“My extravagant master, I adore the corner carving on this table; the curls cling like ivy on old stone, and it recalls the bone longtable in your Demon Realm palace.”

“Then take it away; when Sylvia comes out, she’ll smash everything like a storm hailing on reeds, never mind right or wrong.”

“But if we do that, what about the table that should be here? Investigators may trace it like prints in fresh snow and say we moved valuables first.”

“Then leave it, like a rock sunk in a river.”

“But this damned ornament is so beautiful, like moonlight laid on lacquer.”

Sometimes, Vega is small-minded, like a squirrel hoarding acorns under frost.

I can’t read eyes, like staring into fogged glass, but Vega’s good at these little micro-motions like a hawk reading ripples on a pond.

“This isn’t stingy; it’s a devotion to beauty, like incense that won’t go out. Do you know which master carved this by hand, whose chisel fell like rain?”

“Yeah, yeah, your highborn tastes soar like cranes over a reedbed.”

A coarse soul like me only likes music and painting, like plucking a zither by a window; in skill I’m average, both as listener and maker, like a stream with no waterfall.

Vega kept grumbling like a kettle on a low flame, yet her hands never slowed; her feather duster breathed like a spring breeze, and porcelain dust drifted like ash-snow.

She cleaned as if it were any day, like tea poured at dawn, whether or not Sylvia would level the city like thunder flattening a field.

I sat in a single armchair, like a heron on a piling, and checked my gear: laces tight as knotted vines, coat smoothed like a blade’s mirror.

Greatsword Valor.

Good—perfect, like a drumline set before a march.

Everything’s in place, and now I wait for sunrise like a fisherman watching the east pale.

First things first: after sunrise, when the Aversion Overlord Sylvia breaks her seal like chains snapping in frost, I’ll face her as Shadow Artisan Andor Mephy, like a chess piece stepping into the last file.

It needs a little more time, about an hour; I lounged on the second floor like a cat in a patch of sun, watching the horizon thin to a fish-belly gleam.

“Vega…”

A thin loneliness veiled my heart like mist over pines, so I called my head maid’s name like striking a small bell.

“Yes, my solitary master; I’m always here, like a lamp behind rain-beaded paper.”

“The story’s ending, like a curtain sinking; also, ‘solitary’ doesn’t suit me.”

“Where there’s a meeting, there’s a parting, like tides crossing and pulling apart.”

“Mm. Right on, like a key turning.”

On the road of life we pass like travelers at dusk, getting off at different stops like lanterns snuffed one by one, waving with smiles or tears like leaves torn by wind.

After the roaring party, the next day’s hangover hits like a hammer on an anvil.

No matter how delicate and tender a tale is, it still ends, like a candle guttering with a last blue flame.

“I actually like Stini, and Raven… and so many of them, like flowers in a crowded garden.”

“You still have time to change it, like turning a tiller before the reef. Adjust the script as usual, and you can rewrite the tragedy into a comedy where everyone smiles—this is your specialty, like a chef fixing a broth.”

“Would you enjoy that story? Some warriors become heroes only by dying, like stars that only show at night. Some spirits gain immortality only by awakening, like steel that takes temper from fire. If there’s no challenge, no death, no fear, no crisis—if everything flows on rails to a pleasant above-average finish—that’s the era of Blue Ice, like a glacier that needs no footsteps; there are no heroes there, only automatic coldness freezing the heart.”

“To me it’s all the same, like meat on a board; I hate humans—except as ingredients with spice.”

“Aiya, Vega, our aesthetics split like a forked stream; I admire the spirit inside a hero like a flame in glass, while you love the gothic trim on a hero’s coat like vines around a chapel spire.”

“I don’t like your literary breeze or drifting clouds of thought. Speak plain: what do you want? What do you need me to do? Where in the plan does your blade snag?”

“I’m not dissatisfied, like a lake without ripples.”

“Then please go do what you should do, like an arrow leaving the bow.”

“But look, Vega, we’re always pricing everything, like sticking tags on jars. Can you price my mood right now, like weighing smoke?”

“…Forgive me, my sentimental master. On valuing emotions…” Vega seemed to choke like a singer swallowing dust; her hands paused, then swept on as smooth as a tide.

“Right, that part’s always mine. The human heart, Vega, is like this: do you truly like wine? Many don’t, but they like the bar, that place where a person can sag and idle, flinging time like a rich man throwing coins. To ease a loneliness or sorrow is costly, like silk paid by the yard.”

“Oh? Then earlier you said ‘lonely’? I’m sorry; I don’t understand loneliness, like a blade that never rusts.”

“You always do what’s valuable and meaningful, like a clock that never stops. It’s fine if you’re happy; such things don’t matter, like rain passing a tiled roof.”

“Then what does matter, like a knot that won’t untie?”

“Nothing urgent; this loneliness has its own beauty, like frost tracing a window. I’m tasting the last thoughts of a lone hero, like sipping a dark tea. I switch third-person to first-person and back, like a swallow turning in air. What should Shadow Artisan Andor Mephy feel? Lament? Desolation? Solitude? Or pride, generosity, indifference—like masks hung on a wall?”

I sank deeper into the sofa like a fox into tall grass, folded my hands over my belly like a monk with a bowl, closed my eyes, wet my lips, and ate, bit by bit, like nibbling snow.

It tasted good, like broth made at home; after all, I cooked this dish myself.

“A fictional hero can outgrow a real one, because he’s forged from ‘greatness’ itself, like a statue cast from gold. It’s like a 2D waifu compared to a 3D wife; the first is flawless marble, the second has little cracks like hairlines in glaze.”

“Use words I grasp, like a rope I can hold.”

“I grew up on epic heroes, like a child under temple bells. I made a legend with my own hands, like a mason stacking stones, and now the story comes to its endgame, a last storm of drums. I and the hero I built will meet in a final death match, like two comets crossing, for a glorious sacrifice and a grand fall. It’s beautiful, isn’t it, like maple leaves burning a valley red?”

“Maybe…” She propped her cheek with one hand like holding up a cloud, uncertain as a wavering flame. “It sounds fine, but I don’t feel it in my bones, like a picture of fire without heat…”

“Vega.”

“I’m here, like a shadow at your heel.”

“In your life since I made you, have you ever felt, even once, ‘If I die beautifully here, I’ll have no regrets,’ like a bird folding its wings in the sunset?”

“How could death be something to long for, like a thorn to embrace!”

“Good answer. I don’t long for it either—but my protagonist does, in the shape I forged. He’s too satisfied, too beautiful, like a flower past full bloom; this last flare, this last burn will paint the view with one final, magnificent stroke, like a sunrise bleeding over snow.”

“…”

“Hey now, I’m a villain; doing meaningful things doesn’t mean I must toss my aesthetics, like a bandit who still loves moonlight.”

“If you insist on my judgment…”

“I don’t really want your sarcasm, Vega; you can keep it like a blade in its sheath…”

“…I can only say it’s a little sick—no, very sick—as an aesthetic, like a garden that waters only thorns.”

“Mm-hm. Do villains need upright values, like pillars under an open sky?”

“No. But…I’m afraid you’ll turn that aesthetic on yourself one day—no, you already are. That’s why you’re becoming Shadow Artisan Andor Mephy to the hilt, walking toward a death you can’t dodge, like a moth flying into a lantern—”

“Don’t worry; I won’t actually die, like a snake shedding a skin.”

“But I can’t see your future, like fog past the last milestone.”

“Vega? Your voice sounds off, like rain behind a screen. Say what you mean, or we can’t meet halfway like two boats bridging a river.”

It sounded like crying, soft as dew beading on bamboo.

But if you don’t want me to die—if there’s fear like a chill under your ribs—you have to say it, and then I’ll answer like a hand to a hand.

Not just with those heroes; I treat my maid the same way, like weighing jade in both palms.

Some call me gentle, some call me cold; I stay the same, like a mountain under weather.

I kept my eyes closed; if you swallow your tears like a pearl in your throat, I’ll be a gentleman and pretend I don’t see, like a fan unopened in heat.

“…No. I’m your eyes and ears, your strength, your hands and feet, your wish is—”

“My wish? Then let it be this, like a lantern lit and set afloat.”

I’ve heard that oath of loyalty many times, like drums at the gate; it still moves me, like a tide under the moon, and leaves a sigh behind, like smoke after incense.

You too may have your own wish, Vega, like a seed wanting rain.

Things don’t surge the way novels do, with abrupt, breathless pushes; most of the time we wait in quiet like a pond before wind.

Vega dusted a vase, her strokes soft as cattail fluff, and I dozed in the sofa like a fox in a warm den.

Then the far horizon burst with white, like a blade drawn from its sheath, and from beneath the earth a tremor of aversion rose like a drum; it kicked the vase off the table, and it shattered across the floor with a bright crash like ice on stone.

“You should go,” she said, like a bell rung once.

“Mm.” I answered like a flint spark.

“May fortune favor your arms,” she said, like a silk ribbon tied to a spear.

“If you don’t want to say that, say something else, like changing a tune.”

“I hope you come back safe,” she said, like a whisper cupped in two hands.

“That’s more like it,” I said, like sunlight warming tile.

I smiled at Vega and nodded, like a leaf tipping to rain, shouldered Greatsword Valor, and stepped out the door like a dancer to a hall.

I went as lightly as to a ball, joy quick in the blood like wine before music.