Chapter 16:

  Moli sat on the floor of the vast wooden hall, his legs crossed and his back uncharacteristically straight, as though the ground itself acknowledged his right to sit upon it. The light filtering through the high windows streamed across the polished planks, climbing in pale lines over the faces of the elders seated in a semicircle around him.

  His eyes did not waver from Hiroshi, who sat at the head of the council with the composure of a man long accustomed to obedience.

  Hiroshi spoke without preamble, his voice stripped of ornament. “We misjudged. The threat the Masonry confronted was not you, but the Phoenix… We apologize for the misunderstanding.”

  A brief silence followed—one that carried less apology than belated admission.

  Moli raised a finger in a cordial gesture, like a student asking permission to speak in an old classroom. Hiroshi inclined his head.

  “Allow me to ask you, sir,” Moli said. “What is system?”

  “It is the shield that keeps us alive,” Hiroshi replied, his confidence edged with challenge.

  Moli’s lips curved into a faint smile, cutting in its calm. “No. It is the sword pressed against our hearts.”

  He clicked his tongue softly, as though tasting a bitter thought. “Waiting for a misstep… to pierce whatever life remains.”

  He lowered his gaze briefly, his voice softening without losing its edge. “But I do not blame you. Thousands of years have passed. In truth, I am surprised the Three Lullabies still stand… and that the level of magic has evolved so remarkably.”

  Hiroshi tilted his head. “What are you implying?”

  Moli lifted his eyes again, his voice gaining a solemn resonance. “I wish to remind you of the purpose of your existence… and the meaning of the Three Lullabies.”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  He added, “The Masonic order knows nothing of us beyond what you yourselves were taught. Yet one among you—a sorcerer—seemed to know something.”

  The air in the hall shifted.

  “What do you mean?” Hiroshi asked.

  Calmly, Moli rolled up his sleeve. A tattoo covered his right arm: a strange black palace, its towers twisted as though they had grown rather than been built.

  “Humans do not know the Court,” he said. “But demons do.”

  A heavy murmur broke among the elders, like ancient stones grinding together. Hiroshi barely restrained his agitation. “Perhaps you do not know, having been in slumber, but the only sentient demon was eliminated in the Savannah incident thirty years ago.”

  Then he added in a voice darkened by memory, “Believe me… I was there.”

  Moli’s eyes widened with genuine curiosity. “You defeated it?”

  Hiroshi gestured to the scar coiling around his face like a malicious serpent. “At a price beyond replacement. I was fortunate to survive. Many of my fellow sorcerers died in that battle. It was the last thing that united the Three Lullabies.”

  Moli smiled at last. “Then your unity is not so difficult after all.”

  Honor was the most sensitive string in a Swordsman-sorcerer.

  Hiroshi erupted, his voice shaking the chamber. “Are you mocking us?!”

  Moli’s smile vanished as abruptly as shadows at sunset. “You classify demons into four levels according to threat, do you not? The White Note, then the Yellow, the Red, and finally the Black.”

  Then he said, sending a shock through the hall, “Let me tell you something, elders. What you record in the White and Yellow notes are nothing but hunting dogs. Base creatures that accompany demons like parasites, feeding on the edges of catastrophe.”

  Hiroshi’s voice trembled. “What are you saying?”

  Moli extended his hand and swept it through the air, as though drawing aside an invisible curtain. The space before them fractured like folding glass, splitting with unnatural fluidity—and from behind the rupture, the creature emerged.

  A black demon, two meters tall, with goat-like legs and long horns crowning a shriveled, repulsive face. Its eyes held no haste, only coldness… as if they regarded them from a time older than history itself.

  It stood beside Moli, motionless.

  The assembly recoiled in terror. Breaths were snatched; staffs struck the floor. Makoto burst into the hall, sword in hand. “What are you doing, Moli?!”

  Moli looked at him calmly—a brief glance, yet sufficient. Makoto understood his intent and eased his stance slightly.

  “This,” Moli said, “is what you call a raw demon, is it not? Rare demons with a defined hunting range. You register them in the Red Note, and some reach the Black.”

  He tapped the demon’s leg with a languid finger. “This… in its own world is a nobody, my friends.”

  He swept his hand once more, and the fracture folded shut as though it had never been. The demon vanished as it had appeared.

  Some of them finally breathed.

  “I do not possess sufficient energy,” Moli said. “So this is all I can show you.”

  He surveyed them all. “I will speak plainly. I came here to prepare humanity for the inevitable confrontation with the demons. That is my task as Herald of the Court. The system is cracking… and the sword will sink in, sooner or later.”

  He paused, then continued, “Your strength lies in your unity. Therefore, I will make the Katakai Clan the strongest clan in the world.”

  “It would collapse the system!” Hiroshi objected at once.

  Moli clicked his tongue with childish impatience. “What have I been prattling about this entire time? It is either you or them! And when I say them… I mean the demons themselves—not a human order that feeds on their scraps.”

  At last he rose. He seemed taller than he had while seated. “I shall consider this a fruitful meeting. I look forward to speaking with you again…”

  He turned toward the door, his voice lowering. “We have not even pierced the surface.”

  And he departed, leaving behind a hall that was no longer what it had been.