I feel… like a wind tugging at a curtain—you’re hinting at something.

Aa-oo-oo, glug—

Qing An, swallow what’s in your mouth before your words spill like crumbs.

Julian closed her eyes and let out a small sigh, like a lantern dimming at dusk.

The black girl lived as if life were a stage, her voice and gestures lacquered each day, and at night she rewrote lines with ink like midnight rain.

To Julian, who knew the backstage ropes, it was all theater—a silk veil flawlessly worn, a performance no one else had pierced.

Only when no one was near—or when alone with Julian—did the mask slip: a beast starved since birth, eyeing anything edible like a wolf sniffing snow.

Food didn’t stop at human food; Julian had seen her lift a pebble with curious eyes, then drop it like a stone into a well and swallow.

So far, Qing An showed that face only to Julian, like a secret moon seen through a small window.

The trust felt heavy, like armor on the chest; the swordswoman’s heart tangled—Do I deserve this? How do I answer it?—until she could only respond with gentleness, like laying a blade flat on calm water.

I mean, if I ate the real Captain of the Demon World Surveillance Squad—if I ate Mr. Eil—how would you react?

Her pitch-black eyes opened like an abandoned pit at the world’s edge, a city of pain built of night bricks.

Julian wanted to be kind, like spring wind over grass, yet when that not-human face flashed, a winter draft pricked her spine.

Here, that trust felt too heavy, like a boulder on a bridge. Julian would rather the Demon King’s daughter treated her warmly as she did those still blind to the truth.

Mm… if you ate Eil… I think maybe you had your reasons, like a rope bridge stretched over a gorge.

Oh, so that’s the reaction—write it down, write it down—though honestly, Julian-chan, aren’t you trusting me a bit too much, like leaving the door unlatched at night?

How do you mean?

By Dad’s theory, humans face other races with suspicion like frost on reeds. How does that saying go… Oh—Those not of our kind carry other hearts. So why do you trust me? Sword Saint and Divine Being as signposts? But you don’t know the road under the fog. Is that enough? Take the question just now—you didn’t get mad; you tried to find me an excuse. That’s odd, like rain falling upward.

It’s my first time hearing someone unhappy because others trust them—like a hawk sulking at sunshine!

Not unhappy; I’m just saying you should keep a thorn hedge around me, a little more caution.

Julian set down her sword, the way a good word gets stepped on like a flower. Irritation pricked like pine needles; this wasn’t the time to train—mind is the whetstone, heart is the hand, the blade reflects the lake you carry.

Set the heart first. She breathed that thought like steam leaving tea.

Why say that, Qing An?

Julian-chan, do you know what I am? What kind of demon I am, like a shadow with no name?

I believe—

I don’t even know what kind of thing I am, like a weather vane with no wind. No likes, no duties, no obsessions; maybe next moment I bite your throat, quick as a fox in night grass.

I believe you won’t, Qing An. You’re a good—

Good person?

Julian stalled, tongue caught like a fish in the net.

Do I really understand her?

No, not at all. Not even a drop in the bowl.

No quarrel, so I don’t know what sparks her anger, like flint unstruck.

No brawl, so I don’t know her blood courage, like a drum unplayed.

No deep talk, so I don’t know the weight of her longing, like a scale without stones.

We just skim the surface, smiles like floating leaves; that’s coexistence, not knowing.

If I only know the curve of her smile, that’s no different from a stranger wearing winter light.

Julian-chan, it’s better you don’t know cause, course, and result; if I fail, the splash won’t drown you. If I can leak a little—

The black girl dug butter from a jar and ate, jaws grinding like a mill that never stops; to normal eyes, it screamed stomachache and nerves.

She thought a moment, then coughed twice, posing with theater flair like a painted fan opening.

My name is Qing An. I’m three. I was made by a Divine Being to guard the world, a safety device meant to eat the Demon King at the moment he raises a hand to shatter the sky.

I bear the Demon King’s blood, a hero’s soul, and a vessel of darkness—three streams braided into one river.

So who am I? What am I? Answer me like a moonless mirror.

Humans build the thing called self with time like rings in a tree. I had no seasons. I was rush-made like a clay pot fired fast, taught power and mission, then tossed through the gate.

Julian-chan, do you think I’m a safe companion, one who won’t go berserk, like a horse that never bolts?

If a suspicious creature like me had to be my teammate, I’d keep a canyon’s distance—never meet outside work, never, like setting the sun behind a wall.

Qing An declared it like a stone dropped on a table.

The self-mocking, all-sides bombardment sounded like her father—the masked World Saving Demon King, a storm in a mask.

Julian weighed her words like grain; it felt like complaint yet carried no anger, no static, like a public introduction on a clear day.

Strange, like a black flower in snow.

You think I’m strange, right? Most of the stuff in my head was poured in by the lord like wine into a jar. But hunger isn’t fake, and neither are knowledge and wisdom, like salt you can taste.

I understand humans—good and evil, likes and hates. Your expressions read easy, like ink on paper. And then—

When humans laugh, when they cry, that has patterns like tides. Summarize them and mimic them, like tracing a leaf.

You think I sound like Dad because I’m imitating his voice. You think I trust you because I performed trustable acts. All decided beforehand in my mind, like staging cues pinned to the curtain.

Julian-chan, if I say this to you, will you still trust me, like a hand staying on the hilt?

Julian felt fear rise, small but cold, like mist lifting off a lake at dawn.

Fear of blackness, of unknowns, and worst, of the unknown that understands you and predicts you, like a night forest that knows your footsteps.

That near-invisible caution swelled like fog, slow and pale.

Even a swordswoman beyond skill can’t cleave a cage of words and will; she stilled her swaying heart like settling dust, and chose.

Her choice came quick; a warrior’s mind calms like a pond after a thrown stone sinks.

Julian sat straight facing Qing An and lowered her lashes like a gate.

First—why say all this? Why warn me to doubt you, like a bell rung at noon?

Uh, I don’t know. Maybe just chatting. Aside from eating, I have no wishes, like an empty bowl waiting.

You don’t seek reasons for your actions, so I don’t need one either. If “believe Qing An” lacks sense, then “wish to believe” can be a reason without a reason, like light warming a wall.

Bit sophistry. Still, speak—let’s hear the river.

Maybe your acts are staged. But you love clean, crisp clothes, yet you still wear heavy armor for the role, like carrying winter on your shoulders.

You love talk and exchange, yet to play Eil you wear a mask and keep silent, like a bell wrapped in cloth.

You’re always hungry, yet for the role you restrain yourself, eating only what fits the script, like a wolf counting bites.

These are things you truly did. The future may lie, but history won’t; what I saw with my own eyes makes me wish to trust you as a comrade, like sharing fire in a cave.

If everything I said is false, all a performance? Dad also said, An unfeeling actor knows no loyalty. I’m not bound by some great one who won’t lie. Maybe every word is a trick, every tender detail a painted gesture.

Then chalk me up as fooled. Cheating Julian is your prize for effort, like winning a mask at a festival.

Your magnanimity fits my model; I’m not moved, like a stone in shade. If you expect me sobbing, you misread the sky.

Oh… I don’t need you bawling—laundry’s a pain. Let’s keep it like before: my trust, your con, the road as it runs. So, Miss Qing An, what do you want for dinner?

…

Whether you got tight-lipped from being touched or you can’t pick a dish, I’ll go roast apples first, like setting embers under sweet skin.

The warrior smiled and walked into the kitchen, untying her sword like unstringing a bow, and set it down as usual; long steel at the waist and cooking don’t mix, like rain with flour.

As usual, like a path traced daily.

Hey, Julian-chan.

What is it, Miss Qing An?

I’m a drifter, like a leaf on current. Aside from hunger, I’ve got no wishes.

This is…

Listen. Just listen first. My dad’s a bastard and a fearsome man, like thunder behind a mountain. I fear him, and I want to become him, like a moth to a torch.

…

I was told at birth, “You’re a safety device,” and fine—no wishes, no urge to live at all costs, like a candle that accepts the wick. But still, I’d hate to go; food is so good, like sun on ripe grain. I always look forward to the next bite.

…

Mr. Eil and I spoke long and reached a pact. Before he died, he said I could eat him, because only his blood and his soul can drive this armor, like oil and flame in a lamp.

My feeling was: extremely delicious—thanks for the treat, like a bow after the show.

…

I don’t think Demonfolk and humans are different in essence—just tilts and tendencies, like two trees in one wind. Both cry; both laugh.

…

My dream is to be a xiangsheng performer—the comic banter kind that brings laughter—because I love bringing laughter, like scattering petals, not some noble goal.

…

I don’t think my mission is great; the lord asked, and I had no reason to refuse, so I took the seat, like a player stepping onto the stage.

…

For these three years, I haven’t felt cold, heat, fatigue, pain; my blood is the finest, my body forged to the edge, like steel drawn thin. But I felt bored, so I play other people and taste their lives, like sipping teas from many cups.

…

Also, I think this calm stretch is the happiest in my life, like morning light on a quiet yard.

Qing An…

I don’t think I’m pitiful, nor that I need pity. I live happy, luckier than most, like a traveler with bread and shade.

Qing An!

—Julian-chan, that was all for show—at least half of it was smoke and mirrors. So could you let go? Your chest is smothering me like twin pillows!

I knew you'd say that. It's okay—I believe you, like a lantern in the mist.