“So the stalling plan worked?”

“Of course. Sure did. Heroes are built that way. Vega, you’ve seen dozens, devoured more than a few, so you should get their mindset.”

“No, not like that.”

“It isn’t about some transcendent sight. To be precise, I’m avoiding relying on seeing the future for my layout.”

“It’s just inference. Modeling the other side’s thought process, then extending from there, guessing their likely response.”

“It’s a hassle… thanks for understanding.”

“Right, that’s how it is.”

“We’re villains.”

“So no one expects us to be saviors. They only fear us and wish we’d vanish.”

“On that foundation, any kindness from us deserves loud praise and rich reward.”

“Heroes are different. If they don’t save everyone, they’re blamed. If they save everyone but don’t lower economic loss, still blamed. Lower loss but fail to catch the culprit, still blamed. The masses demand perfection, total, all-encompassing.”

“They turn gratitude into leverage and grievance into war. That’s the logic.”

“Let’s skip ordinary debates on ethics. Here’s the useful bit: heroes themselves think the same way. That’s the nerve I press.”

“Harsh to themselves, lenient to others. Gorgeous, isn’t it? The great hero. I wish I could be that strong and shining—just kidding. Any process that misses its intended ending is meaningless. Partial value can’t beat a proper end. So I don’t care to be a hero.”

“I even wrote into the script the possibility that the three Heroes would kill you outright, then turn to Stini—so it’s clear I’m predicting and planning, not puppeteering everything from the shadows. Yeah. Did you really think the Divine Beings knew nothing of our moves?”

“Like a gambler has an expected number, our hoped-for direction is readable—not by people, by gods.”

“And then? That’s the whole mechanism, simple as sunlight. Next I set you as an anchor. Dulan and Berenz hunt beasts in the Time Ruins. Your order is: if the anchor dies, retreat at once.”

“…Ah, that. It’s ‘acceptable.’ We aren’t the righteous ones. We’re already going the extra mile to save the world—that’s how allies will see it. If anyone keeps messing with us, and it’s from an allied side, why should we shield the knife after getting backstabbed?”

“Avoiding an excessive loss ratio—great excuse. Use it when you’re bullshitting at the military tribunal. Kidding. Everyone knows lesser vassals in the Demon King Army are cheap. But counting bodies by digits to decide if it’s a ‘disaster’ is rude as measuring grief with a ruler. We can just as well condemn humans for denying those lesser vassals proper personhood.”

“Humans are walking contradictions. In paradox and sophistry, demonfolk still win. We fly the right banner. Don’t flinch.”

“That’s why I said: ‘If Vega’s attacked, retreat immediately. Let otherworld beasts flood the mortal realm.’ We aren’t the world’s main characters, so we don’t carry main-character guilt.”

“And once you roughly explain your action model to the three Heroes, they’ll clearly see the crisis facing the mortal realm. After that, whatever schemes I might have against Stini won’t matter. Their first duty is saving the world, saving humanity. With the immediate threat burning, there’s no point probing some other risk that might not even exist.”

“Sealing the Time Ruins isn’t something one or two heroes can do. Burying a whole generation of heroes won’t cut it. Next, they’ll have to rely on help from the Divine Beings. Even then, they’ll pour in every ounce they can muster, and back you—the one plan that can reliably save the world.”

“Because Heroes can’t afford to lose.”

“Mm. Aid from the gods arrives in six days. Till then they’ll treat you like an ancestor on the altar. I’ve placed you where the monster tide is thickest. No force gap can be neatly filled.”

“We can offer choices. But rationally, heroes don’t have one. If they chase the goal that matches their ethos, they’ll take my Plan A.”

“That’s it. Got it?”

“…Why six days? Because the Hero Squad’s journey ends in six days.”

“…How do I know the gods need six days to send aid? Ah, no more questions? Heh. Smart girl. You get it.”

“No other issues. Pass my regards to Dulan and Berenz, who haven’t stopped working.”

“…”

“I don’t love you. But I do like you.”

The ripple-link in the Shadow Realm faded like a tide slipping off black stone.

My eyes throbbed like pricked thistles. My liver burned like a coal.

Magic isn’t a blessing to humans; forget all that ‘cultivating qi nourishes life’ talk. Humans do have magic circuits, but raw elements are a feral storm—at least to our brittle pathways.

By magical analysis, ambient elements are mildly toxic to humans. In a zero-element environment with normal nutrition, human lifespans would actually be longer.

Drawing nearer to first principles, resonating with conceptual domains, is slow suicide. Talent doesn’t change that. Our rank is too low; flesh gets stained by concepts, souls get dyed by domains. That’s why Shadow Sorcerers, though they grow fast and peak high, die young.

By that reckoning, Shadow Artisan Andor Mephy and Hero Stini—who shortens her life with constant battle—are a perfect pair.

Parade floats drifted through Worbi’s streets in a carnival tide. Unlike the Hero Academy’s frozen grounds, folks here wore single layers, no hint of winter in the air.

Winter wears different masks across the mortal world.

The Arctic Tundra’s permafrost isn’t a joke; all seasons demand thick clothing. If you want to fight, you need a mid-tier ‘Coordination’ spell to keep blood flowing and muscles contracting. If you’ve got coin, buy a polar bear coat—those permafrost white bears are beasts, not monsters. To monsters, their meat ranks just below humans. The fact they haven’t gone extinct tells you their strength.

Thick hide, iron muscle—adult polar white bears shrug off most corrosion and flame, and their bulk soaks staggering blows. After years of notes in the Wind Nation Beatrice, only their hides suit frost-proof, wind-cutting enchanted combat gear—so now they’re toeing the extinction line. The head of Beatrice Magical Academy, Stargazer Porphyrina, once co-signed a protest against hunting them. Local Golder Martial Academy—where students must solo a polar white bear to graduate—sneered at her letter like frost at sunshine.

Unlike the North that’s argued for decades like ravens on a fence, the western Wilderness Kingdom Veneli and the eastern mountain realm Kavat enjoy clear seasons. Their one problem is simple and sharp: the Monster Tide. No one knows why monsters band together and charge human lands, but people remember the worst, most punctual surges.

Like the Winter Black Tide, named for the season itself. Autumn’s big, well-prized adventurer campaigns aim to thin its numbers.

As for the southern Endless Sea…

Eternal spring. Gentle air. No frozen ocean, only darting fish, wheeling seabirds, scattered clouds, and a horizon that rolls on forever.

The front lines of the monster tide lie deep in that Endless Sea, near the merfolk borders. Most coastal regions count as the human heartland by comparison. Worbi, capital of the Purified Nation Helena, has half its footprint raised over the sea. Even in this era of weak tourism, trade alone brings two-thirds of its tax revenue.

A travel paradise by any measure.

All this comes from the survey work of Vega’s avatar. Right now she’s the Demon King Army’s most tireless engine—one person doing the work of a thousand. She deserves a bow.

“…My mom and dad honeymooned in Worbi!”

“Ah, I remember the half-merfolk monster riot a decade ago…”

“My mom and dad solved it!”

Stini and our guide, Vangibia, danced on the float, hands flying like gulls. It’s a favorite of Helena’s common folk. Vangibia says a perfect life has three must-do’s: travel Helena, vacation in Worbi, retire in Taginia.

Taginia ranks among the ten most beautiful mortal cities. It’s one of only three ports where the Sunken City Atydir touches the surface. The world’s most famous Bard Academy, Constanson, stands there. Land of poets and musicians—sea before, rainforest behind. Many bards first made their name by singing Taginia’s beauty; if you’ve never written of Taginia, you aren’t a bard.

It’s our destination on day four. Today and tomorrow, we stay in Worbi.

Low combat intensity, gorgeous views, mild climate, high culture. When we weighed a site for our surface demon nation, Taginia had every advantage. Vega argued for it hard.

I loved that city too, but I was picking a gift for my girlfriend. For that, a blank white canvas suits best—let her remake it free. So we chose land near the City of Heroes, where systems, laws, administration, layout, wonders—everything—could be wholly ours.

Plus, the cute troublemakers at the Hero Academy are fun.

Back to business. I kneaded my brow, trying to ease the pain of Shadow’s conceptual stain on flesh. I drew our itinerary from the Shadow like a net from a black river, line by line checking it.

Few people stay hyped enough to seem ADHD. After a full day of frenzy, Stini still dragged her sister Nivifar and the wavelength-matching guide Vangibia into an energy-heavy dance. I didn’t sing and sway with her overflowing mood. I sat on the float, watched the scenery, checked the schedule, and every so often, intentionally brushed Raven’s hand on the right armrest. Better use of calories than dancing.

Raven focused on fixing the magitek armor blueprint she’d submitted to Dragon Exorcist. Her cheeks were thirty percent puffier than usual, her blush sixty percent deeper—like a sunset heavier with cloud.

She still didn’t pull back her left hand from the armrest, pretending nothing happened, like a cat ignoring a bell.

Careful, Andor.

A girl’s sense of shame and her heart in love both move like mist. When the girl on your right has triple the usual shame and three thousand times the usual combat strength, if you tease her into flustered fury and she whips out the Anti-Intellect Hammer—a mini skirmish weapon she built, modeled after the eldritch blade “God-Not-Saint”—you’ll end up in bed with bandages and regrets.

“Whew—ha!”

Our brown-skinned guide spun a clean one-eighty in midair, then crashed into my left seat like an iron mountain lean.

“Andor, don’t you want to dance?” She raised a cup and downed it in one bright swallow, like sunlight on glass.

If I dance, whose hand do I take? Raven plus Stini plus Nivifar minus Gloria equals a battlefield right before my eyes. I’m not so wooden I can’t read a room. I have enough EQ to dodge it.

“Then, then—how about me?”

You’re playing with fire. In an armory.

Vangibia leaned over my left seat, half her body crossing the line. Her face hovered inches from mine, blue eyes shining like lake-light.

Her ear fins flicked back and forth with joyful speed. And her figure—matching Elina’s—pressed warm against my arm like a velvet tide.

He didn’t care at all about Raven beside him, her hand crushing the armrest, knuckles whitening like frost.