"It's something that still poisons the lives of both elites and aristocrats," he said, disgust plain in his voice. "One of the aristocrats decided to take a risk and went straight to the nearest demon to ask for help."
"And the demon just agreed?" I asked, surprised.
"He set conditions. Several. And that idiot accepted every single one."
"What kind of conditions?"
"First and foremost—he demanded that every possible threat to him be eliminated. After the uprising was crushed, the aristocrats were to ensure that no powerful special could so much as lay a finger on a demon."
I frowned, turning it over in my head.
"If he made that demand… then they're not as invulnerable as we're told."
"Exactly. They can be killed. And our ancestors were very good at it." Clyde's lips curved faintly. "Demons don't surround themselves with monsters for nothing. They're not all-powerful. They need protection."
"So what's their weak point?"
"I don't know," Clyde said, catching the disappointment on my face. "Every demon is different. Different strengths. Different weaknesses. The only thing I do know—if you drive enough power straight through the heart, you can kill one."
"If you can get close enough, that doesn't sound so hard," I said.
"You're thinking like an amateur." His tone sharpened. "That's not the kind of power you use on a stray possessed or a monster. Yes—pierce the heart, and it dies. For a moment."
He leaned back slightly.
"Cut it apart. Burn it. Grind it into nothing—it won't matter. The body will restore itself. At best, you slow it down."
"Then you'd have to trap the ashes," I said, thinking aloud. "Burn them again the moment it starts reforming. Or tear it into pieces—build something like a continuous grinder—"
Clyde let out a quiet laugh.
"I didn't realize you were this bloodthirsty." His eyes flicked toward me, sharp, amused. "Creative. Useless."
I frowned.
"A demon's body dissipates the moment it 'dies,'" he continued. "It reforms somewhere else."
"Where?"
"The place where it was born." His voice dropped. "Where it first came into existence. Where it broke its chains."
A chill ran down my spine.
"Then how do you kill them for real?"
"Do you remember what I told you about knowing your enemy?" he asked.
I nodded.
"That's why information about demons is so tightly controlled. If you study enough… you can figure out where a demon was born."
He paused.
"Only that place can become its grave."
I held his gaze.
"When the body begins to reform there—you strike again. And that's the end."
"So if you kill a demon in that place… it won't come back?"
"Exactly."
"That's insane!" I snapped. "What kind of idiot would willingly go to a place where they can die for real? And how would you even find it? How do you figure out where they were born? I'd never go there. Even if someone found it, dragging a demon there would be impossible—unless you kill it twice in two different places—no, this makes no sense at all!"
"It's simple," Clyde said calmly.
I stared at him.
"Birthplace. Source of power. Weakness. Death." He ticked them off one by one. "A demon feeds on that place. It can't stay away from it for long."
"How long?"
"I don't know the exact limit. But not more than five years."
"And if it doesn't go back?"
"First comes weakness," he said quietly. "Then pain."
His gaze darkened.
"Real pain. The kind that eats you alive from the inside. Then you collapse. You fall asleep—but the agony doesn't stop. It keeps tearing you apart until your body gives out."
A pause.
"And then you're dragged back there anyway. Whether you want to or not."
I swallowed.
"So if you track a demon for a few years… you can find its weak point?"
"That's what our ancestors did." Clyde took a slow sip of his coffee. "No one can endure that kind of torment forever. A demon won't wait that long. It goes back as soon as the first signs begin."
I narrowed my eyes.
"You talk like you've experienced it yourself."
Clyde didn't answer.
He just looked at me.
Quiet. Thoughtful.
Unreadable.
"So after that first demon… others started making contracts too?" I asked.
"Not all. But many," he said.
"If you start a war… won't the demons side with the aristocrats again?" I exhaled sharply. "Your plan sounds even more hopeless now."
"We learn from our mistakes," Clyde said. "Otherwise, what's the point of history?"
I ran a hand through my hair.
"Yeah… things are different now. Wars won't look like they did four hundred years ago. Everything's quieter. Cleaner. But still—what can a bunch of untrained aristocrats and specials actually do against demons?"
"We'll combine two strategies into one," he said.
I blinked.
"Two strategies? You mean… another deal? With demons too?"
"Not exactly." He shook his head. "I'll tell you later. Once you've fully become my personal bodyguard."
"Why not now?" I snapped. "You always do this—give me just enough and leave me stuck guessing!"
"You're not ready."
"And what's going to change in a year?"
"Something important." His voice hardened. "Something you're not allowed to know yet."
"Not allowed, not ready, not grown enough—always 'not'!" I threw my hands up. "Do you have any idea how frustrating that is?!"
A slow smirk touched his lips.
"I could offer you something physical as compensation."
My face heated instantly.
"Shut up! Pervert!"
"I was talking about a massage salon," he said dryly. "Relaxation treatments after the exhibition matches."
He let out a quiet laugh.
"And I'm the pervert?"
I felt even dumber—and hotter.
"Though," he added, his voice dropping, "I wouldn't mind what you were thinking either."
"Clyde, stop messing with me!"
"Who said I'm messing with you?"
Something in his tone shifted.
Lower.
Sharper.
"There's a reason I haven't touched you."
He reached out—
his finger barely brushing my palm.
I flinched.
My breath hitched.
"See?" he said quietly. "That's why."
His gaze lingered.
"I'm just not sure how much longer I can wait for your… wounds to heal."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"I wish I knew," he muttered, almost to himself. Then he straightened. "Go. And try not to make me call Samantha through a portal again."
"I know," I snapped, and left.
My heart was racing.
Again.
Clyde always pushed me into something I didn't understand.
I meant to go train.
Meditate.
Sleep.
But instead—
I went somewhere else.
"Hey," I said awkwardly, forcing a smile as I stopped in Andrew's doorway.
I still couldn't look him in the eyes properly.
The guilt was still there.
I'd risked his life without thinking.
But the moment he smiled—
everything else disappeared.
"I'm glad you came," he said. "Come in?"
I nodded.
Stepped inside.
Why am I here?
"You know… training starts tomorrow," I said, not looking at him. "I won't get to see you much. So I thought I'd come now."
"I still don't like this," Andrew muttered. "You're not ready. And besides—"
I turned sharply—
pressed my hand against his chest.
He went silent.
His heartbeat—
steady at first—
then faster.
Stronger.
I could've stayed like that forever.
With him—
everything felt quiet.
Safe.
Right.
"Alan…" he said softly.
His hand brushed my cheek.
Warm.
I closed my eyes instinctively—
leaning into it without thinking.
"I've been thinking a lot—"
"No," I cut him off quickly. "Don't."
Whatever he was about to say—
it would only make things harder.
I couldn't afford that.
Not now.
"Andrew… give me your answer after the exhibition matches."
I forced a faint smile.
"Whatever you decide—I'll accept it."
He was quiet for a moment.
Then—
"Alright."
A pause.
"But Alan… promise me you'll survive."
I didn't trust my voice.
So I just nodded.
Closed my eyes again—
holding onto that warmth—
that brief, fragile moment of peace—
just a little longer.