After leaving the Sanctuary of Life, Stini drifted through the streets, black-ringed eyes like midnight moons smudged by smoke.

She hadn’t bathed, brushed, or slept for three days, swaying along with her sword like a lantern in storm-wind.

Passersby pointed, whispers like nettles; Stini lifted her chin, her gaze slanting like a blade toward a commotion.

A Heretic Inquisitor had been called over; he tugged the citizen away, like grass blown from a storm eye.

Fine. Right. Whatever. All of you, get away, like leaves swept from a burning field.

She refused to think about her lover; the moment Andor rose in mind, killing intent boiled in her marrow like iron.

Maybe she noticed that deadpan Hero first by a tug of instinct, like a string plucked under winter frost.

After that, he stood before her again and again, Greatsword catching arrows and knives like a steel storm.

Andor rarely smiled, like a mountain that holds its snow; yet she knew they advanced shielding each other, hearts alight.

Stini liked Andor, like a moth loves the moon.

More than any boyfriend before, more than those who liked her butt or chest, or her dad’s strength or Hero blood.

Andor valued her character, like a lantern’s flame protected from wind, not mere shine or heat.

Unique, she dared to think and understand Demonfolk; that proved Stini was Stini, not some random Hero heir.

Andor embraced that Stini, apart from her strength or fame, like accepting rain without asking for thunder.

She believed it went both ways; they recognized more than power, like two oars pulling one river.

As Andor often said, “Meaning isn’t only found in power,” a line she loved like tea’s aftertaste.

He once bragged about “Platonic love”; she never quite caught it, like mist slipping through fingers.

Maybe. Who knows. She knew she was in love, fierce as summer thunder, like fate finally pointing its finger.

She also knew Andor’s gaze fell more on Raven, so she poured her love like wine without a sealed lid.

No shyness. No timid steps. This war blessed by the Goddess of Life doesn’t allow shrinking like a wilted leaf.

This was…

“This is my love…”

A perfect flash lit her mind: three days ago, Andor torn and bleeding, not from battling Demonfolk.

She hadn’t held vigil beside him; Andor endured alone, for her and Raven, burden silent as snow.

Stini shoved those scenes out of her small head, like stuffing letters into a burning stove.

She blanketed them with clues about the Heart-Eater, tamped the rekindled flames back into her chest.

She forced herself into a hunter’s thinking, moon-cool and sharp.

No. Don’t hate. Chase the Demonfolk.

She told herself that; it did little. Her lips trembled, baring clenched teeth like winter wolves.

At a fork, she turned left without hesitation, eyes seeming blind, heart steering like a compass.

The street’s faint scents, the near-invisible flecks of blood, the thin killing aura, the veiled pulse of magic led.

Her small nose twitched like a sparrow; her prey was near.

Others didn’t know; they took her for a lunatic, eyes wary like shutters in wind.

Do those same eyes fall on Andor too, like thorns pressed to skin?

We guard you, why won’t you understand? She wanted to shout, then swallowed it like gravel.

“I can’t explain; they can’t understand.” The hallucination crept in, like dew on spider silk.

She avoided sleep because of recent nightmares, faces of terror she couldn’t recall, only the chill.

Now the voice that lived in dreams seemed to meet her in daylight, like shadows at noon.

Three days without sleep—too much? she thought, like a candle guttering.

Emotions surged, broke their seals; she remembered lifting Andor, the moment the world rang metal.

Maki arrived moments later, said something; she said something; then again; words like sparks in dry grass.

She answered once, then hoisted Andor and turned back toward the Sanctuary of Life, like bearing a wounded banner.

Maki waved, telling every Heretic Inquisitor not to block her, like a dam opened.

The lines then were roaring and accusations; she forgot the words, remembered the heat like wildfire.

Hero Stini, for the first time in her life, felt killing intent toward people, like iron filings pulled by a storm.

She shuddered and feared herself, like seeing a knife in her own hand.

So, after handing Andor to Elina and the others, she stood at the door, not daring to see him.

If she lay down, the rage flared; if she closed her eyes, killing intent seeped like fog.

Her rolling emotions kept sleep away; she had to find work for herself or the storm would break bones.

Thankfully Maki knew sense; he kept Heretic Inquisitors far, and stayed at headquarters, no fuel for her fire.

A woman in white brushed past the Hero, like frost on silk.

Stini stopped; her hollow eyes widened like full moons, and she turned back slowly, like a clock winding.

“So this is the Hero? Nice to meet you; I’m Kairi.”

She turned too, face chalk-white with sweat and a bitter smile, chest carved by a deep sword-scar.

It ran from shoulder to side; deep inside, two hearts thumped like drums in a cavern.

“Demonfolk—the Heart-Eater, that’s you, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but I…” the woman began, like wind trying to speak.

Stini lowered her head, choking on laughter and killing intent, and cut her off: “Enough. You’re wicked. Let me kill you.”

“Thou art wicked. Die.” The old hallucination roared, seventeen years loud, echoing like a temple bell.

She had no time to chase meanings; her sword hand shook, unable to dam the flood of killing intent.

As if a ghost stood behind her, palms over her ears, drowning every plea in cold river noise.

Then it merged into her, staining her with its killing, teaching its craft, singing its hate through her bones.

Kill. Kill. Kill.

Let anyone take this rage, this killing, or I’ll go mad, like ice cracking in spring.

“So I won’t think; killing leaves no room for thinking.”

Stini threw away nearly all reason; she didn’t care what the woman wanted to say.

Like a reed snapped in wind.

The ghost raged through her blade and throat, venting its storm with her hands and voice.

Only one law remained: don’t kill innocents. She herded the demon toward a sparse plaza before striking.

The ghost remembered too.

“Don’t kill people.” The voice overlapped with some impression; who was that?

Not important, like dust brushed aside.

She fought like a beast tearing flesh, sword a biting jaw.

No Andor here; no need for elegance, no need for a good girl’s manners.

Andor wasn’t with her; he couldn’t see her better side, so let go and kill with raw body-instinct.

Use fist, teeth, elbow, knee, head; she and the white-dressed woman smashed foreheads—crack—both blood-slick, reeling back.

So good; this pain is so good! Andor, I’m bleeding like you.

Even when the woman turned to wind, it didn’t help; Stini wielded stronger magic to counter and snipe.

The Demon King holds dominion; magic has limits; Stini rarely studied it, but her Hero blood reached the human peak.

Elemental Resonance is simple—turn body to element; Stini had sparred it with Andor countless times.

She snared the demon with a hand of mana; compared to Andor, her resonance was rough, graceless.

It was raw instinct, no training; in Stini’s battle-hard eyes, full of holes like moth-eaten cloth.

She punched the demon’s belly; she couldn’t touch the element, but fed mana to jam the elemental flow.

If the woman failed to exit that unstable Resonance in time, she’d self-destruct like glass under flame.

Sure enough, the white-dressed woman clutched her mangled abdomen and returned from transparent wind to flesh.

Against Andor, this level is only an opening move, like setting feet before the first clash.

Stini smiled crookedly; she lifted her hilt high and slammed it down—crack—bone splintering; the woman toppled.

Dark, red-black blood poured like tar.

Stini seized her throat and hauled her up; viscous blood ate her skin, failed to bite her tight muscle.

She raised her sword and aimed between the brows, like a needle threading fate.

Petite, she was shorter than the white-dressed woman; yet the wounded one couldn’t stand, clawing at Stini’s grip.

“This ends now, Demonfolk…”

“Just like that. Take her head.” Yes. Yes, like thunder approving.

“Then… who’s the real demon?”

The woman struggled, couldn’t stop Stini’s killing; as she shook her head, red eyes mirrored Stini’s face.

Her own ugly face. Fury. Hatred. A crooked, evil smile, like a wolf’s grin.

She saw the shallow face she once despised, a feeling of revulsion like sour milk.

The ghost fled in that instant, driven out, leaving her body with unwilling embers.

Her mind, slow-cooked, felt an ice-cold splash; she woke as if from a fogged sleep.

A stranger feeling rose as she calmed, like a fish surfacing.

No. This isn’t right. I should understand the Demonfolk, not simply kill them.

“Just kill. Kill only. Kill all Demonfolk.” The ghost was gone, but the voice still rang.

Perhaps in that dazed blink, the white-dressed woman turned to wind and fled.

Stini stared at her left hand, still holding the shape of a throat, like a claw carved in air.

She remembered, like a bell struck again.

That voice, like wind behind a door…

“Chase her. I can. Chase her. Take her head.” The voice was her own.

“Ka…” She looked to her sword hand; she tried a swing; it moved.

But she felt her body wasn’t hers, like a borrowed coat.

“What kind of joke is this!” The houses around were half ruined by the battle’s wake.

“Why!”

People watched from afar, eyes wary as spears.

“How could I… how could I… I said I’d try, I’d think, I’d understand.”

Stini drifted after the demon’s fading steps, eyes lost like a traveler in fog.

“What’s wrong with me?”

“That voice, that dream—what are they?”