If you don’t take my head, I might drag you down like a black comet into the Demon Realm and strip your soul; believe me, I can do that.

You can do that, Andor—Andor, you’ve always had that blade-ready power, like steel at my throat.

Like chewing gravel between broken teeth.

Pain and knotty syllables shared one name; in Demonfolk tongue and human speech alike, she breathed it out slow, like millstones grinding grain.

Anytime, you had that power—but why? Aren’t you a monster who feeds on people? Why won’t you eat me, like a wolf by the fire?

Mm… I think there’s a misunderstanding; Demonfolk treat human flesh as a delicacy, not a staple, like wine not water.

Andor! You know that’s not what I want to hear—stop fogging my eyes with smoke and mirrors!

…You’re right. My chest is still spurting blood, like a cracked hourglass spilling red sand; minutes until I go cold, and this isn’t a time for jokes.

I tilt my head and lightly rub my cheek along the Holy Sword Galewind’s edge, and the steel draws a line of red, like a quill.

Ah—she never liked me, like a cat that won’t take milk.

What was the question again? I drifted a moment, like ash on wind.

Why. Didn’t. You. Eat me. I’m asking, like throwing stones across a frozen lake.

Her sword and her lips pressed on either side of me—one warm as sunlight, one cold as frost on glass.

On a normal day, I’d quip about bards and epics, say don’t rest the blade on a throat; you’ll miss the kill like a hunter blinking.

But now the air felt like a bottle of poisoned blue ink shattered, its vapor staining the room—melancholy, rage, a thin thread of seeking.

Too beautiful, like moonlight on a ruin.

I didn’t want to smash that grief-born beauty; I’m a bastard, but even a bastard can kneel to a sunset.

Because… if I say it’s admiration, will you think I’m lying, like a mask painted too bright?

Do you need to lie, Andor? Lie or not, I can only grasp the lantern you hand me.

No, no. I told you only one root-level lie: I am the Demon King. I never denied it, but silence is a veil; a hidden blade still cuts.

Yes, I deceived you; but by and large, I let you see the whole, like opening every shutter in a storm.

Because you admire me, you let me see the whole—was that the light behind the curtain?

You could call it liking, esteem, longing, curiosity—sweet words like sugar in tea. But we Demonfolk cherish true evil over false good.

Only the distant word admiration fits like a straight horizon; I won’t varnish it with gilded terms.

Then the fact?

…I don’t know, like a compass spinning at the pole.

Say that out loud—don’t you find yourself ridiculous, like a jester in mourning clothes?

We spent decades, before you were born, writing a two‑year script, like architects drawing a city of lines; we set who I’d be, how I’d arrive, how we’d meet.

It all went better than the script promised. But at the end, I gave up—gave up unmasking, gave up eating you, like a knife set back in its sheath.

Truth?

At least now, I don’t intend to lie, like a vow etched on stone.

Then why? Why at all? I almost don’t want the answer, Andor; but you said face the real even if it’s ugly, like rain that soaks you clean—so speak yourself.

Because admiration, like a lighthouse I can’t ignore.

Say “like” instead; it would make me happier, like warm bread in winter.

I don’t want to lie to you, like putting paint over a cracked wall.

What if I want you to lie—idiot, idiot! Idiot! Don’t joke with me like a juggler with knives; I want to kill you, I should kill you now!

Andor, I like you as much as I hate you, like fire that burns and warms.

What reason do you have to hate me?

Don’t change the subject! I want one thing: why did you give up recruiting me, give up eating me, like a hawk letting the rabbit go?

Isn’t it simple? Even a con who uses trickery as blade and armor, facing his long-brewed masterpiece, wants to leave something true.

Something real and beautiful, a proof carved into hearts and history, like letters chiseled in marble—hard, clear, unpretending.

But that’s just self‑satisfaction, and you—

Yeah. Self‑satisfaction. I’m a bastard chasing my own sense of beauty; every day with you, I braced to eat this sword like rain.

Even so, can’t I have a pursuit, like a pilgrim walking toward a far bell?

I owe you; I did deceive you, like a debt written in red.

I won’t let you take my head; I can’t die here. But I won’t strike back either; paying a debt by incurring another is a chain, link by link.

You don’t owe me; you’ve already paid, like settling accounts at dusk.

You’re a bastard, liar, Demon King, idiot; you tricked me, and I stabbed you once. We’re even. Then what? End it here, like closing a book.

Yeah. Ended.

The story ended, like a candle pinched in the dark.

Under the quiet flow of lava, heat to melt mountains surged; Stini was furious, beyond roaring, too tired to move except to swing steel.

Like a dormant volcano, she was calmly terrifying, a hush that made the skin crawl.

But…

If I don’t touch it, if I stay far from the landslide, nothing will happen; that’s the weather I stand in now.

Break the bond, and Shadow Artisan Andor becomes memory and history, a name turned taboo, like a mirror draped in cloth.

Damn it, that’s not the ending I want, like a play cut before the aria.

It shouldn’t end like this—gained nothing, any goodwill dropped to zero, the Hero’s hostility rising, and my reputation ready to sink like a stone.

Damn—

Fine. Set those aside like coins in a drawer.

All of it can wait—gold, fame, whatever—important, yes, but smaller than my own wish, like stars smaller than the moon.

Beyond the eastmost star, I have another, a new wish, like a lantern hung on a farther branch.

I don’t want it to end like this.

I don’t want it to end like this.

I don’t want it to end like this.

I want—whatever the motive, whatever the stance, whatever the storm—I want a good ending, like sunlight after rain.

For everyone, a good ending.

Including me, and including Stini, like two names on the same page.

But she’s stubborn; the Hero’s blood nails her to the human ranks, at least for now, like iron rivets in oak.

This guileless girl has a flinty side; once she chooses a creed, she stands against evil like a stone set in a river.

I think if I don’t speak, we’ll probably sever here, like a rope cut clean.

What can your words change, like feathers thrown at a flood?

Interested?

Courtesy only. I’m tired. Go die, Andor. Goodbye—never see you again, like shutters slammed in a storm.

She lowered her lashes, flicked the sword aside like tossing a twig, then collapsed onto the couch, back to me, spent as a wrung cloth.

My ambush wasn’t in her forecast at all, like thunder from a clear sky.

Are you an idiot? At least doubt the Demon King a little, like keeping a knife under the pillow.

We’ll meet again, you know—paths cross like rivers.

Mm.

Aside from my identity, I never lied to you; what you saw was what I wanted you to see, so you could grasp my rightness like a handrail.

Oh.

I’ll build a city, the greatest in this world, a utopia forged by iron law, like anvil and hammer singing.

I’ll found an era where anyone can become who they want, the Era of Cold Verdure, like spring set in green glass.

I’ll write a history—

Huh?

—I hope you’ll write yourself into it with me, like two pens on one parchment.

…I don’t even have the strength to tell you to get out. Isn’t it better to end here? Each in their place—kill or be killed—clean, no regrets.

Don’t torture me, like pulling a thorn again and again.

Stini.

Wha—

I pressed my mouth to hers and smashed her clean-cut resolve like glass.

Predatory, almost a bite, a deep kiss like a storm tide.

This is what I call a good ending; it doesn’t include a breakup, like a song without a last chord.

We were never a couple—and save the quips for next time, if your head’s still on your neck!

Flustered and furious? Rest easy. The Hero and the Demon King aren’t doomed to one lives, one dies; I’ll erase every reason you have to hunt me.

I’ll show you my right answer, like a map unfolded at dawn—

Greed is the Demon King’s nature—never letting go, clinging to all he has, like hands on warm fire.

I’m no different.

Flesh unraveled, and I returned to my native shadow, vanishing in the first ray of dawn like mist.

Goodbye, Stini.

Next time we meet, I’ll kill you, Andor!

Next time we meet, I’ll make you kiss me first.

We’ll meet soon; I promise, like a thread tugging the two of us back together.