What will happen to Catherine?

Isn’t that obvious?

You think Catherine, who had nothing, bought you a “happy ending” with what, exactly?

...

Catherine will serve under me. I like her ability, like a mountain wind that cuts clean. If she’s unwilling, I won’t force her to warm my bed or spill blood.

Demon King... if I want...

Hahahahahaha—hic—sorry, that killed me—hahahahaha—

My lungs almost burst from laughing, like bellows over a winter forge.

Damn it. I’m not laughing from joy, just to sneer like frost on glass. The laughter stops.

You want Catherine back—absolutely not. Never. Do you take me for a devil who sells anything if the price is right? No, Stini. Use that instinct-driven brain. What do I really want?

...

I want you. And Miss Raven. I want your recognition. I want you to accept this evil, like accepting night after sunset. From the angle of “evil,” do you think I’ll let go of a treasure the world has only once?

...

I’m hoping you pick the “way out” I offered. It’s the best choice by common sense, like taking shelter when the storm rolls in. It’s what’s best for a Hero, for a partner of justice.

Sacrifice the few for the many, like tossing grain to save the harvest.

Preempt a vague threat, like cutting rot before it spreads.

Smother your wish to answer others’ expectations, like burying a spark under wet ash.

Isn’t that—

—what’s taught, what’s normal, what’s tested?

Without those tactics that “keep the majority around you in tune,” you can’t live in the human world, like a lone bird in winter. Heroes included, and beyond.

Raven... I—I need your help...

The greatsword Evil Justice lowers, its tip biting soil like a black nail. The black-gold sheen stays dull, like ash laid on a blade.

Stini clutches her head with her free hand. The other props the sword, like a mast in a windless sea—full of strength, or empty of it.

Who should my sword cut... Raven, only you—at least you... give me an answer, please...

Stini—

See, Stini, this is ugly. Maybe you don’t feel it. You’ll call it “listening to others” or “respecting their will,” like hanging lanterns over a muddy road. Truth is, you just want a ready-made idea to use, don’t you?

Stini has dropped her guard like a shield sinking in snow.

I walk up unhurried, like a cat through shade, and with my authority freeze Catherine where she’s about to lunge. I lift the girl’s chin with one finger, a light touch like tipping a dew-laden leaf. She wants someone to hand her an answer. From the look of it, even the Demon King’s answer would do?

No.

Of course not.

If Stini stops thinking and passively takes my creed, how is she different from the “UnsmiIing Hero” who defeats me in the official chronicle? Like a statue wearing another’s face.

If I wanted a puppet Hero, I wouldn’t need to stir up a storm the size of a kingdom.

Think for yourself. Choose anything you wish. Whatever you choose, I’ll back it to the hilt as a balm for the soul. But you must think, like a seed choosing where to root.

Look at me. See me. See evil, like a moonlit blade in clear water.

A slap sends me back a few steps, like a leaf flicked off a branch.

Hn. Second slap today. That’s the bill for playing at schemes; no complaints, like rain after thunder.

And with the construct armor boosting force, a seventy-kilo body could be swatted flying like a scarecrow in gale. This body’s strength is flawless, iron in the bone. Physics doesn’t blink; the momentum stays.

I won’t use force on you today. That’s our ground to talk on, like a truce fire kept low. But out of courtesy, I’d like to know where I offended you.

I straighten my tilted mask, like righting a hanging picture.

What if I don’t want to think?! Not everyone is that strong! Even a Hero gets tired, needs rest, like a traveler under summer shade!

Raven screams at me. Wow. She’s clutching Stini and crying while yelling, like rain and thunder at once. Did I say anything sad? It’s only the cruel shape of reality, like ice under clear sky.

Why cry?

Fine. But—how long does she plan to rest? I can buy you time, like holding back a tide with sandbags. Before the Hero’s image is beyond repair, I can stall one month. Thirty days. That’s the crux. She can rest. She can stop thinking. But after thirty days of fog, nothing will change. Only the path back will be gone, like a bridge washed out.

That’s the ending I hate most, like mold creeping over a painting.

Even as my enemy, I’d rather you clash with me, steel to steel, than drift like rotten wood down a black river.

I shake my head, like shaking rain off a cloak.

I won’t allow my opponent to be that weak, like a candle that dies at a sigh.

Then I will! I’ll always support Stini, and Stini will always support me!

Then ask her—during the assault on the Hall of Truth, did Stini consider killing you?

I... even if she meant to kill me, I’d still believe in Stini! Raven’s voice shreds, yet she pours all her love and longing into the shout, like a hearth roaring in storm: At least, I support Stini not because she vouched for me as heir of the Truth Seekers Assembly. I know she’s kind. I’m not a Hero, but even so, I want to do what’s right.

It hurts when a friend leaves, like a cold wind through thin clothes.

It hurts when a hero dies, like a bell cracked in a temple.

It hurts when a mistake continues, like weed creeping over graves.

Those are right feelings, and right deeds! Even if named wrong, their core stays right, like gold under dirt! We don’t need a choice of weighing gains and losses. We train to avoid those grief-struck choices, don’t we? Why forget the first wish, like forgetting spring after winter?

As long as one of us doesn’t give up, we can hold on, like two oars pulling one boat. If Stini is lost, I’ll choose for her. If I go astray, Stini will pull me back. Demon King, this is how humans live—supporting, influencing, understanding each other, like trees sheltering wind and wind spreading seeds.

Demon King, someone as strong as you wouldn’t get that, would you?

Don’t joke. I aced human studies, like a scribe who’s copied the classics by lamp-light.

I just don’t agree. I don’t agree with a way of life that isn’t strong enough, isn’t beautiful enough, like a blade that won’t take a polish.

I see will settling between Stini’s brows, like frost setting crystal-clear. Looks like I’ll be the one with a headache next.

Demon King, you said—one choice. Then besides abandoning Catherine, there must be another story—one where Catherine gets a good ending too, right? I want everyone happy. If a happy ending is bought by selling a friend—then it’s rotten to me!

Her tone brims with spirit, with confidence, with iron will, like sunlight breaking cloud.

Hmph. The momentum’s good.

I studied you for a year. How could I miss this demand, like a hunter missing a trail in fresh snow?

Of course—

That’s why Catherine stands before you. Even if she hadn’t asked, a girl who strives like this shouldn’t end filthy and sad, like a swan dragged through tar. So follow your will and carry this journey through. Some friends will leave. Some will return, like swallows to eaves.

Catherine?

She’ll travel with you, by her own will. Beyond the decorative black blood and wings, she got nothing from me. Rest easy. She’s still the Catherine you know. A master archer who fights with imbued magic. A subordinate of the Aegis of Holy Light. A trainee knight—Catherine Breeze. And the price... no, the final consequence and ripple of this, you know...

I know.

Stini squeezes Raven’s hand. The two who grew up together share a look and a smile, like two stars answering at dusk.

Mm... looks a bit yuri... well, not important.

I’ll be cursed as the “Rebel Hero,” right?

Not just that. You’ll become a figure history wars over, like a statue pecked by crows and doves for a thousand years. Even after a millennium, bards will sing of you as a model—mostly not as a saint. For now, the Heretic Inquisition will brand you a heretic. Any Heretic Inquisitor who finds your trail will hunt you to the death, like a hound on warm scent. You’ll lose the right to enter great cities. Even if you rack up feats—slaying fiends, pushing back my legions—you’ll only break even, your sins and merits clanging on the scale. You’ll be fodder for endless debate by later generations.

Justice—humans are ice-cold to traitors, like winter rivers. That’s fair enough.

By contrast, evil is generous, like night that accepts every shadow.

Darkness, evil, all that belongs to our camp, will tolerate every right and wrong, like the sea holding fresh and salt. Choose the part you accept. That’s enough.

If you can accept the insults and doubt heaped on you by those you protected and still protect, like stones thrown at a guardian wall; accept the ages twisting and smearing heroes, especially you; accept the Heretic Inquisition’s pursuit born of their duty—

—then, welcome—

My new kin.