Oh—Vega’s scooped Raven up, like a falcon lifting a messenger from the roadside wind.

Oh… Raven’s trading blows with the Arcane Engineer test-site staff, like sparks tossed into dry pine.

Oh………… Vega charged in too, a second wave breaking over the levee.

Oh—won the fight, paid the fine, then rinsed the dust with ale, like rain after storm.

Oh! Vega’s on leave; the Demon King Army stands still, like a clock with its spring unwound.

Oh oh oh oh—howls upon howls! These application inquiries are a hornet swarm; the noise could kill. Drop dead or hush, like shutters slammed in a tempest!

Vega’s central system, get back here, like a drum calling ranks through fog.

Oh, Vega, you’re finally back… like the tide turning under moonrise.

Back at last; back is enough… like a traveler finding a fire at dusk.

Unease pools under my ribs, like ice in warm tea. The Nameless Sword Saint likely feels it, yet I wear a mask as a Demon King—no seam to pry. He looks troubled, like a line snagged on rock.

I’m fine… like a roof hiding rain.

I’m the one meant to pollute minds as a Demon King, yet my own underling just mind-polluted me. The thought sits in my chest like damp wool.

No problem. I’m great. I’ve never felt better, like iron fresh from the forge.

I… don’t share that view, like shade refusing noon.

Put simply, it felt like someone yanked out my spine; then it grew back a moment ago, like bamboo after rain.

Maybe you find your banter clever, yet mortals don’t stomach blood-soaked jokes, like milk curdling in heat.

…

Still, you’re a Demon King. This level of gallows humor fits your station, like thorns on a rose.

Leave my issues aside for now… like sweeping leaves under a mat.

A prickle of foreboding, like a moth against a lantern. I stopped. Julian, right behind me, didn’t see the obstruction and almost slammed into my back—

—I’d already slid aside on instinct, like a reed yielding to wind.

…If her chest had hit my back, I’d have been high-spirited all day, like a cat sunning on a sill.

…What a pity, like rain missing a parched field.

Uh… how to put it. I don’t think we should keep going, like turning before a cliff edge.

In autumn, the Finger Forest sways with Finger ironwood at its broadest leaves; just before they fall, life peaks like a festival before winter.

Botanists say the trees spend a year’s stored sweetness in a reckless bloom, a jubilee for simply surviving. The idealists, for once, are right. The Silver Era is victory of spirit, unlike the dirt-bound age to come.

We moved through soil cushioned by fallen leaves. Finger ironwood throttled the light, so the path ran dim, like dusk cupped in a hand. Distance went soft, and only a few leaves drifted down like slow snow. The mood and view were fine.

But we shouldn’t go on, like a boat hearing rocks under the keel.

I drew a map from the Shadow, unfolded it, and checked our next stop, like a scribe smoothing rice paper.

How about we just teleport to the Hero Academy? I’ll set up a feast after, like lanterns after harvest.

The Sword Saint disagreed, like a mountain refusing a path.

This view is fine. Why rush elsewhere, like leaving tea before the aroma rises?

You know why you’re asking. Fine, I’ll say it: if we keep walking, our schedule drags, like boots in mud.

Travel is meeting upon meeting, miracles and coincidences like beads on a cord. If the one we ought to meet waits ahead, and we speed to chase time, pass by as if nothing—doesn’t that invert root and branch?

No need. You know this—meaningless, like smoke without fire.

Not every meeting bears meaning. Meaninglessness is the normal sea, and meaning the rare island.

You… like a knife raised then lowered.

Nothing more, no difference. Where isn’t a journey, like footprints on any sand?

…Do as you like. It’s your trip. If you find value, if you think there’ll be no mishap, that’s enough, like steering your own boat.

I yielded first. If the Sword Saint sets his will, I, the one arranging his journey, must abide, like a guide in rain matching the traveler’s stride.

Call it this: the client’s meaning outranks all, like a king’s seal on a scroll.

Demon King, what do you mean, like thunder rumbling before rain?

Eil aims only to trail the Sword Saint and seek aid from kings, so he accepts whatever the Saint chooses. But Julian, a straight-laced Hero like out of a tale, never likes me, keeps a sharp vigilance, questions all I do, like a watchdog at a gate.

Means nothing, like mist over a pond.

What riddle are you playing at, like a bell rung under cloth?

It’s advice from someone with the same transcendent sight… For you, take it as prophecy, the Savior Demon King Andor’s prophecy, like a seal pressed in wax.

“Keep going, and it means nothing. Nothing will change. At best, the best ending is to gain nothing; all other paths worsen.” That’s a prophecy from a higher vantage, like reading wind before the storm.

I don’t understand, like a fisherman staring at stars.

I never expected mortals to understand before the thing arrives, like seeds knowing the tree.

You! Julian stabbed me with a glare, turned away as if one more look would sicken her, and jogged after the Nameless Sword Saint, like a hawk drawn to sky.

Mm… like a stone dropped into a well.

If we’re set on meeting a Divine Being, best keep my mouth shut from here, like folding a fan before the altar.

Though under Wisdom God Haydon’s mediation the gods wrote a pact not to meddle in this Son of the Demon King incursion, they still bear us malice. Best quench any spark that could start war, like watering the thatch.

Waiting ahead is one of the Twelve Primordial Deities: the God of Strength Bell. In my last life she knocked me from heaven and pinned me to the Demon Realm—a war-hawk among gods, like iron driven into oak.

Right now, these could blow up my script: Haydon breaking with me like ice splitting; Gloria unsealing the Demon Slaying Sword and going feral like a river bursting its dam; Raven inventing a forbidden spell like a match in dry hay; the Nameless Sword Saint making a dying counterstrike like a tiger at the last step; and the God of Strength Bell or the god Fiz descending to the world like a thunderhead falling to earth.

So: go careful, bow low. Humility never harms, like oil on hinges.

We left the forest, reached light at the end of darkness, like a boat breaking fog.

I raised a hand to shield my eyes. The light wasn’t merely bright; it seared like gamma fire on the retina.

To creatures tied to darkness, the glory of a Divine Being hurts on sight. Even if the god doesn’t radiate on purpose, seeing her form scorches the soul. Even at a Demon King’s tier, my eyes itch and ache, like sand in wind.

Humans feel it as just right, like sunshine on skin.

When my eyes adapted to the glory, I looked around. For three kilometers, the famously sturdy Finger ironwood lay in a radial collapse, as if calamity pressed them flat. The Divine Being stood at the center, like a pillar of dawn.

Her presence overwhelms all presence. Enter this fallen grove, and spirit and sight snap to her at once, like iron to a lodestone.

Just as mortals paint the God of Strength, Bell wore only a few strips of cloth over the key places, skin bare in vast planes. Her form explains the beauty of strength, like a statue cut from lightning.

She is correct. She is inevitable. She is absolute, like law carved in stone.

She is the essence of rule and order, this world’s Primordial Deity—Bell.

She waited for us to step closer and pay respects, like a temple awaiting pilgrims.

The Sword Saint smiled, nodded toward her, and walked forward, like a blade sliding from its sheath.

I made my presence thin as paper and followed, though Bell surely knew I was there, like a shadow pinned by noon.

Nameless Sword Saint.

God of Strength, Your Majesty. The Sword Saint bowed and offered the proper reverence, like water bending to moonlight.

Bell nodded to the mortal below, and when she spoke, ceremony filled the air like drums before battle:

Deathmatch, War-Code, Sword-Seat—three authorities I can grant. You can sit at my left, win immortality… if you nod.

For a warrior of this era, that’s an honor never granted. The Sword Saint answered with frankness, like a clear spring.

He looked calm, as if he’d foreseen this. Well, foreseen or not, I’d warned him, like a bell rung before dawn.

However he chooses, whether it leads to a good ending, I won’t interfere, like a fisherman letting the river decide.

The strength you sought all your life, your martial forms—join them to the rules of this world, let them become a power the world recognizes. Then this peerless sword art can spread among mortals, like fire carried from hearth to hearth.

That solves a difficulty I’ve pondered for a hundred years in the best way, like a knot at last undone.

Guard the mortal world. You’ll become part of it, and have uncounted years to test blades and see the summit of swordcraft, like stars counting nights.

A lifetime to hone the sword—that’s the lone desire, like a flame kept under glass.

So, your answer, like an arrow on the string?

A hundred years ago, when I had just sat at Swordgate, I would have begged your mercy. His voice held no haze, like winter air.

The Sword Saint bowed again, face calm as a deep pond.

Gods shouldn’t ask “why,” for we should be all-knowing. But we made a covenant to grant the young possibility, not to meddle or pry. Only this time, I want to know, to understand the child’s thought. Nameless Sword Saint, what do you truly seek, like a star naming its own fire?

Only to see what lies in that highest sky of swordcraft, like climbing to the ridge to meet dawn.

Then why refuse a god’s forever? With endless possibility, someday you’d reach the sky you want, like a river reaching sea.

I have foreseen this: at the moment of my death, I can see it. No need to demand forever, like a candle using its last inch for light.

You… don’t crave life, like a tree turning from spring?

This body is born by Heaven’s intent, dies by Heaven’s decree. It is a joy, like a leaf falling in season.

The Sword Saint bowed a final time, lowered his head, and stepped back two paces to show his stance, like a blade returning to scabbard.

Bell sighed, like wind leaving the eaves.