We weren’t going to keep up the “friendship duel.” Mainly, I wasn’t going to keep feeding Eil moves, while his timing for the Godspeed Realm shot forward like an arrow through fog.

But now we had nothing to do. The pilgrimage’s main act, the Nameless Sword Saint, had raised a ring at the center of the Hero Academy, like a lone platform under a storm of eyes. I helped the Sword Saint and Vice Principal Gugwen nail down the challenge rules, then asked Augustus if he’d accept and test who the “Strongest of the Mortal World” really was.

He wrapped an arm around his wife, Ibera, with the pride of a hawk on a cliff, and I knew I was wasting breath like wind on stone.

He said, “We both wield swords toward the light. We shouldn’t bend them against each other,” all incense and temple bells. I shot back, “You’re just scared, first timid demigod I’ve met,” and he punched me out like a thunderclap in a clear sky.

I waited till Augustus and Ibera were about to kindle the principal’s office like a brazier, then barged in; seeing the guy who beat me over Stini look awkward warmed me like winter sun on old tiles.

Now I was truly idle, like a boat on a still lake. All my small errands had been folded and stowed early, and sometimes I marvel I’m a diligent ant under a wide sky.

Eil was idle too. We’d gone to Gugwen together, asking for manpower and supplies, but the Hero Academy was poor, fed by thin state stipends like trickling streams through dry reeds.

Eil’s request was begging from a beggar, harsh to say, but mirror-clear like ice over a pond.

Gugwen agreed Eil could recruit for the Demon World Surveillance Squad and promised to spread the word, yet neither expected a harvest from that bare field under pale clouds.

Justice fools aren’t many. The luxury-gift princess I burned mana to bring back from the Demon Realm was a rare bird in a quiet grove.

So what now?

“Wanna gamble?”

“Gamble?” Eil’s voice was flat as water without ripples, eyes like calm stone.

Right, the Silver Era didn’t care for gambling, not absent, just unable to take root like seeds tossed on marble. I imported blackjack and such from the future, scattered them for fundraising like leaflets in a breeze.

People barely glanced, like passersby stepping over fallen leaves on a damp path.

My “Mephi” consortium partnered with Kadula to build a casino, lamps bright as festival lanterns, and adventurers found it wasn’t another cheerful tavern for ale and song. It wasn’t a hearth for talk and music, so they drifted away like smoke.

The place bled coin like a wound and shut its doors with a tired sigh.

In the Demon Realm, the tables are loved like lantern-lit streets in a night market.

“Gambling,” I said, “is people predicting uncertain events. They pick for no good reason, stake coins like seeds, then watch the sky. The right ones reap double or more like fat harvest.”

“So?” he asked, voice cool as evening shade under pines.

“So what?” I asked back, heartbeat a quiet drum in a misty hall.

“Is gambling to make money, or to have fun?”

“Good question.” Outside the Hero Academy, the Fingor jungle was friendly to obstacle runs, roots like coiled snakes under a thin carpet of leaves. I thought with my chin in my hand and my eyes on my feet. “Both, I’d say.”

“As entertainment, I don’t see the fun, like staring at blank water. As a way to make money, anything that adds no production will be washed away by history like foam by a tide.”

It made sense, a clean blade in moonlight on white stone.

Yet sense runs opposite to later facts, like a river bending against a map. I’m no philosopher; I don’t need to braid storms in my head.

“So I, and most people, don’t care for your ‘gambling.’”

“Wait, then what about Gwent?”

New fads mean open doors for business, like new winds filling empty sails. Big consortiums like me and Kadula weren’t short on liquid silver; we were short on trends not yet forged into supply chains like iron into rails.

I ran Eil through a string of gambling forms, cards fanning like wings. Hope tied to mist and unknown luck wasn’t the Silver Era’s play; they preferred clear roads over cloudy dice.

Fair enough. It’s an age before people collect bad habits like rust on iron.

“Alright, drop gambling. Looks like the Silver Era won’t birth a Demon King whose authority domain is ‘Gambling.’ But a drink’s fine.”

A heavy surge of mana rolled from the Hero Academy like thunderheads, and the sky spilled a sudden rain, drumbeats on tiled roofs.

The Shadow Realm’s blessing kept me from stepping into open puddles, a soft hand on my ankle. Eil’s cuts hated water like sparks hate snow, so to show goodwill, I walked through thick, opaque mud, boots black as ink on clay.

The Fingor ironwoods thinned, trunks slimming like reeds by a river. Through gaps in the leaves, the Hero Academy’s familiar roofs peeked like old friends under gray light.

That familiar place again; we were back, footfalls soft as rain.

“Every time I see you stroll in and out of the Hero Academy in that mask, I’m stunned,” Eil said, tone a thin chill like frost on glass.

“You’re wearing a suspicious mask too,” I said, dry as sand under wind. “You’ve no intention of helping the gate guards keep their posts.”

I led, and Eil, changing bandages as he walked, followed like a shadow. We pushed into the little tavern, door breathy as an old bellows; the familiar musician was tuning his violin, fingers gentle as rain on strings.

He looked much the same as a year ago, a light-colored smile like watercolor on rice paper. His gaze fell on us, then he shook his head, a small wind through tall grass.

Maybe he could see something else flicker behind us, like a fox tail in dusk.

“You lot,” he said, voice a soft reed by a stream, “are an ominous lineup.”

“Calling customers ‘ominous’ is rude, musician,” I said, with a thin smile like a knife-sheen. “Or should I call you a trickster?”

He seemed tied to a demon, and people tied to demons are usually interesting, like odd fish under moonlit waves in a jade lake.

Most important, demons don’t shove the current. Their plans are long and hidden, like roots under stone, and don’t matter in the moment; they plot by eras, and to guard far goals, they step aside from storms they can’t predict.

In short, they’re good partners; even if we scowl, they won’t sell our guns to the other camp, like merchants keeping their ledgers clean.

“Call me what you like,” he said, voice even as a straight path through bamboo. “How many?”

“As you can see, two,” I said, raising two fingers like twigs in mist.

“Four,” he said, voice a pebble dropped into a pond.

Eil turned his masked face to me, surprise ticking like a moth behind lacquer wings.

The musician didn’t fuss; he led us to the Speaker’s corner table, a shadowed nook like a cave under lantern light, said he should play now, and turned away, notes trailing like silver threads.

Felt like he was dodging our net, a fish slipping through reeds.

“Did you invite anyone else?” Eil asked, words a quiet ripple under still water.

“Partners from our travels,” I said, a smile tucked like a secret knife behind cloth.

“Julian and the Sword Saint should be on the central ring. It’s not their rest time. They can’t—”

“When did you decide our traveling party was only four?” I cut in, voice a bell in a foggy courtyard.

“…”

Showing off always lightens the air like lanterns at dusk, but a mask hides reactions, and the pleasure loses a shade like color under snow.

“Daviya, Kadula, get over here. Drinks are on me.”

I used my voice as authority, a trick I’d honed lately, thread of power in a shout like iron in silk. On the road with the Sword Saint, heroes and I often had no shared topics, so to kill time, I practiced weaving power into sound.

Mortals hear only loud calls, like drums in a square; the gifted feel attention tugged like sleeves by a passing wind.

Onstage, the musician let his strings fall silent and sighed at me, breath a mist above a cup.

“Sir, please keep it down,” he said, patience a thin sheet of ice over running water.

“If a performance bends under noise, that’s on the musician’s discipline,” I said, smile dry as salt on a rim.

Kadula pushed the tavern’s wooden door with one hand, wood creaking like an old hull. She wore her favorite lace-trim dress, pink and white like cherry blossom and cloud, patterns too ornate for a battle-worn Demon King.

In truth, a big consortium needs overwhelming force like iron pillars to uphold its trade laws, whether in the Demon Realm or the mortal world, now or later under any sky.

“This racket’s all Andor’s,” she said, voice bright as clinking glass. “Esteemed musician, I admire your touch on D-string vibrato. If you’ve time, please let me buy you a drink.”

Daviya bowed to the musician at the door, apology smooth as silk in a breeze, then tugged Kadula and hurried over, steps quick as sparrows across eaves.

“Ah—It’s been ages since I heard violin this good,” Daviya said, releasing a breath like warm steam from tea. “If possible, I’d love him as a guest in my domain.”

He sealed our voices with authority so they wouldn’t leak, a clear bell-jar around us on the table. He holds the “Dispute” authority domain, so he can touch part of “language,” and his absolute-silence field beats a regular barrier like steel beats tin.

“And then? Are you planning to pry out his brain,” I asked, tone dark as stormwater, “leave it linked only to arms and shoulders, and feast on his viscera to the music?”

“How could I!” Daviya said, hands raised like open fans in a market. “A great musician is an irreplaceable resource, like a rare spring in a desert. At most I want him to live longer, or show him a Demon King’s horizon. Maybe his pieces will gain more thunder.”

Kadula and Daviya bickered, words like clashing cymbals in a temple. “I’d trade a city for a brilliant musician as a retainer!” “Do you even know a city’s worth, like granite weighed against gold?”

These two never sit easy together, though we’re alike as mirror-birds perched on twin branches.

By alike, I mean we like to talk, we can trade, we chase efficiency, and we care little for glory or rank, like travelers cutting weight from packs. Shared values and matching temper—both—make company pleasant like tea in sunlight.

Before business, finish the cup; that’s my habit, like tidying a desk before war drums. Clear the small threads, then focus on the knot at the heart.

Upside, it’s efficient as a sharp blade on bamboo. Downside, we’ll talk long, long enough to make my throat burn like hot sand under noon sun.