When the Creator began, he first shaped the Primordial Beings, like dawn coaxing mountains from mist.

There was no template, no precedent. He gave form and life to what he called beautiful, stars hammered from night glass; each Primordial Being stood alone—one being, one clan.

The first world was too small for them, a bowl too tight for whales. So they took the Creator’s plea and slept, waiting until the world grew wide enough for their vast bodies to wake.

Some, like Beowulf the Sky‑Bearer, slept underground. Darkness seeped in like ink through sand; Augustus’s Hero Squad bled and battled to grant him rest.

Others, like the “Skyward” Polichia, let their bodies drift in the heavens, far from shadow, just sleeping like a cloud at anchor. Over ages, people built a thriving city on that colossal body—Skyward City Atlante.

The first foundation rose in the early Silver era, like silver leaves unfurling. The sages knew their presence tilted fate’s scale, so they sought an off‑world court where they could teach reason and justice without warping history.

They found a dragon enclave, an airborne isle on Polichia’s back, and won the assent of the former Dragon King, Douglas, a name like thunder rolled smooth.

Crowds came to hear them, a tide of people. The isle grew lively as lanterns after dusk; the sages joined the dragons to expand the island.

Old wisdom faded with the Golden Age’s sunset. Even the sages lacked a spell to frame a whole city, scaffolding for the sky.

So they wondered: if hands can’t, what about the uncanny—power beyond, like lightning bottled?

After many trials, they found in the dragons’ vault a thing no mind could parse. It looked like shattered crystal shards, frost broken under heel; even the Divine Beings offered no answer.

Yet its power could bear a city with ease, a giant’s palm under stone. If not for Polichia’s load limit, the figures said it could even uphold a continent.

Later, magic advanced across races; spellwork could replace the crystal shards, a woven net under the clouds. Only one problem remained—the gap between removal and rebuilding.

In that gap, Skyward City would slam onto Polichia, then tumble to earth like a fallen moon.

The existing mana circuit filled the whole core; there was no space for a second circuit. With the gap unsolved, replacing the core stalled into silence, a plan shelved in dust.

Still, the crystal shards were Skyward City’s fatal weak point—pull them, and the city’s heart would stop, like a bird with clipped wings.

So the Council of Sages stationed heavy guards at the core, shields like a forest of iron.

“—So, maybe you’re wondering why I’m in this heavily guarded core,” the black‑haired maid said, her voice fluttering like a paper kite, “clearly not one of the guards, yet I slipped to the Divine Being’s remains.”

She activated a black cube, like an arcane component shaped by bad omens, its geometry wrong as a broken mirror.

Then she signaled Justin to remove the Divine Being’s remains. As he took the crystal shards, another brown‑haired maid braced the column above, arms like pillars under a storm.

Miraculously, Skyward City didn’t collapse; the city hung like a drum held mid‑strike.

The black‑haired maid muttered, “Sync start,” a strange song under her breath, and then her manner grew stranger.

It was like she swapped masks—gestures theatrical, salutes exaggerated, comical as a puppet bowing; her tone turned teasing and light.

“Mm‑hmm, I get it,” she said, twirling like a clumsy sparrow. “On paper this makes no sense. Why didn’t I trigger alarms? If I came with malice, Skyward City would be toast.”

“Eh, why worry over crumbs? Villains stroll palace sanctums like tourists all the time in stories, right? It’s the trope. We (Demon King) always have black tech and black magic you (humans) don’t get.”

“If you fretted every time, the world would’ve ended a thousand times,” she laughed, a bell out of tune.

She tugged her skirt and spun in the air, but the motion wasn’t graceful, only barely balanced—a leaf twirling in a bad wind.

She staggered like she’d never worn heels, steps crooked as a drunk line.

“Ahem—anyway, we’re here in goodwill, to nudge the world toward something better. Trust me, okay?” she said, winking and blowing Justin a kiss, a spark that failed to light.

It wasn’t sexy at all, a rose drawn without petals.

Justin’s gut tightened; he grew more wary, like a wolf smelling smoke.

The maid sighed and threw up her hands. “I can’t handle him. Vega, you take over.”

Then she reset herself, tidied the rumpled uniform, hands folded at her belly, and bowed to Justin, ritual perfect as a tea ceremony.

“My apologies. My Master acted on impulse and made… gestures beyond normal courtesy,” she said softly, voice even as rain. “I couldn’t stop her. Please consider it unseen.”

“To sum that trash talk: you may not understand our actions, but believe this—we are the minority in the Demon King Army who still hold goodwill toward humanity and the mortal world.”

“…”

“It’s fine. Even if you’re thick and still don’t believe, that’s your right,” she added, sharp as winter air.

He noted it: in tense times, she was respectful; once the air eased, a certain trait bled through—a poison tongue, thorns under silk.

“—Anyway, you’re going to die,” she said mildly, as if noting the weather. “We want you to go in peace.”

She handed Justin a map of the core, more detailed than the one he had sweated to chart, lines clean as river veins.

“The red route lets you—glutton for guard trouble—reach the surface of Skyward City safely. Wake the Divine Being up there, not here.”

“If the Divine Being kills us, fine. But if the city’s safety can’t be guaranteed, that’s the real nightmare,” she said, eyes dark as wells.

“If I reach the surface, and the Divine Being still discovers you, what’s the point?” Justin asked, voice low as embers.

“There is one,” she said. “Someone will stop the Divine Being from wrecking this city, like a hand catching a falling blade.”

“Hmph. You think the Divine Being wouldn’t save it?” His words were flint against stone.

“I think you know,” she said, malice like perfume, “you’re only one possibility of justice.”

“I’m not mocking you. Your efforts preach justice, but maybe you need insurance. Consider this,” she said, lifting a finger like a needle.

“What if the Divine Being is wrong? What if it is the evil?”

Justin fell silent. He matched the map to the patrol paths, mind like a compass. He nodded, felt the magic bandage had done its work, stripped it off, and walked for the door.

“If, and only if, you wish,” she said, voice a bridge over fog, “seek the Hero, Stini Saya. She’ll witness the revival and vouch for the Divine Being’s justice.”

Justin paused. He lifted his left hand, and the Demon Blade “Nameless Does Not Kill” slid out, reluctant as a thorn leaving flesh; he yanked it free and tossed it down.

The blade trembled, not from his grip. Even with heroes and a Hero, that blade roared for crimson blood like a starving hound, and only twice had it feared like this.

Last time was a week ago. The blade crushed Justin’s will, tried to strike down the Hero Stini, but it bit someone bleeding black blood instead, letting the Hero slip away.

Black blood. Black eyes. Shadows in a bowl.

“Here. Take it,” he said, words heavy as iron.

“Perfect,” she smiled. “We can reclaim the blade.”

“You said ‘reclaim,’ did you? Was that person you?” Justin snapped, turning like a storm.

“Yes,” the black‑haired maid replied, smiling sunny but cold. Her great black eyes were deep and still; she folded her hands and bowed, etiquette flawless as ink on rice paper.

Was it all your design? He wanted to ask, but what would the answer change, yes or no, wind or stone?

He guessed at her role, but the Master she spoke of stayed behind the curtain. He had only a shard of the grand script; the rest hid in deeper dark.

Justin wasn’t even a Heretic Inquisitor trained in interrogation. He couldn’t tell if she lied, smoke or mirror.

Don’t know? Then don’t know. A cloud passes; no one asks its name.

His part was done; his thread cut clean.

The rest he’d hand to the Hero, when he met her under whatever sky.

He pushed the door and left, footfalls like brief drums.

The maid bowed to his back, ritual perfect as a mirrored lake.

“…Pitiful fool,” she murmured, a thorn flicked under breath.

Attitude, zero; etiquette, full marks.

——————

“I—can I put this down now?” Dulan complained, breath ragged like wind through reeds. “Going all‑out hot‑blooded isn’t my style!”

“No. Hold it steady,” Vega said, voice flat as slate.

“Hey, but if I’m standing on the ground while bracing the pillar, couldn’t I just lower the pillar?” Dulan asked, logic like a wobbling cart.

Dulan only thinks hard when forced to work, a mule that runs when whipped.

Vega wishes she’d bring that logic to her usual tasks, rain to a thirsty field.

The black‑haired maid sat on the steps beside them, posture neat and elegant, a cat at ease.

“This is a spell,” she said, calm as tea. “My Master made it to prop up Skyward City.”

“Oh, great, great,” Dulan brightened like a lamp. “So if I just lower the pillar, that should work too, right?”

“Idiot, listen!” Vega snapped, lightning in her tone. “It’s not a ground‑reinforcement spell.”

“No matter how you strengthen the floor, one pillar would snap. This is legendary magic!” she said, words edged like steel.

“If someone supports from below, it can do what the grand circuit powered by the Divine Being’s remains did,” she explained, a map drawn in air.

Legendary magic—Sky‑Bearing.

It’s Andor’s craft, written from history and legend, retelling a hero’s story so reality reenacts it, like echoes turned solid.

As long as someone keeps holding the weight below, it supports the ‘sky’ above, a shoulder under heaven.

It was penned specifically to support Skyward City, a script for a city on a sleeping giant.

Vega had never heard of magic built this way; today’s magic calls mana, petitions the Root’s permissions, and summons wonders to the mortal world.

Sky‑Bearing’s logic is nothing like that, mist stitched into cloth, yet it holds.

They say it references the tale of Heracles replacing Atlas to hold up the sky, a myth like a mountain song.

But why would the sky need a person to hold it? And who is Heracles? Vega had never heard such a hero in this world, yet the magic ran like a river.

Andor explained: “History writes not only the past. If a future ‘possibility’ gets confirmed, it can be treated as ‘history’ and summoned as reality.”

“That’s the future practice of Historical Reenactment magic,” he said, voice like chalk on slate.

Maybe the Master has seen a world Vega hasn’t, a horizon beyond horizons.

Vega didn’t mind. She’s seen the Demon King’s power, enough to be ‘infinite’ and ‘omniscient,’ a night sky without end.

So using tech beyond human thought felt natural to her, wind wearing stone.

“…Now, it’s the Master’s showtime,” Vega said, eyes narrowing like crescents. “Dulan, our parts are nearly done.”

“Mm. If you could take over and hold this for a while, I’d be happier,” Dulan muttered, sweat beading like dew.

“This is only a projection avatar. No strength to help you,” Vega said, shrugging like a leaf.

She even had the leisure to pat Dulan’s thigh. Dulan trembled, a bow under strain; holding up Skyward City was a heavy burden.

“If you want to sleep, sleep,” Vega said, voice light as mist.

“How could I sleep while lifting something this heavy!” Dulan cried, outrage like sparrows scattering.

“Then pray the Council of Sages’ Arcane Engineers hurry,” Vega said, gaze cool, “rebuild the magic circuit, and support Skyward City.”

“Pray to who?” Dulan asked, hope thin as string.

Vega thought for a moment, eyes moon‑bright. “Rebuilding is a big job. Even fast, they’ll need… about a week.”

“So pray to the God of Sleep,” she added, teasing like a ripple.

“Hey!” Dulan yelled, a spark jumping.

Vega laughed, happy as bells; her short black hair swayed, and her pretty eyes curled into crescent moons.