"Leaving so soon?" The middle-aged man—commander of the fortress and also the Borderland Earl—asked with mild surprise.
This earl was a formidable professional himself. Most nobles in the Delan Kingdom, big or small, held varying ranks as professionals.
He’d clawed his way up from a landless baron with only a title to this border stronghold, step by grueling step.
"Yes. Thank you for your hospitality these past days," Vya replied.
"Nonsense. *We* rely on *you* to deal with the Demon King," the earl chuckled dismissively. "Before you depart—is there anything else I can assist with?"
Vya glanced at Jetri.
Jetri blinked in surprise but stayed silent, giving a slight shake of his head.
"No, we’re quite alright. Your kindness is appreciated," Vya answered with polished grace.
That fleeting glance, however, made the earl study the squad’s weakest member—the low-ranked mage—more intently.
Truthfully, this self-made mage felt closer to the earl’s heart than the Valiant Hero or the princess ever could. Perhaps because they’d both climbed from nothing.
Especially for mages. For commoners, rising to prominence in that profession was nearly impossible.
Mages thrived on lifelong learning. Imagine two equally gifted people: one tutored since childhood, the other grasping spellbooks as an adult. The gap was inevitable.
Yet *this* man had become the continent’s most renowned—and mysterious—mage.
His mystery wasn’t born of power or personality. It came from obscurity. His humble origins left little for others to know.
But the earl understood this wasn’t the time for small talk. He merely gave Jetri a brief nod before ordering soldiers to escort them out.
The four stepped onto Demon Realm soil once more.
"Chad… sorry about that," Vya murmured. Her armor clinked softly as she trudged through the soft mud, face flushed with apology toward Jetri.
"No need. It was nothing," Jetri shrugged. "But why look at me just now?"
Only the Delan King and his chancellor knew Jetri—the mage—was Radiant Star Squad’s true strategist. Publicly, Vya always took the lead.
At least, *appeared* to.
Jetri cared little for fame. He’d gladly handed that burden to Vya. As crown princess and Valiant Hero, she needed it more.
That’s why the usually silent mage had been momentarily startled earlier.
Still—not a big deal.
"Uh… just instinct," Vya admitted, unable to explain further.
His heavy steel boots, etched with arcane runes, sank no deeper than the others’ despite the mud. Jetri had long tucked away his Sage’s robes, wearing simple russet-brown cloth instead.
Victoria walked beside him, smiling warmly. The Delan princess wore no finery—her golden-trimmed white vestments, symbols of royal and archbishop status, replaced by a plain gray robe. No princess here.
The Half Elf needed no costume change. In Delan, she’d covered her skin; back in the Demon Realm, she bared arms and legs freely. Bare skin was standard for elite infiltrators—fabric blocked their connection to the Shadow Realm.
Not a speck of mud touched her bare feet, even in simple sandals.
The Sage, however, trudged with boots caked in dried mud—he’d smeared wet sludge on them at the start, then flash-dried it with fire magic. Larger surface area meant no sinking.
The trade-off? Weight.
"Need a piggyback?" Vya asked, eyeing his labored steps.
"No," Jetri shook his head easily. A dignified Archmage’s stamina was nothing to scoff at. "This won’t slow me."
A mage’s power lived in their mana. Physical strain was secondary.
He spoke lightly, missing the twin glances from his teammates.
*If carrying’s needed… I could do it too.*
Their murmured chatter drifted through the gloomy forest. Unlike their first tense entry into the Demon Realm, this return felt like a stroll through spring woods.
No detours. Their plan was brutal efficiency: eliminate resurrected demon nobles and high-tier demons they’d faced before—starting with the Conspiracy-famed Fallen Elf Grand Duke.
Fallen Elf Territory lay close to the border. Their goal: kill Falana fastest, then prune the Demon King’s other thorns.
Jetri trusted Satan’s word as much as smoke. He’d never met the infamous Demon King—only heard tales from Vya.
He remembered their infiltration of Demon King’s Castle. The Demon King had seemed… expectant.
And when the squad finally slew her at great cost, her death throes felt oddly scripted. Not strange—*too* normal. Like a final boss’s theatrical rage before the credits rolled.
A level-200 tyrant, unrivaled across the continent, dying so pettily? The dissonance lingered.
Especially since she could resurrect. Why stoop so low?
This uncertainty made Jetri choose caution again: decapitate the Demon Clan’s forces before they mobilized. Clip the Demon King’s wings first.
For now—Falana died again.
Jetri’s gaze darkened. Even after outmaneuvering her last time, he felt he’d never truly understood the Fallen Elf Grand Duke.
This time, he’d strike faster.
Yet—
"Long time no see, darlings~" A sultry, mature Elven Aunt smiled from the shadows of her castle, greeting the midnight intruders.
No reply. The squad moved as one lethal machine, spells and steel already singing.
Thick clouds smothered the moon. Darkness swallowed the clearing.
Then—a pillar of holy light ripped through the night, flooding Fallen Elf Territory in blinding radiance.
"Why rush to violence?" Falana pouted, delicate fingers cradling her porcelain cheek. "Can’t we… talk?"
Her answer came in a storm: high-tier spells, a sword gleaming with lake-light, and the whisper of subspace tearing at the edges of reality.
