I’ve always thought my head outweighs my heart. Not by pretending I’m a machine, tallying gains and losses like a tin clerk—those villains rarely stay villains, they usually get laundered into the harem later; leave that aside.

I just weigh better than most. My scales are steadier than theirs.

I read what the other side gains and loses, their joys like lantern light and their grief like rain. Then I stack that with my feelings, my loves, and place the heap on the balance.

It’s not that I don’t understand human longing; I appraise longing like a rare coin under frost.

It’s not that I don’t understand human hatred; I count hatred as a chip on the gaming table, cold as iron.

It’s not that I don’t understand human dignity; I make dignity part of the trade. I ask the human across the table, how much profit will you surrender to keep your dignity—never that blunt on the surface, but the knife is there.

From my side, I value myself the same way. The scales meet in the middle.

People always drop something to reach for something else, like shedding leaves to keep the trunk alive.

Take a simple case. When open war begins, the human army charges like surf, then burns its dead to ash and buries them warm.

They could use a Divine Art—Heroic Spirit Recall—draw the fallen back through their bones and strike again. Three hours later, the summoned heroes become deathwraiths, honored by the domain of Death; then you knit a zombie army with blood-and-flesh sorcery and slam a third wave through. That’s more efficient than smoke and urns. I haven’t even touched the niche, cruel special sorceries. Reducing the dead to ash is, in cold arithmetic, a waste like shattering a jewel for gravel.

But humans let the dead rest. They pay with more living blood so the gone can sleep like stones under snow.

So spirit outweighs life and death on their scale. That’s the shape of their sky.

Then give them what they want. Isn’t that the simplest wind to ride?

Write the contract a touch finer, a touch kinder. Use what humans insist on, things they prize that hold little real weight, as the price. In return, I take what I truly want, things with meat and iron.

Isn’t that a tidy kind of reason, two birds on one branch?

So some call me cold as a winter blade, and some call me gentle as spring rain. Both portraits catch the light.

The biggest divide between a protagonist and an antagonist, to me, is this: knowing the self, knowing value, knowing the line between friend and foe—this is the marrow inside the word “understanding.”

Now, if you ask what I gained from “releasing the Aversion Overlord”—

“Let Shadow Artisan Andor exit the stage.” Yes, that’s the key factor, but not the prime.

If I wanted the easy exit, I could have ducked into mountains and thickets with any excuse. The world isn’t a novel, after all—“Price of Valor,” whose effect is “won’t let someone die for a boring reason,” came from the Great Ones as a gift, and not every Hero has it.

Shadow Artisan Andor getting killed by a monster through carelessness? Very possible. Entirely plausible.

But that bores me. A story without heat is ash on the tongue.

So Savior Demon King Andor bestowed the ability Price of Valor on Shadow Artisan Andor.

Ah, of course, by my own aesthetic, releasing the Aversion Overlord and causing tens of thousands to die is no good deed. I don’t deny the blood on the snow.

But I paid a price, didn’t I?

This is my script. “Self-satisfaction” is what I took from it. Yet in my talks with Head, I yielded and gave the world its compromises like bridges over fog.

The scales balance. The dead from Hero Academy—life for life—and the price I paid the world balance like twin pans in still air.

It’s only a trade. Give something, get something. That’s fair. I don’t expect everyone to smile, but most smiles are enough to warm a room.

I, Andor, feel no guilt for the 16,487 at Hero Academy who died because I wrote a legend with ink and fire.

Back to the matter. Gloria and I have just arrived at the seal of the Aversion Overlord—Sylvia—at Lady Light Jade’s abode, where light pools like clear jade in a spring.

After a year of soft hands and warm words, Lady Light Jade finally yielded.

Now the Blind Devil is explaining, clause by clause, the true meaning behind each contract line. He’s been summoned as an intermediary. For a small fee, the devil’s delighted to witness the pact, to preside with a neutral hand.

That’s their way. Devils are villains, yes, but villains to everyone. Their rule of action is fair and even; they won’t favor a side unless someone strikes a separate pact with them in the dark.

They’ll sweet-talk humans into signing their own downfall, honey over poison. But “signing directly with a devil” and “asking a devil to mediate” are two different rivers. In the latter stance, a devil stays neutral, and he’ll explain every sentence of the contract like carving letters into stone.

He acts like a machine built to host contracts. Nothing more; no extra smoke.

I’ve always thought devils host contracts to leave their footprints in the snow where everyone can see.

They tell humans devils insist on fairness, on equal trade. They teach humans the exact weight each word carries in a pact. Then they lay groundwork for humans to beat devils at the game of language later, to win a hand on the same table.

On the surface, it looks like feeding the enemy. But devils are waiting for humans who can beat them with words. Seen that way, the logic is a clear stream.

I could explain myself, but my words carry less weight than a devil’s in such matters. Better to let Lady Light Jade learn the contract’s bones herself.

So I reached out to the Aversion Overlord still within the seal, Sylvia.

“Your Eminence, good morning. If we follow the plan, you’ll likely walk free by dusk.”

No reply. Only the seal’s hum like a cold hive.

Gloria stared at me, puzzled, like a cat tasting snow.

“Andor, if, you, play, alone. I go, listen, contract, explain.”

“This is the more important fire. I’m not planning to trick Lady Light Jade with our pact—if I’ve got enough coin, why sow thorns? Everything’s moving as foreseen, barring a small bit. Your Eminence of ‘Aversion,’ wake up. The sun’s already on your horns. You’ll soon see a blue sky again. Before that, let’s talk the price for letting you out.”

Still no response. Only stone and breath.

“Light Jade, said, Demon King, won’t wake. If, no touch, the seal.”

“A seal from centuries ago still standing owes much to Lady Light Jade’s tending. But we shouldn’t trust every chain to be as unbreakable as yesterday’s.”

My hand slid down the Aversion Overlord’s neck, a river over rock, and settled at the center of her chest.

Looks like I was right.

I gripped something that “shouldn’t exist,” a ghost cog in the heart of a clock, and yanked it free.

“A seal not wholly born of a Divine Being won’t hold ‘infinity’ or ‘absolutes.’ It still needs human hands. That’s one crack to work a blade into.”

I toyed with the piece once, twice, then slid it back in like a thorn into bark.

Sylvia’s eyes snapped open, and she roared, her face twisted like storm-warped wood.

“How do you know!”

Oh dear, oh dear. Every time someone asks a villain: how do you know; how could you know; impossible, only I knew this.

What would explaining change? I won’t waste breath on fog.

Just know that I did it. That’s the footprint that matters.

“The spare parts for the Grand Seal were tampered with. Your vassals tried to enter the Grand Seal for centuries, but even upper vassals were burned to charcoal by Lady Light Jade. So they switched tactics, took the long way around.”

Like this piece in your chest. It was meant to steady the seal. The supplier lay hidden hands on it so the Aversion Overlord could keep her reason like a coal kept alive under ash.

The plan was to swap parts gradually, weaken Lady Light Jade’s control until she couldn’t restrain the Demon King. But it seems your vassals stumbled. Beyond letting you think, they achieved nothing.

“Fools. They only stretched the boredom thin, deepened my pain, thickened my aversion like tar.”

She complained, voice rough as gravel.

Vega’s been hunting the Aversion Overlord’s vassals as well. They wanted to free you. That tangled my plan. I cut the risk where I had to, like pruning a branch.

I won’t apologize. By the time you learned, the snow had already fallen.

“Ah, none of that matters, Your Eminence. By dusk you’ll be out. Revenge on humans, or a retreat to the Demon Realm—your path, your footprints.”

I pressed my mask to hide my smile, a crescent moon no one would see.

Lady Light Jade, mid-talk with the devil, heard a voice that didn’t belong to any visitor. She sensed the Aversion Overlord’s roar and checked the Grand Seal in a rush. Everything read normal, a lake unbroken by wind.

Sylvia still spat curses, but she didn’t look ready to rampage. Lady Light Jade let out a small breath, like letting a string go loose.

“…Andor, to release her, do you still need me…”

“Don’t worry, Lady Light Jade. It’s still in the plan. Our contract holds as written.”

I soothed her—she worries about her own place like a candle worries about the sun—and turned back to the Aversion Overlord.

“Your Eminence, Sylvia, I only want a small contract.”

“…What greed do you want from me? Speak your hunger,” she said, eyes closed, swallowing rage like coals.

“Only your silence. Don’t speak of my pact with Lady Light Jade. Don’t let people disturb her quiet life. Let it be that you broke the seal yourself. Nothing else.”