The Holy Knight leaned against a tree like a resting banner, turning his book again and again, angling it so the firelight glazed the ink—bright as ember, not harsh as noon.

“I keep feeling something’s off,” he murmured like a low stream talking to stones, scratching at the beard that wasn’t there like chasing a ghost.

“Off where? We’ve held the line at the Time Ruins like stakes in the wind. Next we check on the current Hero like lanterns on a path. After that, we hunt the Demon King like hounds in frost. So far, no problem,”

The Night Watcher slid his hand straight into the flames like a moth courting a sun, stirred the fire so it breathed stronger like a bellows, then drew his hand back as clean as ivory—no soot, no ash.

The Holy Knight glanced at the Night Watcher like a hawk measuring distance, then let his gaze sink back into the book like a pebble curling in a pond.

“The problem is the Time Ruins. Who found it first? The Demon King. Who received us and asked us to guard it? The Demonfolk. Doesn’t that ring wrong, like a cracked bell in snow?”

“No. I admire Demonfolk who repent like night learning dawn. That one—the World Saving Demon King—I’d love to meet him, like a pilgrim chasing a star.”

The Holy Knight raked his hair like combing rain, unsure what face to wear like a mask left on the table.

“…I don’t know what this era is like, and I don’t know the era you lived through. But I’ve always believed: twist kindness however you want, and evil still keeps its shape, like iron under paint. That maid who received us…”

“Malice. Illogical malice,” The Assassin returned with an armful of neat firewood like a stack of ribs, set it aside, dusted the stone with quick fingers like a sparrow pecking, and took a seat by the blaze.

“Exactly. Malice. Night Watcher, you didn’t feel it? Like thorns under velvet?”

“Sorry—no. I felt she welcomed us warmly, like tea poured at dawn. It’s probably me. I’m… slow to notice evil, like frost that never reaches a desert.”

The Night Watcher’s handsome face drew an apologetic smile, alluring as a dusk tide—half demon, half divine, like a mirror catching sunlight.

The Holy Knight remembered the Night Watcher’s self-introduction—calling himself a divine scion—then linked it to the Scriptures he’d read like threads meeting in a loom. He wondered if he’d met a living legend, like a crane stepping out of mist.

Legends, it seemed, really stood far from common folk, like peaks above plains.

Because he loves people, he refuses to question their hearts—like a gardener trusting soil. Or because he’s strong, he doesn’t need to weigh malice—like a mountain ignoring breeze.

—The Holy Knight believed the Night Watcher belonged to the latter, like iron born for the anvil.

He narrowed his eyes like shutters, recalled the moments on that guarded line like footprints in snow, then flipped the book back a page like a pale wing turning.

“If it were just baseless malice, an instinctive dislike Demonfolk hold for humans, then fine—that could explain it all like smoke explaining a fire. Which is why it’s a problem. Where the problem sits, I can only say I feel a mismatch—like a note off-key in a clean tune…”

“Everything—everything’s twisted,” The Assassin stared at the heart of the flames like a red pupil, dropping her reminder for the Night Watcher like a pebble into the coals; her eyes were empty, like wells that had lost the moon.

The Holy Knight nodded hard, almost bumping his head on the book like a bell to wood. “Exactly. Everything is ‘not quite right,’ yet if you dig, it’s clearly ‘reasonable,’ like a path swept too clean. Tell me, Night Watcher, have you ever met a Devil?”

“If you mean the dark races, I’ve seen too many,” The Night Watcher’s face darkened like a cloud over wheat, memory pulling at old scars like thorns under skin.

“I mean Devils alone. I take it you haven’t. If you’ve seen one, you remember till seas turn to salt and suns go cold. I’ll speak of what memory I’ve got left. In my era, I saw tricks from cheap stagecraft to grand designs, like street coins to palace seals. The specifics blur like bubbles blown toward the sun—bright, then gone. But the lessons stay, hammered into my skull like nails.”

He tapped his temple with a finger like a flint striking steel.

“It remembers seeing a Devil—a disaster clothed in sorrow like a funeral under thunder. If not for that Devil telling me the whole story at the very end, I wouldn’t even know it had meddled—because everything unfolded as if it were natural, like fruit dropping when ripe. In a Devil’s work, you can’t find a seam, like silk woven by spiders. They’re equal in rank to gods on the other side, like moons to suns—Divine Beings of the opposite face.”

“I heard my father say they were great enemies, like winter to harvest. But hearing a proper tale… please go on, Knight. No intent to cut in.”

“It’s pointless to deify Devils again and again—they’re already grand, like caverns echoing their own names. But in contrast, what we’ve just gone through is full of gaps, like a rush-job component shoved into a finished machine. It makes that clack-clack mismatch, like teeth grinding instead of meshing.”

“Abruptness. Forcing us—intruders to this world—into a script already written, like shove-ins to a finished painting. Even for gods, that’s hard,”

“Exactly. It could be the Demon King’s hand, maybe… Ah, the Divine Healer told me this era, this world, has no damned fate, like wind with no net. Yet I can feel someone arranging events, like hands moving stones under cloth.”

“Hmm… I still don’t get it. The request was just to help guard. What’s wrong with that?” The Night Watcher’s voice carried confusion like mist clinging to reeds.

“Night Watcher, you’re a divine scion, a chosen great Hero, the one who saves the world—maybe. Your life probably walked like opera, grand and jeweled, beautiful and tragic like a swan on ice. You’re likely the chosen protagonist, the hero named among thousands like a star singled out. I’m not. As for the Assassin…”

“I’m not either. Never was,”

The Holy Knight clapped his palms like thunder caught in skin. “Then it tracks. Our thinking diverges. Night Watcher, I—we—are small, unnoticed pawns like ants on a path. Even if we once tried to save a world, that point doesn’t change. So when we think, we don’t assume we’ll arrive in time and take salvation as an obvious right, like spring arriving on cue. We think humbly first, and weigh the possibility of ‘what if we aren’t there,’ like an empty chair at a table.”

“Maybe…” The Night Watcher stirred the flames again like a shepherd prodding sheep, his mind half elsewhere like a bird listening to rain.

“That’s the shape. In general: if we aren’t present, things don’t fall into total ruin like sand through a fist; if we are present, things don’t improve by much like dew on a blade. We weigh, then place ourselves in the picture, then measure the gap between those two. If the gap’s huge, or someone expects too much from us, that’s irregular—like a shadow too long for the sun.”

He didn’t voice the deeper feeling: being summoned and asked to save a world felt unreal, like waking up to a crown made of smoke. He buried that in his gut like a seed under frost.

“This time, before we enjoy ‘we saved a line’ satisfaction like wine warming the chest, we get worry first—‘if we weren’t here, that maid wouldn’t live to see the united army’s camp, and without us, the line would collapse.’ That’s suspect, like a bridge sagging before a footstep.”

“Agreed. The Time Ruins line should have had a full and reasonable plan, like maps with measured grids. It should have,”

“Exactly,” The Holy Knight snapped his fingers toward the Assassin in thanks like sparks jumping. “Logically, you can’t expect what wasn’t scheduled, like rain on cue. Did the World Saving Demon King truly fail to foresee? I think—hmm…”

“You think it’s a plot? Something meant to stall us?” The Night Watcher’s tone sharpened like a blade tasting air.

He wasn’t blind to evil; he was just slow. Once his mind caught the trail, he understood fast like fire running dry pine.

“Remember how our route was set? The Savior Saint hinted at ‘a plot against the Hero.’ So we moved to check the Hero and help if we could, and in that span wait for the Dragon Exorcist to finish refitting gear. If—only if, we lack proof—if someone wanted to stall our march, then for what?”

“It seems only what the Savior Saint said—‘a plot against the Hero,’” The Holy Knight’s words fell like stones clicking in a line.

“Put it together. What we can confirm now—nothing. Not one piece. We can only infer without proof: there’s a ‘who’ using the ‘Time Ruins line’ to slow us, and that ‘who’ connects to the ‘maid,’ which points at the ‘World Saving Demon King.’ Meanwhile, there’s ‘a plot’ on the Hero’s side. But the Savior Saint acts indifferent, like a monk watching rain. He didn’t even come with us. So maybe the ‘plot’ isn’t severe, and the ‘Hero’ can solve it herself. That’s all.”

The Holy Knight pulled a notebook from his breast like a bird from cloth, and sketched a simple diagram like sticks and stars. The Night Watcher and the Assassin leaned closer like flowers bending toward light.

“Add one more. Guarding the Time Ruins line was the maid’s insistence,” The Assassin raised a hand in small warning like a twig lifted.

“Exactly. She used threats to keep us, like hooks tugging flesh. It’s strange. The Time Ruins line is important—clear as a lighthouse. But it’s still strange, like saying ‘only you will do.’ Summing up—lots of doubts. We only see the tip of the iceberg, like white above black. We have too little to look at, too little certain intel.”

“Ah—said like that,” The Night Watcher exhaled as understanding took root like sprouts. “We should’ve gone straight to the Hero. If she got hit, that’d be awful,”

“But the Time Ruins line is more important—obvious, eminent, top tier, like a dam in flood. In contrast, the unconfirmed plot near the Hero looks small, like a whisper in a storm. And—two people can only keep one line safe; they can’t weave a secure plane, like threads without a loom. The maid’s insistence was a hook. We knew it was a hook, but the bait was too tempting—like warm bread to hunger—and we had to bite. One step, no escape.”

The Holy Knight cursed under his breath like thorns snagging cloth, then tossed his book into his pack like a swallow vanishing.

“We’re like blindfolk and deaffolk, feeling walls in the dark. Gods, I miss having a phone—just call the Hero, and everything clears, like fog burning off,”

Information flow and moving bodies were the great problem of the Silver Era—technology matured like iron tools, and Demonfolk had mature counters like oil to water.

“I’m not a mighty hero. Even when I slay demons, it’s based on experience, skill, and tactics—things in the mind, like lines drawn before a strike. As for the Assassin—hey, you run on instinct, right?”

She looked as gloomy and hollow as a moonless pond, but unlike her dazed shell, she answered at once with a nod like a blade’s chin.

“Premonition. We may face a great crisis—no escape, no evasion—smashing all resistance and hope, ending all prophecy and expectation, like a storm devouring harvest.”

The Holy Knight took her words seriously like a judge weighing a bell, then faced the Night Watcher like a tree turning to wind. “That’s it. Night Watcher, neither of us is strong—even if we patch with methods, the root weakness won’t flip, like a boat too small for waves.”

“Hey, hey, what are you saying? Sounds like dyed-in-black pessimism,” The Night Watcher’s voice carried the sting of worry like rain on steel.

“The Assassin can help by predicting, like a wind vane under thunder. I can help by inferring, like a map stitched from tracks. A curse that speaks itself? I know. Someone like me is dead weight in a sprint, and maybe I’ll die—so what. I’ve already died once like a candle snuffed. Better to bet every chance on you. Of course, I’ll struggle with all I’ve got—like a fox with its teeth. But if I die, hope rests on you. I am a pessimist, yes. Victories that walk boldly and rightly always feel far from someone as small as me, like stars beyond hands.”

“Help. I’ll give you every omen I see, and the Holy Knight will lay out every possibility—like stones before feet. After that, in the end, we leave it to you, true great Hero,” The Assassin’s voice was soft as ash, firm as wire.

The Night Watcher, divine scion destined to succor the world, had long grown used to praise like roses braided into armor. He looked at the slanting westward moon like a silver scythe, lowered in the dark.

“…But only this expectation—once, I failed an entire world’s expectation, like a king dropping a crown. Can you still trust me?” His words drifted like smoke over coals.

“Since the Divine Being chose to trust, who are we to complain? Like leaves under rain, we accept,” The Holy Knight’s answer was calm as a temple bell.

When the Night Watcher stood, his spine creaked dryly like old wood—he was just a mortal, the plainest kind, like grain in a sack. He pulled another book from his bag like a magician’s apple: “The Savior Demon King Army: An Ultra Simplified Plan Even Monkeys Can Read (Simplified Chinese Edition).”

“Assassin, you judge truth from lies. I’ll analyze the rest. Listen, Night Watcher, listen. This is all we can offer—like two candles in a long night.”