Pulling the scattered mana back together took less time than I’d feared, like mist drawn into a bottle. Maybe it was because Anna returned to the Demon Realm without a glance back, casting off her mana-wrought body like an empty husk and leaving no lingering obsession behind.

Why an irregular thirty-eight-sided die? Duh—because it’s fun, like tossing pebbles into a river just to watch the ripples.

Too bad that when I left the small world and stepped into the mortal wind again, none of the Hero Squad blocking the Demon King at Segbaru Gate in the Vineri capital bothered to snark, like statues set under frost.

Ah. Right.

At this hour, Nyaruko hasn’t descended yet, like a star still hiding behind cloudbank.

“Everyone, no need to be tense. I’m a ‘friend,’ the kind that helps humans,” I said, like offering a lamp in fog.

As for the Old Sign—I honestly forgot how to draw it; being somewhere around Elder God tier, I’ve got no reason to memorize the sigils of those annoying folks just for a joke, like refusing to keep a rival’s crest pinned above your hearth.

Stini’s gun and sword dipped a fraction, like reeds bowing to a passing breeze, but she didn’t lower them. The guard stayed, like a taut bowstring.

Negotiation. Roll dice. Failed. Like bones saying no with a dry rattle.

Abigail Beatrice stood with the Godslayer Sword, like dawn steel caged in a single blade. Raven Segrito, Arcane Engineer, wore a Construct called Crystalflame, like living glass fed by fire. Alina Helen, the Agent returned from the Broad Temple’s Confinement Hall, held twin flails ready, like storm-chains coiled to break thunder. Everyone was here save Shadow Artisan Andor, like a missing shadow at noon.

Looks like even without me meddling, these great heroes would’ve streamed to their captain Stini on their own, like geese finding their lead wing.

Without me, it would be a proper epic, like ink laid clean on parchment.

But I’m here, like ink spilled across the margins.

“Sorry for stealing your prey, but it’s something I promised someone—someones, really,” I laughed, like a bell ringing on its own. “Who? Best not say.”

I straightened my mask, set my beloved halberd back into the Shadow, and opened both hands to the sky, like a tree lifting wet leaves—standing still to show no hostility.

I’ll fix this built body and keep it, like repairing cracked porcelain from within—organs torn, bones fissured, the inside first. The cuts and shredded clothes can stay, a bleak picture for the Hero Squad to see, like battle-paint left after rain.

Show weakness. To the girl I adore, lean in like a cat seeking warmth. Admit the world sometimes escapes my grasp and ask for help—part of the performance, like loosening armor that creaks too loud.

I don’t care for mortal titles or bright reputations; I just need my human approval rating a touch below neutral, enough that no one swings first, like wolves watching but not closing in. Strength isn’t a sin, yet flaunt it nonstop and people feel, “Is this guy one twitch away from ending me forever?” My I-don’t-care attitude only deepens that crack, like ice widening under night.

Then hostility seeps in through that gap where trust should be, like cold water climbing through stone.

Strategy games teach the same thing: push pure military, and your neighbors stiffen, like hedges bristling with thorns.

Dating a girl or dealing with a foreign state—same principles, both mosaics of human nature and feeling, though girls flare brighter and change faster, like summer squalls over rice paddies. Brag too much, start wanting to control and monopolize—forget kinks; even normal hearts rebel, like a tether suddenly cut by a blade.

“I saved you. All of you. And now you point steel at me? Ah, I’m hurt,” I said, like a cracked flute whistling through a night window.

“You…” Stini pouted, words snagged like fabric on a nail.

“Your gut says I’m no threat, but my face annoys you. You want to clock me—maybe even ‘slay’ me. Hey, Hero, leave intuition on the shelf for once and think. I haven’t done a single thing outside human sense; by deeds, I’m a hero. Even if you’re the Hero, there isn’t a shred of justice at your side right now. By what right do you kill me?” I asked, like throwing a stone into still water and watching circles answer.

I slowed and walked forward, and their tension climbed like thunderheads. I held that “might spark, won’t spark” line, then lifted my hand and reached for the girl’s forehead, like brushing dust from a book’s title.

I flicked Stini a fond forehead snap, like knocking on a door you know well.

The Godslayer Sword touched my throat on the left, cold as winter river. Crystalflame’s subspace cutter pressed into my back, like a hidden wire ready to slice. Alina’s flails hummed above, one swing away from smashing in like falling anvils.

But the Holy Sword Galewind and the holy spear Qianchi drooped, tips kissing the ground, like tired wings resting.

“This feeling… Do I know you? Have we met?” she asked, eyes fogged like moonlight over water.

She raised the hand that held the Holy Sword and rubbed her forehead with her knuckles, exactly where I’d flicked—familiar as a childhood path.

Familiar, right?

You were supposed to know me.

Supposed to know.

And you will, like a tide coming in whether anyone wills it or not.

“A Demon King did what a hero should. If you’re asking why… because I’m broke, because I’m lazy, because justice. Pretty much all problems can be explained by those three winds. Pick yours,” I said, like laying cards face-up.

I set my hand on the girl’s shoulder. Black demon blood smeared her dress like ink on linen; fighting Anna had already splashed her with black, so it barely showed. If she wants to complain, she can fix those reverse-thread tears first, like mending a stubborn seam at dawn.

She, guarding me face-on, shifted aside as if it were the most natural thing, opening a path like a reed parting for a boat.

Like the deadpan Shadow Artisan and the sunny Hero, some things don’t need words—just rhythm, like dancers turning together.

I passed her. Abigail met Stini’s eyes for a heartbeat, then sighed, closed her eyes, and shook her head; she lowered her sword first, like a banner returned to its case. Raven held position behind me, letting me walk out of range, like a furnace banked but hot. Alina kept her stance, flails still charged, like storm held behind mountains.

The moment you truly relax is when you skid into the ditch, like pilots in the Age of Black Iron—many didn’t die in dogfights, but broke themselves on the deck while coming home.

Good thing I’m a Demon King. Ancient golden blood runs hot in me, strength beyond mortal even in a ruined body, like an oak that won’t break though lightning has scarred it.

Mind alone, even unascended, I can keep battle-grade alertness for three months straight, like a watchfire that refuses to die. Show weakness on the surface, keep war-readiness within—that’s basic to a villain, a proper antagonist, like poison carried in a velvet flask.

So I reacted, like a hawk waking.

Stini let go of the Holy Sword without warning and grabbed for my mask with her left hand, like a cat snatching a fluttering moth.

Close—too close.

My collapsing body kicked back into motion, and the surge tore open the sealed wounds again, like seams popping in a storm. Especially my right arm, which caught her wrist, bones grinding with a wet crunch.

Stini didn’t quit. She stretched, fingertips brushing the mask’s rough wood grain, like bark under snow—but she couldn’t pull it off.

Black blood stained her small hand, ran to her fingertips, and marked my mask, a new dark smear on that pallid face, like eclipse shadow cut across a white moon.

“Not now,” I said, like closing a book just short of the last page.

I shook my head. My other hand caught the flail whipping at my skull; bone creaked with a gritty crack that set teeth on edge, but the blow didn’t flatten me, like a bell spared by a gloved palm.

“When, then?” she asked, eyes wide and bright, gaze straight as a spear.

“Soon. In the near future,” I said, like promising rain to a dry field.

Abigail’s Godslayer Sword arrived, a tide of resolute light like a king of ten thousand banners, the chosen sovereign’s blade-sweep. It fell from my shoulder to my ribs, cutting me in two—hey, that one doesn’t get blocked by accident, like lightning that decides to be real.

Crystalflame’s subspace cutter lagged a beat, but then churned for my viscera, like invisible gears hungry for flesh.

Nice. Beautiful team play, like hawks striking in formation.

But the sun’s last thread slid under the horizon, like a candle pinched out by dusk.

The sun has gone down.

This is the demon hour, when darkness rules, like wolves ghosting between trees.

Sword Saint and Divine Being battled elsewhere; I dueled Anna here—quite a day, when you count them, like beads on a cord.

The skin of Shadow swelled and split, and deeper, more twisted dark ballooned up, a pitch-black cloak, a dense smoke wrapping me in the unknowable, like a night tide swallowing shore.

Time to leave, like a lantern going out on purpose.

Shadow—no, deeper darkness—flowed past the Hero Squad like wind and fog. Wild swings couldn’t cut the free and formless; disciplined guard meant nothing to mist, like spears stabbing clouds.

“Don’t look,” the Demon King warned, not kindly, like shutting a window against prying eyes.

A gale tore the black mist away—or the black mist took the gale with it as it fled, like ravens riding a storm. Stini dropped spear and sword and ran after the wind, feet quick as drumbeats.

“Fool. You’re only human. Humans can’t catch wind, can’t seize fog, can’t rip darkness,” I said, like speaking through a veil.

She gritted her teeth and ran anyway, shouting into the wake I left, like a lighthouse crying to the sea.

“Who are you!”

“Soon. In the near future—you’ll know,” I answered, like thunder rumbling out beyond the ridge.

She gave up at last. Even heroes, even great ones, must admit that human eyes can’t see the Shadow in a heart or pierce the darkness behind light, like trying to read ink beneath midnight.

If I want to hide, she can’t find me; she doesn’t even know which way to run, like chasing a scent in rain.

The dark went, and the white moon slowly rose, then the sky freckled with stars, like silver thrown on velvet.

Stini frowned up at the sky, still wrestling something inside, like a trout fighting the current. But it’s over—Sword Saint’s circuit, Demon King’s city-sack, Hero’s trial—all done, like a chorus reaching its last note.

She let out the stale air from her chest and put on her usual bright mood, her natural smile returning like sunlight through lace.

“Now, we can finally celebrate,” the girl Hero said, turning back to her companions with a brave little smile, like a lantern lit in a quiet street.