Look, there—her name… oh right, Kairi. She just darted into the little chapel. Good, good. Talking to Stini was a mirage; I told her, no forgiveness—go eat a heart instead. Still, seeing fast that Stini can’t be reasoned with and grabbing a hostage? Smart as a knife’s glint.

Let me see; that old Divine Healer looks like Ambrolier from the Council of Sages, fond of preaching. Why can a Sage moonlight as a healer? Oh, right—we’re past the Bronze Age; those roles don’t clash, dust long gone.

A Heretic Inquisitor crawled up the rear eaves. I slid a step aside, just enough room for his sniping crossbow, his shadow not brushing mine.

Stini attempts to persuade the surrounding Heretic Inquisitors—roll fails. Stini attempts a physical persuasion—haha, this time it’s a success.

Justin vaulted onto the roof; one punch dropped the Inquisitor. So clean it startled me, like a hawk stooping under a clear sky.

He took the sniper kit. While he reset the hand crossbow’s string, I drifted to the unconscious Inquisitor and slipped three Anti‑Demon Arrow bases into his inner pocket, like smoke palming coins.

I thought it over. Those base shafts are too precious; even the Heretic Inquisition needs a handwritten writ from Chairman Maki to pull them from the vault. Better give Justin prototype Anti‑Demon Arrows, moon‑silver and mean.

My dear Lady Hero just went in, and she’s starting to undress. Head, turn around…

And now the long, tedious mouth‑sparring. What a slog, like drums beating mud.

Oh, deal struck. Good, good. Kairi‑chan can wait to be assassinated after the peace parley… hold up, she’s selling me out! Hahaha, Head, watch—the stage lights rise; the good part starts.

I clapped happily beside Justin, palms sharp as castanets.

First up, Mr. Justin’s act, the Heretic Inquisition’s signature art—“Kill Quota.” Head, I’ve always wanted to learn it, draw a bow and murmur, “It’s high noon.” Tell me that’s not cool, like sun over a deserted street. Sadly, you need a certain mindset, a brewed elixir, and meditation. I’ve got no mindset, no elixir, and no clue how to meditate.

Justin murmured a hymn to the god of death. He raised his hand, sent an arrow, then another, then a third, like stones tossed into thunder.

Abigail caught the second shot; Demon Blade clashed head‑on with the Godslayer Sword. In that clang of iron lightning, Justin loosed the third.

Beyond expectation—or exactly as expected—Stini caught the third Anti‑Demon Arrow in his hand, falcon‑swift.

I shook my head. Our dear Hero is always like this—hand in the flame, never flinching.

Then Stini guards against a strike, pivots to the chapel door, draws his sword, and shoves the inner armor “Shattered Dragon Scale” to Kairi. And yet—

I pointed across, fingers shaped like a gun, my shadow a crosshair.

Victor—the single best killer among mortals, bar none. When he came over, I rejoiced to add a “world’s number one” to my banner, the price only to protect Hattie. But he said he wouldn’t kill. I thought it was for Hattie’s sake, to avoid souring her heart. Only lately did I see the truth, like frost hidden under paint.

Victor’s blade has dulled. He once felt sure he could take down Augustus—no one could pay enough, that’s all. Now he isn’t a rootless lone killer; he projects his lover, Hattie, onto every human face. He can still kill, but he hesitates, a thin rime on steel.

A peak killer fights for that single instant. Victor can’t return to “mortal number one.” Forget Augustus—any fine warrior can catch the murderous flicker he leaks in that pause.

He can’t be a killer anymore.

Still, I found a little trick to slip past that heart‑block, like water finding a crack.

Kairi‑chan isn’t human. She’s Demonfolk.

A fourth prototype Anti‑Demon Arrow flew from the hand of the finest killer alive. It slipped through the gap by a street sign, skimmed a Heretic Inquisitor’s ribs, and streaked the edge of every gaze. No one saw that fatal shaft drive into Kairi’s back, kissing the inner armor about to be donned, spearing her chest.

Barbs hooked heart and lung, pinning the head within the chest. Three enchants woke—banish‑demon, slay‑demon, and silver‑venom. Kairi’s whole breast burned like a brazier, smoke in her breath.

Thus Victor could snipe in peak condition, just for that heartbeat.

Thus Kairi‑chan was doomed, candle flaring before it gutters.

I saw a slice of Shadow sink into the ground, and it jogged a thought, a ripple over still water.

Right, Vega’s part. She can sway the human heart—no, not a boss‑tier mind control, of course.

She can ride a body, nudge tiny “feelings,” hidden as dust in sunbeams. The cost is the effect is faint. But our Vega is a virtuoso of fine control—best of the best, needle‑point precise.

She only needs to seed Justin with “I should go check,” “I must shoot here,” “Here I can take revenge.” Guiding action is an art; a small emotion can complete a whole decision tree. Haha, I taught Vega everything I know, ink flowing into brushstrokes.

Abigail burst onto the roof, another sword stroke like a flashing tide.

I hopped aside; I didn’t want to collide with Abigail’s charge, even if a collision would pass through me like mist. Still, who wants to bump into a man? …If it were a woman, we could talk.

As you see, it’s your cue next, Head.

I snapped my fingers at the boy in the sleeveless patient gown beside me. Head just shrugged, like a willow in light wind.

In straight duels, Justin can’t beat Abigail. But His Highness was holding back, and the Heretic Inquisitor is all technique. He peeled aside two cuts with the Demon Blade, borrowed the force, and slipped away, like rain off lacquer.

Justin didn’t notice a small glowing orb tumble from his inner pocket, a firefly bead.

I strolled over and toe‑kicked the orb beside Abigail, like flicking a marble into a stream.

I used the authority of Shadow to veil the god’s senses. The Deity of Justice is just a broken corpse now, after all, so Abigail couldn’t converse with the god, the temple’s echo silenced.

The foreshadowing is buried; today’s drama ends here. I went back to Head and leaned on the rail like Him, twin silhouettes under a pale sky.

How was it? Very entertaining.

Oh, please. A Divine Being won’t enjoy that sort of scheming. I rolled my eyes at Head, pupils two dark moons.

But you want praise, don’t you? Head smiled. That smile… looked familiar. A pale smile, light as washed ink.

Tell me, Head—do you know a little tavern in the City of Heroes where a musician plays with real skill?

I do. He’s a swindler.

A swindler? No, I mean the musician.

You haven’t asked his name yet. Next time, he’ll tell you. Head watched Abigail scan the rooftops for other snipers. He wanted to chase Justin, yet feared another shot. Don’t mind him. He’s… irrelevant. Not even a supporting role. Just part of the crowd’s backdrop, like stones in a riverbed.

Even if those talents, those thoughts, have nothing to do with you? Mm. Nothing to do with me.

I didn’t answer. I watched Abigail. He hesitated, then turned to check on Stini, and only then noticed the cracked crystal sphere at his feet, spiderwebbed.

Andor—he used “The Seared Insight of the Fool King.”

It’s fine. Mortals can’t look straight at a god. Abigail remains one actor in this play, lantern in hand.

Abigail drifted our way. He could not pierce the god’s remains; he rubbed his temples and walked with his head down. He glanced up by chance—and suddenly locked his gaze toward us. One hand gripped the crystal sphere, the other raised his sword, tip pointed at my brow, a breath from piercing my sunglasses.

Hey, hey. You can’t see me or Head, so why aim only at me?

Looks like His Highness knows we’re here, Head said with a smile, like a knife wrapped in silk.

He’s someone who took the Prophet path. Even blind, he should sense us in outline, as if through fog.

I reached out and pressed the sword tip. —Doesn’t help, though. My fingers passed through the Godslayer Sword’s “Warning,” and then right through the air, water through a sieve.

Head is “Wisdom” now, and I am “Shadow”—call it “Darkness,” “Evil,” or any “negative” idea. We exist here in a manner beyond the world. Human eyes can’t see us. Physics can’t touch us. We—gods and demons—are present in a more essential way, like roots under stone.

Abigail felt a presence—something off—but he had no proof to justify that intuition, because any proof a person can grasp sits below our current rank of being. He finally snapped his head clear and leaped off the roof to find Stini, cloak fluttering like a raven.

Now we’re observers, seers. If we tip the balance a little, we become arrangers. And meddling demands recompense; I do know that much, scales in the mind.

As for the trade… Ah, speaking of that, first—thank you for bringing Stini back. I bowed to Head, sincerely. I never expected the old trajectory of history to pile onto Stini all at once, like snow off a roof. Thanks to Head’s intervention, Stini’s spirit finally resettled in this world. Though it could be Head’s scheme…

Don’t spin conspiracy theories about your partner, okay? I care about this generation’s Hero too. Head gave a wry smile, thin as autumn light.

Before, sure, I’d mock the word “partner.” Now… it’s different.

Ferrel, right? That’s why you still wear those ridiculous glasses.

I wear them to make Ferrel laugh. I nudged my sunglasses, annoyed. Ferrel’s presence is the base of our cooperation. We’re not worried about each other; we’re worried about her feelings. So I left her on the shopping street to eat lunch alone, half a district away. I won’t disappoint her. I won’t let her see this—evil, soot under the snow.

Agreed. Head held out a hand, as if for a high‑five. I ignored it. He had probably already seen the “future” where I refused; the gesture was just a stance, never expecting me to meet it.

Head, you settled Stini’s past wraiths and fetched the Deity of Justice’s crystal sphere. Now it’s my turn to pay. The boy still leaned on the rail, smiling like a dawn line on water.

Let’s hear it—your plan, your salvation.