A viscous, brooding something, steeped in another’s will, gurgled from the coffin’s cracked seam like ink from a split vein, spreading into a pitch‑black bog—a mire that drags even the soul.

“Look at me. You can look at me.”

The mask drifted closer, a moon of lacquered night, until it almost kissed the Savior Saint’s face. Dozens of arms latched on to his joints, iron clamps in flesh, pinning his movement like a pinned butterfly.

“In your eyes, what am I?”

“A monster.”

“Good. Then let a ‘person’ speak with you.”

One arm grabbed the mask from the front and tugged it back, turning it left and right, like adjusting a prop to a comfortable angle—yet the thing had no face to fit.

Heavy black slurry rose against gravity, a night tide defying weight. The arm that had reached from the coffin began to knead the slurry, yes, like soft earth molded and fixed, coaxed into the shape of a person.

Arms like a human’s. Shoulders like a human’s. A waist like a human’s. A head like a human’s. Legs and feet like a human’s.

Everything was molded, sculpted into—human.

More and more arms and bone wings folded back into the coffin, trading bone for more slurry, and the human figure grew fuller, finer, increasingly—human.

Nausea hit Stini first, a tide in her throat. It tasted like stomach acid and last night’s unseasoned grilled fish mince mashed together. She wanted to vomit, then remembered it was a “super‑precious ingredient” she’d hauled from the river—the Abett Iceblood Serpentfish, a live one that costs a Colonna gold coin—and she forced it down, like swallowing a hook.

She couldn’t explain why she wanted to puke.

It wasn’t fear of a strong enemy. Her power and courage were enough to challenge any monster, a blade bright as dawn.

Yet watching this incarnation craft a human stirred terror from the marrow, a panic that had no name. Her heart hammered like a trapped bird. Run now—now—run! If she didn’t, it would be over. Instinct screamed so.

She stepped back without thinking, left foot turning sideways, ready to break left like a deer bolting from brush.

Then—

The last arm, the one that had danced in midair first, a twisted limb with sixteen joints, pinched the jaw of the human head under the mask and waggled it, like fixing a broken doll back to normal.

After spine bones rasped against each other, creak‑creak, a sound cold as nails on frost, the human shape nodded. The final arm drew back into the coffin, satisfied.

Black slurry sloughed off the skin like night shedding its cloak, revealing smooth white beneath, then flowed back to dress it in finery spun from darkness.

A long front panel draped from shoulder to knee, big sleeves billowed like night wind, while the joints were tight and clean like bound silk. It was pure black, through and through, as if it meant to dissolve into the night. Silver filigree ran along the edges, tangled strokes that seemed to depict things—dragons, flame, death, calamity, and—ending.

It matched the coffin, down to the last detail.

“A cloak? Your Majesty, planning to wear the coffin itself?”

“Merely, my maid’s preference—”

Something inside the mask slid aside once, twice, thrice, and then black eyes opened like wells in a winter field.

—“She likes me to wear this when I’m the World Saving Demon King.”

Death lets you see more things. That’s why near‑death, so many people see—too much—things humans shouldn’t see if they wish to live well.

Once the soul slips free of the body’s material tether, it scatters faster, and from above it sees a broader landscape, like a hawk’s gaze. Rank rises like a flame fed with air. On the Kabbalah Tree of Life, ascent has limits for “humans,” yet outside the body you might climb to angelic tiers.

But to show goodwill, it’s better not to speak from that lofty height, like thunder lecturing ants.

Lower your station to human logic. Use a human shape. I opened my eyes and made the last micro‑adjustments, smoothing myself toward “human.”

I slid my right hand into the coffin and seized what I wanted, anchoring on it to smash the coffin into the ground like shattering brittle ice. From the wreckage I pulled my beloved glaive, Nandu.

“I’d like you to wait a moment, Savior Saint. Our duel will take time. Leaving a lady waiting isn’t gentlemanly.”

This was my voice, truly. Air vibrated through a throat. Sound carried like a bell.

I was using the “World Saving Demon King” template.

“I’m only here to kill you. Everything else, do as you please.”

I smiled and nodded to the Savior Saint, then turned to face Stini and Raven. I wasn’t worried about a sneak attack—ah, not from trusting him, just because I couldn’t imagine a surprise that would kill me.

As I walked closer, the three tightened, and Stini and Raven took battle stances, blades like drawn moons. No need. I wasn’t here to fight.

Hmm… let me recall how the script goes…

First, wake Catherine. I never intended to keep her dead weight; she’d feel guilty about burdening the other two. I snapped my fingers—no real need, just for flair—and Catherine stirred, lifting her head, dazed eyes fogged like dawn over marsh.

She was smart enough to read the room and guess what had happened.

“You tricked me! You tricked me, An—”

Before she could say my name, I used authority and silenced her. Even then, her eyes burned blood‑red, a hawk’s glare dipped in wine.

Is this necessary…

I was about to explain…

“Let’s start at the start. I do bear malice, but in truth, the evil acts weren’t done by me.”

“Grrh—ghuh—gruh—”

Humans can’t burst their cheeks with lung pressure. But Aerian… Catherine looked mad enough to explode, literally—a storm choking its own throat.

Alright, alright—

“First, Miss Catherine and I signed a contract. She bought a ‘happy ending’ for ‘you.’ That’s my operating baseline—yes, spiced with my own desire, but more than half was done for Catherine’s goal.”

So please, calm down. Fixing a burst mouth and broken teeth costs mana, and I’m saving fuel for the main act.

I folded my hands behind my back—an awkward pose, honestly. If I place them wrong, my glaive trips my foot, and I’ll perform a cute face‑plant.

Yet without this clumsy posture, I can’t show I mean no harm.

I stopped at the “outer edge of attack range,” a place that felt like a cliff ledge—safe enough to strike or to flee.

“Vangibia’s sacrifice had nothing to do with me. Catherine’s matter was straight business. All I did was—let you see everything, lay it bare for the Hero lady. Catherine, if you don’t know, don’t see, on what grounds can you judge or infer? The opera I staged is all truth. Choices born from it, your likes and hates, are what make a good ending. Ah, Catherine, you can speak now.”

“Ah… ptoo! I trusted you! I…”

“Think it through. Or tell me what a good ending is. People cry a few times to laugh once. Miss Stini now sees the world’s cruelty, right—do you think the Heretic Inquisition is the right answer?”

“An— you bastard, stop changing the topic! You know what I want: not everyone ending with the Heretic Inquisition hunting us to death! You’re using me to force Stini! You—”

Her expression shook like a glass about to spill. She was about to cry.

But no matter how twisted, how much it hurt, not a single tear fell.

Of course. We’re villains. How could villains cry? Even if we cry, we have no tears to shed.

Only blood. In us, only black blood runs.

Sharp nails grew at Catherine’s will, blades sprouting like winter thorns. Her mouth opened and closed. She stared at the black nails, and slowly leaned her throat toward them…

“Catherine, don’t—”

“Beyond self‑satisfaction, suicide does nothing. It only locks Stini and Raven to the ‘evil’ side—besides, Miss Stini and Miss Raven still have a retreat.”

“…”

I adore theatrical timing!

I don’t adore getting slapped by an enraged actress…

It’s fine. You can’t kill me anyway. If it makes you feel better, go ahead, Catherine.

“Does your hand hurt? Sorry. I’m about to fight the Savior Saint, so I didn’t bother to wire up pain nerves. If you’re still mad, hit me a few more times. I know which side deserves the blows—that’s emotional damages, paid in full.”

“How do Stini and Raven get back to a normal life? How much do I have to pay? Will you take even my last bit of pride, my last heart?”

“Hmm… I won’t ask for any more payment. No need to guard against me that much. Though I do pull too many tricks on a normal day…”

I fell into thought, the kind that tastes like iron.

Seems… I’m not trusted. A bit of that is on me.

Fine.

“Let the friendly World Saving Demon King give you a concise outline of this play.”

“First—”

“All this is planning—yes, planning. Don’t say conspiracy. Nothing I did is indictable… perhaps a tad? But the other side parachuted in a line‑stepping squad of heroes, so let’s call it even. Miss Stini, Miss Raven, I sincerely hope you’ll join me—recognize what I call ‘evil.’”

I clapped, welcoming new members, like lanterns lighting in rain.

The girls aimed their weapons at my head. Crows perched on a scarecrow.

“That’s fine. There’s a gap between ‘it will happen’ and ‘knowing the whole cruel truth.’ Whether ‘foolish joy’ or ‘wise sorrow’ is better, leave that aside. In your current mess, I did stir a finger. If you’re stuck on what a cold bystander did wrong, then let me compensate above theoretical limits, so you’ll have no grounds to accuse me—”

Those who trade with devils always complain about the devil’s cunning, the devil’s lies, pouring their failure into the devil like oil into a fire.

Then the devil reflected on what, exactly, it did wrong.

And then—the devil learned that as long as it doesn’t block a person’s path, people can always find a made‑up reason to pour out their pain with a clean conscience.

The devil grew generous, magnanimous. Ask for a coin, it gave a hundred. Ask for a wish, it granted a hundred. It stopped pinching the fine print. It stopped tugging fate’s threads. The devil became a genial yet poisonous friend. Oh, a friend—ironically, humans felt that way—giving fairness and trust to the devil. Isn’t that friendship?

The devil never betrayed that trust—because it knew how to make humans, of their own will, destroy themselves completely.

I learned devilology in demonfolk school as a youth. I remember it like scars.

“Miss Stini, Miss Raven, if you wish to turn back—to that ignorant, confined life that looks strong and beautiful—” I bowed, the polite devil from memory. “Then I can hand you a head. A head with enough weight to prove ‘the Hero Squad only feigned betrayal to draw out the Demon King.’ Whose head do you want? Even mine will do. I’ll fully cooperate to clear the Hero and the Arcane Engineer, wash them clean of guilt. You’ll remain a Hero Squad crowned with honor, and you can return to your warm little home in the City of Heroes, spend New Year with your boyfriend, or roughhouse in the academy.”

This looks like the prettiest, most perfect ending, doesn't it—like lacquered petals under glass.

Like a bottled fake flower: opulent, lovely, stately, elegant, and frozen forever like winter ice.

So beautiful it feels like a fairy-tale lead, floating down a storybook river to a bad end without a bruise.

That's right—I'm laughing at you, sharp as ice cracking on a winter river.

You think you're kind, like sunlight after snow?

You think you're just, like a balanced brass scale?

As if—the joke lands like a slap of cold rain.

You're nothing, just a hollow gourd rattling in the wind.

Your power is smoke, thinned and torn by a crosswind.

Your thoughts are carved rules, dry as stone tablets in sand.

You're alive, but you're no different from a shadow pinned to a wall.

Honestly, I hope you refuse this offer, even after all the nets we spent months weaving.

Still, the river will run by your banks, not mine; it turns on your choice.

Raven's armor carries a visor, a moon-smooth mask that hides any twitch of expression.

From my take, as someone who helped build this "Crystal Flame," she won't show a quiver before an enemy, like a cliff facing the sea.

She uses the internal controls to freeze her micro-expressions, like frost sealing ripples on a pond.

On the other side, my tender, long-winded plea hit like rain on stone and didn't move our lady Hero at all.

Stini's willful face stayed iron-cast, steady as an anvil.

Nerves first, a throat tight as dry reeds; she swallowed hard.

Then she asked a question that sidestepped everything, like a swallow veering out of the storm.

Then, what about Catherine?