Stini didn’t return to the inn all night; dark crescents hung under her eyes like bruised moons, and she staggered through the street in a hunter’s straight line.

She carried her sword, waist bent, nose to a wind that tasted like iron; a hound on two legs, half sense and half instinct, tracking her prey.

Even without sight, she felt her mark just ahead, like a lantern behind thin fog.

Another blood-scented gust rolled through; her already knitted brows tightened into a wet knot.

She snapped her head up, sniffed that direction, then ran with eyes shut, banging into bodies like reeds and catching a step like a hidden root.

She braced with her left hand, rolled to bleed off the impact, rose and kept sprinting, her knuckles pale as chalk around the hilt.

Right ahead! Right ahead!

A corpse tripped her again; she moved to get up, then heard the body let out a low groan like wind through a broken flute.

Her clothes carried a familiar scent, like ash and night.

Yo, my lovely Hero, if you’ve got a moment, mind carrying me to the Sanctuary of Life?

The girl opened her eyes, joy flaring first like sunrise at seeing her parted lover.

Then she saw the boy’s patchwork wounds, red seams across skin like torn banners.

And then—wrath, a storm-black surge.

That was me, Demon King Andor—the only time I saw her wearing the glare of a wrathful asura.

——————

Ministers, meeting time. I clapped, the sound like thin thunder under a ceiling.

Tell me, have I let my authority fray lately? Why does everyone wear the look that says, “this guy’s a hassle,” like masks carved too plainly?

Well, I have a hunch, a thread tugging in the wind.

I’m not lowering my stance just to help my own guys get cozy with the boss, am I? I tease, sure, but it’s out of care.

So, what’s authority for anyway? A crown without weight is just a circlet in a drawer.

No one here has the means to betray me; you finish every task like stones mortared into a wall, and I’ve got no reason to swing the lash.

Maybe you’re all actually afraid of me?

Hey, are you all scared of me? I don’t think I’ve done anything hateful, right?

No, not at all, Victor waved fast, hands fluttering like sparrows.

Andor’s handsome, Nivifar’s eyes puffed pink hearts like soap bubbles.

You’re… fine, Nagash said, face layered like clouded glass.

My brainless master, which wire shorted this time? Vega’s tongue was sharp as a blade.

Eat me, or let me eat you! Berenz, truly brain-dead, shouted like a starving wolf.

Hoo… hiss… Dulan snored, breath dragging like a bellows.

I walked over and knocked Dulan’s head into the wall; the hit boomed, and a few colorful balloons peeled off and drifted down like ripe fruit.

I feel your impressions of me are complicated, a mosaic. But it doesn’t matter! First meeting of the Savior Demon King Army officers—shouldn’t you be a little excited?

Oh… They glanced at each other, bothered as cats in rain, then raised hands with Vega and cheered without joy.

And they looked at me again, eyes saying “what a hassle,” like lukewarm tea.

This bunch… they’ve mapped my temper: “Do the job right, boss won’t complain; if the boss clowns, ignore him and it’ll pass”—that kind of script, rolled out like a banner.

Bet Vega taught them.

I drummed my fingers on the table and glared back at Vega; my stare was a nail in wood.

She smiled at me and nodded hard, like a bobbing doll on a shelf.

Yes, Master Who Drives the Demon King Army—that’s me—I told them to work at ease, like oars stroking a calm river.

I tugged her cheeks like dough, kneading back and forth; the girl placed both hands at her lower belly and let me squish like clay.

Vega, remember this—I’ll bother you later… First, welcome to this small place.

Under my detached house in SkywardCity, bought a year ago, sits a tiny twenty-square-meter basement like a burrow.

It’s dark and dim, but you’re all pros at raiding, so shade shouldn’t bother you, like wolves under a new moon.

Nobody here cares about manners or show, and I’m fine with that, like boots on stone.

It’s not like I didn’t decorate because I’m broke—just kidding, words tossed like confetti.

My gold reserves could crash seven human kingdoms, like a landslide made of coins.

Truth is, you’re all busy, couldn’t make time, so I set up this temporary Demon King Army headquarters alone; for a first welcome party, I wanted it to look nice, like lanterns in spring.

But I had no materials, and no helping hands, just empty air and dust motes.

The more I talk, the lower I sink, like a kite losing wind; they look unsure too, faces tilted like reeds.

It’s fine—I forgive you. Don’t mind it, let it pass like rain.

It was a whim: I started dressing the basement, got bored in half an hour, interest fading like incense smoke.

Even the balloons were blown by lower retainers I summoned, like little imps puffing cheeks.

So I didn’t do much, really… I did cut the tape, at least, metal teeth skittering like locusts.

Alright, fine—business. I called you mainly for a get-together, I waved toward the table, though I ate all the good stuff; what’s left are bland care packages, pale as paper.

They eyed the edible nutrient packs—barely edible—like suspicious mushrooms, poked them twice with cautious fingers.

Only the mad child Berenz shoveled mouthfuls in, guarding it like a dog over a bone.

No wonder there’s the scent of HolyWater; my picky master, you stole the Sanctuary of Life’s ward care packages, like fruit from a shrine…

Since there’s HolyWater in them, I don’t like them either, flavor thin as rainwater.

Berenz clanged forward, face-first into the table, foaming at the mouth; he passed out beside Dulan, whose head still dreamed in the wall like a buried stone.

After that, everyone treated the table’s items like air, never touching them again, hands folded like wings.

Come on, even with HolyWater mixed in, they’re technically edible—don’t waste… Alright, business again, back on rails.

This bubble-blowing crab is Berenz, my adorable battle maid, upper retainer, Commander of the Calamity Legion; someday we’ll have to kill him as the sacrificial banner, like dye soaking cloth.

Victor raised his hand politely, fingers straight as bamboo.

Speak.

What is the Calamity Legion?

A banner. One day, beneath that black storm flag, countless bloodthirsty undead will gather; they’ll resist death out of hate, blades in hand like winter scythes.

Under Commander Berenz, they’ll grant equal death to all things, like a natural disaster rolling down a valley.

My showoff master means: right now it’s just a name—there’s a general and no troops, Vega stepped forward to explain, voice smooth as silk.

Don’t call me a showoff!

Oh, I get it. Thanks, Miss Vega. Victor nodded to Vega and sat back, motion quiet as settling dust.

You don’t get to “get it” without me.

It’s fine. My melodramatic master loves to pose for no reason; if his words confuse you, forget him and come to me—I’ll assign precise tasks like pins on a map.

Don’t skip me! And don’t forget the big boss’s orders!

No—wait—something’s off, like a drum out of beat.

I’m supposed to be the clown, not the straight man, a jester not the chorus!

Shut up, all of you! Listen to me!

Turns out they do respect me; the room fell quiet, like first snow over a field.

Tell me—do I have that kingly, domineering aura, that crown-like pressure?

Their eyes didn’t look at a boss who pays salaries at month’s end; they looked at me like I was a target—crosshair inside a circle, painted on wood.

Vega drew a short blade, “Poison Fang,” from under her skirt, tossing it in her palm with a sour look, like a cat playing with a mouse.

Ahem—no more jokes. I gathered you so you’d meet each other, faces to names like lamps to shadows.

Your jobs run free, paths crossing like rivers; if you fight by accident, do I spend mana patching you up for loyalty, or fire you all for brawling?

Hard to choose. So meet first—if it’s one of ours, lend a hand, reach like a bridge.

Victor raised his hand with manners, a flag that wouldn’t drop.

Go die in a corner, you persistent weed… I thought, the words curling like smoke.

Nagash, old sir, any thoughts?

Me? I clearly didn’t raise my hand…

Alright, no questions—continue introductions. This is Elder Nagash, Deputy Director of the Armory.

New gear comes from him; if you meet an old man picking herbs on a mountain, don’t casually send him home with one cut.

Rebuilding your bodies costs me a lot of mana, like pouring lightning into clay.

Nagash isn’t as weak as I make him sound.

With his signature magic and fighting grit, he could go toe-to-toe with Maki and both fall, like two oxen locking horns on a slope.

But he holds one line to the end: Don’t strike fellow humans. He only defends.

Even at death’s door, he won’t attack, like a shield planted in earth.

Victor kept raising his hand, persistence sprouting like bamboo after rain.

I know you want to ask why “deputy director.” Our contract says, when the true director arrives, we dissolve our pact; see? Isn’t living nice?

Why must great heroes die, like moths to flame?

I never asked you to do anything that burns heaven or violates law, not one step.

Alright, alright, I know you want to talk—but shut up, seal it like a jar.

This tactless, dull-blade killer is Victor, Captain of the Cleanup Squad.

Cleanup is literal; as for what we clean, and why a former killer holds the broom—you all get it, eyes sharp as awls.

Victor’s blade dulled; when he swings at someone, he thinks of Hattie’s same skin and blood, and he pulls three-tenths of his force, like rain held back.

That kind of man can’t go back to killing, the road closed like a gate.

I need someone to handle the dirty work for me—big workload, lower importance—and Victor can carry it, shoulders like yokes.

If there’s someone stronger who must be erased, I’ll do it myself, hand like a guillotine.

Not that I don’t trust them; they just don’t clean cleanly enough, stains left like shadows.

Victor glared at me while raising his hand, like a dog biting a stick it won’t drop.

Next, Nivifar: our goodwill ambassador working with the Primordial Nine Races, battle idol.

Since lower retainers below her aren’t much to look at and leave bad impressions, she doesn’t get a legion banner, cloth spared like silk.

Nivifar’s an upper retainer, female, strong and not brain-dead like Berenz or Dulan.

I want her to show face long-term before the Primordial Nine Races, like a lantern on a gate.

She’ll swat monsters, run forums and concerts, be a bridge for peace between us and them, a bright arch over a river.

She’s an idol—fresh and radiant—with normal values… at least on the surface, gloss like varnish.

As that jester musician says, “beauty is part of justice,” and I’ll steal that line, pin it like a brooch.

Victor… seeing me ignore him, stopped raising his hand, like a flag drooping in calm.

Next, the one hanging on the wall is my secret Demon Blade, Dulan.

She likely can’t remember your names or faces; try to stay out of her way, footsteps soft as moss.

Two things about her: she’s strong; her mind’s not right, a storm in a scabbard.

Victor looked unimpressed, lips flat as slate.

If she decides to kill you, even Vega won’t stop her, edge like winter.

Victor’s eyes turned shocked at once, pupils tight as pinholes.

When he first joined, Vega beat him raw, so he uses her as a yardstick and understands instantly, measure like a ruler.

And finally, the one you know best: Vega—our part-time Intelligence Office, Scout Team, Discipline Office, Execution Bureau, Interrogator.

More than half our operations lean on her work, bones of a beast.

Since you know her, I won’t introduce more, curtain already up.

Only Vega bowed to everyone, letting me taste a little bossly dignity, warm as tea.

I forgive you for earlier, slate wiped like rain.

I started to say I’m not being pouty, but Vega stayed bent and cut me a sideways, chilling glance, like a knife’s sheen in shade.

Alright, no more play. Straight to the core, arrow to target.

I’ve arranged for a year—counting plans in the Demon Realm, it’s decades—about the Peace Conference.

Listen well, ears open like sails.

Dulan, you can keep your head in the wall; if I need you, I’ll order you myself, word like flint.

This is the most important thing for the Demon King Army right now, stone set in the foundation.

The script’s written; small errors may appear—report to Vega and everyone will patch them together, like mending a net.

I don’t allow failure within your strength—that was the old line, carved like runes.

This time I’ll add one more: even beyond your strength, failure is forbidden, sky drawn into law.

"If anyone dares mess up my peace talks—"

"—then get ready to go back to the Ocean of Darkness, back into the forge, and be recast from scrap."

I hate raising my voice; the sound cracks like a bad bell. When we’re fooling around, fine. For serious words, shouting just rings ears and burns throats; it means nothing.

So I smiled and poured the threat out, slow as tea from a clay pot, setting it down like a blade on black lacquer.

I took in their fear like the first sip after a long road.

Maybe it’s the sudden shift that scares them, a calm bay turning to storm in one breath. But I can’t keep a clown’s grin forever. There are things I guard, a small lamp I won’t let the wind snuff out.