“I’m not here to judge what you did. It’s just our deal, and if you’re happy, Head, that’s fine—though there’s one extra thing I’d like to ask.”

I chose a tone as soft as folded silk, cool as moonlight on water.

My fingertips tapped the table, casual as drift rain on eaves.

“At the end of the Hero’s tale, Hero Stini discovers Shadow Artisan Andor’s true self. Do you have a line of thought, Head?”

“…”

We’d promised Ferrel we wouldn’t deceive each other. Bound to “no lies,” sharp questions left him only silence.

At least within the realm of human speech, that cage held.

Well. I had a forecast, like a weathervane already turned in the wind.

“…Why ask that, Andor?”

“Because I’ve stripped away nearly every ‘I’m not the real Shadow Artisan Andor’ factor. The few doubts about my identity, I know where they point.”

I’m not the kind of Demon King who forgets a weakness, then blabs it to a Hero. Step into the mortal world, and you carry flaws like burrs on cloth.

Courage leans to rashness; caution leans to fear. With a shaped persona, gaps always appear, like chinks in old armor.

Know your weak seams, hide them well, cut down the informed. That’s Demon King 101, clean as a whetted blade.

Usually, the second-rate Demon Kings in old epics have dirty hands, tracks muddy as floodwater.

“In total, I’ve only got a few tells I can’t bury: one, the Mephi Consortium’s books hold gold injected from the Demon Realm. Two, infiltrating Mephi is absurdly hard, like scaling glass. Three, the things usually hung up by rules got solved too smoothly. Four, I am not the original Shadow Artisan Andor.”

“Point one: Kadula, a Demon King holding the ‘value’ domain, forged the false ledgers for me. If someone isn’t set on razing Mephi to bedrock, no audit will claw out those hidden funds.”

“Point two: a few of Mephi’s managers are mid-tier vassals. They have reason, yet might act foolish, poor souls who sold their spirits to a Demon King. But if Vega’s restriction handbook is as airtight as she claims, they’ll be numb and simple. They won’t leak.”

“Point three: the Demon King Army has its own executors. Assassination, framing, sabotage—knifework in shadow to smooth our moves and shore up the Consortium on the surface. We did it carefully, quiet as a cat. So far, Vega hasn’t flagged any issue with Victor.”

“As for the last point… before I came to the human world, I set this in motion. I picked at random a man desperate to keep his kin alive, willing to sell his soul to a Demon King. Spur of the moment, no grand plan, no witness alive—”

“—but the Divine Being, the all-knowing, all-powerful Lord, might be another matter. Everything above could be overturned.”

“From experience, even if the Divine Being knows a Demon King’s scheme, the primal pact keeps Him from interfering. Yet I know a figure who defies common sense, one who’s been walking the mortal plane recently, going a bit too far.”

“Head. Are you listening?”

The frail boy shook his head and laughed, helpless and wistful, like a breeze through thin reeds. That smile rarely visits Head’s face.

“Andor… you’re not some flawless mastermind. You’re just so good at counting, so aware of yourself, you never leave an opening.”

That tone—ah. So it’s this guy after all, like a flute note I recognize in dusk.

“Before we talk compensation, I want to know why you sold me out, and how you plan to explain it to Ferrel.”

My fingers tapped faster, like a sparrow’s heartbeat under the eaves.

I had forecasts, yes, a map drawn in ash and salt. Yet I still couldn’t see Head’s reason.

No sense. No logic. No should, no could.

It doesn’t hobble me. It gains Head nothing worth breaking a vow.

“Why?”

Why betray me?

Demonfolk don’t flinch at betrayal. One is betrayed because one offered a reason. But a betrayal without reason—no idea where the thorn pricked—forces us to weigh the alliance.

“Because it’s a message from the dead. The last residue of a life, the last wish.”

“Who?”

I asked, and Head spoke a name I’d never heard in any ledger or tale.

“Not remembered.”

“You didn’t forget. You never bothered to commit her name,” Head said, his voice suddenly sharp, like frost on glass.

“Am I supposed to speak from the victim’s angle?”

“It was a scratch to you. To her, it wasn’t. Ten years ago, she woke to her power—‘causal computation,’ a sight of written time-lines. It brought her no joy, only a weight that bent her near the breaking point.”

“Oh? So she saw…”

“The ‘Era of Cold Verdure.’ The age we vowed on, which the young may not accept. She wanted to stop you, to stop that era.”

“And then?”

“She fought for ten years. She tried to stop you. She failed.”

I almost let a barb slip, a blade-thin mockery. I sheathed it, like a knife sliding home.

“Ten years of effort.” “Then failure.” Head’s bare narration told a story of a woman outside my knowledge.

A stray pang? Not quite. Still, I consider an ally’s mood. Gloating is a cheap lantern; I kept it unlit.

Even so, the heaviness and grief under those simple words hummed like a distant drum.

“When did she confront me?”

“Never. She stayed in Shadow and cracks, with her loyal knight. Humble to the point of dust, saving the world side-on, undoing your designs.”

“Mm. Strictly speaking, ‘our designs’ fits better.”

“Andor. I’ll compensate you. For the price of that dignity. You know the scale. So please don’t mock.”

“I want triple losses. You didn’t warn me.”

“All right. Hear me out first.”

“Is there truly more story? Is there? No insult meant, but villains always grind something underfoot to move ahead. No—everyone must tread on something to advance. We just break beautiful things, and it breeds resentment. In this tale, she’s like any Hero I’ve beaten. She opposed me, lost, died. As expected. What story remains?”

“Even if the tale’s old and dull, deep feeling and grand vows still move someone. Andor, I don’t beg you to understand, but at least show respect.”

“Fine, fine, Head. That’s the price of dignity. I’ll claim the return later.”

Head watched me a while. His eyes held… well, I don’t read eyes; faces I can parse.

—A sigh, long as wind past a lantern.

Head told a plain story, a cloth of “ten years tried” and “finally failed.” It’s not fit for a child’s bedside epic. First, the heroine did nothing in the end and failed. Second, it’s really boring.

Her side-work hid like fish beneath ice, and its impact stayed faint. She and her knight did countless, countless backstage labors. Sometimes Vega unraveled them with ease. Sometimes Berenz broke them with a simple stroke. Useless effort, futility, piled like fallen leaves.

Yet she kept at it. To me, she avoided despair because she went mad, a storm that outshouted the night.

“In the end—” Head sighed again. “She saw the future of her own death. She poured her remaining life into ‘causal computation,’ buying information with blood.”

“So you felt pity and offered her a hint?”

“I knew it would tilt the balance! If she hadn’t earned anything by herself, I could not act. But her last will, her last struggle, showed her the scene where you gained ‘Shadow Artisan Andor.’”

—Please, save everyone! The frontier town will drown under a tide of monsters! Please!—

—What can you offer? Let me think…—

—Everything I have!—

—Normally, asking a Demon King, that’s not enough. But by chance, I need a face… hey, kid, can you play yourself well? Wear it ten years. I’ll need it back—

—As you wish—

“…The original ‘Shadow Artisan Andor’ agreed in a heartbeat at the deal. I did nothing wrong.”

I was about to explain, a touch of rain on tinder, and Head didn’t hear. He kept speaking, alone as a monk bell.

“She recorded it. She meant to tell the Hero her comrade’s true identity.”

“Mm… with unreasonable powers like that, sometimes there’s nothing to be done. Oh, Head—what did you do?”

“I told Stini,” he said. His voice fell heavy, like a stone into deep water.