refusing is death, like stepping off a cliff.”

He said it while looking through SkywardCity’s lower layers, upward, seeing Stini talking with the arriving Heretic Inquisitor, two figures like chess pieces on a pale board.

He had a philosopher’s air, ink-still and moon-cool—thought and wisdom to match the cut of it.

Last life, I coerced him. This time, it was Anna. Without force, Daviya might well have stood with Qing, gladly sparring with the Sages like cranes dancing.

“But Anna said if I don’t help wreck the Peace Conference, she’ll tear down my domain like a painter shredding a canvas. Andor, got a way out?”

“No. But if you wreck the Conference, I’ll go tear down your domain myself, like salt in spring earth.”

“Haha. A dead end then, like a snake biting its tail.”

Even now, he could laugh, free and clear as bell-metal. That’s right—an antagonist should wear that attitude like a crown.

Live aloof, die arrogant—like a lone pine on a cliff.

In my book, Daviya’s Demon King score beats even Anna’s, a blade with better balance.

So, whether out of personal regard or to invite a future partner, I’d give him a measure of help, a rope over a ravine.

“Remember one of our demon-realm propositions—‘sway human evil with human reason’?”

I meant to use that thought to keep my head when the Ocean of Darkness raged like a black typhoon.

Result? It helped some, but once the Ocean hit a certain fury, thinking had no room to breathe, like a candle in gale. In short, it didn’t matter much. The Final Calamity would erupt like a volcano anyway.

“I remember. You said, ‘test human desire with human wit; topple human reason with human sin.’ Reason and order serve the primal rampage like reins on a warhorse, and for efficiency’s sake, they even crush that rampage in turn. You plan to use that to talk Anna out of breaking the Conference? Then give me the reason. I need your reason.”

What came next would tie into the future script, ink meeting paper.

“Will you join my side?”

I asked Daviya.

“I need a confirmation. Right now, we’re ‘no relation’ or ‘hostile,’ like winter neighbors. If you want me to keep listening, you need ‘ally’ or better on the favor bar. Join your side? Fine.”

Daviya shrugged, a casual wave in lake water.

He took off his tie, slipped off his gloves, tore the badge from his chest, tossed away his hat. Then he cut off his right hand in one clean line, a petal of flesh in the wind.

Black demon blood, the severed limb, and his castoff clothing were snatched by high winds and vanished like swallows.

“I just threw every surveillance line away, and on paper I’ve fallen out with Anna. I choose to join you.”

Sincere enough. Every channel I could see that connected Anna here was cut like threads under a knife.

He could still betray us, of course. But for now, I’d treat him as one of ours and share the plans that wouldn’t crumble even if he flipped like a coin.

I began to explain the script I’d written over SkywardCity’s skyline, a map in shadow.

I spoke of the only Demonfolk here flaunting her identity—Kairi—her revenge and bloodline, a brand like ember on bark.

I spoke of the Heretic Inquisitor, Justin, who wants to resurrect a Divine Being, a wish heavy as winter snow, his Slaughter and decision like forged iron.

I spoke of a piece from my old collection, the Demon Blade “Nameless Does Not Kill,” how it craves a Hero’s blood like a thirsty vine, how it saved Justin’s life, and how it lodged in his left hand like a star in flesh.

I said I’d raise the matter of an otherworld invasion at the Peace Conference, drop a whole new problem like a stone into a still pond.

I spoke of Stini, of Shadow Artisan Andor, of Anna—names like constellations on a dark map.

I said:

“So. Your decision?”

“Already picked your side. What else?”

“I mean your next step. What help will you give, and how do you prove you won’t run back to Anna and whisper in the reeds?”

“This…” He tilted his head back. From here, all you saw was the world’s ground and a scrap of cloud, like a ceiling of pale clay. “Take this.”

He handed me a thread.

If you didn’t pay attention, you’d miss it—a nearly invisible filament. When I took it, it weighed heavy in the palm, neither smooth nor rough, like frost and wire at once.

Daviya’s demonic armament of the Dispute Authority Domain, named Epiphany.

Without their armament, a Demon King can barely reach their Authority Domain; they’re only as strong as a legendary warrior, a flame without oil.

“So you don’t plan to step onto this stage?”

“Mm. Andor beat me and took my armament. If I don’t surrender, what else can I do, like a bird with clipped wing?”

Daviya gave a wry smile and spread his hands, palms like empty bowls.

“But what about Anna… what about my domain?”

“Easy. I’ve got a future plan—about a Demonfolk settlement staying in the human world like an island in fog. Head back to the Council of Sages. I’ll tell you the details.”

“Then helping you is the only road left, like a path through bamboo. Oh, right—Kadula, I’ll try to bring him back into line.”

I opened a gate to the Shadow Realm under our feet, a black iris blooming. Daviya struggled on instinct like a fish on line, then suppressed his domain and entered the country of Shadow with me.

Gods and demons are omniscient and omnipotent in their own domains, like kings in their halls. Entering another’s domain is naked surrender, like laying your neck on a chopping block.

We walked through a warped world, a landscape bent like heated glass. Every law of physics was a border I defined. Every substance was woven from Shadow, thread on a dark loom.

“Something’s off.”

Daviya scooped a handful of Shadow, a black water, then poured it out. As it fell, it bent and split into a mouth full of teeth, nasty laughter rippling like cold bells, then it flew deeper into the domain, a bat into cave.

He frowned—rare for him—and couldn’t help asking:

“Are you really Shadow, as in shade where light can’t reach, like the underside of leaves?”

“At least not in the literal sense. If the domain I rule were just the shadow element, I should go to the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom and work for Element, like a clerk with ink-stained sleeves.”

“Then the Shadow you define and hold is… never mind. Some knowledge shouldn’t be understood, like a hook you don’t want in the mouth.”

“A wise choice.”

I can’t see my own shape in my domain. But it should be closer to my essence than in the material world, closer to the root of darkness, closer to Andreas’s visage, like a mirror facing night.

Daviya, you saw this depth of dark—the well with no bottom. Now you know how fearsome your ally is, like thunder wrapped in silk.

Between facing Slaughter and facing this immeasurable Darkness, you know which one you must not provoke, like choosing between blade and abyss.