Leave Eil be. He stepped on a few trigger traps in the authority zones, and we’ll treat him like a shadow that melts into dusk.

He’s already mapped the outer ring of the headquarters, prowling the level-three boundary like a cat along a fence in fog.

Then raise the boundary’s defenses. Humans fear the unknown like mist over marshland, so we keep a plant inside HQ as a steady lantern. Until someone can openly enter the Savior Demon King Army headquarters, I won’t shackle Eil’s feet with iron.

Let him stir dust. I’ll make him “see nothing,” like a blindfold drawn over a moonless night.

I scoop the file from the table, slide it beneath the pile like a leaf sinking under fallen snow.

A spark flickers. I spot a line that lifts my mood like a warm wind through bamboo.

Let’s see… Berenz finally got exposed, did she? Her mask cracked like thin ice.

She held a feast at a Demon King Army branch. A passing villager saw the lanterns, then bolted like a deer, reaching the village before Berenz could even blink.

And then? Berenz awaits your punishment, kneeling in the cold shadow like a blade over her neck.

No need. The timing looks ripe. Tell her to—slaughter a vill—no. Tell her to do what she thinks she must. From her angle, find a way not to dump mud in my river.

My scheming master, you mean… A spider web over a chessboard?

If it’s just cannibalism, it’s an infuriating custom, a bonfire of disgust. If it’s just a few killings, people can call it Demonfolk ecology, a wolf’s hunger. That level won’t aim every arrow of malice at Berenz. Vega, Berenz is the sacrifice laid to explain “we cast out the unforgivable.” I need her to go worse, like a storm past the seawall.

Stir indignation like iron wind. Rouse public wrath like a rising tide. Test the bottom line like a knife at the throat.

Push it to the point she must be killed, a red line like blood across snow.

Before the heroes swing their banners to hunt her, I’ll kill Berenz myself. I’ll pinch the flame of hatred like snuffing a candle, so the blaze won’t jump to me.

By my clock, Shadow Artisan Andor’s death draws near, sand thinning in the hourglass. You can’t raise a vast economic empire bare-handed in daylight; I dipped into gold from the Demon Realm, and used Demonfolk tools—whispers like night wind, threats like frost.

If someone traces from Shadow Artisan Andor, Kadula’s ledgers are paper dams against a flood. They can’t explain gold that falls like meteors from a clear sky.

The trail may point toward the World Saving Demon King, footprints leading to a throne in shadow.

I don’t want that. I’d rather bury every thread in my empty coffin, like roots under dark soil. But a hidden identity is a bomb under floorboards; if anyone probes, time’s tide must erase prints. There’s little else to stop it.

So Berenz must be resolved soon. Her blast can’t go off while Shadow Artisan Andor still breathes. Killing Berenz as a rite—think card games—wipes the board, erases visible grudges like rain washing chalk. It forces humans to see the World Saving Demon King as “perhaps a Demon King leaning toward humankind.”

Order matters. After the rite, don’t poke the human bottom line again. Don’t still pose as a member of the Hero Squad—a stain to human eyes. While the hate meter resets, scrub the mark like soot off glass.

And don’t trigger her event too late, because—

Ah. Tell her to pick up speed. Hatred has a peak like a storm’s eye with a clock on it. I need Berenz to spark a single, severe catastrophe, and end the fiercest emotion with the most dramatic cut, like thunder splitting a mountain, to get my result.

Otherwise the spectacle is tepid water. Who cries at lukewarm rain?

Vega bows, posture like a willow in evening wind.

Your orders.

Next file… ah. A certain brain-dead brother mailed me a pickled human spine. Bury it where the view is good—a hill with sunset like fire. Wait, that’s the first file—looks like today’s work is done. Hail. I have a whole night free to spend… Vega, do you think an afternoon of paperwork counts as a date?

I push the paper mountain to the center. I look at Vega across the desk like a fixed star. I glance at Gloria on my left, a warm ember. Then my gaze returns to Vega like a compass needle.

The head maid bows again, grace like ripples on a lake.

Work of this complexity takes me ten minutes, even counting your foolish, blind busyness, my weary master. I handpicked a few stones from a beach of tasks to let you feel “I contributed,” so today’s play feels legitimate, a sugar cube in bitter tea.

…

We’re close to Shadow Artisan Andor’s curtain call, so the prep has thickened like clouds before rain.

My only complaint—Vega’s tongue stays venom, manners a scorched field.

Andor. Ready. Kill? Princess Golia speaks in clipped beats, words like beads on a string.

By now she had eaten from noon to night, her mouth grinding like a millstone. It made me think: if the Savior Demon King Army’s funds run tight, I might take back my proposal, like pulling a ring from a river.

Mm. I think you should see what I call “right,” a compass drawn in chalk.

To save more people, you kill? Her voice was cool as snow.

Not quite. I’m no righteous paladin. I chase win-win, a balance scale steady in wind. Humans get an answer they can swallow; I get the outcome I can hold.

Make both sides satisfied? Two shores joined by one bridge.

More accurate: if the other side won’t accept it, they’ll burn the boats and smash the pots, and I end up unsatisfied too. So give up a slice of meat, respect their bottom line like a cliff edge, and they’ll leave me a step down, a stone in the river.

I top my eleventh coffee with milk and sugar like white drifts on dark soil. The café girl’s face turns green as willow, her yawns stretch like cats.

I press a Colonna coin to the table; her face blooms from green to red like a peony. It’s amusing. This must be the small joy of wealth, a sunbeam through cloud.

Beside me, Gloria nods to herself, stuffing another slice of roast into her mouth, cheeks full like a hamster with grain.

So rightness is like this. Her eyes were clear as water.

Efficiency first. That’s the blade, straight and clean.

So right means you can kill, cold to the marrow, without a care? Her question laid frost on the wood.

That’s too narrow. Judging only after dust settles, tallying gains and losses, is just as skewed. If you chase “right,” chase result, learn the big picture, the hawk’s view over valleys.

Big picture. Mm, big picture.

The core isn’t “do we kill,” nor “how we kill.” It’s “is it necessary.” Killing or not is a bridge to the result, never the mountain itself.

Then that can be right. Mm. I get it…

Not entirely. Humans can’t see outcomes before the storm breaks—and never will. Plenty of heroes ram through like boars and stumble into golden endings. What I’m giving you is only the “most likely” road to a good end, a lantern in fog.

So it’s like that…

Gloria props her cheek with one hand, sinking into thought like a stone into still water. I’ve never seen someone ponder hard and shovel food with the right hand like a squirrel at the same time.

After we spoke, I chose to trust her for now, like tying a boat to a short pier. I can’t trust future whims not to expose me, so I’ll stay glued to her shadow. The Mephi Consortium covers Princess Golia’s room and board, a warm roof and steady fire.

If Colonna tries to drag her back, she’ll stay at my place and say, “It’s my decision,” a latch on the door.

This way, Gloria gets no chance to spill my name. Truth be told, the air’s amicable, spring-soft. She enjoys tailing me, listening to my paths and proverbs like a student under a pine.

Shadow Artisan Andor’s exit isn’t far, a curtain drifting down. This close-guard won’t last, a frost that melts at dawn.

It also lays ground for a future proposal, seeds under loam. If my mask is ripped, I’ll say, “I fell for Princess Golia back when I wore the disguise.” The story flows like a river in its bed.