And you? A Demon King not yet ascended—you pulled me from the seal; what do you want in return?

Your exact break-out time. Intel and insight—coin minted from the dust of your prison. That’s my pay.

I didn’t lie, but I palmed a card like smoke up a sleeve.

I want you to play the villain who kills me and gets killed by me, ink and blood scoring a fierce epic.

Can I say that out loud? Of course not. So I give half, hide half—bitter tea I sip while becoming what I hate.

Great ones carry arrogance like a crown; treat them as pieces, and remember each can end a world alone.

Their wrath is a sunflare; a little harder, and the sky cracks into apocalypse.

The Great Seal shackles Sylvia’s body and rank; even if her mind wriggles free, her gaze stays in a fog-bound mortal valley.

She can’t peer past the frost of time or the chains of space.

So a small lie sits fine. A Demon King who completes ascension yet lingers among men already breaks the rules.

If she doesn’t sprint back to the Demon Realm and instead hunts humans for revenge, gods will descend like hail.

They’ll skip the primordial accord and meddle without restraint.

I touch Sylvia’s horns—moon-white curves, a beautiful pair.

Long ago I noted the rule: a Son of the Demon King wears a single horn until the Ocean of Darkness approves and elevates his station.

Only then does the second horn grow, like night sprouting a twin.

Me, I’ve got a compulsion; asymmetry itches like a crooked frame, gnawing the mind tight.

So yes, I envy those lovely horns.

Here. Sign it. Ink like night dew—this is a Demon King’s fate.

If I can joke, the storm’s ending; the tide won’t turn back now.

What’s on the contract?

Everything—sorry, I’m a bit excited. Just clauses that muzzle how we speak.

You get it? From the Demon Realm I drafted plans sheet by sheet, hands sore, neck stiff.

I stockpiled resources by centuries, all for this single year of schemes.

It’s finally ending. If I could, I’d invite you to the Savior Demon King Army’s ball.

Hmph. Do I still get to refuse?

Sylvia-chan turns on me with a gaze brewed from Aversion, then bites my pen like a wolf.

She skims like a hawk, then carves her name across the page.

Looks like a muscle-brained Demon King.

Only after I slip this cage do I earn the right to demand of you, junior.

Before that, however ugly your ask, I have to agree.

Even if she reads the weather, I still think she’s muscle-brained.

Meaning, she’s used to taking with violence—hammer over scales, desire over law.

Good. She doesn’t fit human values. Treat her as an enemy and kill without qualms.

I won’t braid bonds with someone I plan to butcher; spider-silk ties let soft-hearted gods tug trouble.

Two months. In two months, the Endless City rises like obsidian towers.

I won’t have to care about divine scolding then; walls make winds speak softer.

For now, duck the head like grass before a gale.

I pocket the contract and turn to visit the devil and Lady Light Jade, when Gloria crouches down without warning.

She studies the sealed Demon King with bright interest, eyes like empty bowls.

Predictable. She accepted me first, which means titles don’t anchor her mind.

She hungers like a child for every answer she wants.

I… want to know…

Scram.

See? Not every Demon King talks as gently as I do.

But Gloria keeps at it, chisel tapping stone.

I… think… only hate… can’t get… a good ending.

Scram.

Does hate—does aversion—make you happy?

Back off, girl…

I don’t think it will. That’s not a feeling that fills you.

Aversion piles up, and in the end, there’s nothing there.

She says it and shakes her head hard, like a branch casting rain.

Logic? Gains and losses? Ha. You’re trading constructive thoughts with a Demon King?

Are you an idiot? You’re an idiot, right? Sylvia’s face foams with hate as she turns to me.

Hey, World Saving Demon King, does your woman talk to you like that too?

I shrug like a leaf. I don’t expect a Demon King, leaning into frenzy, swaying between ruin and self-ruin, to mesh with her.

She’s a true mechanized mind—an absolutely rational princess.

…Self-ruin? Gloria bites her finger—new bad habit.

One chance in three when she thinks; lately creeping toward one in two.

But what… does that even earn?

Questions earn only the Aversion Overlord’s chuckle; answers float like fog and don’t come honest.

That’s how the world usually works.

Gloria’s confused eyes tilt to me. I still can’t read eyes, but context is a loom I can thread now.

I promised her talk about reaching a good ending—paths and theory like lanterns on a dark road.

You get nothing. Nothing at all.

Then why do things that bring no return?

That’s where Demon Kings and humans can’t meet on the bridge.

On the surface, a Demon King seeks the Ocean of Darkness’ approval to ascend her station.

But few think in profit and loss.

They—no, we—lean into primal frenzy, roaring across the earth like a storm front.

We slaughter humans. Killing and killing, then somewhere along the cut, ascent happens.

A Demon King’s authority is a way the world can end, a menu of cataclysm.

Except Daviya Kadula’s path, built on humanity’s self-ruin, most routes wear the mask of natural disaster.

So no need for reason, no need for thought.

Pour out brutality. Let bloodlust run like wolves.

You’ll naturally sync with your authority and raise your station, bone-bridge to a darker sky.

The Aversion Overlord, Sylvia, hates everything under heaven.

She hates love and hate; beauty and ugliness; strength and weakness.

There is nothing she hasn’t hated, and she doesn’t mind that mirror at all.

So humans and Demon Kings, reason and the beyond, prey and monster—there’s no understanding.

No exchange. No reconciliation.

Only in mutual slaughter, in wounds that burn like salt, and disgust at extinction, do they share a sliver.

Sylvia before us is the type specimen.

From a human angle, she must be hunted and erased, no compromise.

Either humanity dies, or Sylvia dies. Only those two paths, or the march toward one.

So words won’t work on her, Gloria. You never reach consensus with a worldview that breaks yours.

Then fists decide. The last one standing under a red sky earns the right to speak.

World Saving Demon King, which side are you on?!

Hey, only now you feel something off? That train already left the station.

Ah. Maybe your intel is stale, Your Majesty.

I’m allied with humans. If I have to draw a line, I stand between humans and Demon Kings, helping neither.

A bridge is not a home.

Traitor…

That word’s rare—mostly humans spit it at other humans.

Demonfolk don’t dwell on traitors.

Maybe in Sylvia’s era it was fashionable. Not sure. Not important—like an old coin in dust.

I pull a cup from Shadow, wet my throat; Sylvia’s enmity clinks off like rain on stone.

These past hours, Lady Light Jade struggled with nuance; the devil’s contract lesson is only half done.

Some clauses still won’t sit. Busy day; rest matters like shade at noon.

An outlaw senses malice like a prickle, yet doesn’t nurse it.

More want me dead than want to follow me. That’s normal.

Villains do unlovable things; crows gather on our gallows.

As for Sylvia’s hostility—I care even less.

She loathes plots and aid alike; among Demon Kings she’s madder than most.

Whatever I do, she won’t like it; why care about a stone you can’t move?

Her use is simple—play the final villain in Shadow Artisan Andor’s last chapter.

No speech required, no trophies needed—just pour on violence under the stage lights.

Her mental state isn’t on the checklist.

I’m sure Gloria heard my verdict on Sylvia, yet she keeps arguing with reason’s thread, trying to cut revenge loose.

For a good ending? Sorry. Besides me, what villain loves a happy ending?

I drink again, drop in two tea blossoms; steam curls like drifting mist.

Time to trade barbs with Lady Light Jade and the devil, tongues like blades over porcelain.