I snapped my fingers; the moment clicked like flint.

There’s no real meaning here, just ripples that fade.

Oh, time, please stand still for a heartbeat, because you’re so beautiful. Let’s pause here, Head. Let me guess boldly: maybe it happened like this—

She—the hero whose name no one remembered, a figure in the wings—finally found out who I was. But before she could pass it on, Vega cut her throat of fate.

Alas, lamentable, sorrowful—even within the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom, a great Divine Being who should’ve watched rise and fall unmoved was touched. It descended in starlight, lifted the will she dropped in the mud, and handed it to the Hero.

Of course, the one who embodies wisdom wouldn’t break the primal pact between gods and demons. So it threaded the needle, found a view that gods and fiends could accept as long as the Demon King didn’t protest, and told the Hero.

For example—

Say that just then the young Hero heard the Shadow Artisan Andor Mephy was doing poorly, and asked the Divine Being, voice tight as a bowstring: “Is there any cure for Andor?”

And the Divine Being answered from another angle—not wrong, but steering the wheel:

Hmm—

“Andor is already dead. Ten years ago, his soul stopped belonging to him.”

I went for another sip of coffee, but the cup was empty, a dry ring of bitterness.

No help for it. Vega’s time was peeled away by Head too. If I wanted coffee, I had to fetch the pot myself, pour it myself.

What’s curious is, Head didn’t mourn the Nameless hero’s death. He bristled because her death was meaningless, like sand spilled for nothing.

What a grand view—a cliffside gaze over ant-sized lives. Tsk, tsk.

On any other day I’d crack two mocking jokes, but today my tongue felt iron-heavy.

How d’you like this method of exposing the Demon King’s identity, Head, hmm? A little veil-lifting.

“That’s what I mean, Andor. You’re not an unmatched sage; you just understand yourself and the board too well, stitched so tight there’s no seam.”

Head’s sigh carried praise, but it slid off me like wind skirting a stone.

“Yet you still sold me out. Seems no amount of safeguards matters.” I said it with forced levity, a smile sharp as a knife’s edge.

“Ah, Andor, these are what you weighed—the so-called value of dignity. I’ll pay the price for it. Isn’t that enough?” Coins on a scale, pride feather-heavy.

“If you planned this, you should’ve told me in advance, bastard!” Anger flared like dry tinder.

“But you were moved by your own script then. You wouldn’t accept any deal that changed its nature, even if it helped you. Andor, with a human face and tongue, you’re infected by zeal and impulse.”

…

I won’t deny it. I refused to rewrite my script, even thought of dropping Stini, just to chase a beautiful ending—like chasing a sunset and letting the tools fall.

“But when the thrill of the artwork fades—no, you won’t regret your choice, never—but if you get a result that profits you, once the fog lifts, you’ll be pleased.”

You were going to reveal yourself anyway. At least before the Hero sanctified her fallen companion, you’d tell her Andor’s true identity. That’s Head’s claim, gleaned from watching history, a curtain raised before a shrine is built.

I believe him, yet I still can’t accept it; truth sits like a cold stone in my mouth.

A good ending isn’t everything. The river matters as much as the sea.

“Gains aside, your scheming alone makes me furious. Even if your plan didn’t hurt me directly, didn’t alter the script, you meddled in my affairs. That breaks our pact.” A line in the sand scuffed by another’s shoe.

“Hope you understand, Andor. I didn’t have many chances. When she died, you were already staging your exit. If I didn’t act, her death would be truly meaningless.” A door closing, a candle guttering.

“…I want compensation.” A hand held out, palm steady.

“Of course. As you wish. I won’t disappoint you.” Promises laid like tiles.

What’s happened can’t be changed; ink sets, clay fires.

I could leverage this and wring a heavy price from Head. From that angle, I’m the beneficiary; no one hands over a handle lightly, grip firm on the hilt.

Of course, that “no one” doesn’t include Head with his all-knowing view. He likely foresaw I’d go easy for a smoother future. Eyes like constellations, blade sheathed halfway.

He’s wearing a human face and tongue now. I don’t dare guess how much future he still sees, a veil over the mirror.

Only one thing’s certain, a single nail in wood.

If we split and start stripping covers, Head will be in a bad spot, and my losses won’t be small either—two bridges burned, two sides smoke-choked.

Forget it… a sigh drifting like ash.

“…No next time, Head.” The door shut with a soft click.

“What do you want, Andor?” His smile stayed like porcelain. I wanted to punch it.

“Put it this way. Everything I asked from you before was for—” the thread drawn taut.

“Ferrel.” Her name like light on water.

“Right, yes. I want land, I want the Endless City, I want Ferrel back. In my script, she’ll be a city lord, watching human history like before. But this time, we’ll change it with our own hands.” A city like a chess piece, our hands ink-stained.

“And then? What do you want?” The question poised like a blade.

Faced with Head’s question, I asked back, returning the arrow:

“Head, you ever heard of DLC costume packs and event-limited gear?” Digital silk over armor.

——

Now all the fodder—no, my brothers and sisters—who want to work with me gather in the inner rings of the Savior Demon King Army’s HQ, moths circling a lantern.

I leak a little intel to Eil and Julian. The couple stays at HQ thanks to the Nameless Sword Saint’s promise. No doubt they’re secretly spying; fine, I use that channel too. I let paper cranes carry whispers to the human higher-ups, so they can breathe easier.

But the protagonist of this scene blew past Eil like a gust while he was probing for info, a blur like a swallow’s shadow.

As for Ferrel, she only descends by borrowing a star-spirit body. But I’ve warned the siblings: touch my girlfriend, and I’ll kindly tear you into a thousand pieces, and mail one home to the Demon Realm every year—silk-wrapped steel.

So when they see Ferrel, they usually walk wide, like leaves skirting fire.

The girl dashed through the fortress, shouldered open every door, and stopped before me, breathless. Feet drummed; doors fell like waves.

“Did you forget you have wings? And how many times have I said, if you walk, wear shoes. I know pebbles won’t pierce your feet, but they’ll get dirty…” Feathers folded, soles kissed by dust.

“Andreas! Look, a pretty stone! Beautiful, right?” Her eyes shone like little lamps; the stone was a drop of moon.

…

I set my work down and, for a few seconds, focused on the little stone in her hand. The world narrowed like a camera iris.

Mm…

Well… Shiny fluorite is pretty, sure, but it’s common. In an underground HQ like this, one shovel has a one-percent chance of winter-ice glints in the dirt.

“Su-per pretty! Especially this round shape. So cute! Right, Andreas?” Like a polished candy on her palm.

Being moved by beauty, praising it outright—humans choose to forget these. Petals ignored on a road.

After all… no practical use, right? It doesn’t bring a single grain of rice. An empty bowl under a full moon.

But it embodies this world’s pure, clean side. Ferrel having that trait isn’t strange—spring water in a black iron cup.

I sighed; my breath fogged the window. My girlfriend’s just like that.

“Alright, Ferrel. If I say you’ve found the prettiest stone lately…” Bait dangled like a ribbon.

Before I finish, she cuts me off, shouting with excitement, her voice leaping like a sparrow:

“This one! Ah, and this—two in total. I’ll give you one.” Palms opened like shells.

“Alright, alright. Fluorite it is. As long as you like it…” Words soft as cloth.

I took the two pieces from her. For uncut fluorite, they’re quite pretty, but still—just fluorite, clouded gems under lamp light.

A little disdain, a wrinkle at the corner of my mouth…

Still, I picked up the two crowns I was crafting, removed the two cold jades from the center, and set the fluorite in, metal gleam and stones clicking like teeth.

Hmm, it works. Barely passable. The crowns were built around the central cold jade; swapping in fluorite feels mismatched, like snow stitched to silk.

But Ferrel likes it, and her smile tips the scales.

“Here, yours.” A small comet in my palm.

“So pretty! Mmm, is it for me?” Her voice fizzed like soda.

“A skin extorted from Head. No practical use, your domain won’t grow. Soon, besides ‘Lord of the Endless City,’ you’ll have a new title.” Names like banners in wind.

“Is it powerful?” Her eyes bright as stars.

“Not powerful—Queen of Infinite Radiance. Treat it as a title; every king and lord will owe you courtesy. But in practice, it’s just a limited-skin title.” Glory like sunrise on armor.

“Thank you, Andor. Thank you for the gift! I love it!” Words tumbled like petals.

She nearly crashed into my arms, hugging my chest tight with happy force. I’m not in a fragile material body now, so I hug back, easy, and pat her slender back—two trees leaning, heartbeat drumming.

“You’d say that no matter the gift, wouldn’t you?” A tease light as a feather.

I say that, but seeing Ferrel so happy, my mood lifts too, clouds parting to a thin sun.