No, no, Ms. Nivifar—I'm asking for intel to stay true to the role, like a mask soldered to my face.

I don’t want secrets so dangerous they invite a silencing; I want a plant-still life, like moss in shade.

Inside, Qing An screamed like a caged bird beating ribs, while her hands raced like lightning to link the route for intel transmission.

Once a message flies the coop, sealing it is needless; killing the spy loses weight, and this time fear shadows the stage as well as the act.

Though Nivifar spoke hazily, no keystones named, Qing An saw the outline like constellations traced by absence.

She knew it marked Andor ready to strike the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom, like a spear angling at the moon.

Her maker, the oldest Demon King, Saster, who holds the concept of Brutality, once told her the world’s rehearsal, like winter practicing its storms.

A safety device meant to know nothing learned history, because an ancient Hero’s guilt leaked like thawing snow.

Maybe it would happen, maybe not; among all branches, only one fit the sketch—an assault on the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom, like a tide against a cliff.

Yet Saster never knew Qing An chose to approach Andor by playing a spy, like a shadow wearing a candle’s shape.

The role is easy in daylight: behave honest, nothing happens; but for a spy, too much and too little both cut, two edges of one knife.

In the Silver Era, truth-scrying magic came in many forms; lie-veiling magic too, but hiding tracks is harder than finding footprints.

It feeds on staging, hints, woven threads—longer loom, stronger cloth, like silk raised over months.

Right now there’s no time to spin a veil; damn the wind, like a door slammed by a squall.

If they ask plain as a blade, dying on the spot wouldn’t surprise, a candle pinched dark.

Nivifar left fast; the door hadn’t settled when it swung back, and the spies’ hut took its second guest like dusk drawing cold.

Expected guest: the head maid of the World Saving Demon King—commander of the Savior Demon King Army, chief of intelligence, master of cleanup—“Vicious Vega” stepped in like a black swan.

Timing was a tight wire over a ravine, wind worrying the line.

After several failed mana pings, Qing An understood the air was locked like ice, a lake crusted shut.

The Savior Demon King Army had prepared, watching which currents could flow and which must dam, like sluice gates in flood season.

One comfort: whenever she unhelmed or spoke of crossing lines with Julian, she built wards beforehand, hedges against wolves, likely unseen.

She couldn’t tell if full-stage etiquette saved her or sank her like a stone in deep water.

Judgment fell like a storm’s gavel, thunder spelling verdict.

Qing An wanted to sing two operatic bars, to lament fate and roar at the unjust sky, but the world has no narrator; she swallowed the aria like rain.

Ms. Vega bowed with perfect poise, a blade’s quiet in silk.

“My master allows you two to linger at Savior Demon King Army headquarters,” she said, voice velvet over iron. “One reason: Dulan can coach Ms. Julian’s stance.”

“Another: my master believes a measured share of our intel fosters friendship with humans, like scales kept even.”

“Note—there’s no ‘mercy’ in this. We never trumpet a foolish slogan like ‘the Demon King’s mercy.’”

“I think even if it’s not mercy—”

“Mr. Eil, please let me finish,” she said, polite as snow yet leaving no choice. “Until now, we’ve gotten along.”

“Demonfolk assume the worst of allies and enemies alike, like hunters scenting wind.”

“If we meet masked, whether it’s trust or suspicion hardly matters. Just don’t break our shared tacit accord, the ink line we both follow.”

“But if you’re planning to—then it’s not about accord at all!” The bridge burned in his breath.

Though panic spun inside like leaves in a storm, Qing An donned righteous valor like a borrowed cloak.

She stayed true to the role; her inner gaze stepped back like frost, seeing cause and effect like tracks in snow.

Her actions followed the persona she’d preset, doing what that pattern would do, like gears biting in a clock.

Play the Hero, then live and die like a Hero, a sword set on its path.

Play the Villain, then live and die like a Villain, a night without moon.

She herself felt nothing, no ripple, a blank mirror on a still pond.

She called it an actor’s decorum; it was also her twist, a knot in old wood.

Not self-erasure, but full substitution—living as the other like a spirit in borrowed skin.

Even Julian, who thought she knew enough, sometimes stared again in shock, lightning seeing itself in glass.

“So Mr. Eil tried to pass this news to the humans first,” Vega said, like a chess player noting a gambit. “A pity. I thought we’d understand each other.”

“Now, permit me to ask—what’s your next move?”

“None. There’s nothing left.” His voice hung like a cut thread.

Eil—Qing An—flung a hand, clenched a fist, let go; he didn’t draw the longsword, tides refusing to break.

All-out, even the Demon King’s three maids might not catch her; but it meant nothing, like outrunning rain in a sea storm.

The Army fields more than three blades; even a Hero might not hack free of headquarters, a forest of spears closing.

By Eil’s way of living, this grand Hero always wants to save more lives, gathering fallen leaves into shelter.

Inside, the prankish chorus looped—“Done for,” “Dead,” “Don’t posture now”—pebbles clattering in a skull.

Her body still played cramped defiance, then—

She knelt, one hand to earth, head low, a pose inviting the axe; in any age, it means submission, snow bending reeds.

“Julian knows nothing. Can you spare her?” The plea rose like smoke.

“If you hadn’t asked at the start, we wouldn’t be here, would we?” Vega’s words bit like frost.

“I need to know because I’m here. But—can you spare her?” He held the line like a candle against wind.

Ms. Vega sighed hard; her brows shaped annoyance, not pain, thorns under silk.

Then—

Near-teleport speed: Vega’s left hand clamped Qing An’s throat and lifted her, a hawk taking a hare.

Her right hand bent into a claw and drove into Qing An’s chest, iron roots punching earth.

Julian tried to draw the sword, but only half slid; Qing An grabbed the blade, edge splitting her palm, blood threading like red rain.

The steel mask showed nothing, and she kept silent, a shut door in winter.

Julian hauled again; Qing An squeezed harder; more blood poured, enough to look like severed fingers, petals torn by wind.

“...Can you spare her?” The words were embers.

“Could you please save me some trouble, Mr. Spy?” Vega’s patience frayed like rope.

Her frown deepened like a gathering storm; she slammed Qing An’s throat to the floor, brute force shattering the foundation, rubble closing like a landslide.

Then the fingers at her heart pressed and wrenched; a chunk of armor tore free like bark peeled from an old tree.

“Next time it won’t just be a plate.” Vega tossed the plate aside, licked blood from her fingers, then wiped them clean with a handkerchief, a ritual after the hunt.

Looks like that means I won’t die; thank heavens, Qing An said inside, a candle relit in a dark room.

“Next time, same as ever. If there’s a chance, I’ll still ask,” she said, face calm over fire, ice pretending not to crack.

“That’s for next time. As the Divine Being said, humans have the right to self-destruction.”

“For now, Mr. Eil, this way. My master wants to see you,” Vega said, the tide pulling toward deep water.