About three quarters of my younger siblings showed up eager to sign up for a free, one-way trip to the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom, a tide spilling past my plan. It was the perfect moment for a big house to lean on a small buyer, like a fat awning shadowing the street. So I hit the bell again and again—“free,” “very dangerous,” “I won’t save you”—each word a cold knife laid on the table. I kept repeating how much coin the Skyward Launcher burned, the numbers clacking like abacus beads in the rain. I swore with more silver, the Launcher would be safer and faster, like a polished spear cutting wind.

Sign-ups dropped to a third, like a fire doused to embers. In the end, six siblings chose to go with me, their smiles gift-wrapped with hints of tribute, like red envelopes slipped under a door. That meant the Launcher’s cost would be recouped, a mill turned by their current, maybe even a profit if they kept their heads. After all, promotion is the bright star all Sons of the Demon King chase, like moths circling a sacred lantern.

Charging them openly like a street drummer passing the hat felt harmless enough, a little thunder with no lightning. With that thought warming me, I realized why their future backstabs didn’t kindle anger in me at all, the emotion sliding off like rain on oilcloth. Well… Savior Demon King Andor was never a good thing, a wolf wearing a saint’s halo since page one.

We came back from the banquet, inked a few silence contracts, and I answered a storm of questions until the lamps burned low like spent fireflies. The old Hero estate—now the Mephi residence—should’ve gone dark by then, a house breathing slow beneath night’s quilt. Vega wouldn’t mind dragging herself from bed to cook me a proper late meal, the kind that sets steam curling like morning fog. But when I jumped to the Hero Academy and started walking home, a blank wind cut through my memory like a gap in a scroll, and then…

“Why am I here, eating meat and drinking with you again?” I asked, swallowing a mouthful of roast that was still smoking like pine resin.

“I think you should call me teacher,” he said, the word wobbling like a lantern in wind. “Even if you saved me, you should show basic respect, uh, because I’m a teacher… right?”

Alpha, our beloved martial department advisor, scratched his stubbled chin like he was raking gravel, his voice unsure even to himself. “I urgently want to know what just happened—mmph—”

“You suddenly lunged and stole my roast,” he said, lifting a brow like a drawn bow. “Everyone got spooked, yeah, like pigeons scattering at a shout.”

Not a big problem, he implied with a shrug, a cloud passing the moon. He meant my usual antics were more troublesome than a hungry pounce, a thorn compared to a spear.

That’s exactly the big problem, dear Teacher Alpha, a crack skittering across ice. If life were a gag strip, ‘snapping from hunger and swiping food’ would land with a drumbeat. But in an age where Heroes and Demon Kings walk the streets like storms walking the sea, it’s terrifying to see. If the World Saving Demon King in me went feral, if reason sank like a stone, the other side—Endless Demon King Andreas—would surface like black water through a fissure. That’s the opening chime of the Final Calamity, a bell tolling over a silent field.

In other words, we just rolled for a world-ending check, the die spinning like a coin in the dark. From Alpha’s telling, I was only “hungry-mad,” a small flame in a clay lamp. Still, whether Andreas breaks surface is a probability, a fish under ice that might lunge. Low odds still happen, like lightning striking a lone tree.

I pulled out my wallet, laid a few silver coins on the table, cold and round as small moons, to go with the cleared plates later. Then I kept eating, steady as a mill turning under stream. Don’t mistake me—losing my mind gives me a headache, like a nail in wood—but Andor breathes efficiency like winter air, and I do the most efficient thing first. Filling the belly is how you sandbag the river, to stop another breach of reason.

“Boss, another plate,” I called, the aroma rising like smoke from a campfire. “Smells great.”

Enjoying food is part of living, like sun on a window ledge. Being tense about the situation doesn’t mean I should flinch at every step, like a cat in a thunderstorm. Since it already happened, I’ll keep watch, prepare, make plans, and keep my joy like a lamp in a storm.

“Andor… your mind, is it a bit…” Alpha’s eyes narrowed like slits in a shutter.

“Yeah,” I said, the word dropping like a pebble in a pond. “More business talks lately, and my state’s not great, otherwise I wouldn’t smell meat and go feral.”

“No, not just that,” Alpha said, curling his knuckles and drumming the table like rain on eaves. He sighed once, then gathered his words like fallen leaves. “I mean… how long can you live?”

That surprised me, a spark in ash. Not enough to put down the fork, though, a rider not dropping the reins.

It’s common knowledge that Shadow Sorcerers don’t live long, a candle that burns with black smoke. Anyone who studies magic could guess, a scholar tracing frost on glass.

From the source: drawing free elements harms the human body, like drinking brine from the sea. The Creator gave Elves, Dragons, and the Lunarfolk internal mana circuits at birth, clean rivers cut through stone. They use elements efficiently, like wind through a mill. Humans didn’t get that design; we were clay without those channels, and any human who can cast is a mutation, a branch growing from rock. Call us a sub-species if you like; it doesn’t change the bone. Mages and other races tried to help, crafting fixes like “artificial mana circuits,” “external mana systems,” “magitek devices,” and “pioneer potions,” scaffolds built against a cliff.

Even so, we fall short by a mountain, especially in holding mana, which for humans is like clutching sand. Most refined mana is toxic to our bodies, a sweet that poisons the tongue. Human extraction has one broadly safe path: draw from the “Light” side and resonate with virtues, a prayer in a body the Creator already tuned. That mana even nourishes a little, dew on dry grass.

But other elements? Take fire, for example. Dragons eat it like bread. Elves sync with it and become living flame, a dancer wreathed in dawn. Humans don’t have the control to calm that lively fire; the grafted circuit burns, a brittle wire charred black. Pain is one thing; when the circuit fails and fire seeps into the organs, death waits like a wolf at the door.

That’s why humans rarely cast from within the body, choosing instead to inscribe magitek onto tools, writing spells into iron like lines into a plow. Storing mana in flesh is hard as holding smoke in your fist, never mind big internal shifts. Humans can learn magic after birth, but it’s steep as a cliff face; if you lack talent from the cradle, you’re better off training the blade, an honest road under open sky. Hence magitek for civilians is made for zero mana users, push-button and safe, a stove anyone can light.

If you want the best way for a human to stay safe, find a lord, pay your taxes, and keep your roof tight, like a thatch under steady rain.

As for Shadow Sorcerers—the “Shadow” people fear is the darkest ink in the palette, the most toxic draught to mortal flesh. Advancing as a Shadow Sorcerer is quick and simple, like a stone rolling downhill, because entropy beats order and downfall beats salvation, a leaf falling faster than it ever climbed. The element of Shadow also leans close to negative will, a well into which grief and rage pour like winter melt. The Ocean of Darkness is generous to seekers, a sea that gives salt and then swallows ships, letting you take and take until your own greed unmakes you.

In the Silver Era, humans live about two hundred years, a long summer under mild sun. Shadow Sorcerers usually don’t see sixty, a frost coming early because of mana’s poison. Only the Hero bloodline is shorter, a thornier fate averaging fifty, a blade that earns and pays.

So when he asks, Andor, how long can you live, Alpha must’ve sensed my state wobbling, a lantern flicker he couldn’t ignore. He’s Lunarfolk, a faded one among his people perhaps, but his senses outstrip our finest devices, clean and sharp as moonlight.

“Truth is, if I use a mana siphon to drain the Shadow out, I could drag out twenty or thirty years,” I said, the words neat as stacked tiles. “I’d age fast and live weak, like a tree fruiting in winter, and it would still hurt either way, because Shadow mana is part of my body now.” Pull it or keep it, the body pays, a ledger with no mercy.

That was built into my plan from the start, ink dried long ago. I can’t run after Stini forever like a stray chasing a caravan, not for a lifetime. Every story ends, like a road that meets the sea. Every journey wraps, like a banner rolled at dusk. When that day comes, that’s when Shadow Artisan Andor will fade, a shadow swallowing itself at sunset.

“So, if you plan to keep your mana and fight with Shadow…” Alpha’s face darkened like a storm crossing the lake. He worried for Shadow Artisan Andor, a hand steadying a shaking cup.

What expression should I wear, I wondered, like picking a mask from a wall. Should I be moved, even if the one he’s worried about isn’t the true me, a reflection in black water?

“About a year,” I said, after food settled like warm coals, lowering the chance that Andreas pushes through. I lifted a slice of roast with my fork, eating now for pleasure, a small feast after the siege. The mind relaxed enough to wander, clouds idling over hills.

“Then you’ll choose to give up your mana…” he began, words slow as dripping wax.

“No,” I said. “I won’t give it up. I still have things to do, stones to set.”

“But…” Alpha pressed his lips tight, a line of ink refusing to run. He wanted to say something, but found no hook, like a fisherman on glassy water.

You really take me as a friend? I thought, the idea a strange bird on my shoulder. Don’t, teacher. I’m a villain, a blade in a velvet sheath, and your hopes chafe like sand.

Betraying expectations is betrayal too, a knife turned inward, even when I’ve tried to live small, like a fox keeping to the hedges.

“I’m the vice-captain of the Hero Squad,” I said, counting tasks like beads. “Without me, commands slip, a wheel missing a spoke. I run the Mephi Group; without me, decisions stall, gears grinding without oil. I’m a Hero; there’s no if in that, just a road chosen and walked.” The vows sat in my chest like pillars, cold and steady.

“But…” he tried again, voice snowed under.

“I’ll hand everything off before the end,” I said, as calm as a winter pond. “I’ll tie each knot clean, leave no one burdened, no situation trapped, like doors closed gently at night. If I don’t die along the way for some random reason, a year is enough.”

“Not just me—Stini, Raven, the others in the Hero Squad,” he said, naming them like candles in a row. “And Saint Mire, Gugwen, the teachers… none of us want you to die.”

“All who breathe will one day stop,” I said, like a bell struck once at dawn. “Humans can’t demand Lunarfolk years, no matter how we pray. There’s nothing to complain about. I’ll say proper goodbyes, Teacher Alpha, like letters written in a clear hand.”

“At least, you should have a happy ending like any ordinary person,” he said, a wish floating like a lantern over water.

“Meeting everyone was already a beautiful process,” I said, a path lined with wildflowers even if the hill is steep.

“You told me once, you wanted me to live,” he said, eyes clouded like a pond before rain. “To survive, to meet again after each adventure, to be happy knowing we were all safe—and yet you…”

“Your problem was a choice we could share, a load we could shoulder,” I said, the words soft as falling ash. “Mine is one only I can carry. And rather than cling on and let you see me ugly, like a tree hollowed by rot, I’d rather die while things are still decent, like a blade put away still sharp.”

Alpha let out a long breath, a wind that had circled the mountain twice, his face tangled like roots. He had no reason to argue, and he couldn’t find one, a mouth searching for water in a dry well.

“I don’t feel much myself,” I said, surprised, like finding snow in summer. “It’s the teacher who can’t let go, which is… unexpected.”

“It’s because I’ve lived too long,” he murmured, voice thin as smoke. “Partings grate more with every winter.”

It was very late, and few places in the Silver Era run all night, lamps going dark like stars toward dawn. After a midnight snack, you should leave quickly, to spare the owner trouble, a quiet courtesy under the moon.

“Andor, did you tell them?” he asked as we stepped out, calling me back like a hand on a sleeve. In the common tongue, the female third-person is distinct; I heard exactly who he meant, names like petals in the wind.

“No…” I flipped through the script I’d written in my head, sifting scenes like pages. “Stini and Raven are on the run. Elina got tangled in something she can’t name and locked herself in again, like a door sealed with frost. Princess Golia… well, I’ll have a proper chance to say goodbye, not some vague ‘see you’ that becomes never again.”

“I hope you get a good ending,” he said, the wish trembling like a candle close to guttering. “But a year… only a year…”

He stood in the street as if he were the one dying, his face tight with bitterness, a man watching a ship vanish into fog. I waved to him, a leaf drifting downstream, and walked toward home without looking back, my shadow long under the quiet lamps.