Chewing on words.

Every time I speak with the devil, it happens again—his voice a scalpel, shaving my phrasing clean, even when he’s only a “neutral” arbiter.

The devil’s way of existing is part of language itself, a fish that swims in ink and seems to revel in the current.

If he points out a flaw and you try to gloss it over for pride, he counts more errors like beads sliding under cold fingers.

I stew, a kettle hissing under the lid, yet the devil’s never wrong; Lady Light Jade, taciturn as frost, goes silent after his needling to dodge that hailstorm of “corrections.”

“In casual talk we can skip conventional bits, like the subject. But if you want to sign a contract—”

“Stop. Not important. If you keep lecturing, I’ll snap. One more check, Lady Light Jade—are all disputed clauses settled?”

“I only wish you’d respect the process of ‘contract’ itself.”

“Your chatter will scare off first-timers, you know. The way you circle like a crow around carrion.”

He pinches his brow and sighs, a curtain of dust settling in the room.

To them, the contract is the final destination. To me, it’s a ferry across the river—just a means, a small bridge toward the real shore.

“Lately the devil is thinking of raising the offering for mediation. It was meant to exalt the spirit of contract, not become quick-and-easy civic service.”

Not a lie, yet still a con.

Turn it into a “customary natural phenomenon,” and claim a special throne over human speech. They plot by the century, speaking “fair and impartial” terms for both sides like judges carved from stone.

But fairness has a shoreline. Human language overlaps like waves, and the devil sails those seams with a thief’s grace. He lives where meanings blur, where hints and edges meet, crafting scams without leaks.

So the Church says, “Never engage the devil. The moment you answer, the trap is sprung.” Devils speak in human tongues. They swear off magic on us, they don’t lie—yet their art of language is a spiderweb so fine that any deep talk binds you.

Still, my past trades with this “Blind” devil went smooth as silk. I won’t rip his veil today.

We read the contract one more time. Every disputed, uncomfortable clause had been hammered flat—compromise on both sides, then a final stamp. She nods and takes the quill, a feather light as snow.

“…So I just sign my name…”

“As long as you believe ‘that is your name,’ and both intend to honor the contract, it stands.”

She’s still uneasy. She perches on the chains like a restless bird and fidgets. “…But is a contract really this simple…”

“The oldest contracts are exactly that, Lady Light Jade. Two parties make a vow; the writing is form, the signature the final knell—like murder: there’s struggle within, but the act is only a clean cut across the throat. Simple.”

She frowns, a bowstring drawn. “Demon King, I don’t like your metaphors.”

“Do we need to add ‘the Demon King may not use a mocking tone with Light Jade’ to the contract?”

“…No.”

When a protagonist is about to slide into villainy, there’s self-loathing, self-denial, self-curse. But in the end, the fall is just a name signed with steady ink.

Her pen trembles. It hangs over the paper for minutes. Her twisted expression is oddly beautiful, like a storm caught in glass.

The last stroke falls. Nothing derails the plan.

No Hero bursts in to shatter our pact. No sudden champion charges with a shining sword.

“This went too smoothly. I’m almost bored.”

I mutter, irked and amused in equal measure.

Maybe when Stini was around, she kept feeding my taste for anomalies, leaping off the rails like a firebird. Set beside that, a plain conspiracy you can accomplish with bare hands feels… ordinary.

It’s fine. A plan that lands is a plan to be grateful for.

“As written, Lady Light Jade, I, and my Savior Demon King Army, will cover your travel for the next hundred years—no more than one Colonna coin per day, with careful escort and paperwork handled end-to-end. You may lift the seal now.”

Lady Light Jade freezes for a heartbeat, then glares at me without cause. Still, she waves her hand. The chains binding the Aversion Overlord lose their lustre like cooling iron.

Why glare? This was your choice.

Of course I know why. The question itself is a hook barbed with mockery.

From here on, Lady Light Jade leaves the stage. She becomes a line of background—“and then she lived happily ever after.” She never stood in the center. She lacked a protagonist’s spirit, never dared deeds grand enough for legend.

She’s simply a person who happened to be here, hands on the chains of a sealed Demon King.

Give her what she wants, then—an ordinary life.

“Your Grace Sylvia, may your fortune in arms be plentiful.” I tip my mask in salute to the Aversion Overlord. She rises with a complicated face and rubs the raw grooves where chains had bit. She turns away and flaps me off, impatient as a cat at a window.

The great seal is broken, yet by contract’s force, Sylvia can’t leave this place until sunrise.

“Princess, we should go.”

“I… think… we can… say—”

“Tomorrow, say it with your fists. That way, stubborn Demon Kings listen. Vega, open the portal. Early night today—we need to prep a welcome ceremony for Her Grace Sylvia.”

My reliable maid, Vega, will tally the remaining chores. Lady Light Jade will travel with one of the Head Maid’s thought-avatars; the first station of her journey is already set. Gloria follows me back to the manor, reluctant as a tethered hawk. As for the devil—I doubt any human seal can hold their kind.

There’s one more task for Vega… no. Vega is a strong hand, but some things are beyond her tier.

“I need a total seal. More complete than ‘Azure Bier Exile.’ Drop all my attributes to human level.”

Back at my manor, I take out the phone. The demonfolk line hums like a vein of lightning as I place the call.

“First, for you there’s no such thing as a ‘total’ seal. The ones I know only vary in strength and duration. Second, seals aren’t pulled from a hat. You need prep. Book ahead.”

Daviya’s voice comes through, sulky but sharp.

It’s a hobby for him. He loves human magic—the way complex operations touch places raw authority finds awkward.

“Ah, I don’t get the craft.” I glance at the window. The sun at dusk is half-sunk, a coin melting on the horizon. “I need a seal that drops me to human level, can’t be shattered by emotion, and holds half a month. Can you do that?”

“…When do you need delivery?”

“Mm… before dawn tomorrow?”

“Andor.”

“I’m here.”

“You should just kill me. It’d be faster.”

“Uh… I can lower my demands a little…”

“I’m used to your periodic madness. But why the sudden seal? Your plan sheet doesn’t list one. Care to explain to your unlovable little brother?”

“Let me try a better image… like a novelist writing a beloved hero, and every clue points to his death. Sure, the author could pull a deus ex machina, stop the pen. That would spit on the struggle—mock every effort by both the writer and the hero. So, they let him die.”

“You’re saying the ‘Shadow Artisan Andor’ you love is about to exit. You want to fight in a way that fits his existence—like a true Hero—full-blooded, upright, all-out, then curtain?”

“Yeah… probably… do you understand that tangled mood?”

“Mm. This episode of your madness is not mild.”

“So, the seal?”

“Before dawn, my scribe will bring it. Have fun, Andor—my brother.”

“It’s exactly because it’s complex, messy, difficult—grand enough to make you curse aloud; honest and serene enough to make watchers laugh through tears—”

“That’s what makes a Heroic legend worth hearing.”