Four thousand six hundred ninety clones—this was Vega’s limit, a sky of mirrors stretched to the breaking point.

It wasn’t Multi‑Threaded Thought’s cap; when clones pile up, the soul cracks first, like ice under too much weight.

She usually held at two to three hundred clones, about five percent of her limit, a hive buzzing just enough to run a Demon King Army of lunatics, then rest. The soul’s burden stayed balanced, consumption and recovery like tide and moon, and she lived in tolerable comfort.

Since following Andor into the mortal world, she had run past the redline, like a lamp burning day and night.

That pack of lunatics hadn’t come—teleportation guzzled mana—so management eased like a loosened knot. Yet it meant rebuilding a proven cadre from ash and scattered embers.

To keep her Master stocked with mana and energy, free to tease Princess Anna or play with the Hero, the Savior Demon King Army piled its backlog onto Vega, cartloads onto one mule under a dusty sun.

She was past six hundred active clones. Fifteen percent of her cap, and rising like floodwater licking stair stones.

Work in this world never ends; it swarms like ants on sugar.

Vega breathed out long, steam off a kettle, and spun off another clone to handle the gear schematics Dulan had hurled her way.

“New class, huh. This one’s called… ‘Knight of Malign Justice’? Interesting name.” Clone Six‑Six‑Eight skimmed the drafts, then slipped to a tent corner, adjusting specs with needle‑fine care, like embroidery laid on steel.

The world didn’t draw hard class lines; you could train martial arts and magic at once. “Classes” were broad tags, reeds rustling under one wind. Yet some “signature classes” wielded greater power with greater bindings—hard to cross‑train, hungry for unique gear.

Take the Heretic Inquisitor. First comes the Vowkeeping Oath: molten iron poured on the right middle finger, pressed into an oath ring, pain like a brand under winter sky. Their iron claw gauntlet must leave space for that ring. Their main attack is Divine Art; they use divine favor, not mana reserves, and can’t touch conventional magic.

Elven mage‑archers have the “skin‑breathing” gift, so they never run out of air mid‑fight; their leather only shields vital organs, leaving much skin bare to the wind. High‑grade gear must honor that. You can add mithril chain or patterned silkmail from the East—breathable and light, like mist over river stones.

The newest class, the Knight of Malign Justice, takes its oath in Skyward City Atlante, at Free Plaza’s heart, beside the Deity of Justice’s left‑behind greatsword, a blade like a fallen pillar of daylight.

“Looks like Miss Stini cooked up something fresh… alright, let me see—fitted bracers, external frame, modular plates? The Master’s ideas stay sharp as wind on steel…”

Clone Six‑Six‑Eight folded space like a paper fan and sent the blueprints and class notes to the Demon King Army’s main forge, handing them to Nagash to chew on the finer constraints, teeth on bone.

Then she briskly pinged general magitech workshops to cast the first batch of raw shells, seeding fields to take the market before the next rain.

She alerted the Mephi cartel’s branches to kick off ads, banners in wind, colors flaring like autumn leaves. Then she crunched the per‑capita coin of the surge of Knights of Malign Justice and set stock counts per shop like weighing grain.

More crucial, she drafted the whole plan—promotion, prep, projections—laying tiles one by one along a long road. She turned her Master’s operatic script into schedules and handed them out like cue cards. She modeled ripple effects across trades, stones dropped into many ponds. All that rested on Six‑Six‑Eight.

Clones carried everything but Vega’s combat power, so she, used to high burn, judged one clone enough. No need to add more stones to her back under a hot sun.

Vega let Six‑Six‑Eight run. She turned and took a crystal orb from a mid‑tier girl retainer, then dialed the Shadow Realm. The orb gleamed like a pale moon in a bowl.

It was Victor, face long like a funeral mask.

“Big sis! Fifty‑three targets in fifteen days—no way!”

Noise bled from the other side like a market at noon. Vega wasn’t nosy, yet she wanted to know if her Victor was slacking, a cat asleep on warm tiles.

“It’s too loud there. Is your new bedmate screeching?”

“Sis, you’re polite to strangers like Augustus and Nivifar. Why flay me too?”

“Because you’ve got no asset value to appreciate, so courtesy’s wasted coin. Anyway, why the racket?”

“Oh, that. This Ripper demon’s regeneration is nasty. Hey, give me a second…” The orb went pitch‑black. Crackle of burning protein, snap of breaking joints, a raw howl, blood spray like rain. Silence rolled back like a tide. “Okay. Fifty‑two targets now. Fifteen days, fifty‑two—so easy, right.”

“Reminder: minus this thinning afternoon, you have fourteen days left.”

“Damn… mm, fifty‑one! Targets don’t always cluster and lift their necks for me. Your list names big figures. Assassination means scouting, staging, traps—tons. Fourteen days is impossible!”

Victor still fumbled with Shadow Realm comms. His orb’s resonance was terrible; the image flickered like moth wings at a lantern. He clawed his hair in jittery worry.

Blood on his hands smeared into his red hair, ringed that flame‑bright color with a dull brown, ash around ember.

“I don’t assign you the impossible. This one is urgent. In fifteen days, the Sword Saint returns to Swordgate for the final duel. As our Master’s blades, we must cut every unstable thread from the loom. The world’s best assassin—self‑proclaimed—won’t have a problem, right? Or should I call you the world’s ‘best’ assassin, ha.”

“No means no! I’m just a plain Ashburn demon. I rely on my hands and craft. I can’t learn your transcendent tricks, sis!”

“Then what if I said you could gain those transcendent abilities? Match me, maybe surpass me, like a river outgrowing its banks.”

“…What if I said I want it?”

“You only need to accept a deeper darkness, a well with no bottom.”

Vega’s tone stayed businesslike, straight as a blade in its scabbard.

Victor stared from the other side, lost like a traveler in fog. His lips moved, then said nothing.

“You will accept it, one day. Even demonfolk born under the sun lean to the dark, at the soul’s root, like a tree’s heartwood.”

“No, no, no. I won’t. I’ll guard Hattie. I love her. I’m human.”

“You can’t force this. You’ll choose yourself. Back to targets. Your Swordgate killings can differ from the usual. Don’t hide too hard. Prioritize efficiency. So long as none slip away, frank kills for the last few are fine. Does that work?”

“It can… but you guys— I mean we— do we not need to hide our banner anymore?”

“We still do. This time is too urgent. We have to move at the fastest pace, even bend strategies we’ve upheld till now, bamboo under storm.”

Vega noticed his wariness toward the Demon King Army, the lack of belonging in his words. She let it pass like wind over reeds by a river.

“You can summon lesser retainers now. Try frontal clashes; Ashburn demons hit hard head‑on, hammer on anvil. In that case, state your Demon King Army affiliation and that the kills are demonfolk set to sabotage. It’s shy of ideal timing, but with a bit of talk, it’s doable.”

“Sounds easier. But does that make the whole setup foolproof?”

“No. Other Demon Kings’ agents lurk. Shadow‑skilled demonfolk. Humans who might be bought. For the Sword Saint’s pilgrimage to end flawless, we clear all. Better a mistaken kill than a missed one, snow sweeping a field clean.”

“So, only fifty‑four people?”

“Problem?”

“Feels like a few suspicious ones still sit near the core, stones near the fire.”

“Do not touch them. The fifty‑four are chosen with ‘room to remedy’ if errors happen, fit for a blade‑dulled killer like you. The perfect kills, my clone will do with Berenz.”

Victor shrugged, a small ripple across still water.

“Fine. I know I’m not top‑tier anymore. I’m just a janitor clearing pests, broom on cobbles.”

“Self‑knowledge is best.” Vega nodded, firm as a seal pressed in clay.

“Hey! That’s harsh!”

Ignoring his sulk like rain on tile, Vega pulled another packet and sent it to Victor, a paper bird flying through shadow.

“One more thing. Look these over. It’s the Demon King Army’s publicity plan for Hattie’s lands.”

“No!” Victor snapped in reflex, a door slammed. “She has her good life. Don’t drag her into the deep! We said that from the start!”

“Sweetening works far better than force; I know that well. So read it. If you judge it helps Hattie’s rule, explain it to her yourself. Beyond that, the Demon King Army won’t interfere.”

“…Really?” Victor still wavered like a reed in wind by a lake.

“Beyond force, ruin, and destruction, many things can reshape this world, like water carving stone.”

Vega said it with a sigh, then readied to end the call, sleeve falling like dusk.

“The plan is tempting. I don’t think you’ll refuse. So don’t let the lure make you forget your targets,” she reminded, a red string tied on memory’s finger.