“How’s Catherine right now?!”

“She’s fine. Everything checks out.”

“No— with her like that, you call that fine?”

“Blood flow, mana circuits, muscle, bone, soul— all intact. We saw scars healed from heavy wounds, but she’s normal now.”

“Then why won’t she wake up?”

“I can only tell you she’s sleeping. Like ordinary rest, all vital signs steady.”

“But we can’t wake her.”

“That’s the problem. Miss Catherine simply hasn’t woken. We tried every stimulant, yet our Hero keeps sleeping.”

“Then don’t use stimulants. What about Divine Arts? A blessing?”

“Can’t use them.”

“Why.”

“Don’t know. But you know— once it’s tied to the Demon King, the Divine Beings make us handle it ourselves…”

“…”

“Please don’t look at me like that, Miss Hero. It may vex you, but you feel it too. Her mana is murky and foul, mirrored by those pitch-black wings— maybe, when she wakes— no, from now—”

“—she’s no longer our Hero, no longer Catherine Breeze. She’s our enemy.”

“A fallen one, a rebel, a heretic, mankind’s bane—”

“—Demonfolk.”

Stini froze mid-step, like a deer under cold moonlight, while the middle-aged Divine Healer paused, sighed like wind through reeds, and walked on alone.

— What’s written into the script brushes the edge of the mark, standing on the line between “just” and “unjust.” “Justice” isn’t owned by the good. If it’s justice untouched by favors, it’s greatness beyond good and evil, a root both gods and demons accept.

— That’s why the Thirteen Primordial Deities were never on the side of good. They should’ve been referees, eyes level as storms between gods and demons. This isn’t today’s topic, so let it rest like dust on a shelf.

— The point is, we don’t force others’ free will— the finest gift the Creator placed like a star in Their children’s palms. We don’t lie, either. On crucial matters we won’t forge reality. We can’t answer every question, but we keep every promise.

— Like how we returned Catherine to Stini, sliding her back by “coincidence” into the river of story. That’s the premise. We, as a transcendent hand, stop there. After that, story flows as roles should. We won’t twist it. The Heretic Inquisition will pry— not our concern. Stini will choose— not our concern. Some will grieve, some will wrestle, some will rebel, some will resolve— we stay silent, take no stance, watch with cold eyes. We ask; we don’t answer.

— Passive.

— Yes, a good word, sweet as ripe fruit.

— Innocent and helpless, bullied, vengeful, defiant, guarding, saving— those bright words bloom from “passive,” from feedback, from “the world shifts first, then the self.” It fits. The powerless can’t even manage evil.

— Passive response. No longer watching with a hawk’s transcendent sight, we read the weather as it is. That’s why, when I write, I never think from a great one’s height. The more you see, the more you know, the tighter the cage. Great Divine Beings aren’t allowed to walk the mortal streets. So I think, plan, and infer as a “mortal,” writing a script no matter how shocking, still inside mortal skies.

— I’m weak, weary, and blind, like a mortal. With that premise, no act crosses the line: I stand with evil’s camp, scatter evil’s seeds, and then a Hero will try to cut them down— like an epic sung by fireside. It’s the world’s rule: soldier versus soldier, general versus general, king versus king, god versus demon. Great ones can’t run rampant. They’re too strong. Two great ones clashing could shatter the world like glass.

— Mortal crises must hang their hopes on Heroes. Mortal invasions can only be led by Demon Kings not yet ascended. That’s the way. It stays that way until the Final Calamity. The game’s rules won’t change. Maybe someday. Not now.

— Letting Catherine join the board stirs deeper currents, moves Stini and Raven and the rest. But Catherine spoke with me, the “transcendent.” On the plane of story she speculated, planned an ending. So inside the story, her words and thoughts must be sealed. After touching the transcendent, the needle will lean.

— Masked composure, indifference, bare honesty— all the same. Like lovers after a confession can’t return to before, inner waters won’t stay clear and simple. By rights, Catherine can’t serve as “script staff” anymore. Same for Nivifar. That’s why I kept Nivifar and the Hero Squad in separate circles, like two rings that don’t meet.

— Why not just deceive? Simple. We can lie in trivial corners, but the protagonist’s sights and sounds must be true. True things grow from truth. We only make her think. We could build her a Truman world— a stage-lit town under painted sky. It’s possible. But how long can you keep the mask on? Once exposed, the protagonist will burn down everything she used to know.

— What’s a Truman world? Her father’s a sham, mother a sham, friends and foes a sham— all of it theater. That won’t do.

— Even tricksters near her can’t be too many. Vega, you must keep your distance from Stini. That way you’re still a trickster— but trivial, plot-irrelevant, a leaf on the wind. The only trickster who matters is me: I don’t lie, don’t advise, only question and support. Even the gods can’t raise a protest.

— My role in this script is tangled now. Catherine ties back to me. Stini will surely see me as the story’s core. But I stand only behind Stini. I can’t be the protagonist, can’t decide her future. A trickster must keep to the wings, pushing from the backdrop. So I need an alibi— reasonable, proper— to slip offstage. I may even feign death, like a candle snuffed, to stop my thinking and calculus.

— Next, for the days I’m gone, I’ll need you.

— Vega, take my seat.

— No, no fighting. You weren’t written to fight.

— You must ask. Only ask.

— Ask Stini. Ask Raven. Ask Elina.

— Ask, when faced with the Heretic Inquisition: do we surrender Catherine in grief and despair, or stand and rebel, gamble that Catherine hasn’t fallen?

— There’s no correct answer.

— That’s why I’m eager for their choice.

Vega slipped along the Goddess of Life Shrine’s corridor, replaying her master’s charge like a refrain. Her steps made no sound, snowflakes on stone, her presence veiled like a drifting ghost.

In the ward, Stini had Elina by the collar, storm bottled under a roof. Raven crossed her arms, brow knotted tight like a drawn bow.

Princess Golia sat quiet on the hall bench, gaze clouded like dusk. She came to the shrine, so a sliver of care still glowed in her chest.

“Then you tell me— what’s with Catherine?!” Stini hissed the shout, temple law a lid on the boiling pot.

“…” Elina curled in on herself, shook her head, and refused. No matter how Stini pressed, silence held like frost.

It looked like the choice she’d make, a lantern that won’t move in wind.

Like then, when the Heretic Inquisition besieged the Hall of Truth, Elina locked herself in the chapel, praying all day like a lone bell in rain. She stands for a side, carries a will, and thinks for that side.

“Elina!”

“I want to, too! Catherine was my first friend— how could I… I shouldn’t… I’m sorry.” Elina snapped her head up, eyes red as embers fixed on Stini, startling her. She shouted twice, then shrank again like a cat under thunder.

The talk never met in the middle. Everyone spoke their own weather, their own reasons.

Raven’s brows tightened further. The rational one, she wet her lips, gripped Stini’s shoulders, pulled the rigid Hero aside, and stroked Elina’s cat ears to settle her like calming fur.

“Stini, stop shaking down Elina. Elina, our question’s simple: is Catherine still our friend? No riddles. I hate smoke and mirrors.”

“I want the truth.”

“Can Catherine come back?”

“Was she swallowed by darkness by choice, or forced?”

“And how do the Shrine and the Heretic Inquisition read Catherine’s case?”

“The last question’s yours, Stini— captain of the Hero Squad.”

“If the worst hits, what do we do?”