There's something about destroying a political figure that really boosts your popularity.
At least, that's what I assumed when we saw our faces painted on the side of a demon inn.
"Kuro," I said slowly, pointing at the massive mural.
"Yes?"
"Is that... us?"
He peered up at the two enormous depictions—Ren Arashi, clad in gold-white, sword aloft, dazzling like justice incarnate. And beside him, Kuroblade Nightshade, cloaked in shadow, eyes glowing, surrounded by ravens and fire.
It was labeled:
> THE TWIN CALAMITIES – REPENT BEFORE THEY FIND YOU.
Aria, standing beside us, let out the long, exhausted sigh of a woman who'd seen too much and been paid far too little.
"Well," she said. "At least it's a flattering likeness."
The demon lands between Mol'Kharnis and the capital were mostly scorched earth and war-scarred ruins—fields of twisted stone, blackened trees, and rivers that whispered insults when you drank from them.
We walked undeterred.
Ren: striking dramatic poses on cliff edges.
Kuroblade: meditating upside-down on boulders.
Aria: mapping leyline routes and sighing harder than should be physically possible.
They called us names in every town we passed:
* "The Meteor Twins."
* "The Cataclysm and His Emotional Support Bard."
* "Oh devils, not them again."
In Sector K-17, we stumbled upon a war camp preparing to attack the capital—rebels, cultists, and opportunistic demon beasts.
We didn't mean to fight.
Kuroblade cast a single spell.
Ren tripped and accidentally activated a radiant nova.
The camp no longer exists.
In a scavenger fort, a merchant offered us a bounty to not walk through his warehouse.
We agreed.
Then the floor collapsed when Kuroblade summoned a shadow well to check for magical surveillance.
We paid him in guilt and souvenirs.
At one point, a traveling imp priest saw us passing and fainted.
We revived him.
He declared us "agents of apocalyptic prophecy."
Ren gave him a signed napkin.
That night, as we camped beneath a broken spire, Aria finally broke the silence.
"You know," she said, poking the fire, "you two could try not leveling cities every time you fight."
I shrugged. "Cities level themselves. We just... encourage it."
Kuroblade looked thoughtful. "Destruction is the language of truth."
"See?" I said. "Poetry."
Aria rubbed her temples. "I'm going to make matching shirts for you both. 'I Caused a Catastrophe and All I Got Was This Infernal Nickname.'"
Kuroblade perked up. "Can mine glow?"
Miles away, another campfire flickered.
Kaname sat cross-legged, poking a burnt sausage with a stick.
"Weird," he said. "I thought I heard an explosion."
Velis glanced up from her notes. "Sector 9. Massive leyline rupture. Probably a collapsed spire."
Lyra rolled her eyes. "Let me guess. Caused by some hero trying to look cool."
Kaname stared at the pink-shielded reflection in his sword.
"...Yeah," he said. "Definitely not us this time."
In the distance, a plume of smoke twisted into the sky.
By dawn, we saw it.
Far ahead, across the blackened wastes and jagged ravines, the demon capital rose like a wound in the world—spires of voidstone, pulsing leyline channels, a storm perpetually swirling above its heart.
Ren grinned.
Kuroblade exhaled slow mist.
Aria just stared and muttered, "Please let there be a back door."
We walked forward.
And fate—already exhausted—sighed and shifted the chessboard again.