Justin meant to kill as little as possible, like a hunter treading fresh snow.

Yet if killing was needed, he swung like winter steel, showing no mercy.

Once a threat brushed his life, he struck cold as frost.

But this time he only dropped the guards, his blade hovering like a reflection over a river, and he didn’t open their throats.

The Demon Blade in his palm sulked for lack of Abigail’s blood, snarling like a caged hound; blood-hunger bled through his mind like ink into water.

Before, the Demon Blade, Nameless Slays None, had never rioted so fiercely, like a storm inside a scabbard.

It seemed the leash was too tight this time, like a noose cinched hard.

Yet Justin disliked the blade already, like grit in the teeth.

Today it would all end; he wouldn’t endure its goading; a moment’s bitterness was nothing, like swallowing strong tea.

Not killing, in a sense, burned his boats, like torches on a shore.

He touched the warm-glowing crystal sphere in his chest pocket, like a coal cupped in cloth, and asked, “Divine Being, can I face death?”

“Isn’t that your decision?” The answer came like still water in a well.

“But people fear death; betting your life and accepting death are different beasts, like fire and ice.”

“Your choice?” The word rang like a bell in fog.

That was Justin’s choice, set like a stone in a riverbed.

He broke from the dark and drove a fist into a SkywardCity core guard’s gut, like a hammer into clay.

As the guard folded, he chopped the back of his neck, like splitting kindling.

The other froze until his partner hit stone with a dull thud, like a sack of grain.

Then he reached for the alarm charm at his belt, like a drowning man for a reed.

A bolt punched through his hand, silver flashing like moonlight; then Justin’s fist crashed into his cheek like a wave.

He toppled like a felled tree.

Still no killing, like holding breath under ice.

Which meant if they woke, they’d likely cry alarm, like a flock of crows.

Then Justin couldn’t run, like feet trapped in mud.

He was strong but limited, like a bow with one last string.

Against real heroes, he lost every straight fight, like a moth to flame.

He hunted by ambush, like a wolf in brush.

Without shadows to hide him, he’d flip from hunter to prey, like a hawk grounded in rain.

Now he had only one road left: revive the Divine Being, like walking a bridge of knives.

With his bridges burned and his resolve set, his hands shook like leaves in a night wind.

Humans fear death; the Creator etched that into our souls like runes cut in bone.

But this death felt necessary, like rain before a firebreak.

Like those he’d killed these years, good and bad alike, because need demanded, like wheat under a scythe.

Now it was his turn, like a lamp nearing its oil’s end.

Justin kept going down, like a stone in a well.

He crept, he ambushed, he cast Divine Art, and reached the last door, like a ghost sifting reeds.

Behind it, a disciplined magic storm turned slow circles, like a whirlpool under ice.

Even with dull senses, he felt its pressure, like a mountain on his chest.

The crystal in his pocket grew hot and pointed forward, like a lodestone under skin.

The two doorkeepers ahead were the strongest so far, like twin boulders in a gorge.

He hid in shadow and gripped his hand crossbow, like clutching a talon.

Now he should pull the trigger, like loosing a sparrow into dawn.

The bolt would punch through one body, like a nail through bark.

Silver poison would spread from the lodged shaft, like frost over glass.

They’d drop in ten heartbeats, like candles pinched out.

He’d then move fast and draw the other into pursuit, like a red cloth before a bull.

The man would step into a laid shock trap, like a foot into a hidden pond.

Whether they wore anti-demon charms, or had toxin resistance, or were of other races—he had answers, like tools on a belt.

He was a perfect hunter, start to finish, like a shadow with teeth.

But…

Abigail, that great hero, had said, her voice like a trumpet over rain, “You’re a hero. You were meant to be.”

Hero, huh… The word tasted like ash and honey.

He hadn’t heard that in ages, like a bell long silent.

Since he defected from the Heretic Inquisition ten years ago, like breaking from a chain.

No—since he joined it, like stepping into a cave.

No… wrong…

No one had ever told him, “You are a hero,” like a banner never raised.

He remembered himself as a boy, telling his mentor Maki, chest bright as a lantern, “I’ll become a great hero who guards the world!”

His mentor only ruffled his hair and said nothing, like snow falling without sound.

After years as an inquisitor, he thought he understood that silence, like reading a scar.

In darkness, he became the evil, like donning a mask of soot.

He guarded peace and justice from the far side, like a wall of night before dawn.

Now he kept on with Slaughter to revive the Divine Being, like rowing upstream through blood.

He had thought being such a dark hero was enough, like a cloak that fit.

He had thought he could be content, like a cup filled to the brim.

Turns out, he still didn’t understand, like a traveler lost at a crossroads.

He raised the crossbow a few degrees and pulled the trigger, like lifting a starling to sky.

The spellbane bolt struck the iron gate with a clear ring, like a struck bell.

“Hero…” The word drifted like smoke.

He stepped from the dark and faced the startled guards, like a man stepping into rain.

He tossed the hand crossbow aside, like letting go of an old bone.

Though a dwarven master’s work, a gift from his mentor, like an heirloom warm as a hearth.

But that last bolt was spent; the weapon was useless now, like a bow without a string.

The Demon Blade, Nameless Slays None, snapped into his left hand, like a viper leaping from grass.

His iron-clawed right tightened into a fist, like a trap closing.

He roared and charged straight at the two guards, like a wave breaking on rocks.

Their halberd-axes weighed more than he expected, like millstones on poles.

Justin wasn’t good with a blade, like a farmer with a lute.

He failed to flick aside the left halberd and lost a slab of flesh, blood spraying like petals.

The right halberd chopped down, like thunder from a clear sky.

He slid past the edge and blocked on the haft, like catching lightning on wood.

But Abigail had cut off two fingers of his right hand, like teeth torn from a gear.

He could barely make a fist, like rope frayed to threads.

New wounds from Abigail, old injuries, and age-weakened flesh all flared, like old fires fanned to flame.

They rocked his staggering body, like waves battering a skiff.

Frontline fighting didn’t suit him, like a fish on dry land.

Such brave roles didn’t suit him, like armor on a bird.

Still, he shouted and lunged, like a stag charging through bramble.

What he shouted didn’t matter to him, like wind through pines.

He’d once seen knights yell like that in battle, like iron singing in rain.

Reckless fighting, foolish fighting, futile fighting, like seeds cast on stone.

He laughed and let his long-knotted brow unfurl, like clouds breaking to sun.

And he fought, like a drumbeat in a storm.

That embattled silhouette looked exactly like a torch in the night—

—a hero!

Justin carried his own left arm, like a butcher hauling meat.

He cinched a sack around the spilling gut, like binding a cracked barrel.

He pulled open the rune-scribed gate, like prying a lid off a tomb.

His magitech lore wasn’t deep, like skimming a book by moonlight.

He could only guess at “Seal” and “Link,” like footprints in sand.

Magic wind howled past him, like wolves in a pass.

The dense mana almost choked him, like smoke in a kiln.

Inside lay pitch darkness, like ink in a well.

He was human despite long training, like flesh under iron.

After a while his eyes adjusted, like night fishermen finding shore.

The jade-like floor glowed faintly, like snow under starlight.

Runes packed it edge to edge, like vines on a wall.

At the center, a pillar propped all of Atland, like a spine under a mountain.

It was a transparent cylinder, like a glass well.

A few stray shards floated within, like leaves in still water.

Small crystal fragments cast warm light, like embers cupped in glass.

He reached toward them, like a moth to a lantern, and froze.

He wasn’t alone in that empty space, like hearing breath behind a door.

Two maids stood ahead with formal poise and bowed, like willow wands in a breeze.

No—only one bowed, and punched the other, who seemed asleep, in the back of the head, like swatting a dozy cat.

The sleepy one stumbled, like a drunk bird.

Justin tried to take a stance, like a bear rising, and found sadly he had no strength left, like water from a cracked jar.

“Please don’t panic. We don’t intend to fight you,” the black-bobbed maid said, voice even as rain on slate.

Beside the lazy maid, she looked strict to a fault, like a blade beside a padded glove.

“You…” His breath rasped like gravel.

“We’re only witnesses and keepers,” she said, like stones watching a river.

“We won’t change anything,” she added, like stars above war.

“Don’t lie. You’re Demonfolk,” he said, the word sharp as flint.

He smelled Demonfolk mana, like sulfur on the wind.

Their otherworld scent was unmistakable to humans, a stench like rot under roses.

Their open scent meant they didn’t hide, like flags in clear air.

“Indeed, we’re Demonfolk. But we’re friends to humans,” she said, her smile slight as frost.

“Friends? What a joke…” His laugh was dry as straw.

She pointed upward, like showing the pole star.

“Peace Conference. My master is the World Saving Demon King, Andor, one of its hosts.”

“What do you want…” His words dragged like chains.

“By the original plan, I’d serve you a lavish meal,” she said, like a feast under lanterns.

“I’d answer any question about me and my master,” she went on, like opening a scroll.

“But… will you live to hear?” Her tone was soft as mist.

Life hung by a thread, like a spider’s silk in wind.

His wounds wouldn’t let him fight again, like rust in joints.

Even living would be hard, like walking through mud.

The earlier battle burned his life to the wick, like a candle guttering.

He had no strength left, like an empty gourd.

The black-haired maid signaled to the brown-haired one, like a raven nodding to a sparrow.

She strolled over and took his left hand, like plucking a leaf.

Justin’s body tried to resist, like a startled deer.

“Don’t move.” Her words fell like a lid.

Darkness with that command was unheard-of, like an eclipse at noon.

He met an evil that must not be provoked, like a deep sea without shore.

Like a frog under a serpent’s stare, he didn’t dare move.

He hated his weakness, like bile in the throat.

He looked nothing like a hero, like a lantern gone out.

The brown-haired maid bandaged his wounds, her hands quick as swallows.

She used the priciest enchanted wraps in the market to reattach his arm, like sewing storm-torn sails.

She returned his organs home and bound his belly, like tucking books back on a shelf.

The black-haired maid stepped up and bowed, like a reed before wind.

“You may not trust me, Mr. Justin, and that’s normal,” she said, her gaze steady as a lake.

“But that’s not important. As I said, we witness and maintain. That’s all,” she finished, like caretakers of an old shrine.

“What do you want,” he said, his tone flat as stone.

“Simple. A few questions. Then you can take that crystal there—call it the Divine Being’s remains, if you like,” she said, words clear as bells.

She wasn’t joking, her face smooth as slate.

Justin’s pupils tightened like knots in rope.

“No, no, don’t be so tense. See? We mean no harm,” she said, palms open like white petals.

“We act for the world, and for you,” she added, like rain for parched fields.

“Since you can’t wait, let’s start. Will you feel regret?” Her voice was deep as a well.

Her eyes were deep wells that might open to another dark world, like pits under stars.

“For the innocents who died, for those you killed because need demanded, for those you didn’t sort before you struck—do you wail at midnight and pray alone?”

“No.” The word dropped like a stone.

That was his decision, fixed like an iron nail.

If given another chance, he’d choose this road again, like a river finding its bed.

He chose what was right, like a compass to north.

He believed it was right, like fire believing in flame.

Otherwise he wouldn’t walk it, like feet shunning thorns.

Since it was right, he wouldn’t repent, like a blade that won’t bend.

He wouldn’t atone, like a mountain that won’t kneel.

“My deeds leave my heart unashamed. If there’s recompense, I’ll accept it gladly,” he said, voice clear as winter air.

The maid nodded, pleased, like a teacher seeing a mark.

“Second question. Do you know what you’re doing? SkywardCity was once built on the back of the native being, the ‘Skyward’ Polichia…”

“I know. I understand the evil I do,” he said, his tone flat as iron.

When sages expanded the first SkywardCity, no craft could hold its weight, like hands failing to hold a mountain.

They turned to the extraordinary, like men praying to storms.

To the Divine Being’s remains, bones bright as frost.

“Eighty percent of SkywardCity will fall. Casualties will be endless. I checked the records—Even so, I’ll revive the Divine Being,” he said, will hard as flint.

“Last question. Do you want to be a hero?” The word hung like a sword.

An easy answer rose to his tongue and turned heavy, like honey to lead.

He couldn’t be a hero, like night can’t be dawn.

Darkness this deep belonged to villains, like roots belong to earth.

The maid seemed to read him, like moonlight reading water.

She nodded and gave a small smile, like a petal drifting.

“From your actions, I understand. Good. The questions are done. The witnessing is complete. Go take what’s yours,” she said, her hand sweeping like a fan.

The two maids stepped aside and opened a path to a small floating shard at the center, like curtains parting.

Justin lifted heavy legs and walked, like stones tied to ankles.

“This isn’t a dream,” she said, words cool as dew.

The black-haired maid supported him, like a branch under snow.

“After you take it, Dulan will hold SkywardCity’s weight for a time. Don’t fear a collapse,” she said, tone steady as granite.

“But please revive the Divine Being far away,” she added, like asking fire to burn at sea.

“We’re Demonfolk. If the Divine Being purifies us, no one will hold SkywardCity,” she said, the consequence stark as a cliff.

“Of course, you have reason to doubt me,” she admitted, trust thin as ice.

“But if you believe me, things won’t get worse, will they?” she asked, hope small as a candle.