In the years after the fallen Divine Being’s firstborn turned into a white moon and swallowed the sun, x, the second son, still wandered a world drowned in night.

The weight hit first—hollow and heavy. Even if he swallowed every original sin, it wouldn’t matter. The world itself was past cure, and he knew he’d missed the door to salvation.

He looked up. Not a night sky, but a day robbed of color. The blazing sun had been replaced by a white moon, and humankind lived on the thinnest breath of pale light.

He hadn’t saved this world. He was late—late to arrive after his brother, late to finish the trial that set day as day and moon as moon, late when the hours of men and demons inverted.

The old moon rose from the far horizon, red with blood and fire. The old moon, now the human sun, climbed like a wound that wouldn’t close.

He pulled the cross-sword from the demon. His breath steadied. His wounds and torn clothes knit back to their first, untouched state, like frost receding at dawn.

It was a miracle. The mercy of his great Father, a sign that salvation and heaven weren’t just words carved on stone.

But what did it prove? To whom? What did proof change, when ash had already settled over the fields?

Today, the white moon set as usual. It was the red moon’s hour. The swarming demons hid in sewer mouths and graveyard shadow, and the living scraped half a day more. At least the little village he guarded, that refuge, had no fresh names for the dead.

He walked the mountain path with slow, tired steps. A whole body shouldn’t tire. What faltered was the heart, like a lantern burning down.

No sun, no crops. Water grew more murky. Air turned acrid day by day. The village children coughed like sparrows in winter. Passing a withered wheat field, he remembered speaking with the headman.

Food now was mushrooms grown on damp wood. Bitter to the tongue, slightly poisonous. Still the least deadly thing left in the wild.

The world that used to favor humankind was gone. Everything tilted toward demonkind, like a board weighted at one end. Words and fists couldn’t push it back.

Despair.

After the world broke, his Father called him home. He refused, and the refusal hurt more than steel.

Why?

He was a failed savior. All he had left was a thin, stubborn penance.

He hadn’t saved all mankind. So he would at least accompany mankind into dusk. As a Night Watcher, he’d guard the quiet of night until the last ember went out.

Night Watchers were also the ones who buried humanity, pinching out the candle when the smoke rose black.

After xxx, the last living human lay in bed, held his hand, and tried to speak. Words trembled like moths against glass.

Complaint? Comfort? Or a final shard of hate?

That memory, meant to scar his bones, slid into ruins. His name went with it, like a sign worn smooth by wind.

...

“Here, is there truly no my Father?”

“Mm… if you mean the ‘Creator,’ there’s a small sect. But if you mean the ‘Lord of Hosts who made the world in seven days,’ then no, not here…”

The maid’s face pinched with effort. She ran in small, quick steps, breathless, never leaving the Night Watcher’s shadow.

While his body adjusted, he had read the public catechisms. The doctrine of this age was simpler, like a seed stripped to its heart—maybe the prototype of every teaching that bends toward good.

No—more like this age’s people could grasp a Divine Being’s reason and duty without scaffolding. Words always warp when they try to carry light. The best way to teach is to let people understand by their own dawn.

If his own age had been this wise, perhaps the white moon would never have swallowed the sun…

No. Clinging to old ash would not kindle a fire.

“It isn’t ‘Lord of Hosts.’ It’s ‘Lord of…’”

He tried to speak, but the name wouldn’t cross his tongue. He clenched his teeth and quickened his pace, like a runner fleeing a storm.

As a son of God, he knew the truth. It wasn’t a gap between Hebrew and the common tongue. It was that this world simply had no great Father, so the name had no place here.

He couldn’t resonate with the Father’s revelation. He couldn’t feel that great light’s warmth. For the first time since birth, he tasted the loneliness of being “human,” and it made his temper throb.

“Where’s my sword? Where’s my lamp?”

“While you rested, the Arcane Engineers started tuning your gear…”

“No need. My Father’s blessing makes my sword never wear and never break. And my lamp burns ever-bright, piercing fog and gloom. I don’t need—hoo—”

He drew in a breath and let it go. He had swallowed the world’s original sin and caught the black of human evil. His soul wasn’t whole anymore.

So he needed discipline. Restraint. Self-reflection, like cold water over fire.

Like an ordinary man.

Pride was a great sin too.

“Sorry. I got carried away.”

“You did nothing that needs an apology.”

“When someone apologizes sincerely, accept it sincerely. Forgive each other…” He paused, then changed his words. “Forget that line. I’m not fit to teach. I’m no savior anymore.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m just a lost wanderer, trying to recall a last memory I refuse to let die. What should I do? Slay the Demon King? Will that give me my name and my past back?”

“How much did the Divine Being pay you? I, as Demon King, will double it.”

He stopped dead. He turned, attention knifed onto the maid who had served him since he woke.

Her face stayed innocent, her eyes warm but tired. Her lips said one thing, and the voice he heard said another.

Hebrew. Pure and primal.

“You’re adapting very well to this world. My welcome gift worked nicely. I’m glad.”

But his lip-reading gave a different line: “His Highness would love to meet you.”

“Who are you? No—I know who. What are you?”

“That’s not the point. The point is your problem. You don’t seem very willing to answer the old gods’ call.”

The maid tilted her head, sweet as a sparrow. Her lips formed: “Do you want to meet the Prince? Ah, I’m just a servant. Who knows His Highness’s schedule?”

He’d seen this kind of wrongness countless times, back when humanity died and demons inherited the land. Monsters differed from humans not only in flesh but in soul, mind, and thought, like stars from stones.

In that dying world, a swing of his sword was enough.

In this flourishing age, it wasn’t.

He calmed himself. Even without understanding, he knew what to do. First, be still. Composure is the shield you need most facing a demon.

“Do you know? Time runs straight for humans. For the great, not necessarily.”

“What do you mean?”

“Is the future fixed? Written doesn’t mean fated. ‘Past’ is equal to ‘future.’ Children forget their childhood, and the world forgets its birth. Was it the Lord of Hosts who made the world in seven days? Or the Creator who forged the Primordial Nine Races? Either way, it doesn’t matter, does it? You must choose the future yourself. And the past, too.”

The Hebrew felt like a smirk carved in stone. It grated, sharp and cold. It mocked his ignorance like frost mocking spring.

“I don’t understand. You intend to…”

“Untangle you. For me, it’s common sense. For you, it’s a hinge. A gift shoved into your hands, like that ‘mortal-world adaptation elixir recipe’ I sent earlier.”

He had heard the royal potion masters say it worked best after trials. A finished potion could carry curse or poison. A recipe, with raw materials and method handled here, was safer. If not even that counted as safe, then forget any restorative brew.

Unpleasant, yes. But the officials chose it anyway. Almost perfect, if not for the thorn under the skin.

A favor binds the hand. A meal softens the mouth. That’s how it is.

The maid’s shadow twitched. Her mouth tugged into a slanted smile. Malice curled like smoke from a brazier.

“I don’t owe you. Sorry. Your gift went to the wrong person.”

“If it doesn’t matter to you, then let it not matter.” The Hebrew voice dripped playfulness, even while claiming indifference. A net set long before the meeting, its knots already tight.

It felt like his brother. The traitor who broke every hope like glass under boot.

“I have a suggestion. Summoning a Hero brings too many variables. If you step off the stage on your own, no one will block you. The Silver Era is far from your Black Iron home. This isn’t your land. You have no binding reason to guard it. I’ll offer more than the Divine Being would, a small reward for disrupting the divine plan. Well? How about it?”

“I refuse.”

His answer snapped out like a blade leaving a sheath.

The voice that didn’t use throat or lung answered faster, like lightning skimming water.

“As expected. I’m just strolling between duties and tossing ideas. If you change your mind, find Savior Demon King Andor to claim your prize—declare it before I kill you, at the latest. I plan to use your lot as my first warning to humanity.”

A smell like blood rose, the breath of death and ruin. For a heartbeat, someone stood behind the maid, holding a Long Halberd, looking down on him like a statue on a cliff.

He stepped back once, then fixed his stance. Not fear. He’d found the best range to strike.

His body wasn’t whole yet. His sword and lamp weren’t here. He would not kneel for mercy. He braced, gathering courage like rain in cupped hands.

“Even without reason, I need no excuse.” He shook his head, slow and heavy. “I will save humankind. It’s my mission, and beyond mission, it’s resolve. Fail me a thousand times, I still choose the human side. And I deny evil.”

To save humanity was the axis of his life, the flame in his chest.

Those who try to save the world are clever fools, counting stars while walking a cliff.

“Ha. Evil? Didn’t think you were that old-school kind of Hero.” The Demon King sounded surprised, but not with respect. “Starting from human supremacism, I can guess most of your script. I’m bored. Decide as you like. Still, I suggest you look. Look at this world. Look beyond justice and evil, at right and wrong.”

He hesitated. The language felt like a web glistening with poison, clever threads crossing the dark.

But the Demon King was not lying.

“For example, look at the official Hero. Look at her justice. Look at what she protects. Ask if you can endorse it. Then, young savior, consider—should the Demon King truly be denied utterly?”

The lines sounded like opera sung with a knife. It was obvious, painfully obvious, that the Demon King had set pieces around the Hero, like stones on a board.

And then? What should he do?

The Demon King tossed the choice back to him like a coin into deep water, and the ripples spread under the red moon.

"...I don't..." The Night Watcher and the maid spoke together, their voices braided like twin threads.

"...I think cats are adorable too, but His Majesty's allergic to cat fur, like drifting pollen." Only the Third Prince, who stays out on the lands, sometimes brings a cat home to play, a straying sunbeam.

The maid widened her eyes, innocence pooling like clear water.

"Um... sir, is something wrong?" Her voice trembled like a reed in wind.

"No... it's nothing, just a little knot in my chest." He sighed like a cooling ember. "Mm, we were saying I'd bring back a cat for you and the Eldest Prince, right?"

"...If you're too busy, sir, um..." The little maid clenched her skirt like a lifeline; her small face tightened like a gathering cloud.

"No, I'm not backing out. Just... there's something urgent, like fire at the door." The Night Watcher crouched and stroked her hair for comfort, silk-smooth strands settling his heart like a still lake. "Go tell those Arcane Engineers to return my sword and my lamp."

"Are you leaving in a hurry, sir?" Her words fluttered like a sparrow.

"...Not in a rush, but..." His hesitation hung like mist before dawn.

The Demon King rambled, fog and mirrors, words twisting like a maze, yet on one point he didn’t lie.

He spoke of the Hero, of right and wrong, justice and evil—pieces on a chessboard in black and white.

Better to uproot a calamity before it seeds than repent after. The Night Watcher learned that with a lifetime of scars, like the rings of an old tree.

"I'm going to pay the Hero a visit." The thought felt like crossing a cold threshold. "If nothing happens, that'd be best... For now, I'll talk it through with the others," he said, as if gathering voices around a fire.

That was the thought. Truth is, the Night Watcher held little hope for those “fellow heroes summoned the same way,” hope thin as paper held to rain.

Dragon Exorcist, Holy Knight, Assassin, Saint—names like banners snapping in different winds.

From the first meeting, it felt clear—none walked the same road. All were saviors, yet they marched toward different horizons for different aims.

The Night Watcher frowned, hoping his gut would be wrong, like a storm cloud that never breaks.