Dawn's pale light filtered through the sigil‑adorned banners of the Demon King's encampment, spilling over rows of polished halberds and coiled siege engines. Itsuki Hiroto awoke in his guest pavilion—a sturdy tent furnished with a surprisingly comfortable cot—and found the world had grown even stranger overnight.
He blinked at the parchment laid out upon a makeshift table beside his cot. It was inscribed with countless shaky signatures in infernal script, each one accompanied by sketched little chairs. At the bottom, in large, ornate letters, read:
"Teach Us, Mighty Chair‑Sage!"
Hiroto rubbed his eyes. Chair‑Sage? That… can't be right. He peered closer at the scrawls: "Please bless my war‑hammer!" "May your flick crush our enemies!" "Master, sign my shield!" Each request was more elaborate than the last, and they covered every inch of the parchment—pinned to the tent wall by three black iron nails.
He bolted upright and yanked on his cloak. Sera, polishing vials at the tent entrance, jumped.
"Captain!" she cried. "They've started the line. Demon grunts are waiting for your autograph—some cleric even painted your face on his breastplate!"
Hiroto groaned. "Why demons? I thought they hated humans."
"Only the war‑hungry ones," Sera said with a shrug. "These are the ones who saw you disarm the assassin with a chair. They think it's some ancient martial art."
Virelya Arkwright strode in, sword‑belt jangling. "What's this about chairs?"
Hiroto held up a trembling hand. "Apparently, I've invented 'Chair‑Fu.' And now every demon soldier wants me to certify their weapons and sign their armor."
Virelya surveyed the tent. "We need to fix this—fast. If the Demon King's army thinks its power comes from you, they'll never leave you alone."
Hiroto sank onto the cot. "I can't fix everything. I barely fixed myself."
They emerged into the camp's main thoroughfare, where a queue of grinning demon soldiers snaked between weapon racks and field forges. Clad in dark leather and horned helmets, each lugged a battered piece of gear—shields dented by battle, axes nicked from war, even battered training chairs crudely engraved with Hiroto's stylized face.
The first in line, a broad‑shouldered imp with steel‑blue skin, stepped forward and bowed. "Master Chair‑Sage," he rasped, "would you bless my family's ancestral war‑chair? It is said that only your signature can give it true crushing power."
Hiroto's jaw dropped. He managed a weak smile. "I… I'm sorry. I'm not a… Chair‑Sage. I'm just Hiroto. Warehouse clerk."
The imp's eyes flickered with disappointment. "You cannot be zero, Chair‑Sage. You crushed the assassin. You are zero—to one, then to none. Please, sign."
Hiroto swallowed. He glanced at Virelya, who gave him a sympathetic nod. He squared his shoulders and took up a smudged charcoal stick—anything to satisfy them quickly. He scrawled something that looked vaguely like his signature and hurried down the line.
Each demon bowed, murmured thanks, and moved on:
> "Blessed be thy flick."
"Might of the Silent Hand!"
"Our enemies shall quake at the shadow of our chairs!"
By the time he reached the tenth soldier, Hiroto's hand ached. The next in line—a lanky demon with a hooked nose—produced a petition:
"Teach the technique! Chair‑Sage, we beg you: instruct us in the secret art of Chair‑Fu."
Hiroto blinked. "Teach… Chair‑Fu?"
The demon nodded earnestly. "Legend says the assassin was felled by the silent flick of a mundane object—no blade, no spell. We wish to learn this 'silent strike.'"
Hiroto's mind raced. I can't teach them anything. I don't even know how I did it. He shook his head. "I'm sorry. I can't teach you. It was an accident."
The demon's shoulders slumped. "Without your guidance, we are hollow men." He bowed, crestfallen.
Virelya stepped forward. "My lord, perhaps you would accept a formal demonstration arranged by Master Hiroto's—er—representative? A single show, after which—"
The demon's eyes brightened. "A demonstration! Yes! A grand display of Chair‑Fu!"
Sera tugged on Hiroto's sleeve. "Oh no."
Hiroto gulped. "I… I really don't think that's wise."
By midday, a raised platform of planked wood had been erected in the camp square. Around it gathered hundreds of demon soldiers, their war‑chimes and drums beating in eager anticipation. At the platform's center lay an assortment of chairs: broken stools, folding seats, and the war‑chair from the first petitioner—studded with metal studs and rune‑scribed panels.
Hiroto stood at the edge of the stage, Virelya to one side, Sera's satchel jangling with nervy potions at the other. A booming herald intoned:
"Behold! The Chair‑Sage will reveal the secret of the silent flick!"
Hiroto swallowed. I'm going to die, he thought. He gave Sera a pleading glance.
"You can do this," she mouthed. "Just… pretend it's an apprentice training session."
Hiroto closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and stepped forward.
He grasped the first chair—a simple stool with worn oak legs. He raised it overhead: the assembled demons cheered blindly. He wobbled, nearly dropped it, and then gently tapped the stool's leg on the wooden planks.
Thud.
The stool didn't smash; it simply dented the stage floor, leaving a shallow groove in the planks. The crowd gasped.
Hiroto's inner scream: No!
He set the stool down and backed away, but the momentum of the crowd presses him to continue. He grabbed the war‑chair next, hefted it awkwardly, and flicked his wrist—again, a gentle tap that buckled one leg and sent the chair skittering across the platform.
Echoing rumbles grew from the crowd.
Hiroto mumbled, "That's… that's… something."
Demons roared in approval. "Power! Power!" they chanted. "Silent Hand! Silent Hand!"
Virelya grabbed his arm. "Stop!"
But even as he stepped backward, he stumbled over Sera's potion bag. His foot caught a vial, which shattered at the platform's edge, releasing a cloud of blue‑tinged gas.
The gas rolled over the stage, and every demon host began coughing, blinking, eyes watering. They staggered, hands up, until the cloud cleared—only to reveal that a dozen war‑chairs behind them had cracked in half, as though struck by an invisible force.
Gasps, then awe.
The herald, coughing, raised a hand. "Truly, the Chair‑Sage commands both chair and air!"
Sera shouted over the din, "It's just a sleeping draught!"
Hiroto cowered behind Virelya. Demons fanned out to breathe deeply of the air, nodding in reverent awe. They knelt on one knee, bows echoing like a tide.
Hiroto sank to the floor of the stage, burying his face in his hands. I just wanted to manage logistics.
Once the crowd dispersed, Hiroto found himself surrounded by adoring generals and petitioners:
"Teach us the silent strike!"
"We pledge our shields in your name!"
"We offer you the oath of our legions!"
Virelya waded in, sword drawn. "Enough! He's not a martial master, he's a warehouse clerk. Leave him be."
A broad demon general knelt before her. "Your Swordmaiden speaks true. We worship… the Silent Sword. But this mortal is unarmed. We shall serve as his defenders."
Hiroto peeked from behind Virelya's cloak. "I have enough defenders already."
Sera popped up, flanked by two archers. "And I have tea. Who wants tea?"
The general blinked, then grinned. "Tea is also power! We shall guard your breaks."
Hiroto closed his eyes. "Why does everything turn into worship?"
Virelya sighed. "Because people will follow any symbol. You'd best harness it."
Hiroto opened one eye. "Harness… how?"
Before Virelya could answer, a herald's horn sounded. A demon courier galloped in, bearing a message from King Gerald:
> "Excellent work at the summit.
Your reputation precedes you.
I formally request your counsel on impending relic tremors.
Meet me at the Citadel's West Tower at first moonrise."
Hiroto stared at the sigil. Again?
He looked at Virelya and Sera, both nodding. Time to go back to the Citadel.
As the demon soldiers knelt in salute, Hiroto straightened his baker's hat, squared his shoulders, and stepped off the platform.
With a chair leg still in hand.
Because in the Demon Diplomatic Disaster, even a chair—or an accidental nap potion—could change the course of history.
And the Silent Savior marched once more toward destiny's next absurd test.