“Andor, what are you looking at?”

“The stars. See it? The far‑eastern one, a pale ember by the horizon. It’s not bright, but to me it’s the prettiest star in the world.”

“Mm… I still think you should celebrate with everyone, you know, raise a cup and all.”

“Do you remember our very first quest together?”

“Which one was that?”

“The first. The push against the Demon King Yakfarro. When it finally ended, we drank on the ruins of Hero Academy, like a campfire on broken stone. It wasn’t this bad, though.”

“True. Back then most walls still stood like old trees. Now it’s real rubble, ash and splinters—wait, wait, I’m asking why you won’t drink with the others.”

“At that feast you told me something under the lantern smoke. Feasts are for the living. We carry the deeds of the living, and the names of the dead, like river stones. That’s where nameless heroes come from.”

“I said that?”

“Maybe. It doesn’t matter. We agreed then, like two shadows nodding by the fire.”

“But—but when it’s about yourself, you can’t be that calm. The heart kicks like a trapped bird.”

“I’m not planning to die fast either. Still… you heard the Divine Healer, right?”

“One more day. About the morning after tomorrow—no, it’s past midnight now, so call it tomorrow dawn.”

“The Shadow inside me will reach its limit, like ink soaking through paper. Either I dissolve into Shadow, lose self and thought, and become a concept. Or I choose to end it, and die as a human.”

“Which will you choose, Andor?”

“Who knows. The wind only answers in whispers.”

Stini climbed the hastily built platform of the refugee hall, two bottles clinking like little bells, and found me by the railing.

Her left hand had been eaten by Sylvia. Yes, Sylvia, bored in her advantage, decided to pass time by nibbling people, bite by bite, until the tide turned and she got reversed.

That’s textbook back‑against‑the‑wind from the Hero, nothing to do with me, the guy who played dead like driftwood.

If it were cut clean, you could stitch a limb back like sewing bark. But eaten is eaten, vanished like smoke, so no go. A high‑tier Divine Art regrew her left hand, bone and muscle, but they grind against each other like new gears.

With her left hand dulled, she bit the opener, locked it with her teeth like a squirrel with a nut, twisted, and popped the cork with a soft thwack.

I wasn’t planning to just watch, but Stini moved fast, like a sparrow pecking seeds, and a bottle was in my hand.

I shrugged, a leaf in wind, took it, and chatted with the girl under the dim sky.

“Got plans for today?”

“The sun will climb from Ironwood Forest soon, clean line, no roofs to block it, so this is the best perch. After that I want to visit the western frontier. I’ve never seen the great plains to the west or the tide of monsters rolling like grass.”

“Then at noon, we go to the submerged city, Atdir. Dad promised to maintain the teleport spell for me. Atdir should be cruising the shallows now. We can swim and sightsee under a glassy sea. And at night—oh, speaking of night…”

She chattered on, bright as sparrow song, volley for volley, as if battle hadn’t just ended, as if the blood had dried into paint.

Maybe she felt freer facing Sylvia than this silence, like a blade that shakes only after the strike.

The way she talked to me was desperate, like bailing a boat with both hands against a rising tide.

As if she feared I’d vanish at any breath, a mirage shivering into heat‑haze, and so she poured words to keep me anchored.

Stini, anxiety looks messy on you, like rain on silk.

But in the eye of the storm, it’s adorable. It hits the heart like the first warm breeze of spring.

Sometimes, out of nowhere, I wish the tale of Shadow Artisan Andor and Hero Stini and her party would just keep wandering, like a caravan drawing lines on the map.

We crave the new, yet love the hearth. We want a roof, and a window that opens to wind. That’s the life people chase, bread on the table and a taste of storm.

No need to dress it up like a temple bell.

I’ll say it with pride. I, the World Saving Demon King, Andor, still cherish these days of working beside Hero Stini, like a traveler warming hands at a small fire.

Yes. I like Stini. I like this short, full‑of‑sunlight girl, like a bright citrus in winter.

But—plot turns keep their promises like seasons do. Call it fresh or call it cliché, the script already waits like a path through snow.

Shadow Artisan Andor always leaves. Must leave. No fork in the road this time, only the straight line of fate.

It’s a step needed for the good ending, a gate with meaning carved into stone from every angle.

Time to say goodbye.

Maybe tomorrow will be fine. Dawn can hold it for a breath.

“From the way you say it, I’m in the travel list too, right?”

“Yeah!” Her face lit like a lantern; this Hero is easy to read as the sky.

“Long distance, wide scope, high cost. That’s diva‑level whimsy, Stini. If you were an idol, your manager’s stomach would be full of holes.”

“Uh… you don’t like it?”

“On the contrary. I like people who break the board. To thank you for the invite, I’ll invite you to my family’s frontier estate.”

“Anything fun there?”

“We lack everything, except luxury. Trinkets shine like frost, and cupboards echo.”

“Whoa, whoa—don’t tell me your hometown is the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom.”

We clinked bottles, two notes in the night, leaned on the railing, and drank in big gulps that cut like cold river water.

Ask me how the wine was? Kindly put, not great. Thin as wind passing through reeds.

“Maybe we should fetch something pricier to celebrate,” I said, watching our breath pale like smoke.

Stini downed half the bottle, smiling into the cheap sting like a fox in snow. Then she glanced back at me and frowned.

“Hassle. Forget it. These were shipped to help refugees forget their pain, like warm broth. They’re not for solemn rites around cold altars.”

“But this is a rite. Watching the sunrise with Andor is a rite. Should we go back and check the house? I remember the cellar holding good stuff, like treasure under dust.”

“No. You already stole the most expensive ones, like a cat with cream.”

“Whoa, whoa, do you have proof? Slander burns like chili!”

“Now that I say it, maybe I don’t. Fine work, Stini. Clean hands, muddy footprints.”

She snorted into a laugh, little bursts like sparrows, and for a while forgot the ache of parting.

No need for sadness anyway. The night doesn’t scold the moon for leaving.

“If we dig around, we could still find a good bottle or two. Even if it’s all ruins, I remember where the cellar lies, like a map in bark.”

“No need. I’ll ask Vega to take a look. He moves like a hound on a scent.”

“But still…” She stayed stubborn, like a seed pushing through frost, hunting one or two better bottles.

“I enjoy the wind on the rooftop with you more than any wine,” I said, letting the breeze comb the words like fingers through hair.

Stini’s face went red in a rush, a sunrise in fast‑forward. She turned away and made faces, trying to cool her cheeks like fanning embered coals.

“We’ve got hours till the sun climbs. Want to sit for a bit?”

“There aren’t any chairs. The Magitech folks fixed stone and earth into safe walls, like freezing waves, but they had no hands left for chairs.”

“I brought one up. I don’t want to drape over this rail and add weight to tired bones.”

“What about me?”

“You can sit on my lap.”

“…”

“What’s wrong?”

“… Thanks for the invitation.”

She pressed her palms together in thanks, like a little prayer, then smiled.

She does the unexpected now and then, breaking rules like cracking ice, hard for any script to hold.

Adorable. Like a peach blossom falling onto black water.