Miss Nivifar was the Savior Demon King Army’s mascot, a bright idol on TV and radio, a smile like neon cutting through gray news skies.

Most diplomacy fell to Vega and his avatars, with a few mid-level officers carrying files like shields. Everyone who touched the Demon King Army was visible, like footprints in fresh snow. Only the human settlements were different—there, Nivifar’s voice carried like a village bell.

Her work was village-head simple. In her free hours, she’d pace the human blocks like a steady wind, asking if anything chafed or needed a hand to smooth it.

Right now, the people who mattered were Vega, Nivifar with her sway, and the pair of Eil and Julian. Vega stood on the Demon King Army’s side like a stone gate. Eil and Julian stood with humans, steady as lanterns. Nivifar kept watch between, a bridge over a fast river.

More precise? She stood with the Demon King Army, yet spoke hard for the human side, pushing Vega toward better terms like a tide against a pier. That tilt made her a star in the settlements, and she got on well with Julian too.

When Qing An played Eil, she kept distance, words short and cold, like frost on a blade. Yet Nivifar seemed fascinated by Eil—or by the Demon World Surveillance Squad. She often drifted to Julian’s place, like a moth to a quiet lamp.

A guest who brought ingredients and dishes was no villain; a sincere bow made refusal feel like closing a door on warm sunlight. It troubled Qing An a little, a pebble in the shoe, but only a little.

“Mr. Eil! What’s the Demon Realm like?”

“A red sky, a black earth. The air tastes of blood and barren wind, like iron and ash. For that answer, the World Saving Demon King speaks fuller than I do.”

Eil—Qing An—kept her voice low and even, like a drum under cloth. Her father’s lesson rang in her chest: don’t break character; hold the line and play Eil true.

“But Andor, you know him—he only says ‘garbage heap,’ ‘a nest of riffraff.’ His bias is a thorn fence.”

“For the demonfolk, ‘homeland’ isn’t a beautiful word. Most are drunk on killing and being killed, on ruining and being ruined, like dancers in a storm. Those who understand others, those moved by beauty, are few, like stars before dawn.”

Put simply, they’re a people who won’t live a calm lifetime, a fire that refuses a hearth.

“Ah, I see. Then what does the Demon World Surveillance Squad do in the Demon Realm?”

Nivifar always let friendly talk slide into questions, a silk rope around a gate. Maybe it wasn’t scheming; maybe she admired those quiet heroes. But prying and praise feel like twin blades. To play Eil, Qing An had to keep every step as the real Eil would.

A lie built for a false stage needs more lies, like scaffolds on sand; one day, it collapses.

Luckily, Qing An’s tight logic and thorough digging filled the shell of “Captain Eil” with living detail, like water poured into a clay mold.

Even so, any spy keeps a fence in his heart when someone fishes for truth.

“It’s no different from now. Get close to the Demon King, breathe, survive, then carry the intel back to the human world.”

“No different… Wait, so you’re spying even now? But I’m under Andor’s wing…”

“No need to tense up, Miss Nivifar. The World Saving Demon King knows, and he permits it with a nod. Ask him, and he’ll say, ‘To ease the humans, let trivial intel drift out now and then.’”

“Is that so? That lets me breathe again. I thought… no, nothing. Sorry, Mr. Eil.”

The air tightened, a string near snapping. Factions almost bared fangs; the room’s warmth fell like a shade.

Qing An felt no ripple. She believed her moves were clean, each step a blade’s edge. Even a fight would be “what Eil would do.” Nivifar’s mood, though, sank like dusk.

Nivifar wore a face like the whole world owed her coin, and eyes with too much white, sharp as winter glare. Unlike the maid-chief, straight-faced and flawless as lacquer, Nivifar’s feelings showed easy, like ripples on a shallow pond.

Julian tapped the table, a soft knock like a gavel, and the topic closed. They kept eating.

About eating—Julian and Eil were Lunarfolk. They didn’t need food; they drew leyline mana like roots drinking deep. Yet Nivifar, even turned into an upper retainer, still ate on schedule. Eating was pleasure, a ritual flame.

Eil didn’t eat. He never ate. In the Demon Realm, he kept battle-ready like a drawn bow, and demon food was poison to human flesh. Another reason was a soldier’s heart—he trained himself to hunger, a cold friend in the gut.

Since Qing An began the impersonation, the reason changed: he couldn’t let anyone see his face, a moon behind clouds.

A lifelike face mask was possible, but a spy uses real things when he can; fewer fakes mean fewer cracks, like stone without seams.

The human world had no magic to sniff out “who wears a human-face mask,” but for a Demon King, inventing it was only will or whim.

So only Julian and Nivifar sat at the table, steam curling like mist. Eil read on the couch, a quiet figure under lamplight.

“Then, Nivifar, do you have anything I can write down as intel?”

“…”

Qing An weighed Eil’s character and picked this move, like placing a stone where the river narrows.

Mr. Eil didn’t read the room—or he did, and chose not to bend. He lived to carry the Demon King’s truths to humans. Once cards lay face-up, he naturally asked Nivifar for news.

Even if the air grew more awkward, even if Julian frowned like a winter cliff, it had to be said.

That’s an actor’s pride, a mask held steady.

“The World Saving Demon King must know your comings and goings, Miss Nivifar. So the intel you give us is within his sight. From what I know, he doesn’t force comrades into cruel choices. He sees through hearts. Which means—”

“—what I know isn’t top secret. It’s the kind he’s fine with me telling, right?”

“It’s best that you understand.” Qing An nodded, face hidden behind the mask, posture stern as carved wood.

To perform the full play, you keep the seams tight.

Nivifar felt like someone had tricked her, a thorn in silk. But where was the trick? She couldn’t point to it. Maybe it was her own wishful thinking, a thin crack of self-doubt.

A martial artist thinks straight. Meet a problem, think hard, then sprint toward what feels right, like a spear to a target. That was her with Andor at first sight; that hadn’t changed.

Left and right in thought, measuring Andor and Eil, she found this reading true, like a scale settling.

“Alright.”

She let out a heavy sigh, a wet cloak dropping off the shoulders.

So heavy that Julian and Qing An both felt the next visit might be far off, like a moon behind clouds for a season.

“Andor’s building a device. It looks like a giant missile, a spear pointed at the sky. Many other Demon Kings have come here too. I don’t know what they plan. Is that enough?”

Qing An and Julian traded a look, a flash like steel in stormlight. Trouble was gathering, black clouds rolling in.