The Shadow crawled like spilled ink under moonlight, then rose like a drawn bow, stretching into flesh and steel.

Stini slashed through two crossing mirror-planes like breaking ice sheets. She stepped in, blade meeting the shivering shards of space like a net catching spray. The Holy Sword’s aura combed chaos flat like a rake through sand, and in theory it could carve the young man’s chest in the same heartbeat.

Dragon Roar Magic: “Spacing of Words.”

A pane of distance bloomed from thin air like frost between them. Stini and the young man slid apart like drifting rafts, while a pale, trembling hand burrowed into a pocket again like a mouse into straw.

…severed at the root, blood gushing like a spring from struck rock.

The Shadow rose at a slant like a black reed, shaping itself into a refined Greatsword, its edge glinting cold as river ice. It moved like water, like dance, quick as a startled swallow yet without a whoosh, as if even the air lazed like a warm cat and refused to judge the blade.

I took the Greatsword to his rear flank like a falling guillotine. I slid one step back to smooth the flow like a skater on clean ice. I reversed my hips, let the blade follow like a tide turning, and before he could blink, I cut cleanly across the tendons behind both knees like shears through wet silk.

Strike the body’s frailest hinge, and the expected answer is—

—kneel, like a sinner awaiting the ax under gray dawn, kneel. The Greatsword spun one more circle like a falcon wheeling. A breath of curve, and it would slot into his neck like a key into a lock—

—just as the script writes, like stage marks painted on the floor. Let the pack of demons within drive me like a winter wind: bloodthirsty, kill-hungry, bent on ruin.

“…But, fine. You should thank someone who doesn’t want you dead.” And at least two someones, like twin lanterns in fog.

Hunger first, then restraint. I smacked my lips, swallowed back the flood of saliva like a tide reeling in, and with it the urges—to feed, to wreck, to breed—like dogs yanked by the leash. I raised the Greatsword like lifting a storm, and said so.

I flipped the blade flat like turning a shovel, an aerodynamically stupid move that dragged the dance like boots in mud. It wrecked the rhythm of the cut like a skipped beat. But the fight was over, like a candle pinched out; there were no other foes needing my sword, at least none written in the script.

Following the Heretic Inquisitor maxim—“catch a heretic, maim first, talk later”—isn’t me indulging the Ocean of Darkness like a drunk to wine. A few days ago, the love-and-bite with Anna gnawed me full enough for this month like wolves at a carcass.

Unlike storybook props rolled out for convenience like stage fog, the Silver Era has no “anti-magic cuffs” to cage spells like birds, and no “God’s Punishment Stones” to snuff mana like fingers to a wick. None of those tidy tools like a carpenter’s tidy rack.

So people can’t easily bag monsters, Demonfolk, or heretics, these hazards that move like brushfire.

What do we do then?

We break them first, like snapping a spear before the charge. Even if trouble sprouts like weeds, they’ll bleed and won’t run far like a stag with an arrow. If they prove innocent… we regrow with a Divine Art like spring returning to frostbitten fields.

Just one hand off and two legs spoiled, like cutting cords to stop a bell. As the Silver Era wanes, more Fallen slip into the world like moths to a lantern. The Heretic Inquisition even devised a Divine Art called “Heart Command,” which rips the heart out like fruit from rind and holds it in a specialized steel claw like winter tongs, keeping both body and heart alive for a day—no long-term chains, like rope on a river, but far fewer die in the taking.

“Let’s send him to the Heretic Inquisition first…” Stini’s voice was thin as thread in wind.

She frowned at the ground where human blood, bright as crushed berries, kept bubbling like a spring. Fighting people, she’s less at ease than fighting the not-quite-human, her hesitations opening doors like windows left ajar.

Just now Stini nearly got one-shot like a candle snuffed, and I flattened the youth in two seconds like a hammer to clay. In the real world, offense and defense don’t balance like scales; it’s about catching chances inside their attack like fish in a cast net, and catching flaws inside their guard like frost on glass.

Killing and capturing are two mindsets as different as fire and water, two styles as far apart as bow and drum, and they need two trainings like two roads forked by a stream.

I pried open the young man’s fingers like easing roots from soil and lifted the suitcase like palming a live coal, putting on a careful face like a mask.

“I think… this might not… not be anything good.” I stuffed it in myself like a fox burying eggs; how could I not know its teeth?

Open it the right way, and within two hundred kilometers, every life that fails the check turns into a lesser thrall like wheat bent by hail. It’s the Ocean of Darkness surging in like a black tide, swallowing every soul in the region like a sinkhole, beyond even a Soul Return Prayer to reel back.

As for the “right way to open,” it’s in the suitcase like a map under a lid, written on a sheet tucked under the device’s base like a secret under floorboards. There are warnings and tips like thorns around roses—everything but a warranty card like a smile missing a tooth.

The young man’s an idealist, a candle burning at both ends. He thinks humans working with the Demon King—yes, me—will make the world more chaotic like a stirred anthill, not knowing that’s the Divine Being’s will like weather no one commands. He meant to spark a riot, let some die, and wake the fear of a Demon King’s rule like thunder over fields. Entirely unnecessary.

Of course, as a Demon King, I’m fond of this disposable, PR-free, handy force of chaotic good like tools you use and toss.

“I agree. Once we hand him to the Heretic Inquisition, let them take it from there. Digging further will be messy like thorns in cloth.”

Stini lowered her head, cute brows knit like two startled swallows. She used magic to stanch the blood of the young man curled on the ground like a shrimp, his low groans spilling like leaking air.

Unlike in novels, Heroes here are the firefighters who come after things burst like pots on the boil. When the illegal shows up, trust the government and police… I mean, the Heretic Inquisition, like trusting rain to gutters.

Vigilante poking around isn’t impossible, like cats in alleyways, but the city guard and the Heretic Inquisition and the rest will grumble even as they thank you, like tea poured too strong. Working without pay or strong-arming paid work won’t please proper staff like dust in their tea.

As Heroes, we make a show of respecting the ways of the world like bowing at gates.

With Stini, some of it’s respect for custom like tying a sash. More of it is hating hassle like a cat hating baths—especially today…

“As far as I know, for healing-type Divine Arts, besides the Sanctuary of Life, the Heretic Inquisition is best,” I said, tossing thoughts like pebbles in a pond. “Funny thing: many departments open healing halls to the public like doors on market day, but aside from the heretic district being packed daily like a bus at dusk, almost no one else comes—why is that…”

Honestly, stabbing him dead and tossing the corpse to the Heretic Inquisition would be easier, like mailing a parcel—just get it there within three hours. Most a Heretic Inquisitor is a hybrid: ordained Divine Healer plus university scholar plus elite warrior, a double-class pro; mid-tier Divine Art Soul Return Prayer is usually fine like rewinding a spool.

But we did promise no deaths today, like a vow tied with red thread…

I do want to chop his other arm, like trimming a hedge even, but Stini’s so earnest with healing right now that if I cut more it’d be like she’s patching the east wall while I tear the west, and I even hand her bricks with a grin—transparent as glass. Dropping her favor is a bad harvest; better not.

Also, if we’re not slinging him like a sack or going for a princess carry, leaving him one hand makes it easier to hoist him onto a shoulder like hanging a bag.

On the way, Stini’s face stayed sour as rain-soaked ash. She held the suitcase and that severed arm like handling a venomous serpent, extra careful like walking a cornice. If there’s a stump, healing beats regrowth like mending beats weaving.

My jokes bounced off like pebbles on a shield. She only gave me a thin, tired smile like a pale crescent to show she heard.

Mm…

In Wilderness Kingdom Veneli, in Segbaru’s luxury ice cream shop glittering like a sugar palace—the Veneli royal family’s little treat for the Hero Squad—Vega already played the post-meal raffle clerk like an actor switching hats, and gave Stini the top prize: “Purified Nation Helena, Endless Sea, Seven-Day Free Tour Voucher,” like a gull-winged ticket.

We’ve met already, like ships crossing in a bay, but in this not-so-cheerful weather, she likely won’t bring it up, like a song swallowed by rain.

Let’s wait, I thought on the road to the Heretic Inquisition, like a fisherman watching the tide.

The free seven-day voucher has a set date like a bell tolling. Greedy for deals and small windfalls, Stini will surely gather everyone for a trip like geese in a V.

When that time comes…

At the peace conference, the prophecy of Savior Demon King Andor—“interdimensional invasion”—will be due like thunder answering lightning.