The tide of war held even, two storms colliding over ice and breath.

The Demon King’s white gown was scored by twin wounds, cloth and flesh like torn parchment under frostbitten steel.

Her right arm, the one swinging the Giant Scythe, wore an eight-inch gash carved by the sword of Malign Justice, a wound salted by a Divine Being’s lingering might.

Even a Demon King woven from concept couldn’t knit that cut shut, like a cracked rune leaking light.

That conceptual taint would dog Slaughter itself, a black thorn snagging Anna’s every motion.

Her loose, floor-length hem snagged and hampered, then ripped high to the knee, like drifted snow broken by a boot track.

Stini wasn’t whole either, a banner frayed by wind and fire.

The black dress Andor gifted her was torn in several places, threads singing of hurried parries and near-misses.

Her gun-and-sword pairing hadn’t seen enough hard war, an unseasoned blade still tasting the whetstone.

She’d always used only sword or only gun, so the new flow left gaps, small cracks where her mind’s rehearsal didn’t reach.

The Giant Scythe had found them, leaving raw crescents on her skin like red moons.

Worst was the through-and-through at her ankle, a nail of winter hammered into tendon.

Her left leg felt “dead,” a log dragged through sleet, sensation numbed and slow.

Even with the Hero-clan’s Immunity Privilege, the Demon King’s authority bit deep, like iron frost that won’t let go.

She drew in a breath and let it out, a plume of white in a sharper wind.

Winter pressed closer, a knife-edge breeze that scraped her throat raw.

She took three short steps back to reset her stance, red heat in her blood surging against the world’s cold brine.

The fight had only begun, a first drumbeat under a storm sky.

The killing had only begun, a red thread just cast across a black loom.

It would be a long while before one side bled dry, a river that refused to run out.

Against a Giant Scythe that moved like a dancer’s ribbon, brute force blocks were folly, a wall trying to catch lightning.

Such a warped weapon was rare among mortals; in common hands its odd balance meant even the edge wouldn’t point true.

In a master’s hands it became a thousand forms, a field of wheat bending to every wind.

But her foe was Slaughter itself, a Demon King whose scythe-work crossed the mortal shore and stood where thought thins into myth.

Had Anna not been a little unsettled, Stini wouldn’t have had time to learn the pairing, not enough to weather the first storm of cuts.

Stini quick-stepped left, feet like sparrows over fresh snow.

She slipped past arcs and flips and falling chops, every line the scythe might trace in her mind’s gallery.

Tiny steps pressed her in, a fox nosing the snare’s edge, waiting for the beat to break.

—The Hero’s secret spear, One Cold Star.

—The Hero’s secret sword, Roar of the Other.

Such a blatant posture would draw a Demon King’s eye, a banner raised on a hill.

The flax-haired Demon King’s smile widened, the scythe flipped and rose like a crescent moon lifting.

Just as battle-heat peaked, a kettle shrilling on the coals—

Shadow—no, darkness—poured like ink.

It spread without a sound, yet every gaze swung to it like iron to a lodestone.

Stini tensed and pushed off before the clash, guard set like a shield planted in frozen earth.

Anna did the opposite; she let her guard go, brown eyes kindled with the light of an awaited guest.

It was proper wickedness, malice laid out like knives on a black cloth.

All that was ugly and filthy came openly, a banquet of rot served in silver, and nausea was only the first sting.

To keep from breaking, carving out one’s own eyes felt cheap, like paying a coin to avoid a flood.

When everyone began to think so, the nameless dark knit together and took a man’s shape.

He walked out of the corner like night stepping out of a door, half his body forever swallowed in Shadow.

Even the Hero’s Throne Shatter couldn’t scour that depthless black, a well that drank all torches.

He wore an ugly, bloodless mask, and in his hand rested a Long Halberd shaped wrong like a bad dream.

An elegant black evening suit clothed him, folds at the shoulders falling like velvet waves.

He felt like a poet singing of hell, an anti-saint cursing a god-city, lilies in one hand and ash in the other.

Sacred and fallen braided together on him, elegance and evil poured from the same decanter.

“Hero, your evening gown—what color is it?”

The voice behind the mask rasped like a thousand crows killed at once, like a thousand old women wailing over lost sons.

Eyes without whites turned to the young Hero, pits where stars should be.

Fire. Blood. Ruin. Void. The words fell like embers.

The girl pressed her lips to a line, swallowed hard like a pebble down a dry throat.

A Hero shouldn’t fear; that was the story, a lantern held high in fog.

——

“Hero, your evening gown—what color is it?”

I made one last confirmation, a fingertip tapping the table before the duel.

“Black!” she blurted, knuckles whitening on gun and sword like frost on iron.

“As I thought…”

In my eyes, in Vega’s eyes, in Anna’s eyes, Stini’s dress had only one color.

Scarlet.

“Is… is there a problem?”

“My intent was to greet you kindly and tell you something gently, like a hand on a fevered brow.”

“No matter what you wear, in others’ eyes you’ll end up crimson.”

“But that’s not a headache, not a curse to hide from in a cupboard.”

“It’s a badge, a deed, a gods-slaying stroke; even the gods must nod to your courage, your strength, your resolve.”

“And they’ve given you authority equal to a god, like a scepter pressed into a blood-wet palm.”

I opened my hand and stepped closer, like offering a glass of water at a fire.

She jolted back three steps, a deer rolling away from a torch.

So be it. I stopped where I stood and kept speaking, voice level as falling snow.

“Godslayer, a permanent stain of blood.”

“Infamy or fame, the stars will remember your name this way, Stini Saya.”

“Pleased to meet you for the first time.”

“I’m the Savior Demon King, Andor. Don’t worry I’ll throw my weight around.”

“…” The young Hero kept to the highest alert, a kettle simmering to a boil in her throat.

It was my first time meeting Stini as “Savior Demon King Andor,” and facing the worst and strongest Demon King, a prickle of dread was only natural.

“We’ll be seeing each other again, many, many times.”

“No need to bristle at me too hard—what matters now is this: I hope you’ll give up your crusade against Slaughter Demon King Anna.”

“You’ll handle it?”

“That’s what I promised—whoever I promised it to, it won’t hurt you.”

“…Do I get to refuse?”

“I sincerely hope we can meet in the middle.”

“You want to guard Segbaru, capital of Vineri, and I want to put down Slaughter Demon King.”

“These don’t clash; they stack like bricks in the same wall.”

“I have one condition.”

“As you wish.”

“Your clothes. Where did you get them?” Stini’s hand trembled as she pointed at my black formalwear, a candle flickering but not going out.

Her instincts and body shook with fear, but her will held like iron under snow.

I don’t read eyes, but I can resonate with a soul, and hers rang clear and strong, a string drawn tight.

“Bought, of course.”

“No murder. No extortion.”

“I paid with my own coin, gold mined out of the Demon Realm.”

“A proper full-price purchase, a suit off a rack under a gaslight.”

“Impossible! How could that be on you! Where’s Andor! What did you do to him?!”

Her scorch of a shout could have melted snow, soul-heat like taking a dragon’s breath full in the chest.

“Andor—your human tongue’s way of saying it—what’s he to me?”

“Is he dead right now?”

“Did he buy firewood for winter?”

“Is he flirting with his own maid?”

“Is he worrying about you, traveling alone?”

“Mm. That’s the second question.”

The dry irony fell like a pail of cold water, and her anger hissed down like quenched steel.

“Andor… he’s fine?” Girl, you’ve fallen for a rotten man.

“Why would I kill a hero?”

“I’m an ally of humankind; I signed a treaty at a peace conference, ink still black on parchment.”

“If there’s nothing else, Miss Hero, please step back.”

“For the sake of stable relations, I have to kill my own kind with my own hands.”

“Such a sad affair, my tears are about to flood these cobbles—kidding, of course.”

“What… do you want to do?”

Stini glanced at Slaughter Demon King, who looked oddly relieved, like a wolf set at ease by a shepherd’s whistle.

Something was off; her understanding had a root-deep error, like a compass with iron too close.

But she didn’t have the intel to argue; her quiver held no arrows for this.

“The same as you. Guard Segbaru.”

“For treaty, for trade, for stability, for the public will.”

“Call it what you like; at bottom, it’s me bestowing favor on you humans.”

“I don’t—”

“You don’t need it? Truly?”

“…”

I hefted my Long Halberd to my shoulder and let out a dismissive breath, a fog ribbon in cold air.

A Hero never has perfect odds against a Demon King; if they have thirty percent, they’ll stake their life on it, like dice rolled on a drum.

They don’t fear betting their life in that duel, but if you can win without betting at all, isn’t that better, like catching rain in a bucket instead of in your mouth?

If the goal is guarding Segbaru, what raises the success rate more?

Letting me face Anna first.

Whether I come in hatred or in goodwill, it’s the optimal line, like choosing high ground before arrows fly.

Her small face crumpled with stubborn grievance, then she sheathed gun and sword with reluctant grace.

She backed slowly toward the wall, watchful for a sudden strike from me or Anna, a cat never turning its back on the dog.

Good.

A Hero chooses the right path, the nail that finds the true plank.

Anna set both hands and her Giant Scythe behind her back, smiling at me like a lovable girl, a blade wrapped in silk.

So beautiful.

“Vega, music.”

I nodded and clapped once, and the funeral began, a drum for the living under a winter sky.