"I've never been a good teacher," he said, voice dull as a nicked blade.

"Glad you know yourself. Stances and forms aren’t meant to spread like windblown seeds. They’re your private insight, your inner vision, a fire you built from nothing.

"That power comes from a realm this world doesn’t host. You can’t pass it on. Put simply, no matter how many students you take, once you die, the title of Sword Saint and the Sword Saint’s sword vanish like mist."

"I truly wished to teach her well," he murmured, like rain trying to write on stone.

"Julian?"

"Yes. My first student, and my only one. I meant to pass on this sword. I meant to teach the sword. But I lack the gift, the craft.

"I only lead people into thorns. So I stopped taking students. But Julian, she…"

"She didn’t leave. She stuck to you, stubborn as winter roots, and learned the sword by your side. Right?"

"I did her wrong," he said, the words heavy as wet earth.

"Mhm. She took the leadership at Swordgate through arena bouts, all on her own grind and grit. Your teaching didn’t buy a copper coin of that.

"Julian clings to what you say. But you’re not a good teacher. Much of what you pass on wastes effort, or twists wrong. She isn’t you, though.

"She’s gifted, bright as a blade in frost. So she walked a crooked road all the way to now."

"…Demon King, you saw through that?" His surprise fluttered like a startled bird.

"Your shocked face hurts my feelings. I’m bad at creating and teaching, sure. We demons do enjoy destruction. But that doesn’t mean our sight is shallow."

"True, true. Then… what should I do? How can I help my student?" His worry hung like low cloud.

"Pff—wait, wait—let me wipe the wine I just sprayed," I said, laughter scattering like sparks.

"…"

"Oh heavens, fine. When did humanity’s great hero start asking a Demon King for advice? Shouldn’t you be guarding against me like a locked gate?"

"I never thought myself a hero. I’m human, Lunarfolk. I do my duty for those I love and the land I love. And to gain human recognition—

"Isn’t that exactly what you crave?" His gaze was calm as a still pond.

"Put that way, sure. Still, when a plan goes too smoothly, someone used to thorns like me gets nervous."

"I’m asking you a question, not debating how you’ll win human trust," he said, steady as a held breath.

"All right, all right! Don’t get mad, don’t flare up. Let’s take it slow, like laying stones across a stream.

"First off—no soft words—you’re a lousy teacher."

"…Demon King, you truly aren’t soft," he said, like a bell struck once.

"If I’m blunt, your guidance is rotten. Do you know what it is to repeat a useless swing ten thousand times, groping for a stance in the dark?

"That’s a training of despair, like walking a night road with no moon."

"…"

"Only two kinds of people hunt for combat stances. First: bored, overfed idiot geniuses. All arts and spells, all things worth study, feel shallow to them.

"So they look for trouble, and probe the ‘despair’ called stance-crafting."

"…Who do you mean?" His question fell like a pebble in a well.

"Guess as you like. The second kind are simple idiots. Brains that won’t catch, hands that won’t learn standard forms, minds that won’t grasp mana or magic.

"Only a crooked, unyielding obsession remains. They know their empty swings carve nothing. No progress. Still they practice, still they persist, like ants hauling stones."

"…"

"In short, fools. Trying to pry open a chance born from zero—looking for a stance where none should exist—what else do you call it but foolish?"

"You’re right. I’m the second kind… a fool," he said, smile thin as paper.

"Don’t sink so low. Every stance truly learned is an uncopyable miracle. It’s not a proper rule of this world. It’s a realm forged by soul and stubbornness, born outside the map.

"But listen. You can peel off the parts beyond reason. Simplify the stance. Turn it into a general art. Then teach that to Julian, like passing a lamp."

"You mean—like this?" His hand rose, air humming like a drawn bow.

"…If by ‘this’ you mean that swing with your blade still sheathed that shaved half a forest—yeah. If you want, you can do it.

"Try teaching her that. Strip the supernal concepts. Use power she can grasp. Words that pin down mana, spirit, swordwork. That’s how every general art in this world travels, like water down channels."

"…Demon King, do you think that’s good?"

"I know you’re troubled, but I won’t play riddles. Please just speak straight; smoke and mirrors fray the nerves like sand in the eyes!"

"Ahem. Sorry. I mean—will teaching Julian these things actually satisfy her?" His voice thinned like incense smoke.

"I think I get it. You mean, you think Julian won’t be satisfied with ‘just learning techniques,’ right?"

"Yes. Exactly," he said, as if setting down a stone he’d carried long.

"If she learns a sword art that can cleave sky and earth, what’s left to be unsatisfied about? Or what higher peak could she expect beyond that?"

"Julian herself doesn’t know," he said, gaze wandering like wind over grass.

"Hmm…"

"But as you said, a sky-cleaving blade is rare in this world. Rare, but not unique. There are others who could teach her that."

"So you mean…"

"Yet Julian believes I’m the strongest Sword Saint under heaven, and I’m her teacher. So she expects something… greater. Something grander, like a horizon beyond the horizon."

"Tsk. Troublesome. If you ask me, tell her straight. Beyond that peak, you must raise your very rank, touch authority itself, like brushing the stars."

"But… I’m her teacher," he said, hands tightening like roots.

"Treat it as tea-time chatter. Tell me, besides student and teacher, what else could there be between you two?"

"What are you getting at?" His eyes narrowed, night around a lantern.

"Live long and you gather things, like shells and bones. I’ve seen many living, and more dead. Humans think within this small circle.

"You and Julian—any special tie? Otherwise why favor her like spring after drought? Just chatter. If it’s hard, forget it."

"No harm in saying it. Julian is my friend’s daughter. Before he died, I promised to care for his newborn girl," he said, each word laid like an offering.

"…"

"Boring? This little shard? I’ve forgotten too much. This is all that remains, like a leaf pressed in a book."

"It is plain. But like I said, just chatter. I won’t mock it—though I’m a villainous Demon King, I know this: mock a person’s core, and you reap hate like thorns.

"I’ve seen this story often. The dead pass on. They leave the living something to carry. That’s all—just naming the current in the river."

"Yes. I’m not great. Only a stronger, clumsier mortal. My tale won’t move you, Demon King. But I remember it.

"I severed my past. I forgot my friend’s face. I forgot our old roads. Only sorrow and resolve remain, like iron under silk."

"I’ll keep respect for a hero. It makes the talk easier, like shade on a hot road."

"As a villain, the fact you keep respect already pleases me," he said, a faint smile like dawn on snow.

"…"

"Well? Why grow quiet? What are you weighing? Or what are you about to propose?" His question drifted like a heron’s feather.

"Nothing you’d accept, most likely."

"Say it. As you said yourself—just chatter."

"I was thinking… should I invite you to join the Demon King Army? Then I could help teach Julian some ‘supernal’ things, just like you want.

"But you won’t trust a Demon King who steps from the roadside offering to arrange everything, right? So, sign a pact with me.

"Become my vassal. Gain a longer life. Supervise me, make sure I don’t pour garbage into Julian’s cup."

"I refuse," he said, firm as a gate-bar.

"See? Told you. You’d never agree. Asking was smoke on water."

"If you slap that chair any harder, it’ll break," he said, a note of dry humor like flint.

"This chair isn’t worth much anyway," I muttered, grin crooked as a knife-mark.

"I’m glad that even when you push back, you still listen. Ha. The refusal was for your recruitment.

"But Julian—I can trust her to you," he said, trust offered like a lit lantern.

"Sure. What’s the price?"

"Aside from the sword and the censer, I own nothing," he said, pockets empty as winter branches.

"Penniless ghost!"

"And yet you’ll still be happy to help. You’ll teach Julian diligent and true. Because this is the ‘last wish of the Nameless Sword Saint.’

"Helping will win your Demonfolk more human approval, right?" His smile was gentle as dew.

"…You’re counting me. Fine. Let’s call it mutual use," I said, a laugh like a blade’s ring.

"I trust you’ll teach Julian well," he said, faith steady as a stone bridge.

"Acting by human codes, earning human approval—what a hassle!" I groaned, shoulders sinking like sails in no wind.

"Haha. You always end up profiting. Why complain so much?" His chuckle was warm as firelight.

"Fair enough… But Julian’s on the human side. Since we’re allies already, poaching looks bad. And I can’t teach too much.

"The Divine Being still has eyes on us, like stars on cold water…"

"I’m entrusting her to you," he said, like setting a precious blade in both hands.

"All right, all right. I’ll get to work. Ah, more tasks piling like snow. Preparations of every kind, all lined up like tiles.

"Vega’s going to poison my tea," I sighed.

I rose from the lounge chair, shoulders rolling like waves. Time to draft a new plan.

"Writing a script?" The Sword Saint’s hands stroked his two blades, gentle as wind in reeds. He poked the ash in the censer now and then, like sifting fog.

"I need a story outline ready first. But you won’t join the Demon King Army, and you don’t want me shaping Julian’s thoughts too much.

"That means what I can do is limited, like planting in poor soil."

"Whatever you can do—please," he said, bowing his head like a tree in wind.

He said it again. For his student, he bowed to me, a Demon King, like a warrior laying down his spear.

A sigh rose in me, long as a river. If fate exists in this world, mine must be to toil.