“Douglas speaks first; then you take the stage. Stick to this script and let it flow like a river.”

“…But it’s not my speech; it feels foreign, like a borrowed coat.”

“Write your own if you want; then show me, lay your lines like tiles.”

“Shouldn’t it come from the heart—excitement and insight—thanks spilling like spring rain on the spot?”

Qing’s brows knotted like storm clouds as he held the pages up like a thin shield.

I loosened my body and collapsed onto the sofa like a tent, forearm over my eyes, breath leaving like a tired wind.

“You’re an idiot… well, right, you’ve always been dense, like a brick in a stream. A sage can do that; can you? Do one and show me.”

I slapped the peace-conference schedule onto his face like a cold leaf; Qing’s gaze stayed fogged, not knowing why my temper flared like a torch.

Be a goodwill ambassador and walk soft like a reed; in this life, you won’t be a good politician with a blade’s edge.

I was annoyed, grit in my teeth like sand, but some stones needed laying, so I spoke.

“This kind of gathering isn’t just signing a pact, then feasting till the steam blows away like mist. The opening rites, the host, the performances, the serving order—every gear has to mesh like a clock. It’s complicated, a loom of threads, so we plan it finely. Your speech runs eight to ten minutes, no more, no less, set like a metronome. For the flow of the whole, keep to the plan; you don’t want mortals laughing like crows at us.”

“They’re people! Brother, aside from power, they’re no different, like shadows under the same sun!”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right; now keep listening,” I said, my voice tapping twice like fingers on a drum, my nod loose as a reed.

I opened the notebook, pages lifting like pale wings, and showed Qing the fine print like ants on the page.

“For example: to guide the mood like a tide, I placed a few mid-tier retainers in the conference. Their job? When you finish, they’ll lead applause like rain on a tin roof. It’s delicate work, needle and thread. If you dislike my draft, write yours; I’ll set the time like a gate. Got it?”

A true fool, sturdy as stone, believing humans and Demonfolk can live together like twin rivers; even now he still had opinions.

Back in the Demon Realm, I’d have cracked him with a halberd like lightning. I explain the road in bricks; if they don’t get it, that’s on them—face the dirt and think like seeds.

But we preach peace and understanding now, so the blade stays sheathed like a sleeping serpent.

“But… I still feel a conference this big is a sea with no shore…”

“It should be mostly debate, waves slamming rocks; you cut through the noise like a sword, champion peace and win-win, persuade everyone, dawn for humans and Demonfolk—dream on… sorry, I slipped. It’s naive, like chasing a rainbow.”

“But if it’s a script, a painted stage, where’s the debate? Isn’t it just empty wind and going through the motions?!”

“You’re right; it’s a pageant, a parade of masks under lantern light.”

Anything truly worth debate—decisive like a hammer—was never on the table; the table’s bare as winter fields.

I motioned Qing, one of my few siblings who chase reason like lanterns, to sit, and I explained slow, rain on stones.

“You’re not wrong, but what’s reason for? It’s to carry what’s right, like a courier light, to those who live in caves.”

“I mean…”

“Let me finish. We can’t let a meeting with foggy outcomes yet mountain-deep impact run itself. So Douglas and I began with the weaving: the peace conference’s design. We set the anchor—‘sign the pact.’ Then we plotted tracks so that conclusion feels reasonable and accepted like warm tea.”

That’s politics, a chessboard under candlelight.

All the trade-offs reach quiet consensus like ink drying before the ‘discussion.’ Then on stage we leave them the impression: both sides applaud like twin currents meeting, agree as if by fate, and sign a historic peace.

Douglas is competent, a steady mast; Qing isn’t, a sapling in wind. So the Demonfolk’s side rests on my shoulders like a dark mantle.

As for supplies, Kadula, the Demon King of Value, stamped them safe like a wax seal. She’s helping in Daviya; my brothers kept snow-silent, tricked Anna together, slipped the leash like wolves, joined the pro-peace fire, and poured us funding like a river of coin.

If my gold could crack seven human economies like brittle ice, Ms. Kadula could make the whole world doubt gold’s mirror—force a switch of units like changing scales.

I’ve admired her craft, incense rising steady, for a long time.

Back to business. I pulled a notebook like a flat stone and tossed it to Qing in a small arc.

“First pages: the peace-pact draft Douglas and I compiled, a map of the route. Call it a ‘draft,’ but assume it’s the pact we’ll sign on stage like stamping a tablet. The rest lists sages’ or leaders’ objections like arrowheads aimed at you. It marks which questions are thorny; memorize the stepping-stone answers. It marks which you just need to understand, a lantern’s glow. It marks which can’t be answered; fog them and move on like a ghost.”

“We’ve paced the discussion time like drums. Once someone questions, they can’t chase you again; the format will cloak you like night. Don’t worry about me or Douglas; we’ve memorized our parts, masks ready under the lights.”

“After the conference opens, drift toward me during any free time like leaves to a bank. Your image is gentle and kind, soft as spring; a crowd will swarm like a tide with questions. There’s no perfect system, only brambles; I’ll wear the storm cloud and block the thorny ones.”

“Your rhetoric and philosophy aren’t honed; your blade’s dull. I won’t hand you to Douglas; learn under Vega, whet the edge. Even a rush harvest before frost yields grain.”

Qing’s expression tangled like vines in shadow.

I’d poured out words like a canal; fatigue settled like dusk.

I flipped the handbook, leaves turning like autumn; what Qing needed was mostly covered—only a last ember remained.

Time to relax. I slumped on the sofa in Qing’s room like a cat in sun, reached for a drink, lifted my mask like a shadow’s veil. I bit off the bottle mouth, swallowed glass and juice in one cold cascade.

The juice tasted like bright orchard sun; the glass pricked my throat like thorns and felt awful. I still don’t know why Anna’s got the bad habit of biting glass like a stray dog.

I raised her as a sapling—how did she bend under odd winds?

Well, dust off the sleeve; not my problem.

Qing’s different from those flashy, gaudy siblings, birds in sequins; he doesn’t fear me like frost or stiffen up when I enter. He sprawled on the bed like a resting fox, reading notes like pale feathers, calm as pond water.

I’ve hit him more than a little, thunderclaps to wake him, but Qing knows I have reasons—stones in his own pocket most times.

“Light’s too dim, twilight in here. Open the window and read.”

“Okay.” Qing pulled the curtains like night drawn aside, sat straight like a pine, and kept reading.

Great—my smoke of anger thinned and floated off like mist; no reason left to keep scolding him.

“Tell me, do you hate this kind of peace conference, or is it just not what you expected, like a kite jerking the wrong way?”

“…Mm.” He answered at last, a drop in still water after a long, held breath.

“Hoping everyone understands one another—words lighting lanterns—then mutual recognition. That hope’s not bad; it beats burning the world like wildfire and dragging everyone to death.”

“But it won’t happen. If it could, I’d taste a hero’s arc, a comet’s trail, a movie’s plot. Truth is, real stories run deeper and duller than painted masks; you have to understand, accept, and treat the dark as normal night.”

“I know you’re right, brother, but I don’t want…” His words trailed like smoke.

“Don’t want to? Don’t want what? Don’t want to act like an actor, follow my inked lines, and perform on my lit stage? Tell me, Qing—do you want peace, or a polished hero’s shield? My bedtime hero tales didn’t rot your brain like syrup, did they?”

I recall the last life; this fool stepped into fire and chose sacrifice for peace, ash drifting in my memory. Maybe he really leans that way.

He loathes his own leanings and pain—his and others’—barbed wire in the mind. The motive’s good, but sainthood syndrome walks to the cliff fastest.

We live on stone floors, not under silk banners of legend.

…When the peace conference ends and we mark a special district for the Demonfolk, don’t invite him over. Qing’s unbound and alone; let him stay in SkywardCity as a lucky talisman and study like clear water.

“You know, everything I do is the optimal move, a blade’s clean cut.”

I crossed one leg like a bridge, sipped juice like a sweet stream, and looked up at the ceiling, pale as a sky.

Above the glass wall, the heavens were strewn with stars, strewn with gods, a field of fires.

“To make the world better—drop the smallest coin and reap the fullest harvest; always this way, this time too.”

I sprang up from the sofa like a released spring and turned to Qing like a compass needle.

“Hey, do you know the word ‘the Grand Current’?”

“Mr. Douglas taught me; his words laid stones on a path.”

“Mm. I’ve debated it with him. We weighed gains and losses on scales, and agreed the vast majority would accept the pact—a sea moving one way—that’s the Grand Current that pushes the world forward. Once the decision’s set, the Current turns like a millwheel. Then we consider sacrifice, marked stones—how many we’ll give up, and who.”

“Wait! Why sacrifice others?” His voice flared like a match.

“Because no matter how perfect your theory, some fools won’t understand or agree, stones in the stream. We need them to shut up, and we choose methods that end it fast, keep their fool-virus like smoke from infecting more.”

“Are you… going to kill?” The words pressed like a blade to skin.

I couldn’t help laughing, a small bell in a cold room.

“If they analyze with clear water, not mud of bias, I’ve no interest in killing.”

Qing’s innocence, untouched snow never meeting buried thorns, always strikes me as darkly funny.

I do admire how he corrects himself, a sprout seeking sun, and learns.

“Also, as the Grand Current turns, if they blare nonsense like rusty horns, to stop their warped ideas from spreading and save more from being hurt by resisting a flood, I’ll have to act, knife from the sleeve.”

“You still want to kill!” His cry cut like a hawk’s screech.

“Rest easy. Everything will be lawful and justified, stone carved clean; I’ll state my resolve like steel. I’ll think like a human, lie with human words like silk veils, and fight with human morals like shields. It’s my way, an evil way, but all within rites and law, temple steps; no one will pluck a fault from me.”

“But… killing, causing pain—it’s bitter, like a bad herb.”

“It’s not for private desire. I choose the straight road for higher efficiency, better outcomes, sunrise for the future. Your mercy is soft rain that swells into flood and breeds cruelty; my winter cold preserves seeds and benefits more, lets the doomed live. I’m right. Understand.”

“I understand. You’re right…” His voice wilted like a leaf.

“Any objections? Speak. Throw your gauntlet and topple me like a tower; I welcome it.”

“…No.” His silence sank like fog.

“Then admit I’m right. Louder.” My demand beat like a drum.

Qing looked near tears, stormglass trembling; he bit his lip and knotted his brow like rope.

“You are… right.” The words fell like stones laid one by one.

“That’s better; you should understand,” I said, lantern glow warm in my chest.

Otherwise you’re a liar chasing hollow peace, an empty gourd rattling.

Few chances let you act from pure justice, a blade clean of rust. If you crave change and want to reshape what you hate, drop your porcelain mask of pride. First, grow the courage to bear black-ink infamy. Qing must grasp this.

I nodded, satisfied, a cat curling by a hearth.