After Justin climbed back to the surface, he dragged his half-mended body through the crowd like a wounded wolf forcing its way through reeds. The muddled river of people slammed into him; fresh blood seeped through torn cloth.

He broke past the crush and finally saw why the street felt like a stalled river. A ring of maids sat-in at the gates of the Heretic Inquisition’s headquarters, skirts like petals lined along the sidewalk. Over a hundred, all obediently seated, they didn’t block the main road. But onlookers pooled like silt, spilling onto the avenue, stopping magitech vehicles and turning traffic into a hive of chaos.

The Council of Sages had approved the sit-in. The maids were “expressing doubts about the Heretic Inquisition,” without “using violence,” and “without spreading heresy.” A protest was a protest; by the laws the Sages had shaped, it had to be allowed. There was no reason to deny it.

The trouble was timing. During the Peace Conference. A tide of criticism hit the Inquisition like winter waves, and Maki had no choice but to order every inquisitor back to headquarters—he didn’t even send a formal reply to the Council of Sages.

It looked like the Heretic Inquisition didn’t plan to attend the Peace Conference. Maki had set his jaw, waiting out the storm like a cliff against rain.

At their sweet spot of youth, the maids from a nontraditional maid café wore bright dresses and sparkling hairpieces, sweating under the harsh sun like dew shaken loose. Some rushed to buy water and handed out flyers; for folks starved of entertainment, they were a lantern in daylight.

The “Mephy” maid café chain was the most famous franchise around; Andor Mephy, their boss, had no charges yet the Heretic Inquisition had tortured him regardless. It made sense for employees to protest. But Justin hadn’t expected maids from their competitor, the Kadula Conglomerate, to join hands and bolster the line.

Justin shook his head. He didn’t understand economics, nor why a great Hero had been hauled in by the Heretic Inquisition. He pictured his mentor Maki’s style—maybe it was the Inquisition’s old, hard habit, an edge that cuts past justice and wounds heroes.

“From today on, and forever—no blood shed for the sword of light will spill in vain.”

He whispered the oath to the crystal orb and shards hidden in his coat, words like smoke curling around glass. He kept searching for the green-haired Hero girl.

Until a blade laid itself across his shoulder.

It was a platinum-white sword, lines carved in clean, elegant arcs. A red gemstone burned in the hilt; the pommel bloomed like a half-open flower.

The Holy Sword, Galewind. Few in the world didn’t know that name.

This sword had been the Hero’s weapon for ages; kids bought its toy replicas and brandished them with daylight dreams.

“Under this blade, there’s no turning back.”

The Hero said it right in front of him, head bowed, a curtain of hair hiding eyes lit like embers.

“Villain—yes, you. You killed Kairi, a helpless girl. You were with the Heretic Inquisition; killing Demonfolk was your ‘duty,’ right? Fine. Necessary evil, killing both good and wicked—I can understand. I understand everything.”

“Hero, I want—”

“Then you’re evil now. So if I kill you, that’s ‘necessary’ too, isn’t it? Take your knife, your bow, your claws. Die like a villain, die like a great man, upright and unflinching.”

She drew the sword back only to gather power. Her killing intent thickened—eyes, hands, blade—all brimmed with a night-black tide.

The Holy Sword drank in her dark mood and let out a keening.

“I’ve been looking for you since that day… and I finally found you.”

“Hero! I want your help! I heard about Kairi only later. It was my fault—I admit it. But then, I was trying to save the Sage! Now we should understand each other. Listen: I’m going to resurrect the Divine Being, let absolute justice return—but I can’t promise that the Divine Being will—”

“I don’t want to hear it! I don’t want to understand! Right now I want to avenge that girl—the one I promised to save! She still died, coughing blood, falling into my arms, saying ‘I don’t want to die,’ ‘I don’t want to die,’ eyes wide with fury, refusing to close! Have you felt it? The despair that hits like a thousand arrows through the heart?”

Stini roared with everything she had. Her green eyes were soaked red, like dripping blood, like the fist-sized ruby set in her sword’s grip.

Justin said nothing.

He knew this Hero devoured by emotion couldn’t grasp his justice, his sacrifices.

A monster named “Vengeance” doesn’t listen; it storms and sways, wrecking everything around it.

“Aren’t you… a Hero?” He stood at the end of a long ideal, one step from his goal—a dark hero’s last struggle.

“I am.” Stini clenched the hilt until her knuckles blanched like chalk. “Heroes get angry. Heroes hate too.”

Justin gave up. He had calculated the fight’s end—no matter which way he dodged, the Holy Sword, Galewind, would pierce his heart.

And today’s Hero had honed one life’s learning into a single stroke. It was too fast—too fast for him to join the crystal shards with the orb in time.

He even considered using the milling crowd as cover. He’d killed innocents for the greater good before; another stain would be just another night.

But no. Justin faced Stini’s point, hearing the surrounding clamor fade like rain slipping off eaves. The color of the world thinned into chalk, becoming a pure white space.

If Andor were here, he’d know what was happening—and he’d be shocked that “legendary magic isn’t like I remember.”

Legendary magic—Hero’s Funeral.

By using it, Stini dragged those she “confirmed” into this blank world. No shelter. No disguise. An empty space for two to trade salutes. Then no frills, no tricks—just swordcraft and strength—a one-on-one duel until only one remained.

It was a funeral fit for heroes: respect and honor, followed by a clean, merciless death.

It gathered all Stini’s beliefs and thoughts, ignited by her soul—a legendary magic born of a life’s stance.

Justin lost his hidden edge. No Demon Blade, no hand-crossbow. Wounded, he knew he couldn’t evade the first cut.

He’d have to die upright and unflinching—like she said… yeah, right.

If there’s a breath left, you fight for it. Justin grabbed for the thrusting blade—yet,

Too slow.

Eyes and hands lagged behind Stini. He felt the sting in his ribs first, then caught the sword’s spine too late. His steel claws scraped sparks, but nothing stopped the Holy Sword from driving through his chest.

Ribs snapped; his heart felt the pressure, pounding wildly in a last, frantic beat.

He was going to die. Dying full of regret.

He shouldn’t have trusted those Demonfolk. The Hero didn’t understand him at all.

“What is this supposed to be…”

Justin gave a crooked smile.

A maid in a maid’s dress had done a chain of absurd, grand things, only to end with this limp finale?

Why would she lie to him? The thought came from nowhere, and made no sense upon inspection. The shape of events felt different—gone was the sensation of Demonfolk weaving every thread while he struggled inside their net.

The curse that always shadowed him—the operatic beauty of it—had vanished. In its place, reason. Yet something felt hollow, like a temple with no incense. What is this?

“Are you expecting someone? Who do you expect? A savior for villains? Laughable. Stay put. Try expecting a Hero.”

A black-haired, black-eyed youth in a black coat dropped from above, sword reversed, point leveled at Stini’s hand. She had to withdraw, or her hand would be skewered; either way, that strike wouldn’t kill Justin.

“You answer other people’s expectations—then you count as a Hero. I was planning to enroll and just be an adventurer; people pinned the ‘Hero’ label on me. Still, being asked by a romantic rival? That’s weirdly pleasant. Relax, Justin. I’ll help you.”

“Andor! Don’t stop me!”

“If you were the Stini who’s herself, I’d let you pass. I’d stand with you and understand the sad parts. I’d make the wrong choices with you. But you’re not. Stini—are you sure this is all you want? …I won’t argue. You don’t plan to listen.”

The boy shifted to a normal grip, blade held at his side. His wicked grin met her twisted fury like thunder splitting a dark sky.

“Justin, I’ll make Stini understand you. Sit tight.”

With that, the Godslayer Sword and the Holy Sword—two of the highest weapons in the world—clashed. The two who were close enough to confess at any moment now crossed blades. What spilled wasn’t pure malice, nor pure love.

If you had to name it, it aimed between the two. They liked each other; that’s why each couldn’t bear the other’s foolishness.

“Go after Stini! Make her understand Justin—no matter what!”

“Killing would be simpler. Why bother with this mess?”

“Because Stini will regret it. Her future self will suffer for betraying the understanding she claimed.”

“…”

“Ease her anger, her hatred, her grief. I saw it—the Demonfolk woman fell in her arms. That despair wasn’t weaker than seeing a friend’s corpse.”

“…I don’t have a sword. I’m still wounded. My hands and feet can’t find strength. How am I supposed to ease her fury? Words alone? Words have limits. They can’t turn a raging avenger.”

“Ha. Right. So all you’ve got left is your care for Stini, you useless great Hero.”

“…”

“Borrow my sword. After you convince Stini to understand Justin, use it to kill the evil god. Only this blade can kill It.”

“Any other choice?”

“If you’re Andor Mephy, vice-captain of the Hero Squad, then no.”

I walked out of the Grand Temple, snapped my fingers, and summoned Vega.

Abigail lending me her always-at-hand Godslayer Sword was a lucky surprise. I’ve always wondered what happened among the oldest Demon Kings and the pantheon, and what the Seven-Day War of gods and demons really was.

I think it’s something I have to know. Setting the roles on the stage decides the script after the Peace Conference.

Remember? One of my hobbies is archaeology.

To directly observe “history,” that foggy thing, I developed a suite of spells. One lets me watch an object’s significance across the flow of time.

See history through the eyes of a thing.

I asked Vega to form the spell and dropped the Godslayer Sword into it.

What I saw overturned everything I’d heard from the oldest Demon Kings—and even the human world’s “Genesis” needs a rewrite.

The conclusion:

“…A pack of liars…”

I cursed those great beings under my breath. The shock nearly made me miss the moment to pull Justin from Stini’s blade.