From the first clash with the monster horde, the mix has thinned, like a river in drought leaving only a few hard fish.

It’s the sunk-cost itch gnawing minds. Some Demon Kings see two Heroes at the gate and figure Swordgate won’t fall before the duel ends, so they stop feeding bodies into the grinder. Others shove in more troops, like piling logs on a stubborn fire—take losses now, make trouble for a Divine Being, earn a promotion in the Demon Realm’s cold ladder.

Call it gambler’s thinking: they’ve thrown in too much, so they throw in more, chasing the mirage on the horizon.

Some Demon Kings peel back like a tide receding. Some crash forward like a wave with stones in its belly. Overall, the surf of assault doesn’t really rise or fall.

Blooddrain nightbats, the kind that paint the sky with their shadow, are priority targets. You swat them first, or the roof falls on you.

I snapped a shadow javelin and hurled it like a shard of night. Then I faced the flame-swallowing siege beast ahead, a furnace with claws, and let the sky be. A scream ripped down from above, like torn silk falling through rain. Sounded solved.

On the fourth heavy chop, my Greatsword bit the knee of the flame-eater’s foreleg. It wailed and collapsed like a tower with a split cornerstone. I turned with the pull of wind, slid to its forequarter, and brought the Greatsword down. The ugly head rolled, a lump of coal kicked from a brazier.

“Fes… better call you Valentin. Safer. The Sword Saint’s duel is over. Do we head back?”

“…The assault hasn’t stopped.” His voice was a low drum in fog.

“But I miss the gin sleeping in my fridge, my soft bed, and Vega’s softer body.”

“…”

“Hey, I’m kidding. I won’t quit on the last lap. But you should step off. Bel’s already withdrawn. If you linger, the gods will pick at you—though leaving now is still late.”

“Yet this assault—the assault we drew here—”

Back when I shot down the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom in my last life, I saw Fes show his true form. He sounded just as deep then, like thunder under ice.

He muttered a few pebbled words, then slid back into silence. His buckler turned the Iron Golem Venomcroc’s slap aside like rain off slate. He slipped in close, a shadow under a wave, and with neat strokes he took the monster apart.

Yes, took it apart. His sword worked like a scalpel under lamplight, kissing weak joints, opening seams, and handing the rest to gravity. The thing obeyed the earth and came undone.

He turned and rushed the second earth-gnawing maggot, then the third, then the fourth, a scythe through root-sick soil.

“Don’t carry the whole mountain on your back, Valentin. Your eyes are too high in the clouds. You can’t see with a mortal gaze. I’ll grant Divine Beings are all-knowing, but knowing isn’t understanding or agreeing. Try lowering your eyes a touch—though right now do the opposite. Look up.”

For a breath, javelins and arrows darkened the sky like a gathering squall.

The ranged strikes bloomed with blast, disperse, purify, anti-magic—waves of culling rain. They cleared a wide ring of ground. To spare me and Fes, nothing hit near the gate. We finished the few stragglers like stamping out coals along a firebreak.

“Counterattack?” Fes watched a full squad of death-willing soldiers rappel from the wall and finish the wounded like butchers in the snow.

“Swordgate’s an empty shell by design. The standing army draws elites from the kingdoms. For the gate, they even have a winged legion and a dragon contingent. They don’t cling to one wall. The gate’s a throwaway trap. The city’s a trap. The alleys are traps. Everywhere’s teeth, enough to kill every invader—or every defender.”

Swordgate was built to be “taken,” a fortress that bleeds as it yields. With each step of losing, it kills by the cartload. The garrison guards the door to the Demon Realm, not fields, not barns, not townsfolk. They’re doorkeepers, nothing else.

But taking this kind of hit wasn’t wished for. These deaths weren’t on the calendar. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day, a Demon King would rally an assault on Swordgate. It wasn’t supposed to be now.

Not because someone “interrupted a duel,” with people paying in blood.

Fes must be choked by it. Even with the visor on, I can see the storm.

Because a Divine Being acted on a whim, those who shouldn’t have died fell like leaves in wind.

“Hey, hear me out, if we—”

“Hold. No. Farewell. You want to invite me to cull monsters before the suicide squad dies. I refuse. I’m going back. I don’t want you owing me a favor.”

“Why?”

“Because ‘Heroes get tired too.’ That’s for the world. For me, it’s just ‘no need.’ Not worth an answer. For you… the reason is ‘trust humans a bit more.’”

“…” No monsters were gathering. The death squad was far enough they couldn’t hear us. We had a moment in the lull, two stones in a stream.

Among Divine Beings, Fes is the quiet kind. I do most of the talking, tossing words like pebbles to feel the depth.

“Like we Demon Kings call humans ‘mortals,’ you Divine Beings call them ‘the young.’ Same slope, same mud—looking down. Not believing. Not putting them on your level.”

“I don’t want to argue.”

“Me neither. I won’t waste breath on smoke. It’s advice for a god unused to human flesh, station, and feeling: try trusting humans more.”

Fes shook his head. His sword and shield drew in tighter, like fists in winter.

“That’s the knot. I still see from a god’s height. I know this squad won’t return. Their lovers, kin, friends will wait like candles guttering, and no one will come through the door. Without our hand, this quarrel—born of us—ends in tragedy.”

“Gods are always proud. You were born sky-high. Demon Kings climb from the dust to power, so at least I understand mortal resolve and sacrifice. We don’t chase perfect endings. They’re too far, too foolish. Better to let humans choose. Then, at least, they die without grievance.”

“This assault should’ve had nothing to do with the young.” Fes still hadn’t sheathed his blade. Even with no monster breaking the ring of arrows and javelins, he held like a tower in wind.

“And mortals’ choices should have nothing to do with you.”

It’s respect.

Respect their choice, their readiness to die, their forward will. If they don’t ask for help, you keep your hand closed.

Humans have their pride and their reserve, like mountains keep their own weather.

“Mortals are growing. Must you press the young back into their cradle?”

“For a thousand years, always. That’s how we shield the world.”

“That was then.” I didn’t need to say more. I slid the Greatsword into the Shadow, my answer to a god’s invitation. “The age is changing, will change, is changing. Old gods, old kings, old Heroes must change with the world. Now let mortals choose for themselves, to explore—”

“—and to grow.”

I grabbed a rope dangling from the wall and climbed, a spider on stone. I showed the captain… how do you fake tired eyes again? Forget it. A dead face is easier.

I bowed, said I was spent, apologized for being unable to fight on. That soothed him like rain on cinders. He thanked me, thrust a pouch of coins into my hand, and sent me to rest in the rear.

Figures.

Heroes do roam wide, but they rarely strike Demon Kings head-on. Demon Kings hit kingdoms first; standing armies must prove they don’t eat rations for free; kings must show they can shelter their people like roofs in storm.

If a Hero swoops in and kills the Demon King, what then? Where’s the state, the guardian’s standing? They’ll call the Hero meddlesome, like a neighbor trimming your tree without asking.

That’s why, even with twenty-four Demon Kings in the world, Stini still goes adventuring with us, laughing in the sun. Unless we stumble into one, or her hometown gets bombed, a Heroine only moves when a kingdom’s seal arrives with an invitation.

Right now, as Shadow Artisan Andor, I’m here on invitation from Valentin, proxy of the Strength God. Even that support from the Strength Temple already needles Swordgate’s regulars. They know it’s goodwill, but it still feels like a hand on their hilt—meddling.

I left the captain and headed straight to the training grounds. The duel had just ended; the crowd was scattering like leaves. If I hadn’t sent Victor to tag Julian, I would’ve wasted more time searching.

The Divine Being had returned to the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom. The Sword Saint lay buried in a sea of red plum blossoms, nowhere that maps can name. The arena stood empty as a winter pond.

Julian sat on a bench at the outer ring, knees hugged, staring like frost on glass. She didn’t seem to notice she should leave.

“Girl, you’re making the cleaning crew’s work harder.” I slipped through the thinning crowd, sat beside her, and tapped her shoulder like rain on wood.