Eil’s story isn’t recorded anywhere we can reach on the human side, my languid, tea-sipping master. What does that tell us? Either he leaves no ripples, or his clearance sits above our current leak.

First, you jumped me for slacking before you even asked if I had work. That’s bias. Second, let me tell you about Eil—he used to be one of my favorite performers. He’s captain of the Demon World Surveillance Squad, with roughly twenty years total in the Demon Realm. In his youth, he defeated a certain Demon King. From that day, he was cursed. His armor became his flesh, his strength. He can command steel in small ways—let iron grit peel, mix with his blood, and shape a Greatsword.

— — —

The Greatsword isn’t as vicious as its molten look promises.

Its blade crawls like lava under stone, spitting sparks and iron dust—his blood fused with armor. It’s akin to, but not the same as, Hero Squad’s Dragon Exorcist. Dragon Exorcist’s blood, laced with draconic power, equals flame. Eil’s blood is human. Its heat and thickness come from the Demon King’s curse.

It has the heat of a blaze, the hardness of steel, and a rough self-repair. Truth is, the control that curse grants is weak. The Greatsword looks ancient and battered because he can’t form a complete blade—he can’t even shape a true edge. It’s more a flat cudgel than a sword.

So, don’t be dazzled by the entrance. The sword isn’t the terror.

Eil is.

— — —

I admit I was rash. So, once more, my hard-mouthed master—were you actually working just now?

Uh… fine. I admit it. I wasn’t working.

— — —

He crouches, left hand on the ground, Greatsword shouldered.

He squares to the monster and charges like a storm front.

The black-clad hero breaks the speed wall; time skips a beat like a torn reel. His left hand claws the earth, flips his airborne body, and the shoulder-held blade wheels back into a wide, flat cut.

He bisects the monster—hammer and all—with one stroke.

Wind churns, fat and flesh grind to pulp. The shockwave slaps the arena wall with splintered tendrils and broken teeth. The blood-sweet stink stokes the demons’ fever. They cheer and howl like surf on rock.

— — —

Eil is strong. Where? Everywhere. Absolute. To join the Demon World Surveillance Squad is to be elite among elites—mind and muscle, both tempered. Step up again—captain. Step up again—the one great hero in decades who returned alive.

How strong?

Eight upper vassals slain. Fifty-seven mid vassals. Grunt-level Demonfolk beyond counting. The price? One arm lost, and barely reaching “wounds that hinder him for three days”—and that was with my order to focus purely on Mr. Eil, ignore Ms. Julian. He was effectively fighting two foes. Initial estimate—Augustus-level.

— — —

Legs to gain speed. Left hand to change line. Right hand to swing steel. Eil’s style is that simple.

Simple to say, but until an upper vassal enters, no challenger survives a single cut.

A Demon King, a concept made flesh, won’t fall to common frames. Tradition demands salute, permission from the Great One, then a fair challenge. Down a rung, upper vassals—those with a shot at apotheosis—can be killed by mortal means.

They’re strong, yes—but against Eil, against a top hero of men, they’re short of the summit.

He’s powerful by purity. He’s radiant by simplicity.

Demons stepping up don’t even register his cut; those who do can’t stop it. If an upper vassal matches his pace, he has a second cut, a third. Break the blocking arm. Break the ribs. Break the spine. Break to slurry. Even upper vassals, mauled that far, must return to the Ocean of Darkness.

It isn’t Shadow Artisan Andor’s stacked, crushing dominance, Greatsword on Greatsword. Eil’s blade isn’t freakishly huge. It’s more flexible in angle and freer in rhythm, dragging enemies into his tempo faster.

Add near-ruinous force, a feral urge to strike, black armor lifting fine scales to shed shock. He looks more Demonfolk than a demon. If not for his silence, you’d mistake which side belongs to evil.

— — —

One mercy of the arena—rules exist. They show a fighter’s level plainly. One says, “Anyone entering the arena must make their presence known.” That cuts down ambushes, those wild swings of chance.

Right, so if one demon can tie up Eil, another could finish him. A Greatsword isn’t nimble.

Ms. Julian is also on the field. Remember—except for the first bout, the arena has been a fair two-on-two.

Hmm. Julian—how strong is she?

Strong, by the book. Not “absolute might,” but “complete strength.” No weakness, no special spike. Her power sits within projections—maybe pressing the boundary, and that’s that.

— — —

Julian draws her longsword—standard two-handed make, standard battle stance.

Her blade tilts left—

Everyone knows standing square in front of a martial artist—one set in stance—is folly.

The lovers share a trait—their motion makes your eyes drop frames.

No one sees when she strikes, when she sheathes. Only the result—her opponent’s right arm cut off at the root.

You looked away—

Next time, it’s your head.

Julian appears on the foe’s rear flank, flicks blood, and the blade slides home.

— — —

Maybe the Sword Saint’s glow eclipsed Julian, but it’s fact—she won the Lunarfolk’s northern war-festival for chieftain without a loss. That proves her strength.

My timid master, it’s precisely these straight-walking warriors I don’t misjudge. If it’s only “strong,” only what “strong” can do, I can pile chips and crush without suspense. But Mr. Eil—

What about him?

He’s very strong, but not strong enough for “returning from the Demon Realm and retreating whole before the Demon King.” He must be hiding a trump card he hasn’t shown us.

I won’t debate unproven things, nor will I grade your estimates. I ask one thing, Vega—what do you need, so when Eil and Julian force the line, you can truly stop him?

Your halberd. Only with the authority in hand can I swear certainty.

Hmm… fine. Granted. Any other reports?

Julian requests some HolyWater, or other blessings effective on humans. The Demon King Army has stock, but not much. If Endless City opens to the mortal world, we must prepare basic medical for all visitors.

Hah… buy from Hattie first. Forget Kadula—too pricey. Three days from now, I’ll return from the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom. I’ll secure land by proposing, then we’ll talk with humans about importing essentials.

— — —

Even slaughter-machines suffer metal fatigue after seven upper vassals and fifty-seven mid vassals.

His overdrawn style burns bright in battle—seizing tempo, smashing left and right—but when stamina runs dry, the debt comes due.

Exhaustion sinks from skin to marrow like winter water. If muscle had a voice, this body’s owner would be deafened by its screams. He trembles, about to drop to his knees.

He’s out of strength. He should be out of strength.

Truth is, he felt this way after the last kill too. A human body slides from fatigue to failure; there’s no clean “can’t move” banner, no “this is the final strike.” There’s only will to keep walking—or to spend life to the last spark.

More precise—his mind has hit the wall. By the numbers, yes.

His tongue’s gone numb. The taste shifts from blood to scorch. Heat rolls down his throat. He gulps air and tightens his grip.

Steel answers his palm. Under the visor, teeth lock like clamps.

The monster with a mouth for half its body circles, measuring this spent hero, waiting for a pounce.

Julian is tied up by an upper vassal wielding six knives. She can’t break free in time.

Eil throws his long blade like a man who’s given up. In land ruled by the Demon King, there’s no miracle for a cornered soul.

The monster lunges in joy, slams Eil down, bites the troublesome left hand, and chews slow. It thinks it can savor its fresh win. The Demon King permits it—the arena’s winner takes all.

You should’ve bitten off my head first.

His pinned left hand hooks back, becomes a pivot. His right hand, a soul-stealing iron hook, digs into the monster’s skull and crushes whatever he can reach.

Blood spatters his armor while the thing still thrashes. Blood soaks it, and the thing never moves again.

The black-armored hero scrapes to his feet, retrieves his Greatsword, and stands in the arena’s heart. That blood-painted beauty grips every soul present. Julian seizes the moment and churns her foe’s heart to pulp.

Who else?

With his one good right arm, he grips the hilt and wrenches it free from a corpse.

Who else!

He raises the blade to the demons like a banner and declares his victory.

Who else!!!

Demons seethe like a storm tide. The blood-dyed hero stokes their hunger. Many crouch to leap from the stands, eager to join the lovely carnage—to shred this hero, or be shredded.

But the first figure to step into the arena cools even the Demon King.

She is the arena owner’s most trusted vassal, the hand and voice of command. Her words and actions can stand for the Demon King without leave.

“No more,” Vega lifts her skirt hem, stands beyond the blood-pool, and bows to the two heroes. “By the wager, we have no prisoners left to return.”

— — —

“‘Wounds that hinder him for three days,’ not ‘kill him.’ Why? Ha. Because I still need him—for a public killing, say.”

“What does that mean, Qing An? And stop moving. Let me treat you. Do you still want your right hand?”

“Nothing much. The way things unfolded sits inside my projections. No outlier against the law of large numbers.”

In the cottage they were staying in, Qing An slapped his thigh and laughed, loud as firewood popping in a brazier.

Julian didn’t notice; her eyes held no mirth, cool as winter water.