On the way to Clémarine (with the cape that the wind took away).

The wagon moved slowly along the cobblestone road, pulled by a brown horse that the villagers of Aldemar had given them in gratitude.

The clatter of the wheels, mixed with the song of the cicadas, made the atmosphere relaxed. For the first time in a long time, the group could breathe without fresh blood in between.

Lucien stood at the back of the wagon, his cape billowing as if he were on an invisible stage. He wrote furiously in his notebook, oblivious to the fact that he almost fell over with every bump.

"And so, the hero of the epic, after saving the people, advanced toward Clémarine, the city where fate would decide the threads of his glory..." he intoned loudly.

Ayato watched him from the front seat, where he held the reins.

"Look, Shakespeare with Robin Hood's delirium... don't you ever tire of listening to yourself?"

Lucien whirled around theatrically, indignant. “I’m both the narrator and the protagonist, Mr. Ayato! Posterity doesn’t write itself.”

“Yeah, right, Chūnibyō, fanfic writer. You’d probably sell books like hotcakes,” the Japanese man joked.

Vera, who was listening intently, raised a timid hand.

“Uh… actually, I’ve never read anything of yours.”

Lucien nearly choked on his own ego. “What are you saying?!”

“I’m sorry, but in the Church we were only allowed to read the Bible, academic texts, and… fairy tales.” She said it with such sincerity that it didn’t even seem like a joke.

Ayato couldn’t hold back his laughter. “Hahahaha! I mean, you’re not even in the same league as 

‘The Sleeping Princess.’ That really hurts.”

Lucien slumped down onto the wagon with a tragic expression. "Wounded… betrayed by the ignorance of the masses…"

A gentle gust of wind rang out, and from the flute hanging from Ayato's belt emerged Sylphidia, her ethereal body shimmering in the sun.

"How interesting..." she said playfully. "Another fool with dreams of grandeur."

Lucien was speechless, fascinated. He knelt as if before a divine muse.

"Oh, wind nymph! You are the very embodiment of poetic inspiration! From today on, I declare myself your most faithful follower."

Sylphidia blinked in surprise, then smiled mischievously.

"Follower? Hm... perhaps you'll be of some use to me. Do you know how to get good wine?"

"Of course! The finest taverns will fall at your feet!" Lucien cried, beating his chest.

Ayato glanced at him, annoyed. "Great… another idiot in your fan club."

Isolde, who had remained silent the entire trip, took a bound manuscript from her bag. She threw it unceremoniously into Lucien's lap.

"Read."

Lucien opened it, curious, and his expression changed to an unexpected seriousness. The text spoke of Infernal Tyrants, Pseudo-Daemon Castles, and the enigmatic Lone-Demons.

Lucien settled in, flipping through it with genuine interest. "Interesting... so not only am I the protagonist of my own epic, but the backdrop is much darker than I thought."

Ayato raised an eyebrow. "I didn't think you could read beyond your own scribbles."

"I'm a writer, my rival. My pen is a sword as much as my sword is a pen."

After a few minutes, Lucien closed the manuscript and took a deep breath.

"This reminds me of something. I've heard rumors in my homeland, the Grand Duchy of Lacrimus. Apparently, one of the so-called Dark Lord Candidates has taken over the entire duchy. He convinced the aristocratic families to worship him as a god."

Vera frowned. "So... another Hell Tyrant?"

Isolde shook her head. "The description doesn't fit."

Lucien nodded, crossing his arms. "Exactly. From the way he infiltrated, the way he manipulates without completely breaking customs... it sounds more like a Lone Demon to me. They can blend in among humans, hiding their true colors."

Silence fell for a moment. Even Sylphidia seemed more serious.

Ayato leaned his elbow on the wagon. "So one of those monsters can pass as a corrupt politician or any nobleman... worse than a demon in the open."

"Exactly." Lucien looked at him sideways, a spark in his eyes. And believe me, I know it well. I come from there.

Isolde raised an eyebrow. "From the Grand Duchy?"

"From the D'Artois family. Third of five brothers. The system is simple: if the number of sons is odd, the middle one is discarded as heir. A stupid tradition I have no interest in breaking."

Lucien smiled, more lightly. "I'd rather write my own glory than lick the heels of a rotten duchy."

As the writer archer explains in more detail about this Lone-Demon, he states that her name is 'Helena Sinclair', and that she is a girl who, although she is a pre-adolescent, between 10 and 12 years old, with a perpetual smile, already shows better mastery of the dark arts compared to the Lone-Demon summoned by Zeltha, who were more aggressive in their movements.

***

The wagon moved forward among green hills as the sun set.

The group processed the revelation: not only the Tyrants, but also the Lone Demons could reign in the shadows, and that they now have a better chance of acting accordingly if Helena Sinclair makes a move, but they didn't let their guard down, knowing that she must be more dangerous than Tatsuya or Yuzuru combined, given her better self-control.

Ayato sighed, looking at the horizon.

"From cheap Shakespeare, you've gone to a useful informant. Perhaps you're not a total waste of space."

Lucien smiled with satisfaction. "A hero always knows when to reveal his secrets."

Sylphidia, laughing, was already climbing onto his shoulder. "Yes, yes, hero. But first, get me that wine."

The wagon pulled away, with Clémarine getting closer.