Counting from the day I met the Nameless Sword Saint, five days have fallen like dry leaves on a temple step.

Thinking of the Sword Saint’s expectations, Vega and I sketched a tour like lanterns strung along a river: the Human World Heartbeat Grand Adventure ☆ Sword Saint Showcase DA ☆ ZE~, one month and five days long, with the final duel timed to his last allotted breath.

…Then Vega’s glare cut like a drawn blade, and I reeled the cute name back in like a kite in sudden wind.

It was cute, though, like a cat pawing a bell; what a pity.

Anyway, I hammered out every timing shift like nails into a board, set duels with regional legends like milestones on a road, and left open windows for roaming experts to challenge, then handed the whole weave to the Sword Saint to poke holes in.

He’s easygoing, or maybe just careless, like driftwood on a quiet shore; he glanced twice, returned the plan, and said, “No problem”—wait, does he even read the script, or is this a stone skipping past the surface?

These past days I’ve felt like an idol manager juggling spotlights, except my idol’s a quirky old grandpa with mountain-breeze eyebrows.

…I never imagined the Sword Saint’s fame was this tidal, like moths hurling at a bonfire; I planned walking segments, but every two or three steps a challenger springs up, and the road turns to bog.

I leaned on a fence that creaked like a boat plank, pen ticking like rain, and reported the tweaks.

It’s not realistic to sweep the mortal world in a month, like trying to drink a lake with one breath, so I picked scenic stretches as walking zones, and left the endless plains to teleport jumps; now challengers cluster by the roadside like reed fluff, so the walk time bloats and blows past the schedule.

“Any ideas, Demon King?” he asked, standing in front of me like a spear planted in snow, back to me, eyes locked on his student Julian’s sword forms.

He’s sat two centuries like a boulder in wind, and his spine is still straight as a pine; biology bows to him like frost to dawn.

“From your side? Hit harder,” I said, voice flat as slate, “fewer will dare to try, and the stream thins.”

“Is there another—”

He hadn’t finished when Julian, who’d been frowning like a tightened bowstring, finally snapped and shouted, voice ringing like a bell.

“Demon King! Don’t meddle! Teacher wants warriors to grow stronger and show the peak of swordsmanship to the world!”

Ah, here we go; human disgust for Demonfolk sticks like old tar. I scratched my head like shooing gnats; I’m an ally on paper, even if we both know I’m no saint, and paper still casts a shadow, doesn’t it?

In our four-person travel party—the Nameless Sword Saint, his student Julian, Eil from the Demon World Surveillance Squad, and me—Julian’s the one who looks at me like a wolf at a campfire.

She’s tried to pick fights with me four times in five days, twice with steel half drawn; she hasn’t stuck me yet, but the knife smells like rain.

I treat her like a brat throwing stones at a pond: no ripples from me.

Because her parent—well, teacher—the Nameless Sword Saint will scold her like thunder scolding the hills.

“Julian,” the Sword Saint said, face clean as a clear spring, suddenly taut as a bow, “the Demon King didn’t come for a triviality.”

“How could a Demon King come for anything good,” she muttered, voice like grit in a gear.

“You don’t understand, but I do,” he said, words falling like heavy snow. “Those whose time draws near see further; debts and repayments, cause and consequence, turn like seasons. He comes for himself, yet that’s not evil. It’s the same for anyone.”

“If it’s not evil, does that mean a Demon King gets to stand close?” she fired back, eyes sparking like flint. “What about your name?”

“Julian!” he barked, the shout a crack of lightning.

“If a thing’s not evil, must we flee from one labeled evil?” he pressed, voice steady as a cliff. “What did I teach you? Did I teach you to herd people toward wickedness?”

“But he is a Demon King!” she shot back, like a blade refusing to rust.

I watched the master and student argue like wind over reeds: ordinary folk and a sage, playing an old song.

This quarrel’s burned a thousand times across the world like brushfire; change the faces to Douglas and Maki, or to the High Divine Healer and Elina, and the script still rhymes.

These heart-leaning debates are won by tongue and tide, not by steel; I found it amusing and rocked on the fence like a bird on a branch.

“What of ‘Demon King’?” he said, eyes calm as deep water. “‘Demon King’ is a title, a mask. We loathe evil acts and spit at rotten hearts. But to hate a label is to plant prejudice like weeds.”

“Can he swear he’s never killed?” she asked, each word a thrown stone. “Didn’t he invade to harm the mortal world?”

“It’s a balance,” he answered, like scales settling. “A balance between good and evil. Can you grasp what stands beyond both, like the sky beyond the clouds?”

Mystery always draws fear like a cave draws echoes.

Like in any film’s ruin-delving crew, they go in armored head to toe, muzzles heavy with loaded rounds, safeties off, breaths thin as threads.

Humans don’t know what “Savior Demon King Andor” truly is; when I came offering a deal they couldn’t refuse, their hearts cheered like bells and clenched like fists.

It’s my favorite way to cooperate, like playing go by night, but not theirs; their lamps buzz with gnats of doubt.

The Sword Saint has looked through death’s eyes like windows of frost, and he sees pieces of my truth like stars through cloud.

Eil has seen the Demon Realm’s real rot and malice, like mold in a sealed jar, so he knows I’m restrained compared to my kin, like a knife kept sheathed.

Even if they don’t know what I am, they know where I stand, like mapping a mountain by its shadow; they know how to talk terms, when I won’t lie, and in what storm I might betray.

But that insight is a scarred soul’s gift, a lantern lit by pain; it’s hard to explain in plain words, like trying to bottle wind.

“You don’t understand,” he told her again, the phrase falling like dusk.

“I don’t want to,” she said, stubborn as a rock in rain. “How can anyone understand this kind of evil?”

All the better for me, like fog pleased to stay fog.

Keep the mystery, and the politicians knock less like crows on a window; at peace talks, if they don’t know my desires or my bottom line, they rein in their greed like horses at a cliff.

Yes, greed: even in the Silver Era, souls bright as polished silver still rust with it like iron in salt air; they’re greedy not for themselves but for race and country, flags snapping in their chests.

Greed is greed, whether for bread or banners, like fire still burning no matter the wood.

In my last life, Qing’s peace conference failed like a kite cut from its string; Anna and I led the mischief on one side, but the draft treaty leaning hard toward humans was a tilted table too.

Humans thought Demonfolk should police Demonfolk, like expecting a foreign murderer to be chased by foreign hands, as if that’s what makes an alliance clean.

Too bad they never weighed the balance like merchants at a stall; the peace-favoring Demon Kings weren’t signing from martyrdom or virtue, but from larger profit, like farmers planting for next season.

Qing was an odd Demon King, a crane in a flock of ducks, and she didn’t know what her kin wanted, like a smith guessing a brewer’s craft.

Even without the pro-war Demon Kings sowing chaos, the conference would’ve died like a fire without tinder.

Julian’s view is the common view, a road worn smooth by many feet.

Humans think a treaty with Demonfolk is needless frill, like a ribbon on armor; the Silver Era’s storms came and went, heavy in cost, but the Demon King was always slain in the end like a boar at a royal hunt.

It’s bloody, but better than trusting an ally who might put a knife in your back, like sleeping beside a snake.

That’s why I brought twenty-three little siblings into the mortal world, like a flock darkening the sky; a normal Demon King’s invasion never tops ten, a drizzle instead of a storm.

I need momentum like a rising tide, pressure like snow on a roof, so humans learn alliance isn’t a courtesy but a rope over a ravine.

Look at the Hero Academy: aside from a few ambushes, their days are sunny as a courtyard; other kingdoms face Demonfolk like winter wolves, ragged and grim.

Call me evil? Sure. I’m a first-rate bastard, a stain on white silk.

But will you work with me? If not, the mortal world tilts toward Demonfolk like a ship taking water.

I don’t need your praise or a laurel, which wilts like any leaf; I’m no hero carved in stone.

I only need humans to accept me as an ally and my voice in this world, like a seal pressed into wax; that’s all I’ve come to take.

I finished watching the impromptu play starring human shallowness and clumsy words, a comedy staged by wind and dust, and I almost clapped for the two actors.

Thanks for another workday made pleasant like tea under eaves.

No need to recount the debate’s footwork; human language circles like swallows, a few moves repeated with new feathers; in the end, the Sword Saint swayed Julian by reason like a river wearing stone, and she apologized to me, stiff as a puppet.

“…I’m sorry,” she said, the words dropping like wet pebbles.

“So, my second solution,” I said, voice smooth as lacquer, “trim free time and give it to challengers. Fun hours shrink like shade at noon.”

I didn’t look at Julian bowing her head; I kept talking to the Sword Saint like a boat keeping to its course.

Why wrestle a brat in the mud? Silence is cleaner than soap.

She gnashed her teeth at me like a fox at a trap; who cares, little thorn.

“If a journey loses its joy, it isn’t a journey,” he said, gentle as autumn sun.

“If all tourists were as picky as you, guides would die of ulcers,” I muttered, flipping pages like leaves.

I crossed out a page with a stroke like a knife and turned to the next plan.

“If I can’t change my side, and changing yours is hard as stone, then we change the challengers. Fewer bodies at the gate. A filter.”

“I’m not a man of power,” he said, honest as a clear bell. “I can’t order nations to screen for me.”

“I know,” I said, lips quirking like a cat’s, “so we do it the rustic way. We take back roads. Not this current parade, where passersby can hop in without fear of dying. The strong have good noses, like wolves; if they want us, they’ll find us.”

He thought a while, then let a small laugh slip like sunlight through cloud.

“By the strong, do you mean men, or… never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’ll leave it to you. My student and I aren’t suited to this.”

I asked a few small questions about his tastes, like what warms his tongue and what cools his head, for inns and meals to book without sand in the gears.

He answered each one like placing stones in a garden, told Julian to keep practicing, and walked off first, his steps quiet as falling ash.

“Demon King, stop rocking on the fence!” Julian snapped once he was gone, anger puffing like a kettle. “You’ll damage someone’s property!”

She was practicing hard, sweat darkening her clothes like rain patches; it’s autumn, and the layers are thick, so there’s nothing for the eyes but steam.

“Property? You mean the fence?” I asked, tapping the rail like a drum.

“What else could I mean?” she shot back, sparks in her glare.

I glanced up at the forest inn we’d switched to, the third, its sign marked with the ‘Meifi’ emblem like a brand on oak; I didn’t tell her her food, bed, and bath were all mine by deed.

Including the fence my shoulder rocked like a metronome.

“Julian, you’re the Lunarfolk leader of Swordgate up on the Arctic Tundra, right?” I asked, tone light as smoke.

“So what?” she said, chin up like a blade tip.

“No need for barbs,” I said, palm down like smoothing paper. “I mean, you were just chosen, weren’t you? Let me guess: you’re top-tier in swordcraft at Swordgate and won the elimination tournament.”

“T-that’s none of your business!” she sputtered, words fluttering like startled sparrows.

“Thought so,” I said, smile thin as ice. “You don’t feel like a leader yet; no politician’s coat on your shoulders.”

“I am a leader!” she flared, pride rising like a banner.

“Leaders don’t point out an ally’s faults so quickly,” I said, voice cool as shade. “You’re better suited to be a straight-shot Hero.”

I shut my notebook with a clap like a fan, slid the pen back into my pocket like a fish into water, and turned toward the room where wine waited like a patient friend.

I’d teased the brat and watched a little play; that’s enough sugar for the day. Next, I’ll teach the Nameless Sword Saint and Eil to play Gwent, so work on vacation feels even more like a breeze over grass.