Two clumsy souls moved in the same clumsy rhythm, slow as drifting leaves, fitting together like rough-cut gears that catch and turn with a stubborn, natural grace.

They missed steps and trod on each other’s toes, yet that purely human awkwardness bloomed like a crooked flower under soft lamplight.

I think today’s journey can close on that image, like dusk folding its fan along the horizon.

Next comes the heart of our seven-day voyage—Taginia, a jewel city set in sea-light and song.

It’s the finale I’ve been craving, the last firework held back for the moon.

Devils favor musicians and painters over merchants or politicos; only a free, strong villain has spare breath to savor beauty like wine.

This time in Taginia, the fairest city under the sun, the trip is just a trip, like swallows nesting with no trap beneath.

I didn’t arrange any side plots, no hidden hooks, no poisoned apples.

Really. Believe me, like a quiet oath whispered to rain.

Even I—who often muses on ending the world like a candle snuffed by the wind—love music and paintings like lanterns on a dark river.

Three avatars of Vega are stationed in Taginia, surveying streets and terraces like hawks, half for intel, half for travel plans.

They also run early warnings—if any demon stirs trouble, Dulan storms their lair like thunder, and it’s already happened three times.

Soon even those siblings with meat and violence for brains learned who shelters this city like a mountain shelters a valley.

“So beautiful…”

My jaw’s been hanging open like a door in summer, and I don’t bother to close it.

At every corner, every street, craft and care are etched like filigree under the sun.

“Look at that streetlamp, set perfect in the golden ratio, like a star placed by a careful god. Yes, this scene—my ‘Evening Lamps of Taginia’… Wait, you haven’t seen it? Right, of course…”

I bought that painting back in the Demon Realm, at an auction lit like a furnace; it’s likely a masterwork from two centuries ago, so it’s normal Raven hasn’t seen it.

Every view begs for canvas, every alley spills watercolor, and sometimes I want to root here like a tree.

“Oh.”

Raven blinks dryly, trying to follow the thread like a cat pawing string, yet the words don’t come.

She’s a runaway, a fallen noble who never finished the full noble education, a ribbon cut short by fate.

So even in this homeland of artists, she’s like any tourist—pics, naps, and restroom runs—well, except in the Silver Era there aren’t cameras, and maidens don’t need restrooms; they vent rainbow vapor like giggling sprites.

A little regret, a cloud passing the moon. No way to talk deeply today.

Since I granted myself a holiday—no schemes, no knives—I’ll set aside favor-raising and just drink the scenery like tea.

Whatever art style I try with Elina, she steers me to theology like a river bends toward the sea.

Gloria, no matter what I say, looks “I see,” and scribbles like rain on parchment; you can’t expect Colonna to spare time teaching weapons aesthetics.

As for Stini, she’s a bumpkin twin to Raven, riding “wow it’s pretty” and “wow it’s amazing” like gulls over waves.

She hit a pedestrian street, took Nivifar and the lady guide, got separated, and filched my wallet like a breeze lifting a leaf.

I didn’t feel her hands this time; it was there this morning when I dressed—tsk, she wins this round like a fox outpacing a hound.

But do you think the rich carry only one wallet?

Listen: this whole street is my wallet, a marketplace river flowing back to my cup.

We step into a corner pastry shop, once held by a girl who dreamed of inheriting it but sank like a wilted petal when she lost confidence.

Then a Mephi Consortium CEO in a maid’s dress swept in like a summer storm, lifted her, and she baked Taginia’s top-ranked pastry, a yuri melodrama iced in sugar.

In a city this beautiful, that’s called romance; bards spun it into verse like silk, and couples flock here as to a shrine.

As for the Vega who resigned… It’s fine; the Mephi Consortium rotates thousands of CEOs like stars, and one or two can go play.

Sometimes I think Vega suits the lead role better than me, especially at plucking heartstrings like a lyre.

Anyway, I fetched a fresh, stuffed wallet from a Vega avatar, slipped out of the back kitchen, and paid for my companions’ pastries like rain returning to the spring.

The money cycles like a windmill: the pastry girl earns, gives it to her lover—CEO Vega No. 2579—Vega hands it to me, I pay for the girls’ sweets, and it returns to her palm.

Good. Everyone smiles like lanterns in fog. A neat win-win.

Still with us are Vega, Elina, and Gloria—one berserker Divine Healer who fights like a storm, plus a brawler like granite, plus Vega, an Arcane Engineer parsing combat moves like clockwork.

In Taginia’s maze of uniquely designed homes, the girls spent more time on ambush angles than on frosting or facades.

Hey, where’s your maiden heart, your peach-blossom sigh?

Don’t plot wreckage in my beloved city; don’t turn my swan lake into a battlefield.

It feels like the Demon Realm all over; back then, only Daviya discussed staging and layout, like sets and shadows.

Did he like it? Or did he just fear me, a deer under a hunter’s stare?

Was he merely exercising the authority of Dispute, chatting to stall me like a pebble damming a brook?

Ridiculous, that I start doubting myself at a sight I’ve awaited like spring.

Exhale. Steady. Calm as snow settling on pine.

I’m the cool-faced, warm-hearted model boyfriend—Shadow Artisan Andor. Don’t spit snark like sparks.

I’m holding two bags of pastries, mood sour as unripe fruit, when a girl lingers behind, leans in, and nudges my elbow like a shy bird.

“Andor, I’m a princess of Helena,” she murmurs, the line soft as silk. “I know a place—very pretty. Want to go to a cliff tonight?”

“Sorry, Elina. I’ve got opera tickets from five to seven—The Tragic Romance of the Phantasmal Dreamscape—and Stini’s been glowing like dawn.”

“Dinner has a big Mephi client, can’t skip, and after eleven there’s a bonfire, flames till late like stars.”

In short, sorry, regretful, unlucky, my apology carried on the wind; I refuse Elina’s invite like a door gently closed.

Her shoulders dip like wilted petals, and I’m secretly pleased with my performance, a fox admiring its pawprints.

Wait—I did promise something else, didn’t I? A thread tugging like a fish under the dark water.

I cough twice, clear my throat like a bell: “But…”

“But?”

“Beautiful princess, I’ll cancel all these troublesome pebbles to walk your shore,” I say, shifting the bags to one hand.

With the other, I lift her hand—this hand that often wields a chain flail, smashing monster skulls into paste like berries—and I kiss it, gentle and precise as a feather.

I want to bite, the Ocean of Darkness inside me whispering blood, a tide pulling at my teeth.

“What… what about the big client?” Her voice trembles like a bird’s wing, her shoulders fold small, yet her hand stays like a lily on the water.

“Let him wait till tomorrow. Six thousand Colonna gold coins in jewels can’t buy a date with a princess.”

“Mm! Then tonight at seven, at the inn’s door—no, after Raven and the others dive into that new tear-jerker opera.”

“Eight, then! Eight at the hotel entrance, like bells at moonrise!”

Her cat ears shoot up like little banners—so like an excited kitten, it’s fatal, it’s adorable.

I want to say we’re impossible, a bridge over mist, yet—

Someone asked me to handle things with Alina Helen properly, like weaving silk without knots.

Reasonably. Seriously. Truly feel her love, set aside the abacus and let the heart speak like rain.

Think: can I recognize Elina; can I accept Elina, as stars accept night.

Then give a definite answer, a stone set neatly in the stream.

It’s not about reject or accept; it’s about truth like a clear mirror.

She hopes everyone, all of us, can reach a good ending, like boats finding harbor under a kind moon.