Why didn’t I see it earlier! Andor’s legendary spell, “Defiant Death”—why defy death? Why stand against that river’s pull? He knew this rot in his bones all along! Damn it, damn it! When we were together there wasn’t even a ripple! Damn it!

...

If he’d told me sooner... where does a Shadow Sorcerer’s lifespan snap? In the body? If I built him a prosthetic, or throttled those high-performance mana circuits, maybe he wouldn’t have—

...

...Yeah. That path could work. Mana-gathering apertures—right, plug the holes and the tide stops... Hey, Stini, are you even listening to me?

...Oh?

Sti! Ni! Andor is dead!

In the Saya estate, the Hero lay like spilled mud, draped over the sofa she half-owned, limp as rain-sodden cloth. Even when Raven yanked her collar like a hooked fish, Stini’s eyes stayed dull, her body slithering from the shirt like dusk sliding off a ridge.

For the record, the house shirt she wore was Andor’s, a few sizes too big, just enough to shade the tops of her thighs. When Raven hauled her by the collar, the shirt climbed, and a slim, willow-cut butt showed clean as pale stone.

A bare butt.

A butt without panties.

Anger wrestled habit in Raven’s chest like two dogs under a gate. After a fierce scuffle on her face, habit won.

So the Arcane Engineer hefted Stini, grumbling like a kettle, and took the familiar stairs. She tossed the mission target onto the bed, opened the wardrobe, and changed her into something less likely to flash like lightning.

Coming downstairs, Raven kept lecturing, throat like an iron bell that wouldn’t crack. Stini didn’t listen, her mind a fog that swallowed sound.

Vega had poured for everyone. Hearing the upstairs noise grow like thunder rolling downhill, she judged the landing spot, stepped back to the maid’s proper place, and coughed once—clean and sharp—cutting off humanity’s greatest Arcane Engineer and her plan to craft an everlasting arcane construct body.

Miss Vega, we should mourn the dead, but in the end we must walk forward. As you can see, tonight’s visitors came for a feast, not a wake.

...I know, I know. But it’s Andor! Stini, don’t you want to say something?

No one lives so they’ll be a shrine after they’re gone—if they do, that life is pitiful. My master didn’t walk to the end for that ugly reason. He acted so you could live with more laughter, not less. Miss Stini is choking back pain, yet she understands this better than you.

Vega bowed like a reed in wind, then carried two drinks up the current and handed them to Stini and Raven as they reached the last step.

When Stini took the cup, her gaze flashed sharp as a blade, met Vega’s, then dulled again like embers under ash. She lifted the cup herself and drained it in one hero’s pull.

Vega wanted to speak two more lines, but Stini’s vacant eyes jammed the words in her throat like a bone. So Vega lifted her own cup and sipped, small and careful.

Andor’s dead, huh. I kept feeling that idiot would take a killing blow, then hop out of some shadowed corner and scare us breathless—

My master, Andor Mephy, won’t be coming back this time...

The sudden slam of a thick wooden mug on the table cracked the air like a clap of thunder. Elina’s first reflex went to the chain flail at her waist. Every gaze snapped to Gloria, seated straight in the center of the sofa like a statue.

The mug struck, and beer still un-drunk leapt upward like startled birds. Then it fell as a sudden rain, dousing the table and heads at the feast.

Only Vega, already tasting trouble, measured how long it would take to clean the ceiling stains. The others waited, tight and anxious, to hear what Gloria would say.

But Andor said he was... ready... to propose to me. If he doesn’t come back, how does he... propose?

The air curdled into something ugly.

Then it bloomed into overheated sorrow, like incense choking a shrine. Everyone drifted over, sighing and shaking their heads, patting Gloria’s shoulder or crown, clinking her mug with gentle knuckles.

The head maid felt no staged grief, no karmic amusement. Only a headache, sharp as a pin.

Vega took a small shot of her favorite gin, set the glass down like placing a stone, and slid into the mindset for handling anomalies.

But Andor... clearly hasn’t even—

Gloria was lost in the weather of the room, a sky she never learned to read.

Vega went to her like the rest, but caught the fault line before the key phrase broke loose. She patted Gloria’s shoulder and cut the princess off.

Please don’t say any more. If you’re truly sad, you can cry in my arms.

She wrapped both hands around Gloria’s head, firm as a wreath. Gloria still didn’t understand, but obeyed. She made a very fake “woo-woo,” and tears spilled.

The smell of machine oil rose, sharp and undeniable.

Face soft, Vega watched her weep while mapping stains. She’d need to wash this blouse soon. Gloria’s tears—arcane fluid—leave clear marks on fabric after the vapor lifts like mist.

Problem contained. The mood as a pool slowly smoothed. Everyone returned to their seats. No one wanted to gnaw on the dead man’s confession. He’s gone. Let the past drift downstream.

Vega exhaled, went back to her corner, reclaimed the cherished gin, and stole sips amid the chores.

The air stayed damp with silence. Everyone gripped their chosen drink and swallowed without speaking. The feast had no heat, like a brazier gone cold.

The Hero Squad noticed.

Elina, a princess often overlooked, was used to this gray weather. She curled in a corner like a harmless rabbit and drank her fruit wine.

Catherine drank water, ate bread, and shook her wings now and then. Stiff temper has its perks—it doesn’t bend to mood.

Stini sprawled on the sofa, lazy motions, gulping hard liquor like water. She was the main weight dragging the room down, a stone on the current.

Gloria held her beer, face full of bafflement, still lost in the earlier storm.

Raven and the new Dragon Exorcist were the sensitive ones, eyes circling like swallows, trying to hook a topic and pull the mood up—even though it usually failed.

Oh right, Vega, are you still working as a maid? I remember most of the inheritance went to you...

Yeah, Miss Vega should be loaded now! Why keep being a maid?

They’re bad at picking topics.

Still, Miss Vega’s manners never slip, even if her warmth does. Answering questions one by one is part of the craft. She replied, courteous as a tea ceremony:

Indeed. But perhaps you misunderstand. Before my master died, I was already the CEO of the Mephi Consortium.

Then why still be a maid?

Because my interests overlap with my master’s—no, not the maid outfit; it’s awkward. But my true post is maid. I’m first his head maid, then a CEO.

...

The Dragon Exorcist took off her mask to drink, and you could see her surprise as clear as everyone else’s.

Like discovering your gaming buddy is a billionaire.

Uh, you... I mean, now? Now that Andor’s dead, are you still going to be a maid?

Vega dusted off an old memory sealed like a scroll and pulled it out of her soul.

Andor had planned his exit long ago. “Those who plan will stand; those who don’t will fall.” He said it fits the situation by logic, but fails by feeling. Vega never fully grasped what he meant.

Inheritance was part of that plan. Most ownership of the Mephi Consortium went to Vega, with one-third to Stini. That would keep the consortium from crumbling before his identity reveal, and after, leave space for humans to install oversight and ensure we weren’t breaking laws.

Non-liquid reserve cash went to Raven. Arcane Engineering burns money like a furnace; her ledger is a string of debts. She’s stubborn and refuses aid. Now’s the farewell chance to fund her—she couldn’t return it even if she wanted to.

A small slice of non-sellable shares also went to Raven, so when she empties the purse and Andor isn’t treating anymore, she won’t starve.

Elina and Gloria are princesses. They won’t lack money, so no point sending theirs.

The wine cellar’s stash went to our class mentor, Alpha. Some jewelry went to the Hero Academy’s medical department, to Saint Milay. A small fund went to Nivifar, Ferrel, and our own people. And a middle-finger sculpture went to Stini’s father, Augustus. Those are minor bequests, with a dash of dark humor best left unmentioned.

For now I’m still the maid. It’s my profession and my habit. Thank you for your concern. As you see, my master left no heirs. The Mephi Consortium’s main ownership rests with me. I can’t let what he built decay. Otherwise, even dead, I couldn’t sleep easy.

Raven and the Dragon Exorcist didn’t care about Vega’s “role.” They dropped it and tried another thread, fishing for livelier air.

It failed. That’s the verdict.

The feast ended. Elina timidly said she’d go back to pray. Raven used that slipstream to announce the close.

At last, Stini reacted. She lifted a hand and waved, a quiet farewell like a leaf falling.

Miss Stini, if you sink this deep, next time there may be no one at your feast.

They’ll come. As long as I stay like this, they’ll keep coming. Then they’ll remember Andor. They won’t forget him. They won’t polish those memories into gold—I won’t, either. And then—

The lifeless Stini stood at some unnoticed moment, eyes suddenly keen, a spear point aimed at the head maid.

Even without any weapon or armor—this fight wouldn’t be fought on the physical plane.

—And then, when Andor comes back next time, all debts get settled at once.

Vega tried to smirk, but years of straight-faced habit had erased the shape. In the end, she simply bowed, etiquette perfect as a blade’s edge.