Pour molten, searing gold straight onto a face; the gold snaps cold like night frost and hardens into a gleaming mask.

That’s the principle, sure, like chalk on slate.

But faces blister like bubbling moons when scalded.

How do you even throw with hands like charred leaves?

You must spread the gold like a calm lake.

Control speed and thickness like tuning a bowstring.

Keep the surface uncracked, like ice, so blisters don’t warp it.

Decide the moment, trap the expression like a butterfly in amber.

That takes a maker’s soul and hands like rain.

When I was small as dawn mist—forget it. Let’s talk Berenz.

She once obsessed over forging gold masks, like chasing comets.

Among Demonfolk in the Demon Realm, rare human “ingredients” get offered like fruits at a shrine.

They go to the Demon King or the Son of the Demon King, like bowls laid before an altar.

Under the World Saving Demon King, none but Berenz may eat humans.

Supply overflowed like a granary after harvest.

So Berenz played with knives and fire between meals.

Gold masks were only one of her games, like glass marbles.

Still, Berenz never made a mask worthy of the word, like a door without hinges.

She’s clumsy; her technique limps like a lame wolf.

A few she liked barely reached market-stall quality, like tin trinkets.

Uglier than the half-carved iconic mask I wear now, like a crescent cut in stone.

The iconic mask of the World Saving Demon King, only half carved, like a moon with missing light.

Besides, the one at hand uses legendary material—black gold, like night condensed.

Only the temperature of the sun melts it, not soft gold from a village kiln.

I step into the hall, and Daviya’s timid page shuffles in, like a shadow under a torch.

His only senior vassal, cradling a mask like a new moon.

A black-gold mask, dark as a shut window.

How do I know it was poured on a living face?

Look at the soul clinging to it like dew.

A virgin’s soul, gorgeous, a hero’s, crying without end like rain.

Her beauty is sealed forever, printed into this mask like a leaf.

If it were forged cold, it wouldn’t fit so perfectly.

Aside from the rim, only a few tear-lines touch the cheeks, like silver threads.

The face’s curves hold a hollow, dazed gaze, like fogged glass.

Black gold feels heavy, like history pressed into ore.

That raw beauty already sings like a bronze bell.

Demonfolk adore this kind of craft, like crows hoarding stars.

To me, it’s a rare collectible, a winter plum among stones.

By artistry alone, its source and craft are master-level in the Demon Realm, like a sword with a name.

Collectors would bid high at auction, like waves climbing a cliff.

If the mask carries a murky, bloody past—tsk, tsk, tsk, like stains under snow.

Seems Daviya offers it as thanks, or payment, or tribute, like laying jade on a table.

No idea who he hired, like a phantom smith at midnight.

Maybe he dug this from his old hoard, like a buried ember.

Hmm, like smoke coiling.

My current way favors not showing malice toward humans, like sheathing knives at dusk.

Not contempt, not appetite, not scorn, not hate—like sunset quieting birds.

Still, like a reed bending in wind.

Ahem, like dust caught in a flute. Let’s think: I want human friends, and someone sends me this.

What’s my best move, like drawing lots under lanterns?

Throw it away? No. That wastes value like burning grain.

That’s pure pandering. I seek shared ground, not a leash.

I should act less acceptable, yet talk like an owl over a fence.

Return it to humans? To her family? I’m not stupid.

That stokes the fire, wins no favor, risks me like thin ice.

She isn’t my comrade; I owe no incense at their door.

Ahem, like a pebble in the throat.

So the best choice is—

I slide the mask into the Shadow, like a fish into deep water.

Seal it among my collection, and hide it quiet, like midnight.

“So, no one knows what happened today.”

Right. No one. No one—like wind over blank snow.

No one can blame me for taking the mask, not even gods carved on mountains.

I hid it only to keep wounds from opening, like bandages on a cut.

Then no one will grieve over it, like leaves that never fall.

I truly believe this will end well, like sunrise after fog.

“I, Andor, only hope everyone finds happiness…”

I sit at the long table’s head, hands steepled like a gate.

My voice dips, like a movie CG opening, faux-deep and smooth.

I say it to the servers as they bring the dish, like cranes bearing trays.

A human head, neck locked into a gold base like a collar.

The skullcap lifted clean, brain and cerebellum spoon-ready like custard.

He’s still glaring hard at me, like a cornered bull.

Uh, like a stone in the throat.

My good mood curdles like milk.

Is this your way to treat guests?

Must every surprise make me wrestle with my heart like ropes?

I’m hungry, and seeing this head makes me hungrier, like a wolf.

I mean, give me food that needs no agonizing, like plain bread.

Am I at a Demon King’s banquet?!

Looks like I am, sure, but learn your guest’s habits, like a tablet carved in granite.

You’ve broadcast them for decades, like drums on a wall.

I lift the golden base and raise the head like a lantern.

His eyes track me as I move, like twin magnets.

Left—still moving, like a compass needle.

I didn’t kill you. Why glare at me?

I set it down, push it aside beyond easy reach, like chess.

Still uneasy, I stand and turn it to the far side, like rotating a sundial.

Let it stare at the other Demon Kings like a watchdog.

A glance at exposed brain tightens my vow and twists my gut like knots in rope.

But I’m used to it in the Demon Realm, like winter wind.

“Who’s hosting tonight’s banquet? Who doesn’t know I don’t eat people?”

My brothers and sisters look tense—more tense once the head arrived, like strings pulled taut.

They heard “banquet,” summoned proud chefs like banners, and compared skill.

They forgot why we met, forgot I don’t eat people, lost in clouds.

Fine. My siblings are exactly this kind of storm.

“Alright, set the food aside for now,” like shelving a sword.

“Do you know why I wanted to organize this dinner?”

I love opening with big, vague, stylish lines, like fireworks.

It’s a personal hobby, like collecting pebbles.

Daviya says, “Probably Andor has good news and will take us along.”

Kadula says, “Brother, just give the orders.”

Don’t—leave me a wrinkled stage curtain to tear, like velvet.

It’s fun when a few tactless ones jump out and slap me, like carp leaping.

You erased my few pleasures like chalk washed by rain.

Kidding. The others aren’t fools, like old trees with deep roots.

In the Demon Realm I hammered them many times like drums.

In the mortal world, even at my weakest, ambushes failed like dull knives.

They must have learned something, like foxes avoiding traps.

Back then, Anna even led the charge against me like thunder.

Now? Anna died in the royal city of Wilderness Kingdom Veneli.

By my hand, completely, returned to the Demon Realm like ash.

She had already ascended as a full Demon King, like a mountain peak.

The Anti-Andor Alliance is dissolved, like smoke in wind.

Those who hate me know they can’t beat a completed Demon King.

At least now they won’t trouble me face-to-face, like knives kept sheathed.

At most, they refuse to attend this dinner, like shuttered doors.

Well, I advocate harmony with humans, like bridges over water.

I’m the dove you despise, but that doesn’t make us enemies.

I clap first, to settle the room like dust after rain.

I’ve never initiated attacks on my siblings, like a lamp that doesn’t chase moths.

The peace conference was you picking fights like hornets.

Anna’s case was justified revenge, like a debt collected.

I’ll befriend humans, yet I’m not the Demon Kings’ enemy.

Call me neutral, leaning to Demon Kings, like a compass.

I won’t help humans kill Demon Kings.

I won’t help Demon Kings kill humans.

That’s me, Savior Demon King Andor, for now.

So don’t worry I’ll come for you, like thunder held behind hills.

Many here ambushed me or chased me like hounds.

Since you came to this dinner, I won’t pursue it.

I already vented through Anna, like steam from a valve.

Honestly, I’d love to send those hunters back home, like letters returned unopened.

But bringing siblings to the mortal world proves their meaning, like iron tools in harvest.

Stoke human crisis, scramble the old order, draw fire like torches.

I’ll name prices they can’t refuse and buy their lives, like coin rain.

If they survive this, then—

Don’t think it’s over! Your big brother keeps grudges like stones.

Once Endless City is founded without big obstacles, I’ll have time, like grain in storage.

I’ll settle scores slowly, like winter grinding rock.

Of course, no matter how I curse them, I’ll pay full price, like scales kept true.

So, with the premise settled, let’s discuss our deal, like opening a map.

For example, blowing up the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom.

Thoughts, like sparks across dry grass?