Berenz felt Vega’s worry was mist over still water, unnecessary.

The Demon King Army, by habit, brought back heads like cold trophies.

When asked how to use them, every mind snagged on a tight knot.

Four heads: Holy Knight, Assassin, Night Watcher, Savior Saint—four stones in a row.

If you asked Berenz, she’d break the fast with blood, a fox scenting meat.

Unlike Vega and Dulan, the master forbade her gently, a thin leash on hunger.

Those two can’t touch a drop of blood; she can sip in shadowed silence.

Keep it quiet, like a cat in the pantry, and the master won’t fuss.

The plan was to split the Savior Demon King Army, cleaving jade into night and dawn.

One blade cuts “evil”; the rest show “good,” to soothe humans like rain on dust.

It was the master’s script; Berenz wore the black face and led a third of lesser vassals.

She had no complaints—snow falling soft—she ate sweet human flesh smiling, killed with the same smile.

In the end, she’d die, then sleep centuries like a seed under ice, and wake forgiven.

Unconscious years pass in a blink; what job beats that bright bargain?

Of course not; her master was the sun behind her shadow.

Back to it: Vega called these heads emblems, banners in wind, not fodder for feasting.

Then do it like the Demon Realm—set them in walls, a beauty of stone and faces.

They were dead souls, lanterns without flame; even awakened, they stayed in Death’s cold field.

You can’t mortar a living, wailing wall from them; a solid wall would still please, Berenz argued.

For now, the Savior Demon King Army’s headquarters hides in the mountain’s belly, with no outer skin.

The master dislikes eccentric ornaments indoors, so the inner-wall plan fell away like ash.

If they delayed, the meat would rot, blooming into black flowers under warm air.

Berenz craved the Night Watcher’s brain, cream under moonlight, not gutter slime after rot.

It’s like tofu versus stinky tofu; tastes split like rivers, and she hates the stink.

The head maid wore a ledger-tight look, frost saying, “don’t add trouble.”

Still, for food, Berenz clung to Vega like ivy, begging for two—no, one—head.

“If you truly want a bite, soon—very soon—the doors will open; feast wide, but not now.”

“I want it now, now—give me!” Her hunger beat like a drum in a dark room.

“If it’s pure greed, why not attend the Demon King’s banquet with the master?”

“Only the Demon King eats like a king there; our decent dishes shrink to pig slop—torture.”

“Our master has stopped eating human flesh; he’d gladly hand you his share. But you didn’t go.

“Anyway, I’ll turn these skulls into candle stands—only skulls. Come help me clean them.”

“Then… the remaining meat?” Her voice curled like smoke.

“They were heroes… pity you died at the end. These spoils belong to me and the master.

Flags we earned in storm. If taking spoils is natural, someone seeking a pact with humans can’t smear their ink and trample their will.

Feeding a hero’s flesh to fiends—does that sound right?”

“Not right?” Berenz blinked, a bird in rain.

“If your brain’s turning to drool, suck it back fast. Of course not. This flesh needs a proper burial.”

“Come here, and help me clean.” Her tone was steel wrapped in silk.

“Yes, yes—” Berenz’s answer trailed like a ribbon in wind.