The Divine Beings want heroes who can save the world, ones who crack the stale human scene like ice on a winter pond.

This time, too many Demon Kings pressed into the mortal world, and one was far too strong—fine, that’s me. I refused the usual conquest-or-destruction, and used a villain’s private hour to weave a scheme like a spider threading silk in the dark, a plot even the divine can’t read.

So the Divine Beings slipped through a loophole in the majority-rule exceptions, and didn’t touch the human realm directly. They summoned future heroes, gave them a chance to scrub their stain like soot off marble, and aimed to ship me back to the Demon Realm. That, per Head’s retelling, was a private decision by some of them.

The roster includes the god of Force, Fes, the Sun, and Element, among others. Fine. I inked your names in my revenge ledger, claws carving bark under a stormy moon.

Just as I can’t threaten Head twice with the same handle, summoning heroes—an edge-walk between the primal pact and the off‑the‑books—won’t strike twice like lightning.

Head went back and scolded those Divine Beings like cold rain on tin. If we want the stage back, it’s on me to drum the beat.

It’s fine. My plan has a boomerang in it; a chance to return the gift will arc back soon, like a gull on the wind.

Since it’s done, steer it toward my gain; that’s reason. I “borrowed” a servant’s skin like a cloak and watched the summoning rite from the shadow of the column.

The Divine side surely spotted me. I didn’t twitch. I watched politely, hands folded like calm water in a bowl. That irony must burn like frostbite, and the thought warmed me like sun on black stone.

“Japanese high schooler, American drifter, Chinese chuan-yue traveler—half-baked dough the world doesn’t need. The Divine Beings want finished steel, heroes. No fate exists now; there’s no boy who ‘will grow up and surely slay the Demon King.’ So it’s you standing here, not wide-eyed townsfolk.”

I talked to the Savior Saint while pruning the hedge, leaves fluttering like green moths.

In my last life, watching human history like clouds crossing a map, I saw this guy often. Compared to other if‑branch silhouettes of heroes, the Savior Saint is the familiar face in the lantern light.

I feel our values align: efficiency first, words straight. If we trade warm air like tea steam, we might seal a contract, maybe even travel as partners under one moon.

“I don’t get what you’re saying. I was summoned to kill you,” the Savior Saint said, voice cutting clean as a blade.

See? Crisp and sharp, straight to the point. My kind of efficiency, two knives flashing from the same sheath. We’ll be friends yet.

Bah. Blockheaded, like a stone mill that only grinds what it knows.

“The gods’ wishes, the people’s hopes—none of that concerns you, does it?” My words dropped like pebbles into a still pond. He couldn’t deny them.

As expected, a card turned face up.

“...”

“You want to save the world, only the world. Whether that creed is right, or how you grew it, can rest. The key is: what kind of saving do you accept?” I set a lifeboat on the table like a map.

As far as I know, the Savior Saint keeps his blade sheathed when borders burn.

When nation fights nation, when civilization clashes with civilization, when world rams world, who deserves the shield? Every would‑be savior must chew that iron.

The weak, the pure, the just, the beautiful, the ‘of course’—stars rarely line up like that in real weather. Even saved lives carry ugly wants like weeds in a garden. Sometimes a guardian wonders, “Should I have saved that one?” Silver and Gold stand outside this storm like distant constellations.

The Savior Saint’s choice for such messes is, of course—hands off, watching from a high ridge.

He saves the world itself. Everything else is ash in the wind. He keeps the aloof pride of a cliffside pine.

Because of that, the path clears like mist lifting.

“I am not your enemy, and I don’t intend to be,” I said, laying a bridge over a ravine. “By any reason, we have no cause to block each other. I won’t destroy the world; I’m executing a plan to save it.”

I call myself the World Saving Demon King; we should be friends, fellow travelers on the same road under one lantern.

“If you want, I can lay out my plan—its sharp outline. I’ll convince you I’m the right side, that my method is the correct key. I will save the world.” I unfurled a map like a sail catching wind.

Feels like I’ve sold this line to someone before… whatever. If the blade cuts, use it.

I waited on the Savior Saint’s response, cards face‑down on the table. If he agrees to talk, there’s room to maneuver. If I misread him, and he’s human‑supremacist, ready to purge other races like a fire through dry grass...

…then I’ll have to kill him, even if it makes the divine kingdom thunder and split the sky.

“I… as you said, I’ll save the world. As for the rest… it depends!”

The Savior Saint opens his palm and extends his hand. His brow knots; the slow gesture looks hard‑won, like lifting a river stone.

I want to quip—“Is greeting a villain so hard?” “Put some heart into the act.” But adult wisdom is a porcelain mask; you smile even when the heart smolders.

So tossing lines like “my stone‑faced master never smiles” or “what use is a mask‑smile,” from my lovely maid Miss Vega, who’s keeping watch, would be a sparrow chirping in a storm.

“Greed is human. If we can save a few more beyond the world, all the better. Such thoughts suit you, Savior Saint; that’s only natural. I even considered offering a couple expendables—sorry, I mean little brother or sister heads—as a sign of good faith.”

I toss the pruning shears into the Shadow like a coin into dark water and reach out too. With more viewers, more flashes, and maybe a plane overhead, it’d look like a historic handshake between hero and Demon King, lightning bugs blinking around a milestone.

“A bit offensive, please forgive me…”

“No, you just didn’t—”

“I mean now.”

I grip his hand hard, loading raw physics into my fingers like lead, then squeeze. Even at max force, I can’t crush his hand in one go.

A shudder climbs my arm; bones splinter like dry twigs. The Savior Saint is decisive. He doesn’t flinch. He raises his left hand like a guillotine and chops toward his right wrist.

Good thing I let go in time, or he’d be down to one hand, a flower with one petal left.

“Demon King! Warn me before you do anything!”

Warrior instinct sets his stance like a tree bracing in wind. Seeing me idle, no battle glow, and recalling the apology, he’s left with only anger, steam hissing from a kettle.

The Truth Seekers Assembly uniforms are god‑blessed relics. Even with glove‑bones crushed and twisted like dough, no blood spills, white cloth quiet as frost.

The Savior Saint floods his body with vital energy and blood, will pressing splintered bones back like stones in a wall. With rest, he’ll heal. He walks the human world, built on flesh and a human soul; unlike gods or demons, he can’t redefine physics to close a wound like rewriting a script.

“If I warn you, it won’t work. Consider this a greeting gift,” I said, thorn tucked under a rose.

“A greeting gift is a sneak attack that crushes my right hand?”

“No, no, no. I just cut the backdoor the Divine Beings left. In terms you’ll get—they hear what you hear, they see what you see. For your privacy, and for me to explain my plan, that backdoor had to go.” I snipped a hidden wire under ivy.

“So you had to crush my hand?”

“Crushing your head would work too. It’s a ritual action. The powers gods and demons wield aren’t your usual magic. Don’t lump them together. Accept another apology, and—”

As apology, a Demon King’s personal bow should be enough, shadow bending like a willow over water.

“—we can start the discussion. Vega, bring my ‘Savior Demon King Army Plan, Extreme Simplified, Monkey‑Friendly, Partner Edition.’”