“Bad mood?”

I didn’t wear a mask today, like leaving the moon bare behind thin clouds, and kept only a tweaked, forgettable corpse-face.

I didn’t want a “president strolling into a country tavern and panicking the villagers” kind of circus, like a hawk dropping into a chicken pen.

“So you can tell?” His voice slid like water over river stones.

“No, your face didn’t give you away,” he said, calm as frost on glass.

“Did I ask why?” My words snapped like a dry twig.

“After some counting and measuring, based on how often you drink and the sigh’s pitch, I guessed,” he said, eyes steady as a still pond. “A detective should explain the math, like chalk scratching a slate, but you can treat it as a guess. Am I right?”

“Is that something anyone can do?” I kept my tone flat, like dust settling.

“Yeah. Anyone can learn to watch, with a bit of luck, like catching a falling leaf,” he said, easy as smoke drifting.

So it wasn’t a miracle, just an ordinary craft, like knotting a net with patient fingers. He said it without weight, like a feather on a palm.

The musician smiled, washed-out like a faded watercolor, and came to the table, raising his cup like lifting a lantern in fog.

He always claimed, “I only do what anyone could do, and I can only do what anyone could do,” pressing “mortal” like a seal on wax.

They say the devil set his eyes on him, like a wolf marking a trail. He was pleasant to talk to, like tea warming a cold throat, but that alone wasn’t enough to make me meddle with the devil’s fun, like flipping a game board mid-match. At most, I’d visit this tavern a few more times before he died, like brushing snow off a gravestone.

“So you decided I’m in a foul mood, and not from my expression,” I said, voice low as dusk. “Fine. Even if that’s impressive, call it nothing. We’ll go with your take.”

He nodded, reed-soft in a breeze, sat on the wooden stool like a heron on a post, and kept the talk flowing like a stream over pebbles.

“Why do people come to taverns?” he said, counting like beads on a string. “Sixteen percent for music, like moths to a lute’s glow. Twenty-one percent to drink with friends, like campfires ringed with laughter. Thirty-seven percent for the buzz, like market day under bright banners. Overall, they like the tavern’s atmosphere, like warm air after rain.”

He tossed out numbers in a cascade, like grains from a sack, and backed every point with examples, like posts along a road.

—Well said, like a bell struck clean.

But think: who has time to survey such dull things, like measuring shadows on a wall? No profit, no value, no pay, like a fisherman casting into a dry riverbed. Either he was bored, with hours spilling like sand.

Or he was making it up, smooth as oil.

If he lied, his arguments flowed too well, like lines rehearsed in front of a mirror, the kind of rhythm you get from drafts and practice, like footwork on a polished floor.

“So I should ask next, with honest curiosity,” he said, palms open like empty bowls. “What about the rest—why do they come?”

“To ease their worries,” I said, voice dull as ash.

“Yeah, I guessed,” he said, smile thin as smoke.

“Every tavern keeps the best short-term therapist—wine,” he said, nodding like a doctor tapping a knee. “So drinking to forget is a kind of self-treatment, like pressing a warm stone to a bruise.”

“But it works poorly. When you wake, reality crashes back like cold surf, and there’s the body’s complaint—hangover headaches, like hammers inside a skull.”

“So you’re lucky. Really lucky,” he said, eyes bright as morning frost.

“I hate that half-and-half style,” I said, heat rising like steam. “Keep up the spooky act and I’ll break your nose.” I raised my fist like a storm cloud.

“Spare my nose,” he said, palm up like a leaf. “If the bridge breaks, folks won’t enjoy the music, like birds startled off a branch.”

“Then spit it out,” I said, breath cutting like a knife.

“I’m saying I can listen, like a quiet shore taking waves,” he said. “Your troubles and your story, if you don’t mind.”

“…Go grab two pitchers,” I said, exhaling like iron cooling, and tossed him several Colonna coins that rang like little suns.

“As you wish,” he said, pale smile flickering like moonlight.

He came back with the beer, and also with pen and paper, like tools laid on fresh snow.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to record it,” he said, dipping the nib like a heron’s beak. “You might not know—I write stories too, polish them like jade, and sell them.”

“Whatever. Write,” I said, letting the words drop like stones.

I breathed in and out, like tide and tide, slow and deep.

I could settle into it, like easing a bowstring, and release pressure for a while, like smoke leaving a kiln.

Vega is my retainer, and I won’t show weakness before a subordinate, like a mountain hiding its crumbling side. Victor works for me, and I won’t let an employee see the boss’s worry, like a king masking a fever. The Sword Saint wants to talk, but I don’t trust him, like a blade with a pretty crack. Stini knows nothing, stubborn yet instinct-strong like a hound, and I don’t want her doubting my identity, like mist thickening around a lantern.

Daviya and Kadula heard I was in low spirits, but they played dumb, like cats looking past a broken vase. Eil sensed my impatience, but he dared not ask, like a sparrow facing thunder.

I’m mighty and violent, with nothing so I fear nothing, like a storm over empty plains. That’s the shape I show everyone, the way I want them to understand me, like letters carved into stone.

And if I’m just a stranger, an unfamiliar passerby in a tavern, like a river meeting another river—if I’m not the Demon King, not an uncanny monster, not a political head, just a man drinking and chatting with someone I don’t know—

…It’s fine to relax a little, like loosening a knot.

“…From fifty-two million and three, down to forty-six million six hundred and twenty-nine,” I said, numbers falling like sleet.

“What does that mean?” he asked, brow lifting like a kite.

“Mm… Think of it as the price for the goods I’m about to sell,” I said, voice flat as slate.

If you treat lives and souls as currency, and the world and its future as goods, it fits, like a ledger written in starlight.

“Whatever the unit, your trade is big,” he said, pen scratching like a cricket.

He wrote a few strokes, at a weird angle like a bent branch, and I couldn’t see his words, like fish sliding under dark water.

“I sold the goods at a good price, that first number,” I said, tapping the table like rain. “The buyer agreed, like ink drying—except…”

“Except?” he asked, and the air tightened like a drawn bow.

I remembered the argument from days ago, like old embers flaring.

I clenched my fist—not to vent, but to hold myself back, like steel keeping its temper away from a hammer. I wouldn’t smash this table, like a bear avoiding a beehive.

“Except my lovely girlfriend wasn’t happy,” I said, the word lovely tasting like wine gone sour. “She thought my price was too high, like a mountain shadow swallowing a field.”

“Mm-hmm. Sisters and brothers aren’t cute. Girlfriends are cute,” he said, humor light as a paper fan.

“That’s not the point!” I snapped, spark leaping like a firefly.

“Please don’t break my nose,” he said, tapping his bridge like porcelain. “Even if you smash the table, spare the nose. That table’s a keepsake,” he added, voice soft as a flute. “The owner got it when he retired from the Eastern Fengming Mountains, gifted by his subordinates, like an old banner folded neat.”

“Enough! Hoo…” My breathing trembled like a bowstring. “Okay. I’m calm. You don’t need clumsy jokes to warm the air.”

“But it works, doesn’t it?” he said, shrug light as willow leaves. “Then?”

“Then?” I spread my hands like empty plates. “The usual fight. We fell out, like storm breaking a tent. I don’t want to see her. So I’ve got nowhere to stay. Any spare rooms here? I’ll rent for two days.”

“Really?” he asked, eyes narrowing like a cat’s.

“I’ve no reason to lie,” I said, tone dry as bone.

He slitted his eyes and stopped writing, the pen hanging like a halted dragonfly.

From the start he’d been writing fast, like rain stitching a pond. I felt I’d spoken less than he’d penned, like a tree shedding fewer leaves than the wind carried. Too bad I couldn’t read a pen’s sway to count words, like a tracker reading grass.

“You remind me of a regular,” he said, gaze drifting like smoke.

“Let me guess—some great Hero?” I said, half-smile like a chipped blade.

“Yeah,” he said, nod light as dust. “He likes a black coat, like night draped over shoulders. He’s generous with coin, like a river loosing its banks. He always talks messy problems, like twine knotted in brambles. You’re similar, so I think this new customer might share his temper,” he added, voice soft as rain.

“Because we look alike, our tempers match? Don’t joke,” I said, words cool as slate.

The musician tapped his temple, like a knuckle on a wooden bell.

“Similar here,” he said, gaze steady as a lantern flame.

“Souls,” I said, the word falling like an iron bead.

“Ordinary folk can’t touch that,” he said with a teasing tone, like fog thickening. “I mean personality. You both run hot, like coals banking slow. You burn carefully, not wanting to start a wildfire, like ember under ash. You could raise sky-flaming blazes, but you keep it down,” he said, voice gentle as dusk.

“…What are you getting at?” I asked, the question taut like string.

“Do you get angry and depressed after a fight?” he asked, palm up like calm water. “There are two kinds of people,” he said, words clean as a blade. “One thinks, ‘Fights are ugly. I hate fighting. I hate seeing my ugly self,’ like turning from a cracked mirror. The other thinks, ‘Fights are ugly. I enjoy fights. I enjoy watching the ugly,’ like staring at ants swarming. You’re the second.”

“So you’ve decided I’m hiding something,” I said, a chill like shade creeping.

“Or you haven’t noticed a part of yourself,” he said, shoulders easy as reeds. “Or it’s buried in your subconscious—who knows?” He spoke like tossing pebbles. “But I’ve understood you, somewhat,” he added, a half-smile like dawn.

“Ha. Another guess? Can you swap excuses for your spooky act?” I said, a dry laugh like sand.

“Yeah. Another guess,” he said, pen quiet as a sleeping bird. “I guess your strength and arrogance don’t come from fearlessness,” he said, eyes calm as stone. “It’s simpler—you don’t put your heart in. You don’t care. You don’t care about fights. You don’t care about struggles,” he said, words steady as rain on tiles. “Unless—do I need to say it?”

“No. Don’t…” I said, breath tightening like wire.

When Ferrel returned, I felt joy like sunlight on winter glass. When I had time, I took her everywhere, like wind carrying kites.

…Which is to say, I often had no time to be with her, like a clock cheating its hands.

So Ferrel naturally grew curious, like a cat at a closed door, about what her boyfriend was doing. She’s a good kid, obedient like water finding its bowl, and let me keep the surprise till the end.

Lately I’d been negotiating with Head, like two chess players under lamps, and gathering a few younger siblings to plan the next steps, like mapping roads on damp paper. Everything found a rough path, like streams braided into a river. If the script didn’t sprint into dreams, I’d opened a clear road to the future, like paving sunlit stone.

Three days ago, I walked with Ferrel to the outskirts of the Hero Academy, like skirting a gold field, and told her: from here, everything your eyes can reach will be our land, like horizon painted on silk.

I’ll build her a city—a free city—like a star pinned on the plain.

In the last life she and I were nailed to the end of the world, like two anchors on a seabed, serving as the foundation for the world’s growth, watching eras shift like clouds, and this time, she—no, we—can actually do something, like planting trees on clean earth.

We could draft ideal classes, like carving tiers on jade. We could build beautiful walls, like white cranes of stone. We could forge a great system, like gears meshing in sunlight.

We’d argued these topics countless times, like tides meeting rocks, and now we could test them in reality, like seeds meeting rain.

I proudly showed her everything we would have, like opening a chest full of dawn.

“…That’s the outline,” I said, sketching the premise like chalk on slate.

In the tale I was only a merchant, ordinary as wheat, though my business was large, like granaries full.

“And then—how did the fight start?” he asked, pen waiting like a quill in snow.

“This…” I said, choosing words like picking thorns. “Understand me. What I know, she knows, as my opposite, like a mirror. But when you look in a mirror, you sometimes miss the stain on your clothes, like a shadow hiding a spot. She should see it, but sometimes she forgets, like clouds covering the sun.”

“But your reminder made her recall?” he asked, squinting like a fox. “I don’t get magic or fate, like winds in a sealed jar, but is that fair?”

“That’s better, actually,” I said, nodding like a stone. “That’s what happened. She realized my price was too high, like a mountain over a village, and she blew up, fighting me,” I said, heat like sparks.

“Oh. If, as you say, your castle and treasure are for that lovely lady, why not choose what satisfies her more?” he asked, voice gentle as moss.

“You don’t get it! She doesn’t get it!” I shouted, like thunder cracking dry hills. “She could have been a princess! A queen! Now? My price didn’t drop much, but she’ll only be a peasant girl! That’s the gap!” My breath clawed like a hawk.

He didn’t flinch, just wiped spit from his glasses like rain off a window, and stayed calm, like a stone under waves.

“Do you understand her?” he asked, steady as a tree. “Lovers should understand each other, like crows in pairs. You can’t only pound your own rightness,” he said, voice cool as shade.

You’re right without a doubt, like a compass true, he hinted, but sometimes your “right” isn’t what people want, like a map without roads.

I understood everything he said, like hearing a bell echo.

I’m not a block of wood, like a stump ignoring fire.

“I understand her. I know, I get it… but I don’t agree!” I said, pain ringing like iron. “I worked so hard! My gift, my—”

“Because you care, it hurts worse,” he said, soft as evening. “Alright. If you’re the boyfriend, have some grace, like a cloak in the rain. And after all your shouting, it’s still about you,” he said, words clean as a cut.

“It’s not,” I said, denial stiff as bark.

“Making her happy makes you happy,” he said, truth simple as bread. “Gifts ask for response, like a seed asking for sun. Be cool. Since you accept that love is mutual burden and mutual bother, walk with some style,” he said, gaze clear as water. “Right now… you look ugly,” he said, head shaking like a willow.

The musician set down his pen like a sleeping knife and stacked the papers, neat as tiles.

“…”

“Let’s end here,” he said, rising like dawn. “I need to get off, and you need to think, like a field lying fallow. We can’t help each other now,” he added, voice mild as milk.

“…Hey, musician,” I said, words trailing like smoke. “You’re not staying for the rest?”

"I don't want the details; it's some fool with flowers tapping his girl's door, no apology, just picking up the old fight."

"Still, if both sides keep a window open for words, and don't storm off, they usually find the stepping stones back to each other."

"What do you even know, to sound that stone-sure?"

"I know nothing. Not a thing. Luck flips me a coin, and somehow I often call it right."

"Lucky guy... if you want to wear that tag, suit yourself."

I took the two drained mugs back to the counter, like spent shells, gave the girl a polite smile, and turned to leave.

"By the way, one more thing—since you said you'd sell my story, will it actually catch fire?"

"Stories aren't the same; yours won't sell at all—too plain to stir anyone but you, and no one loves a plot that stale."

"Hero saves the maiden, knight and princess—freewheeling vendettas and instant payback are what people crave now."

"Got it—the message lands."

"But it's fun, like a pebble that skips."

He slid the manuscript into a small pouch, careful as folding a paper crane, packed up, and gave me his usual smile.

Maybe it was a trick of the light; this time his smile seemed to carry an extra wash of color.