When was the last time I slept? The thought drifts like a leaf on night wind.

Demonfolk don’t really need sleep; in bloodlust, we fight for months without rest, food, or drink. That frenzy burns like a comet across a black sky. Humans, by brain mechanics, don’t truly need sleep either. But sleep is a matter of spirit, a quilt of calm over stormy thoughts.

Sleep does lift the mood; skip sleep and the heart turns feral. It’s like a lake turned mirror, then churned by a cold wind.

On top of that, Head’s been courting Divine Beings who crave a new era. Nairoeu’s visit was only a first ripple. Add the time-stopped meetings with a Divine Being, and I’m cramming twenty-eight hours into a day, like stuffing stars into a narrow jar.

I yawned, a hollow cave opening. I spread the design sheets like wings and checked the magitech circuits against the Skyward Launcher taking shape before me.

Yeah. A Skyward Launcher—the kind that claws its way into the heavens.

I promised my siblings we’d go stir trouble in the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom. To reach that “supreme” sky, we need special routes—magic that applies a Demon King’s Authority Domain, like slipping through clouds with a hidden blade.

Typically, the sky’s height is “infinite.” Aerian or dragon, fly as high as you like; the sense of “world” thins like mist, the material view frays like torn silk. Yet you never reach the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom. To a human bound to matter, the air just keeps thinning, like breath lost on a mountain peak. You still won’t reach space; the Silver Era’s stellar vault hasn’t been manufactured yet.

Above the mortal realm there’s nothing, a bare roof under cloud. In principle, the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom doesn’t share a plane with the world below.

I told Daviya that. He strummed his guitar, lazy as a cat in sun. The others wore “who plans to kill me, and whom I plan to kill” across their faces like war paint. Kadula was just as carefree—Demon King by title, sunbather by habit—off somewhere chasing a patch of light like a lizard on warm stone.

Daviya paused, then shifted to a lighter tune, notes skipping like pebbles over water, and said to me:

“Andor, you know I study and use magic for fun,” he said. “But the idea of sealing Authority in a Skyward Launcher to break through the supreme sky…”

“No one’s done it, right? Genius stuff.”

“It’s been done. But since that Demon King evaporated from history, every Demon King hoping to ascend weighs sire’s strength, then drops it, like a stone at the river’s edge.”

“True. The capable won’t bother with thankless work; they raze the world and sleep like thunder after rain. The incapable look for shortcuts, find none, think of it, then flinch, like mice scenting traps. Only a kind big brother like me will take everyone on a trip to the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom.”

No tickets, no return fare; just the slight risk of dying, like crossing a rope bridge over a night sea.

But at that, Daviya wore a face that wanted to laugh, then pressed the smile down, like a lid over boiling water.

Hey, hey.

“…I always thought talking with you was pleasant, Daviya,” I said, mood like a soft lantern.

“Ah, that so? Sometimes I can’t tell if you’re playing dumb or truly arrogant, Andor,” he said, words like needles under velvet.

“That cuts deep.”

I yawned again, rubbed my eyes like sand from shore, and got back to work. I put on a heavy miner’s hard hat, just for the mood, like a helm before a storm.

By the manual, Daviya should handle assembly entirely—like the liable party who’d be first in court, designer and executor as one. In theory, like two hands on one chisel.

That’s the talk, but Daviya’s no trained designer from later schools, not clay baked in modern kilns. He studies and uses magic for interest, like a hobbyist painting little boats. Among Demon Kings with Authority Domains, he’s the best at magic; yet before the Council of Sages, it’s still not showcase grade, like a bright spark that won’t light a hall. Asking him to design a complete, large-scale seal is pushing a lone boat into heavy surf.

Doing it myself isn’t impossible, like rolling my sleeves in rain. With an Authority Domain, breaking the “supreme” concept is easy, like cutting silk with a sharp blade. The problem: we don’t plan to wave banners and declare war on the entire Starry Sky Divine Kingdom, like trumpets on a cold field. Once you tug an Authority Domain, other intertwined world-concepts get pulled, like roots under soil. Combine that with a high-speed charge toward the Divine Kingdom, and it’s drums and shots—an obvious signal of war.

That’s why we need a magic seal—to slip in quietly, silently, like a shadow crossing moonlight.

That’s why we need Daviya—to guide the use of the Authority Domain with his grasp of magic, like a pilot reading stars.

So I became chief designer. I had to contact Head, ask which components would alarm the gods, and which magic goes where so we can slip into the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom, like threading a needle in midnight.

Anyway, that’s how a job I thought would be easy—silver-paint the Skyward Launcher and slap on Savior Demon King Army posters like moon on steel—turned into a mismatched mess, like a robe stitched from wrong seasons.

Mm… solo infiltration isn’t the same as sneaking in with baggage, like a hawk versus a caravan.

Still, counting how much pressure this cannon fodder can soak, I swallow my annoyance. I press down the urge to kill them and gift their heads to human high command, like stacking stones to dam a raging stream.

Vega excels at covert work, her control over mana razor-fine like ice carvings, but she’s not good at spellcraft, so she couldn’t help much. Aside from Daviya, the second-biggest contribution came, surprisingly, from Nivifar, like a bright blade drawn from a monk’s sleeve.

Look at that! A martial artist better at magic than a Demon King, like bamboo outgrowing pines.

Maybe it’s her Hero bloodline, old fire running her veins. When we urgently needed a magic-savvy hand, Nivifar said she’d try, like a hand raised in mist. I handed her entry-level grimoires—“Magic Even a Chimera Can Learn,” “Magic: From Novice to Enlightenment.” Within days, she produced a passable draft, like a map sketched under lantern light.

The other siblings were surprised, not envious, like stones stirred, not moved. For a Demon King, moving mana to wield Authority is natural as breath. It’s like a healthy person watching a disabled person learn a prosthetic—no envy, only quiet weather over a rough road.

“…About two more days, and the Skyward Launcher will be complete,” I said, hope flickering like a hearth.

“Going by your style, you’ll time the launch to something specific—or wait for the Hero to be mid-something,” Daviya said, words like a metronome.

“Not this time. This story isn’t about the Hero—anymore,” I said, severing a knot like a cut rope.

“I hear a subtle tone in that,” he said, ears like a fox under frost. “I won’t dig. I’ll congratulate you in advance—may you get what you want.”

Daviya, from who-knows-where, produced a bottle and two cups, like a magician from his sleeves. He set the guitar aside, poured full, and handed me a drink, amber like trapped sunlight.

“No drinking on the job. If something fails, go face the enraged gods yourself,” I said, voice like iron on anvil.

“But I’m not going with you,” he said, shrugging like a bird fluffing feathers.

Right. He’s my collaborator; pushing the doctrine of Dispute in the mortal realm already earns the Ocean of Darkness’s favor, like tides nodding to a moon. No need for him to risk a jaunt to the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom, like sailing into a hurricane.

No wonder he looks so relaxed, like tea steaming in quiet dawn.

But if the designer won’t board, how can I rest easy, like a captain missing his navigator?

“Daviya.”

“What is it?”

“No, nothing…” I said, the word trailing like smoke.

I made up my mind: on launch day, I’ll drag him aboard, like hooking a fish from dark water.

Then he’ll likely quit smiling over his drink, like a lamp snuffed before storm.