“I still don’t get it, my topsy-turvy master—do you actually want to cooperate with the Savior Saint or not?”

Vega asked with fog in her eyes, a question tossed like a pebble into a still pond.

Even if she didn’t catch my drift, her mask before the Savior Saint stayed flawless, like lacquer that never chips.

She smoothed the creases on my evening dress, fingers moving like quicksilver, and stitched every tear back together at the level of “concept,” like weaving moonlight into torn silk.

This gown breathes a dusky, somber scent, ink-dark and heavy; I first bought it with Stini, then wore it as the World Saving Demon King in a duel with Anna, where blades bit and the fabric split like frost-cracked bark.

Stini saw it all, eyes like needles drinking thread.

I chose not to have Vega play Shadow Artisan Andor in Anna’s blockade; more than half of that was deliberate, a shadow thrown like a long spear.

Plus, both the Shadow Sorcerer and the World Saving Demon King draw power from Shadow, an inky tide that makes Stini watchful as a hawk.

“Of course—no plan to,” I said, voice like a knife sheathed in velvet. “If a hero pops up and I work with them every time, the villain looks cheap, like tin painted silver.”

I show goodwill first, like setting a lantern in fog; if they won’t accept my so-called rightness and cling to their foolish justice, then we cut them down, like pruning a dead branch.

Sadly, so far, every hero’s been sensible as rain seeking a river; I’ve had no righteous excuse to kill, no banner to raise.

Maybe these future heroes will grant me a stage to declare my stance as the villain, a red curtain lifting over the iron resolve I call “evil.”

For now, I have to blur Stini’s suspicions, like smearing ash over a footprint; temporarily, for the moment, we muddle through and bluff.

Unmasking isn’t far, a drumroll under the floorboards; but the buildup before the climax needs time, at least not now, not yet.

“Heroes are a hassle,” I sighed, tension pricking like needles. “I think the left shoulder seam’s loose—where Abigail’s blade kissed me, right there—yeah, that spot like a crescent scar.”

“I don’t mean only that killing them is hard,” I added, tone like frost on iron. “Their ideals, their faith, and the patrons behind them are trouble, mountains with thorns.”

“You handed me ‘A Super-Simplified Savior Demon King Army Plan Even Monkeys Can Read (Cooperator Edition),’” Vega said, head tilting in a strange curve like a question mark carved in wood. “Half of it’s fake. No—its core is true, but all the details are lies. That could sell as an opera script, with masks and drums.”

“Impressive that you memorized the nonsense title I tossed out,” I said with a faint smile, cold as moonlight. “Whatever. It’s just a sop to dull the other side’s fighting spirit. For now, we still treat the Savior Saint as an enemy, a star across a storm sea.”

I stated my intent to betray, bold as thunder on a clear day.

“But didn’t you say,” Vega asked, eyes like clear water, “humans can’t accept betrayal, can’t forgive it?”

“Don’t call me fickle,” I said, voice smooth as oiled steel. “Betrayal’s fine—if the other side swings first. We prepare, we defend, we counter. We claim the victim’s halo and reap the same fruits as betrayal, like stealing fire without the burn. The world gets a reason to believe; I get clean efficiency. Win-win.”

I clapped, clap, clap, like rain tapping a roof. Then she protested, don’t move, and the moment broke like a thin reed.

This is why I often say: betrayal usually springs from one’s own stupidity, a weed grown in soft soil.

You stab my back? Good. I planned for your knife, then I hammer you, stone on bone, and erase the corpse like ink wiped clean. In the end, the world can’t say I’m wrong.

It’s revenge, after all—smile.

Vega thought with a hundred threads spooling in her head, weaving “be betrayed then back-kill” into our plan like a hidden pattern. She nodded, then shook her head, a willow in wind.

“It all hinges on ‘the Savior Saint will betray us,’” she said, voice thin as silk. “But he’s a great hero, a saint walking among people. Would someone like that really…”

“He will,” I said. “And it’s inevitable, like winter following autumn.”

The “Monkey…” title made me snort; I couldn't be bothered to recall my own jabs. Let’s just call it the Fake Plan, the copy left with the Savior Saint; the original sits in my hand like a blade in a scabbard.

I flipped to page three hundred and three amid Vega’s muttering, her fussing over wrinkles like a sparrow tidying its nest.

Sixth line, center, marked bold like a brand on hot iron:

46,626,009. That number.

It’s the count of deaths my salvation plan will cause, a tide of names swallowed like sand by the sea.

On that point, I didn’t lie; the ink is my own blood.

A “human saint” like the Savior Saint brushes the far shore of the Divine Beings, fingertips touching a frost line. He can sense things humans shouldn’t, like hearing thunder under mountains.

He can’t see my full design, the whole tapestry, but he can feel the vast shadow smothering the world, a canopy of night.

He can’t read my mind like a page, but he can sift the truths from my lies, picking grains of gold from ash.

He can’t map the exact effect of his actions, but he knows the general paths that best save the world, like a sailor reading stars.

Those at the extremes—all-knowing or truly ignorant—are hard to mislead with words; those half-knowing are easiest to use, like doors left ajar.

“The Savior Saint knows my plan isn’t for goodness,” I said, smiling like a wolf in snow, “but it will indirectly save the world. That strips his greatest motive—‘save the world itself’—from being his reason to act.”

Once, gods draped the world in blackout, a curtain dead as ash; the Savior Saint burned his soul for three days and nights, a flame against a sky, and shattered it.

Once, the Demon King Army invaded the human realm; he fought until he was nearly a skeleton, a man of bones and rage, and smashed the demon’s skull to dust.

Once… he stood among Ferrel’s most admired heroes, a lighthouse on a storm cliff, one of the greatest, one watched by things that shouldn’t watch.

He’s also one of my favorite actors, a star on my private stage.

Living long has its perks; I’ve watched play after play, heroes writing operas with blood and soul. I know their iron stubbornness, their reason to breathe, and their fatal flaw, a crack under polished stone.

Reason, faith, resolve—these are their sharpest blades and their softest throats.

Now, in speaking with me, the Savior Saint has lost “saving the world itself,” that root of his tree; his success arm falls asleep, numb as a hand in snow.

“So what then, my muddled master?” Vega asked, words crisp as little knives. “My clever head still can’t decipher your petty schemes, those small shadows.”

“Sometimes I want to remold your venom-tipped tongue,” I said, humor like a thin wire. “But it’s your essence. Fine. I’ll say it this way—most heroes aren’t pretty things. Don’t judge these summoned ones with the lens of the Silver Era.”

At her raised-hand cue, I held the pose, and she sealed Anna’s cuts like closing petals.

“Heroes…” Vega murmured, tone like a flute at dusk. “It sounds like we mean different beings.”

“In the Silver Era, the Demon King’s invasion was ‘Hard Mode’ for a protagonist,” I said, voice like a drumbeat. “People died. The fights matched their weight. But it was also the neatest path: beat the Four Heavenly Kings, get a chance to challenge the Demon King. Then, by fair and square, stake your soul, pour your will like molten iron, wield the craft you honed. Live or die. Decide it under the sword. Clean and bright, right?”

A low-ranked mortal challenging a Demon King or a Divine Being needs ritual, like crossing a river at a ford.

Pass trials first, win a glory that reaches above, make the great ones look down, then issue your challenge, bold as thunder.

Send a formal duel letter like a gilded arrow, or block their path and tap your shield with your sword like rain on bronze—it’s the same. Make the great admire the show, lower their rank, take on a mortal body, and fight fair, blade to blade.

It isn’t truly fair, but challenging the great is a joke thrown at the sky, a madman’s lyric; getting a reply deserves thanks like a bow in a temple. Divine Beings and Demon Kings have pride; mortals use that pride to force a duel, a window on a cliff.

That was the Silver Era, a whole age under a silver bell.

—but the later ages are different, smoke instead of mirrors.

—people grew tired of risking life like dice; they stopped tempering themselves and learned to “use,” gears and levers, but we’ll leave that for now.

“Greedy, base, sly, deceiving—future saviors tossed aside the glitter of honor,” I said, tone like cold wind in pines. “Just to save one more life, they curl up, offer humble smiles, and flatter like kneeling servants, swallowing ash.”

The Savior Saint would kill every sentient being in the world, by his own hand, to save the world—he really did, a scythe cutting a field.

The Weaver Saint killed one hundred million to save one hundred million and one—she really did, threads dyed red.

The Warden Saint wiped out a race unrelated to him to save another race unrelated to him—he really did, judgment falling like a hammer.

The Extinction Saint offered himself and a whole city as sacrifice to stop an eldritch tear; after slaughtering every citizen who turned to monsters, he soloed an evil god—he really did, a star falling onto black seas.

Saviors have blood on their hands like iron rust; they themselves can’t count the stains. They erase whims, make themselves the law and rule that guard the world, and move by iron codes, a clock with no mercy.

They greedily try to save anyone who can be saved, keep a proud chin toward rulers or gods or demons, and pour burning anger onto destroyers. Of the seven sins, they hold at least three, embers in a cold hearth.

You can’t weigh them as you do common folk; they’re innocent monsters, merciless disasters, storms with halos.

And yet, they save the world, spending heart and soul like oil on a lamp.

You can’t deny it—they are true heroes.

For “salvation,” they spare no effort; whatever they do, their banner can read “great righteousness” and “correct,” ink bright as day.

They are great heroes, saviors; but saviors and meanness aren’t strangers, two shadows under one lantern.

If it’s pure coincidence, maybe a hero shines holy white; but after the Silver Era, in ages of mixed light and dark, after countless successful world-saving runs, no hero’s soul stays pure white, chalk under rain.

“Only evil defeats evil”—it’s an extreme saying, but the gist holds like a bone under flesh.

“If they can bleed and die to save,” I said, a smile like thin ice, “then lying or a backstab—lower difficulty—comes easier, the knife sliding like silk.”

46,626,009. For those forty-six million, six hundred twenty-six thousand, nine lives, the Savior Saint will stand against me, a mountain set against a storm.

Though the biggest reason—“save the world”—is already achieved, lives still matter; he’ll try to save one more, then one more, gathering sparks in rain.

He’ll take lives without hesitation; even so, he’s a good man, one who wants more people alive, a shepherd under lightning.

So we prep both paths: “be betrayed” and “be recognized,” ropes tied to both banks. Traditional Demon Kings force outcomes and trigger backlash like snapping bows; I learn, and only guide toward my preferred shore.

Whatever happens, whatever will, whatever reason—

—the ending is I win, a final gong under the sky.

I snapped a finger on that line, snap, a dry reed breaking, and let a cold smile curl like frost.

“That’s just how you feel,” Vega said. “In fact, your face is a blank mask, a still pond.”

You didn’t need to point that out, Miss Vega.