A question: where’s the line between servility and obedience? Say “it’s in your bones” and it falls like ash, but follow the word’s root and the soil isn’t clearly cursed.

I’m swamped like a hive buzzing, yet I still stole a moment for Skyward City Atlante. I dropped into the Sages’ Academy and caught Douglas stepping out of class, like a door closing on a quiet tide.

The burly elder faced a Demon King, a sudden visit with a pinch of mischief, and his gaze held steady like a stone gate. He only lifted a brow, then offered a calm smile like spring sunlight.

“If you’d come a bit earlier, Your Majesty, I’d have had to break a record kept for one hundred sixty-three years,” he said, voice smooth as old ink. “I’ve never missed or left early.”

“Uh-huh. That’s why I came now,” I said, letting the joke drift like incense smoke.

Qing slipped out of the lecture hall with a book cradled like a small shield. He saw me, and his face flipped from sunny to storm clouds, trying to hide behind Douglas like a bird behind a tree.

I burned favors at the Peace Conference to keep you safe, and your gratitude’s a cold wind. Is this how you repay me, with rain instead of tea?

Or did I smack him in the Demon Realm? Is that why he flinches at my shadow?

Hard to say. The ledger of blood there is a storm-swept scroll.

Qing and I barely spoke back then. I can’t swear that, while pounding the brothers and sisters who came for my head, I didn’t also clip Qing as he strayed past like a leaf in a gale.

In that rabid, blood-streaked land, every creature chases ruin like moths chase flame. The Demonfolk fight to the edge of self-immolation; a duel that starts with two often ends with dozens who don’t fear death strewn like broken flags. Whether Qing got caught in the splash… too many such nights to name.

The sage said nothing about Qing’s retreat. If I need a neat picture, he was a mountain: unmoving, unchanged, his silence a dam that keeps rivers from breaking.

He dipped his head, like a crane bowing over a frost pond.

“Your Majesty, I’d like your definitions for ‘servility’ and ‘obedience,’” he said, tone as clean as a bell. “Words without edges are the devils’ favored snares.”

I gestured for Douglas to lead, a breeze inviting the older pine to step first. I was sneaking time, keeping a bit of distance from Vega’s anxious thunder, so I wouldn’t trample the Dean of the Sages’ Academy while he’s busy.

“The snag sits right there, Dean Douglas,” I said, letting the thought unfurl like mist. “Neither word has a tidy definition you can ink and nail to paper. In practice, they carry too much personal shadow. Their roots differ, but with time’s drift and culture’s tide, they’ve overlapped like two silhouettes at dusk. We can’t define them cleanly or fairly. The speaker’s heart bleeds into the usage, and the same act can sit in wildly different rooms, which is why it baffles.”

Skyward City Atlante’s architecture sprawls like a dream stitched from odd constellations. The Sages’ Academy shows its own quirky spine, thanks to department heads with clashing stars. We walked a long corridor where the columns swirled with irregular curves, like vines that refused straight lines. Stained glass windows montaged human faces, their bold distortions catching colored light like fish scales. It felt like a night-set horror stage dressed in confetti rain.

Douglas seemed free for a spell; no new lectures beating like drums. He strolled while twirling his dense beard, thoughts moving like chess pieces to my question.

“Custom,” he said, voice like a river over stones. “That’s the root of misreading and growth—at the beginning. We can’t steer culture like reins on a wild horse; a culture enslaved to control isn’t culture but a cage. Thus, misreading and development are two faces under one moon. If everything’s pure chaos, if we never compare, the wrongs vanish and so do the rights. Your ‘servility’ and ‘obedience’ follow that path. Without a counterweight, there’s no use in weighing. Different roots; forced comparison is dust.”

“So, if we set the two side by side and aim for a fair judgment—”

“Fallacy,” he said, precise as a blade. “Roots differ. Their origin fields are near yet not the same. They can’t be likened cleanly. Don’t mix them.”

“Mm.” I tapped my head, listening to thoughts clink like pebbles. “I guess I’ll add a fresh entry to my Andor-style dictionary of tricks.”

“Then the Council of Sages will soon sort the two into separate boxes,” Douglas said with a sunrise smile. “We’ll draw lines where the fog lives.”

The Council’s work is ‘exegesis,’ and if you ask ‘exegesis of what,’ the answer’s a horizon—everything under heaven. Me raising the question should earn a nod, not a frown.

Douglas held his own stance like a cedar in snow; he didn’t weigh in beyond the role’s spine. That’s fine. I didn’t come to Skyward City to trade philosophy shells.

It was a polite opening, a cup of tea before the road.

“Your Majesty, anything else you’d have us handle?” he asked, a hand like still water.

“Nothing heavy,” I said, letting the mood stay light as paper kites. “I need to transfer some prisoners. There’s a lot of them, and I don’t chat with local lords. Better if you handle it.”

“Prisoners?” His tone cooled like evening air.

“Yeah. We caught spies with evidence tight as knots. Most kept their mouths sealed like winter ponds. I don’t need their secrets. They’re likely Colonna’s knights or Vineri’s lords. I plan to hand them back to the humans.”

“How many?”

“Let me think. About one hundred twenty-six,” I said, and my smile curled wickedly under the mask like a cat’s tail.

“How much ransom will we—humanity—owe Your Majesty?” he asked, humor thin as glass.

“None. Spies don’t earn respect beyond bare bones, and you'd never pay ransom to get them back anyway. Someone made a wager with me. They lost. So I’m returning them as stakes paid to the victor.”

“…”

Douglas went quiet for a breath, sorrow pooling like dusk ink.

Sages can be sad too. They keep feeling outside the citadel of reason, but grief still taps the window like rain.

“May I know the hero’s name?” he asked, voice low, steady as a candle.

“Of course. I was waiting for you to ask. Eil,” I said, lifting the name like a banner. “Captain of the Demon World Surveillance Squad. Eil. You should record his battle merit.”

“…I’ll remember,” he said, folding the vow like a letter.

“Good. Pick a place. Vega will bring them soon,” I added. “Oh, and one more thing—”

I glanced at Qing, still tucked behind Douglas like a rabbit behind a rock, his eyes wary as a winter fox.

“I want Qing to study at the Sages’ Academy here in Skyward City,” I said, keeping my tone warm like tea.

“I’m already here! So go back!” Qing yelled, the cry brave as a sparrow, then ducked behind Douglas again like a ripple swallowed by a stone.

I should find time to smack this little rascal, I vowed, the thought grinning like a wolf in the brush.

“Not the same,” I said. “Does Qing have formal student status?”

“No. He’s my pupil, but not enrolled,” Douglas said, honest as clean steel.

“Oh, hold up. Dean Douglas, I don’t care for your internal paperwork map,” I said, waving the detail away like smoke. “If he’s not registered, get him a student file. Make him an exchange student.”

“And Your Majesty’s role here would be?”

“As the ‘initiator from the Demonfolk side of the Peace Accord,’ I’m ‘assigning Qing to Skyward City Atlante for exchange studies,’” I said, each clause like a stamp. “Any problem?”

Douglas fell silent again, a pause deep as a well. Qing, beside him, didn’t understand the wheel turning in the air.

“…Qing, you should thank your elder brother,” Douglas said, the guidance gentle as rain.

“Why? I don’t want to thank this guy!” Qing snapped, his thorn small but sharp, like a briar.

“It’s fine,” I said, letting the barb slide like a fish. “I’m just pulling the hate of certain siblings onto myself—the ones who loathe a Demon King befriending humans. It costs me nothing. If someone says, ‘Andor is setting up this to win human favor,’ I won’t argue. Sunlight or shadow, it all feeds the tree.”

An open stratagem.

I always take what I want. The difference between an ‘evil’ man and a ‘good’ one rhymes with the gap between ‘servility’ and ‘obedience.’

At the root, they differ—yet they can stand on the same hilltop, facing the same wind.

I do a good deed. Does that make me good? No. That’s Andor-style sophistry, a painted mask on a river.

Under the drag of great tides, no sage’s splendid rebuttal will sweep away what I say. When it’s politics, I don’t keep the tea-manners I show the sages.

“That’s all for the handover,” I said, letting the moment close like a fan. “Did I bother you, Mr. Douglas?”

“Your Majesty’s commission will be handled with care,” he said, steady as a lamp.

“Good. That’s the light part,” I laughed, the sound a spark in dry grass. “Finding a guide to the city’s sights—just kidding. Hah. My side’s messy too, but effort brings fruit.”

That kind of bright talk from a Demon King feels like iron tasting honey.

“If you’re curious, watch the sky in three days,” I added, tone bright as festival drums. “There’ll be gorgeous fireworks. Courtesy of the Savior Demon King Army.”

I sighed, then finally answered the Shadow Realm’s tremor that had been thudding for ten minutes, a heartbeat through stone.

Vega, I’m here. Fine. I’ll head back soon.

I only need to wait for the Skyward Launcher to rise, like a dragon taking off from clouds. Vega, do you really hate me resting this much?

No? Wait—did you say Eil and Julian are fighting?