“Mmph... it stings a little, go easy, like a thorn under silk...”

An eternal problem sits before me, like a riddle carved into stone.

“Mmm... Andor...” Her voice trembles like a plucked string in the dark.

When humans get down to breeding, do you talk like a courteous gentleman, or keep your mouth shut and look serious, like a blade held steady?

“Don’t lick! And no biting! Geez, mm...” Her protest flutters like a startled sparrow.

It’s not a shameful question. In this world no topic is untouchable; only argument divides clear reason from smoke and mirrors.

You think straight the way you plan a bank robbery in daylight. From morality: the bank’s money is other people’s sweat, like rain bottled in jars. From law: the hammer falls hard, and riots ripple like cracks in glass. From feasibility: you’ll likely lose to armored guards, a wall of iron that comes in pairs.

So you walk away. No blood on the tiles, no coins spilled like hail, no blame sticking like tar.

That’s the point of thinking, a lantern held up before you step.

Every thought has weight, like a stone in the hand; every question has grain, like wood you can plane.

So even choosing between graceful chatter and earnest plowing deserves thought, like picking wind or water to turn a mill.

—The mood’s right, the feeling’s ripe, and it’s her invitation. The door opens like night-blooming petals; I, having wants of my own, step through.

—I’m a Demon King, not some prim protagonist; when meat comes steaming to the door, there’s no reason to refuse, like a hunter spotting easy tracks in snow.

“Haa... haa... I want a child... give me...” Her breath drifts like mist over warm stones.

“If you’re worn out, how about a good sleep?” I set the oars down in my voice.

“I want...” The want hangs like a drop on a leaf.

The Creator didn’t hand out stamina evenly. The Fishfolk mate in season for two weeks straight, like tides that won’t turn. Beastkin hit often and hard; their burst and stamina outpace humans like a storm outruns a cart.

There are outliers. The Aerian keep it short and rare. It’s not about strength; they just aren’t interested. Once pregnancy’s certain, they won’t waste another breath, like birds that leave after one song.

Humans… our leash is stamina, not desire; the flame’s big, the oil runs thin.

With magic, anything’s negotiable. But with Stini, the knot is in her mind, like a string pulled too tight.

“Stini, why the sense of mission? This isn’t your duty.” My words fall soft, like rain on a shutter.

“...” She sprawls on my chest, breath sawing like a bellows.

“You don’t owe me, and there’s nothing to make up. Your journey’s a chain of banquets, now gathering, now parting; learn to let go. When the music ends, bow and leave with grace, like a curtain falling.”

“...” Her fingers press into my skin, small and damp like warm petals. Her eyes open wide, will burning like a lamp, no words.

“Stini, this isn’t you. I like the idiot who can laugh anytime, like a sun through clouds. Not the one living under a mountain of bitterness, shouldering storms for breakfast.”

“...” Her heavy breaths ease. She tugs up the corners of her mouth, a wilted flower trying to open.

“I like your fearless grin when you meet monsters head-on, like a spear catching light. I like your serene smile by the moonlit lake, a surface smooth as glass. I like your smile when you raise steel against gods and demons, a dance with death and dawn. But not this one—this rushed, painted-on smile that leaves the heart no time to feel, like ink smeared before it dries.”

“...”

“No matter how you twist it... Stini, you aren’t built for fake smiles. If you don’t want to laugh, don’t force it. At least with me, you don’t need to be the Hero who leads the crowd. Cry if you like; rain is still sky.”

“But I don’t want to cry. I want to laugh.” Her stubbornness clicks like a latch.

“Wanting to laugh isn’t the same as ready to smile.” The difference stands like a thin line in sand.

“I want you to see my most beautiful side...” Her voice beads like dew.

“I like you. Not just one side—every season on the same tree.”

“...I want to leave no regrets.” The word “regret” tastes like ash.

“What regrets? Every day we spent together was fun, wasn’t it?” I kiss the corner of her eye, a butterfly’s touch, then her lips, breaking her fluster like ice under a heel. She squirms twice for form, then leans in and takes the kiss, a tide pulling back.

The heat ebbs a little; the sea turns slack. It feels like time to pause a romp that only fed our instincts and didn’t feed our hearts.

I rise from the bed. The floor is cool, like water underfoot. I cross to the little hotel cabinet that peddles goods, ignore the price tags, and pour Stini a glass of milk, white as the moon.

“Here. For strength and water.” I offer it like a small cloud.

“But I already drank plenty just now...” The complaint flickers with a blush, like a lantern behind paper.

She grumbles, but gets up, and drains it in one go, like a parched field drinking rain.

“How about now?”

“Let’s rest a while. The inshore moonlight is pretty.” Her words float like boats on a calm tide.

“And then?”

“Just rest. Lie on the rocker. Don’t you think the view’s beautiful?” She tilts her head, hair like dusk.

“But...”

“Quiet company is its own joy, like tea cooling in good air.”

We pull two chairs to the floor-to-ceiling window. Water ripples sway like silk; moonlight breaks and reweaves, a net of silver. Shafts of light fall in pillars. A fish flickers by, a stitch in the dark cloth.

Even the most restless heart would find a brief calm before this view, like dust settling in a beam.

In that easy hush, I speak to Stini.

“We can see the moon from here. Lucky, huh?” The moon sits like a coin on the water.

“...Mm. It’s okay.” Her answer lands light as a feather.

“No need to rush so hard. This sea says so, slow as a tide.”

“Think about it. If I don’t kiss you tonight and never get another chance, that would be a special regret, right? That thought makes me anxious, like a drum in my chest.”

“Alright, Stini, you’ve gotten smooth. You face your want and your longing; you know where you stand. There’s nothing that absolutely needs me anymore.” My laugh is dry, like a reed flute.

“‘Only you will do’—at a time like this, can you stop saying such unpleasant things!” Her voice sparks like flint.

“Just a bit of bad taste. Live free or not; as long as it’s the result you can look in the eye, it’s fine... that’s enough.” I let it drift like a leaf.

“‘There’s nothing we can do,’ ‘We can only try to accept.’ I don’t want to accept. I don’t want to understand. But if I say that, Andor won’t be at ease, right?” Her stubbornness knots like a rope.

“...Stini.”

“What?” The view hasn’t changed, yet I’m not bored. I feel lazy, like a cat in sun. A bit sleepy...”

“Give the vice-captain slot to Raven. Our front line’s been thin; hand it to Dragon Exorcist—I already spoke with her. As for Abigail, I don’t suggest you bring him into the party. He cares more about the Beatrice Kingdom. But if you need a capable hand, ask him; he knows where the blades are.”

“Andor.”

“...What is it, Stini?”

“How many Demon Kings do we still have to fell?” The question lands like a stone in a pond.

“It’s you all now. After this, I can’t travel with you. But if—if you choose...” The word “if” hangs like a loose thread.

“If what?”

“No, nothing. Forget it.” I cut the thread with a sigh.

“Andor, seriously—you don’t get a girl’s heart. Can’t you just listen while I complain?” Her pout is a petal.

“Alright, alright. Go on.” I open my palm.

“Many people died to slay Demon Kings. Professor Bolian, who used to rap my head with a rolled paper during my make-up lessons, died. Chairman Maki of the Heretic Inquisition, who tangled with us for so long, died. My grandpa died to fight a Demon King. So many, many people died...” Her words fall like autumn leaves.

“Mhm.” I keep my voice small, like a hand on her shoulder.

“And Andor, too...” The name wavers like heat haze.

Stini rubs her eyes, rises from the rocker, and walks to the room’s inner side, shadow long as a spear.

I think she’s going for juice, or milk, or a snack to fill the belly, simple as bread.

But I hear the Holy Sword, Galewind, being lifted from the bedside. It taps the wall with a soft knock, like a bell struck with a fingertip. A bad wind brushes my neck.

“I ate a lot at noon. I’m actually full. But I still want to eat with Andor.” Her words are gentle, like rice steam.

“The view is pretty. But it only makes me fret, like ants under skin. I want to look at Andor.”

“It hurts when we do it. It’s not comfortable. Not like Mom said. But I still want to be with Andor.” Her honesty rings like a clear chime.

“Only this shallow-sea night view—hah—maybe it’s like you said. It did relax me. It gave me a memory I can cherish for life.” Her breath smooths like a lake.

A sharp cold pricks the back of my head. The Holy Sword that has slain several Demon Kings gleams like winter sun. It hasn’t cut flesh, yet my soul shivers like a bird under an arrow’s shadow.

I keep sitting in the rocker. I close my eyes. I wait for Stini, quiet as a stone on the shore.

“So, dawn’s close. I’m still wondering what you plan to do with that Holy Sword.” My voice drifts like smoke.

The blade slides through the rattan chair, no suspense, and into my chest, a straight nail. It pierces the heart clean.

Expected, like the tide.

She once burned her life to haul me out of a Demon King’s domain, then sobbed and begged a Divine Healer to save me. Now she pierces my heart with her own hands. Set side by side, the two scenes look absurd, like reflections that don’t match in the same mirror.

“Why not take my head? You’re leaving me a chance to strike back.” My blood spreads like ink in water.

“I want to ask too. Why didn’t you try to recruit me? This is the last, and best, chance—” Her voice is a blade wrapped in silk.

“—Why, World Saving Demon King, Andor?” Her question lands like frost.