“The Hero, Stini Saya, suddenly bolted; Abigail of House Beatrice and Alina Helen of the Grand Temple aren’t here.”

“Mm-hm. What about the others?” His tone was flat as a still pond rippling once.

Douglas frowned, his brows knotting like twisted rope, and checked the roster with Andor side by side.

Andor looked unruffled, like wind brushing reeds. “Everyone else is on track.”

“Seems that side’s fine… ah, I mean, we don’t need to mind them. The peace summit goes on.” His words fell like calm rain.

“But the Hero Stini was set to speak, to weigh in on the draft pact.” Douglas’s voice thudded like a drum.

“Have Veronica sing an extra song. After ‘Longing for Glory’ wraps, wait three minutes, then ‘Hero.’ Let the crowd think. It’s the backup we planned in the cradle.” His grin flashed like a fox in dusk.

“Right… it should be.” Douglas was a broad old man, a head taller than Andor, and he looked down with doubt like shadow over stone. “But is this really seamless? For you?”

“Haah, who knows?” Andor’s sigh drifted like mist down a ravine.

He leaned against the wall, solemn robes on a careless frame, like silk thrown over a cat. He shifted the Long Halberd from left shoulder to right and stifled a yawn, smoke-soft.

His smile hid in shadow, like a crescent moon veiled by clouds.

“Haah… I’m beat. Don’t fuss over pebbles. Go give the opening, or our guests will parch waiting.” His words nudged like a breeze under a sail.

Douglas stared deep at Andor, then patted his shoulder, heavy as an oaken hand. “I hope your enemies are real,” he said, meaning coiled like a hidden spring, and strode to center stage.

The arcane lamps poured white like rivers on him, and all eyes swung his way like iron to a lodestone.

“Thank you all, in your busy hours…” His speech unfurled like a banner in sunrise.

Leaders of the tribes stood in one field, Demon Kings in another, like two shores divided by a dark current. No one drew steel; that calm alone was a blessing like the first snow holding fire at bay.

Andor spared Douglas a glance on stage, then fixed his eyes on a small table set upon the border between Demon Kings and humans, like a chess piece at the faultline.

Two sat at that table.

One was massive, half bare, wrapped in heavy chains like a mountain bound by rivers. His hand lifted a cup with a gentleness like a heron’s beak.

The other wore a black suit and a tall top hat, cane in hand, watching the room with playful eyes, like a cat regarding a teahouse.

Andor wasn’t a Divine Being; if any Demon King started a riot, he could put them down, but he’d spend blood and breath, and lives would spill like ink. With those two present, and with a word asked in advance to leash any hotheads, this summit might pass without an earthquake.

Few in this world can stand against both a Primordial Deity and an Archdevil, like cliffs that break both storm and tide.

——

“…Still a headache.” Andor’s whisper curled like smoke. “The Divine Being volunteers, no problem there. Devils never help for free.”

“This time I asked him to keep the unruly little brothers and sisters in check until my speech ends. The price is letting him attend the summit officially. More strings, more thorns—damn it, trouble.” His thoughts rattled like pebbles in a gourd.

“Ah, of course he’ll pitch trick questions. I can only hope Raven bails us out on time. Trading with devils is loss-heavy, win-light; better not expect much from those arms merchants…” His breath was bitter as cold tea.

Abigail couldn’t catch Andor’s murmurs from the hospital bed, and he didn’t try; his heart was sinking like dusk over a lake.

After the Truth Seekers Assembly mess, he admitted defeat to Andor and gave up chasing Raven. The admission was ash; the feeling was fire.

He still liked that girl whose face often puffed like a sparrow’s, tender and steel within, and he still wanted to stand near her, to see her laugh like bells in sunlight.

…Raven couldn’t peel an apple; Abigail meant to teach her hand in hand, like a patient gardener. She watched him peel, then turned to her room and soon built a magitech apple-peeler.

You put the apple in, press a switch, and it strips clean, working three days straight like a mill, then needs a pinch of mana. Efficiency left hand-peeling in the dust like a kite lost in a gale.

It wasn’t a one-off. Abigail feared that left unchecked, this girl would replace everything human hands can do with magitech, like gears swallowing dawn.

That left him feeling useless, a lantern at noon; he couldn’t show off, couldn’t be of clear worth, and pride took a bruise like fruit dropped on stone.

He looked once more at Andor on the bed, then slapped his thigh, sharp as a clap, and stood.

“I’m going to the peace summit. Rest well, Andor.” His voice carried like a steady drum.

He patted the white sheet, snow-pure, then left the ward to find Elina and head out together. There was time, but for a summit this big, earlier was safer, like setting sail before the wind rises.

They’d hosted his group for long days; he owed a bow like water poured back to the spring. They weren’t close, but she and Raven seemed warm as sisters.

He walked the halls of the Grand Temple, his thoughts drifting to the girl in another room like a kite tugging its string.

In that breath of distraction, he missed why the Grand Temple was so quiet today, like a forest holding its breath before lightning.

A peak fighter handles ambushes like a hawk dodging arrows. At Abigail’s level, even if someone fired from his back, without stepping into the Godspeed Realm, he could tighten muscles and skin in an instant, slip aside, and let the bullet skim him like rain off slate.

But that sidestep would be wide, balance broken like a wheel losing a spoke, leaving a gap like a door ajar.

Worse, the attacker loosed a crossbow bolt, a Demonbane bolt with a sharp head. Try to graze it, and that keen tip would slice skin like a razor on silk.

Justin said nothing. His right fist drove for Abigail’s face like a hammer for an anvil. The prince still judged cleanly; he snared Justin’s fist in reverse like a net catching a fish.

Justin dropped the hand-crossbow and drew his Demon Blade to pierce Abigail’s organs like night seeking a candle, but Abigail’s snapping kick was faster; Justin flew like a fallen star.

Abigail took the gap, drew his side-sword, and settled into stance, breath cutting clean like a drawn bow.

His guts knotted like ropes; pain bit down like frost, but he had done what needed doing. The Demonbane bolt grazed his back; his left hand gripped a steel claw, barbs biting his palm and flooding with a paralytic like cold mercury.

The Demonbane enchant was for Demonfolk; against humans, “slay-demon” and “banish-demon” don’t trigger. But “silver poison” cares for neither man nor demon; once struck, blood and viscera silver over like frost on leaves, locking motion in a metal cage.

His right hand surged with Divine Art, a blast like thunder rolling down stone. The Demon Blade sprang from Justin’s left, joining the storm. Justin’s sword lost to Abigail’s, his strength fell short, his speed lagged; he couldn’t beat a Hero. So he had to attack in one flood, then gamble: would Abigail drop to poison first, or Justin to exhaustion, like two candles racing to gutter.

Even ambushed, with curses binding tighter like vines, Abigail was still the Hero who could cut sky and earth with a sword stroke, like dawn splitting night.

Before the poison took hold, he had time for three cuts.

The first thrust speared through Justin’s steel claw, severed two fingers like twigs, and ran from palm to elbow like lightning.

The second dragged diagonally, flicking the Demon Blade aside, carving a bloody line across Justin’s belly like a plow through soil.

The third, a pale wind, slipped past Justin’s fearless fist and steel, and rested soft against his chest like a feather.

Abigail hesitated and did not drive it in. His pause was a leaf trembling on a branch.

Paralysis and silver poison ate his body like winter creeping over fields. He tried to draw breath and fight on, but his strength reached its end like a tide withdrawing. His sword fell, and his body crashed down like a felled tree.

“You’re a Hero. You ought to be a Hero.” The prince spoke from the floor, voice low as embers.

“That’s why you didn’t kill me?” Justin sat, gasping hard like bellows, an old Inquisitor whose spirit feared nothing, but whose body lagged like an aging horse.

“I thought you’d tell me to turn back.”

“Andor says in this age right and wrong stand apart, good and evil are clear, and no redemption remains. I won’t urge it. I listened to the sage and to my own eyes; I saw much about you.” His words were steady as stones.

“So what? The dead don’t return. I’m guilty; I’ll atone later. That’s all.” His breath was iron, cold and plain.

“I want to give you an ending you can accept, one that sits true like a blade in its sheath.”

Justin was silent a moment. He rose and took from Abigail the crystal sphere glowing soft as a moonstone.

“Only justice. I seek only absolute justice in this world, nothing else.” His tone was a blade laid on ice.

He stabbed, pinning Abigail’s hand to the floor, and Abigail didn’t even blink, his gaze deep as wells.

“This is so you remember: don’t hold back next time. It’s luck for me, but not for you. Not every villain who attacks you… acts evil to birth a greater good. Don’t gamble your life, great Hero.” His words struck like a wooden clapper.

Justin steadied his breath with the Heretic Inquisition’s breathing method, like a monk counting beads. He strapped on his hand-crossbow and his severed fingers, then headed for the door, step firm as stone.

He smothered the Demon Blade’s urge—the blade called “Nameless Won’t Kill” thirsted to drink the Hero’s throat like a snake at a spring. That was the world’s Hero, hope and the next dawn; how could Justin butcher him? Rather, Abigail’s mercy, placing his future in an enemy’s hands, stoked Justin’s anger like fire under oil.

Still… I also want someone to understand. His thought was a lone lamp in fog.

If absolute justice walked the earth, if both were blades turned to light, they wouldn’t cross and snap like today, like two rivers colliding.

Justin gave Abigail one last look; those eyes, deep as if piercing the future, carved into memory like chisel marks, then he turned and left, decisive as a closing door.

——

Soon after, Elina finished her daily prayer and stepped out of a small room, and shock hit her like thunder when she saw a temple sister hidden in a corner and Abigail with one hand nailed to the floor.

“Go get Andor, please, Elina!” His voice strained like a bowstring.

“Easy, easy! I’ll heal you first and catch that Inquisitor!” Her reply was as quick as sparks.

“No! Not Justin!” His shout tore rough like cloth.

The paralytic numbed Abigail’s tongue; he bit down hard, pain slicing bright, and pulled his mind back like a kite reeled in.

“Make sure Andor stops Stini!” His words landed like stones thrown across water.