Even if the finale roars like drums, Hamlet can’t stab his uncle before the poison, can’t turn a winter tragedy into a summer farce.

Because that would snap causality’s spine.

Cause births effect; for ordinary folk, the river should follow its riverbed.

So I can’t leap like a spark and ask Sylvia-chan to trigger a self-detonation.

With the Hero Academy professors, we forged a plan to stall the Demon King—a tactic soaked in blood and dirge.

So your tactic is marching to die, like moths into a furnace?

Dragon Exorcist lifts her visor, pink tongue flashing. She licks the reeking canned fish, grabs a slab, stuffs it in, and chews like a grinding mill.

Doesn’t it make you gag, like bile climbing the throat?

She sees my stunned face and explains, cool as rain on slate.

Tastes like crap.

So your taste buds aren’t broken after all—they still ring like a bell.

Ahem, forget the flavor for now—this isn’t just a march to the pyre.

So it’s still a death run, stamped like a seal?

If you call “pushing every hand to its limit to delay until the Hero returns” a death run, fine—it’s a rope hauled tight against a storm.

That’s not the battle I pictured, not the drumbeat I craved.

What else can we do?

I yank the tab, pop a can of red bean soup, and pour sweetness down like dusk.

We can’t kill the Demon King. All we can do is slow her world-ruin, so do what we can, to the hilt.

Outside, blasts fade, dwindling like thunder leaving hills.

Then a hum spreads through the ruins of Hero Academy; explosions and howls rise again like a storm waking.

Third one.

I cinch my bandages tighter, then tighter, like binding reeds against wind.

Dragon Exorcist isn’t wrong calling it a death march, a procession into dusk.

We can’t kill the Demon King, so we buy time before the Hero arrives, stacking minutes like bricks.

So what’s the best way to wring seconds from the hourglass?

We split forces and fix the order.

One by one, we step into the Demon King’s sight, like fireflies to a hawk.

We draw her gaze and harass her, stopping her from smashing the barrier.

We struggle and counter, chased and toyed with like a cat and mouse, until death.

The others melt into shadow without a ripple.

When one falls, the next steps out.

We cycle like a waterwheel.

That’s how we stretch time, ironed thin.

By the way, I’m the last.

The old professors think youth holds spring, so they want me alive, maybe until Stini arrives.

I suggested we all rush in, but they shot it down.

Our attacks can’t land decisive blows on the Demon King.

A professor of numbers gauged how much attention she’d spend on the ground gnats that bother her.

We aim to drain her stamina, like bleeding a boar, and keep it going as long as possible.

So this is the Silver Era’s heroism? Sounds disappointing.

I thought it would be battles blazing like trumpets.

No. That’s not our role.

We’re the backdrop, dying before dawn so those who can slay the Demon King can walk onstage.

Isn’t that unfair? Those who pour out the most don’t reap the most, like farmers who never taste the harvest.

But someone has to do it.

And the people of the Silver Era could still understand one another, like lanterns sharing light.

You can’t weigh their greatness with the cold iron calculus of the Black Iron era.

They thought of “humanity” as one body, went to death generous as spring, and took pride in it.

If it helped “humanity,” that was a good ending.

Dragon Exorcist, disappointed, pokes the campfire with a stick, ember sparks like fireflies.

It’s not simple disappointment.

It’s a commoner’s awe before a high mountain, eyes lifted to cliffs.

“They”—you said “they.” Aren’t you a hero?

That’s right. I’m just a merchant, a big one, counting ledgers like star charts.

Then why come here, into this storm?

Because I won’t let the world end.

Merchants don’t wager hope on others; we trust our own hands, like sailors trusting their mast.

Even if it might kill you, like a wave swallowing the boat?

I don’t have much time left anyway.

I settled the consortium’s affairs, sealed farewell letters with wax, and found no reason I must live.

Like you, I want to do something meaningful, then face death calm as a lake.

She rips off the parts of her fine dress that hinder movement, so she’ll meet the coming fight lean as a blade.

In short—resolve, like frost-quenched steel.

But Dragon Exorcist won’t sign off on that, storm brewing behind her visor.

You want me to watch people die one by one, then step in cold and calm as ice—what kind of thing is that!

On paper, it’s the optimal solution, neat as a chessboard.

Oh— She drawls, teasing. Optimal. I hate that word; it tastes like dust.

Look, the Heretic Inquisition’s chair, Maki, is the strongest among us, almost your equal.

He’ll taunt the Demon King head-on, shake off pursuit, hide, treat his wounds, then return.

He’s an exception to the lineup.

If you can do that, go help him now.

I offer another plan.

Uh... I’m not good at retreats, at running battles through thorns.

A two-meter suit of heavy armor covers its own visor in shame; the gesture looks ill-fitted, like a bear trying to curtsey.

Right. A dragon-slayer fights to the last breath; there’s no halfway flight, no turning tail.

Another hum—fourth.

I pause, give a nameless professor one second of silence, like a candle guttering, then keep talking with Dragon Exorcist.

Here’s my advice.

They didn’t account for you when we set this up.

I want you slotted nineteenth—right after me.

Her armor shifts; she lets out a heavy sigh, bellows emptying like a forge.

So you’re protecting me?

I’m stronger than you—in arm and in battle, iron bent to will.

It’s about comparative value.

I truly hope you join the Hero Squad—yes, Stini’s team.

She has only the Arcane Engineer Vega and the archer Catherine.

They’re top-tier, but not enough.

The Hero Squad needs a frontline. You fit perfectly.

But I’m a dead person, a shadow walking...

Don’t rush to refuse.

Under the Great Ones’ witness, you’ve entered the mortal fray.

Treat this call as rebirth.

You’re the finest vanguard I’ve seen—perfect to take my place.

Hey—my voice a pebble in a well.

Tell Stini it’s the vice-captain’s referral; she’ll accept.

Even if it’s grudging, she still heeds my counsel, like a compass.

What about you, left in the rain?

We’re talking about you.

A dozen Demon Kings still roam this world.

I can’t keep up with the Hero Squad’s level curve anymore.

You’re different—you’re the last of the “other Hero Squad,” perfect to take my slot.

But... ah, how do I say this, the words like birds scared off?

It sounds smug, but Stini likes me—so much that even if I lag, she won’t snuff me like a candle.

I need a rightful reason to exit, a scene that burdens no one.

A senior’s graceful exit, clearing the stage for juniors, like a curtain falling.

Farewells always feel awkward to me; if I can leave her a cool back, a goodbye without questions, that’s best.

I’m not chasing the “die not on a sickbed” brand of hero.

If I live after this, I’ll savor the year left, like tea cooling.

Oh right, I should write you a referral.

But I’ve got no paper or pen.

Go find Vega—Mephi Consortium’s president and an Arcane Engineer.

She can mimic my hand.

Get a referral from her, and carry it with my message to Stini.

Enough!

She roars; a dragon’s bellow whips a fierce wind that snuffs the fire and flings debris through the ruins.

I said enough... her voice closing like iron doors.

Her second roar comes muted; a rumble rolls from her chest, like anger pinned under plates.

The future that Hero dreams of is not a future without you, her words a banner snapping in wind!

That too is something we can’t change, like rain on stone.

I wipe the black ash the wind lifted and laid on my head, and shrug lightly, palms open like empty bowls.

We both get a satisfying result—well, relatively.

Honor, salvation, proof that what we do matters.

Everything you want is in the Hero Squad.

What’s left to resent, when the road opens like dawn?

She clearly doesn’t want to continue; she snaps her visor shut and huffs, cold as a winter gust.

In our silent camp, time drips.

After a while, the hum rises again, like bees under iron.

The fifth one, another notch on the gallows.

And the Hero still hasn’t arrived, like a dawn that refuses the horizon.