Satoru returned to the room.
The atmosphere was still tense, though different. Liza had lowered her guard enough to no longer keep her spear in a combat stance, but she hadn't set it aside. Tama and Pochi remained nearby, seated and attentive, following every movement with an unusual level of concentration.
Hans was leaning against the wall. He wasn't hiding or blending into the shadows; his presence was discreet but constant, as it should be.
Satoru closed the door behind him.
"As you've probably already heard," he said, "we'll be staying today."
He offered no explanation. He didn't need to.
Liza nodded with a brief inclination of her head. The girls exchanged a quick glance but didn't intervene.
Satoru continued, this time with a different nuance.
He turned his gaze toward Hans.
"Send clones," he ordered. "Conduct a wide reconnaissance. I want to know what's happening in the city—verify Sedoma's response with certainty."
He paused briefly.
"I want the first report in an hour."
Hans inclined his head once.
"Understood."
There were no further words. His figure shifted slightly to the side, and with a movement of his hands, several clones were already on the move, leaving the room to disperse throughout the city.
Satoru turned back toward the center of the room.
"Wait here. I'll continue with the tests I left pending," he said. "It won't take long, but—"
He stopped.
Not because he had changed his mind, but because Pochi had stepped forward.
It was a small movement, almost timid. She didn't run or raise her voice; she simply advanced far enough to stand in front of him, her back slightly hunched and her hands tense at her sides, like a student interrupting her teacher with a question she wasn't quite sure how to ask.
"Master…" she said, hesitating for a moment. "Can Pochi ask something?"
Her tone wasn't fearful. It was restrained discomfort, the voice of someone who didn't want to cause trouble but couldn't ignore a doubt.
Satoru looked at her.
"Speak."
Pochi took a deep breath, her chest puffing slightly as if she needed to gather courage.
"Are you really… going to fight a hero?"
The question came out directly, without detours, but it didn't sound accusatory. Her tail flicked slightly, tense.
Then she frowned, searching for words.
"And…" she added, "the big demon… the black one."
She didn't name him. Not only because she didn't know his name, but because just thinking about him still caused a faint tremor.
"That one too…" she made a small, imprecise gesture with her hand. "Does he also… do what you say?"
It wasn't a direct question. It was an awkward, childish comparison, but an honest one.
Pochi looked up at him.
"Heroes are supposed to be good," she continued. "But you're also good to us."
She paused, confused.
"And demons are supposed to be bad… but that demon is also friendly with you."
There was no fear in her voice.
Only a contradiction she didn't know how to organize.
"Pochi… doesn't understand."
Satoru took his time before answering.
Not because he didn't understand the question, but because he understood it all too well.
Pochi hadn't asked anything complicated. She hadn't accused, doubted, or pointed fingers. She had spoken from a simple, almost clumsy place, like someone trying to connect two things that didn't quite fit together. For her, the world was still straightforward: there were people who saved others, and creatures that destroyed. And yet, he stood right in the middle of both images.
Satoru held her gaze a second longer than usual.
Hero or villain, huh?
His hand moved on its own, lightly, until it came to rest over his abdomen. The gesture was so automatic that he didn't even think about it. Only afterward did he notice the pressure of fabric against his skin, the persistent memory of a wound that shouldn't exist and yet still did. Not as pain, but as evidence.
He didn't move his hand away right away.
He thought about everything he had done since arriving in this world. About how easy killing had been when it was necessary. About how natural it had become to use others. About how little he cared how he was described as long as he could keep moving forward.
He thought about them as well.
About the way Pochi was looking at him now, without fear. About how Tama, even without speaking, followed every one of his movements attentively. About the uncomfortable fact that, to both of them, he wasn't a distant figure or an abstract force, but the person who had introduced them to a life that didn't hurt.
Satoru knew what he was to the world.
And he knew he didn't want them to be the last ones to find out.
He could tell them the complete truth.
He could describe himself as he was, without softening anything.
He could accept that, when that moment came, something would break irreversibly.
Or he could remain silent.
Not because he believed he could hide it forever, but because saying it now meant touching something that hadn't yet been wounded.
And yet…
Satoru knew, from stories that weren't his own that came to mind, from mistakes made in other worlds, that prolonged silence doesn't protect—it only delays the crack and makes it deeper when it finally appears.
They already depended on him for everything.
Satoru was already their entire world. The reference point through which they understood safety, rest, and meaning. And precisely because of that, any truth spoken without care could collapse more than a crude lie ever would.
He thought about how easy it would be to impose a comfortable version. Not a direct order, not something cruel. Just an incomplete explanation, a closed answer. They would accept it. Not because they truly understood it, but because that was how they had learned to survive. A result of lives that had begun in slavery.
That thought, for some reason, made him uncomfortable.
He didn't want them to follow him out of inertia.
He didn't want their innocence to survive only because he kept them ignorant.
Satoru knew that if he was going to stay with them—and he no longer lied to himself about that—then he had to speak. Not everything now, not all at once, but neither could he hide behind a silence that would eventually turn into betrayal.
He held her gaze for one second longer and added, without harshness, without command:
"We'll talk about this later."
It wasn't an evasion.
It was a promise.
And at the same time, a silent admission of something he wasn't ready to face.
Pochi didn't answer right away.
Her ears twitched slightly, tensing for a second before relaxing again. She hadn't understood everything Satoru had said. She didn't intend to. But there was something in his tone—not in the words themselves, but in how he had spoken them—that made it clear he wasn't pushing her away.
She nodded slowly.
"…Alright," she said at last, in a low voice.
There was no reproach or disappointment. Only a fragile calm, sustained by trust.
Tama didn't speak.
She remained seated, tail still, hands resting on her legs, but her attention hadn't shifted for even an instant. Her eyes moved from Pochi to Satoru and back, barely able to hide her own curiosity.
Satoru noticed her gaze.
It wasn't the same restless curiosity as Pochi's, nor open confusion. There was something different in Tama. Heroes and Demon Kings, to her, weren't important beyond being stories. Her concern was focused instead on whether Pochi—the one she cared for like a sister—was in trouble or not.
That detail didn't go unnoticed.
For a moment, Satoru considered saying something more. Adding a line that might soften the atmosphere, that might close the tension he himself had brought in. But he stopped before doing so.
Speaking too much now would only twist what was still intact.
Silence settled back into the room.
This time, it wasn't heavy.
It was expectant.
Satoru was the first to move.
He didn't change his posture abruptly or raise his voice. The gesture was minimal, almost imperceptible, but it was enough to mark the end of the conversation.
"We'll go out after the report arrives," he said.
It didn't sound like an imposed order, nor like a concession. It was a firm decision, delivered with the natural ease of someone who didn't expect discussion.
Pochi lifted her head immediately.
"All of us… together?" she asked, without a trace of unease.
"Yes," Satoru replied.
He didn't explain why or where. Not because he didn't want to, but because it wasn't the moment yet. That part was implicit in his tone, in the way his words closed the matter without harshness.
Tama nodded once, silently, as if that confirmation alone was enough for her.
Satoru then shifted his gaze toward Hans.
There was no need to say anything more. The ninja remained motionless, attentive, as if already keeping time internally. The clones were in motion; the report would arrive when it was due.
Until then, there were no additional decisions to make.
"Prepare yourselves," Satoru added. "Everything else can wait."
It wasn't a way of avoiding what they had discussed.
It was the most honest way he had of saying that he hadn't forgotten it.
***
Satoru left the room without saying anything else.
Hans followed him in silence and closed the door behind them. The hallway was almost empty, holding that strange calm that only appears when a place continues to function, but no longer normally. Satoru stopped beside one of the windows, resting a hand lightly on the frame as he observed the outside.
From there, he could see beyond the inn. Choosing to ignore whatever was happening in the city until the report arrived, Satoru directed his gaze to the clear sky.
There were no signs that it would rain.
After days of persistent water, of closed skies and constant humidity, the absence was almost more striking than the rain itself. The air was still heavy, dense, as if something refused to fully dissipate, but the sky remained still. Too still.
Even so, he didn't give it more thought than that.
He turned his back on the window and remained there, waiting. From the other side of the door came muffled voices. Liza was speaking. He couldn't make out the words, but he recognized the tone: firm, controlled, trying to put order to something that didn't have a clear answer.
Satoru chose not to listen.
Not because he didn't care, but because forcing that moment now would only muddy what had already been left suspended. Liza would do what she could; he would do his part later.
Time passed unhurriedly.
When Hans spoke again, he did so without altering the atmosphere.
"The city has begun an evacuation," he reported. "They're clearing the central districts and the main routes. There is no preparation of troops to confront us. The idea was mentioned, but it was discarded almost immediately."
Satoru nodded slightly.
"They're prioritizing minimizing damage," Hans continued. "Waiting for the hero to resolve it on his own."
He paused briefly before continuing.
"As for the hero's group… his companions are tense. They're discussing possible battle scenarios and formations."
Another pause, barely perceptible.
"Hayato, however, remains relaxed. He chats and jokes without showing any concern. He also avoids intervening when the topic turns to you, as if deliberately postponing it."
Satoru remained silent, letting him finish.
"That's all for now," Hans concluded. "I'll keep you informed if I uncover anything relevant."
Satoru made a faint sound in response, enough to indicate he had understood.
He turned his gaze back toward the window.
The city was still there, moving slowly, emptying itself with care.
The movement he had noticed earlier was gone.
After thinking it over for a moment, Satoru decided to return to the room.
Liza was the first to react, straightening immediately. The girls stood up shortly after, with a speed that wasn't nervousness but habit. No one asked anything. The moment to do so had already passed.
They left the inn together.
This time, the formation had changed without anyone pointing it out. Satoru moved at the front, as always. Pochi and Tama walked just behind him, at a short distance, almost instinctive. Liza and Hans stayed farther back, attentive, covering the space without the need to coordinate out loud.
As soon as they crossed the threshold, the change in the surroundings was obvious.
The area around the inn was empty.
Not naturally cleared, but abandoned. Stalls half closed. Awnings still extended, but with no one beneath them. Boxes left uncollected. A table overturned that no one had bothered to right. There were no footsteps, no voices, no curious looks. Only the sudden absence of everything that should have been there.
The girls' steps halted for a second, but when they saw Satoru continue forward without stopping, they followed.
Turning the corner, a small group of soldiers came into view. They had been hidden, waiting for that moment. They didn't form a blockade or raise their weapons. They simply occupied the crossing, tense, as if they had been holding their breath until he left.
One of them stepped back on reflex, his hand drifting toward the hilt of his sword.
He didn't reach it.
The senior officer beside him stopped him with a sharp, immediate gesture. No words were exchanged, but the apprehension on his face was clear. The soldier lowered his hand and stepped back half a pace, rigid, his gaze fixed on an indeterminate point.
The others remained there, pretending not to look.
Satoru continued on his way without giving them any further attention.
Pochi, naturally, noticed them as well. Uneasy, she lifted her gaze toward Satoru's back, searching for some sign. There was none. He hadn't changed his pace or posture, as if those men hadn't been there at all.
Tama also watched them for a moment before moving on.
No one stopped them. No one followed.
Around them, the space remained empty. Not because the city had vanished, but because it had been withdrawn in haste. The silence wasn't calm—it was caution. A full retreat before something worse could happen.
The sky remained clear.
Far too calm for a city that had decided to flee before watching them walk away.
***
The road north was clear.
The streets remained intact, buildings standing, doors half closed or not fully secured. There were signs similar to what they had glimpsed earlier: awnings folded in haste, crates forgotten against walls, a couple of carts left at awkward angles, as if no one had had time to place them properly before leaving. The silence wasn't natural—it was recent.
Sedoma had never been like this.
In recent days, even with the threat of rain, the city had retained its pulse. Voices, footsteps, haggling, the constant noise of an urban space that didn't know how to stay still. Now it was gone. All of it. Leaving behind a space far too wide between sounds. Each step echoed more than usual, not because of force, but because there was nothing left to cover it.
Satoru walked at the front, without altering his pace.
Pochi and Tama followed him without speaking. Not because silence had been requested, but because the place demanded it. Even Tama, who was usually more carefree, remained alert, eyes forward, attentive to the edges, the corners, the gaps between buildings.
There was no one nearby.
Very far away, almost beyond the reach of hearing, movement could be sensed. Not clear voices, not distinguishable orders—just the distant confirmation that the city was still alive… elsewhere.
Pochi didn't perceive it, but she felt the open space, the way the world seemed to step aside before them. Her ears twitched, uneasy, and for the first time since leaving the inn, she quickened her pace slightly until she was almost at his side.
"Master…"
Satoru stopped.
Standing in the middle of the street, he turned to look at her. As he lifted his gaze toward her, a cloud crossed the sky at that exact moment, dimming the direct sunlight.
His figure was partially obscured.
His body, his face, his cloak—everything was wrapped in a brief, clean shadow, as if the light itself had chosen to withdraw only from him.
But his eyes didn't change.
The blue remained the same. Cold and sharp.
They didn't glow in the sense of emitting light. They simply didn't seem to accept the shadow, as if they didn't belong to the same plane as the rest of the world, as if they continued observing from somewhere else.
Pochi looked up at him.
She fell silent for a second longer than necessary.
Tama noticed it too, though she didn't say anything. Her steps halted by reflex, her attention fixed on that gaze that refused to darken.
Satoru looked at Pochi from where he stood, unmoving.
Waiting.
Pochi swallowed.
There was no fear in her expression, but there was something new. A doubt she didn't know where to place. She took a small step closer, just enough for the shadow to brush the tips of her ears as well, and raised her voice slightly.
"Master…" she repeated, but the hesitation seemed to stop her.
Satoru didn't look away.
"Ask."
Pochi glanced to the side, as if she needed to arrange the words before saying them out loud. When she looked back at him, her brow was slightly furrowed.
"Master, you… aren't human, are you?"
She didn't say it as an accusation. Nor as a dramatic revelation. It was a simple acknowledgment, born from putting together too many things that no longer fit.
Satoru breathed slowly.
"No, I'm not," he replied. "I'm undead."
The word hung between them.
It wasn't followed by an explanation. There was no warning or solemnity. It was simply a truth spoken aloud, without emphasis, without an attempt to direct how it should be received.
Pochi blinked.
She didn't step back. She didn't tense her body. But something in her gaze shifted, as if a familiar idea had suddenly taken on a different weight.
Pochi knew what undead were. She knew what those things were supposed to be.
What she didn't know—what she had never had to consider—was what it meant for her master to be one.
"So then…" she said slowly. "What… does that mean?"
She didn't ask if he was dangerous.
She didn't ask if she should be afraid of him.
She asked what changed.
Tama's fingers tightened slightly around the edge of her cloak. She didn't speak, but her attention was fully on Satoru, waiting for the answer in the same way Pochi was—without shielding herself from it.
Satoru lowered his gaze for a moment. Not to the ground, but to the empty space in front of him.
He thought of humans.
Not as an abstract concept, but as accumulated experience. Of fragile bodies that broke easily. Of the stubborn way they kept moving forward even when there was no real chance of victory. Of people who weren't strong by nature, but by choice.
He remembered the woman with the sword, fighting even when there was no hope left for her. He remembered Zen's homunculus maids, resisting to the very end without fully understanding why. Even ordinary people, without names or histories, clinging to their purpose with a tenacity he had never needed to develop.
He didn't idealize them.
But he acknowledged them.
There was something in them he didn't share. A way of moving forward born from limitation, not excess. A will shaped by the real risk of losing everything.
That, more than any morality, was what made them human.
Satoru knew he didn't belong to that group.
And he also knew he didn't want to lie to them.
Satoru raised his gaze.
He didn't try to soften his expression or hide it in shadow. He looked at them as they were, without distance, without a mask.
Satoru was aware that the world wasn't wrong to see him the way it did, and he didn't believe Sedoma was wrong to act as it had.
He was dangerous.
He didn't say it with pride, nor as an apology. It was a cold acknowledgment, accepted as fact.
Satoru lowered his voice slightly, not out of weakness, but precision.
"I can't live as a human," he said at last. "I don't think like one, I don't choose like one, and when the world reacts to me, it does so because it has reasons to."
Pochi pressed her fingers against her own clothes. Not out of fear, but effort. She was trying to understand something that didn't fit the stories she knew.
"Master…" she began.
Satoru raised a hand, stopping her without harshness.
"That doesn't change what you are to me," he said. "Nor what I expect to be for you."
He looked at both of them, without hesitation.
"But it does change the path you'll walk if you choose to stay at my side."
He didn't speak of obedience.
He didn't speak of duty.
"There will be times when I fight people you would believe I shouldn't," he continued. "There will be decisions the world will call wrong… and they won't always be mistaken."
He let those words settle.
"I'm not going to ask you to stop believing what you believe," he said. "Nor will I try to turn you into something you aren't."
Satoru took a deep breath.
"But living with me means accepting that I won't always stand on the side that seems right."
There it was—the confession.
Not an absolution.
Not an excuse.
Not a half-truth.
Satoru knew he wasn't a hero, not even close. He didn't fight to protect ideals, nor because he believed it was right. He fought when he deemed it necessary… or when it benefited him.
But he didn't consider himself a Demon King either, because he didn't seek to destroy this world or inflict pain and suffering on its inhabitants. That didn't make him innocent.
Pochi looked at him in silence. Her ears were tense, but not pinned back. Tama remained steady, attentive, processing it in her own way.
"There will be things you'll understand with time," he added. "And others I'm not going to explain yet."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't impose the idea.
"Not because you don't have the right to know them," he said, "but because it's not the moment yet."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable.
It was heavy.
Honest.
Pochi swallowed.
Then she nodded.
Not like someone giving in.
But like someone who had just accepted that the world was larger—and more dangerous—than she had thought.
"Pochi…" she said slowly. "Pochi will keep learning."
Tama took a small step forward and stood beside her, without saying a word.
Satoru watched them for a moment longer.
Then he resumed walking.
The street remained empty.
And the city, though distant, continued to turn around someone who was no longer pretending to be anything else.
*************
Author's Note
This chapter exists for a reason.
After the previous one, I felt it was important to address something directly: this story is not meant to excuse, justify, or "clean up" Satoru's actions. Chapter 29 is a line drawn in the sand.
On one hand, it highlights the difference between how Satoru interacts with strangers and how he acts around those close to him. With Hayato, he was direct, cold, and unconcerned with laying out what he has done or what he is willing to do. With Pochi, that same clarity becomes hesitation and discomfort. Satoru is not good at human relationships, and this contrast is intentional.
On the other hand, this chapter works as both a confession and an anchor. It defines what this story—and Satoru himself—can and cannot become. He can evolve, grow, and change, but he will never turn into a traditional hero, nor into an absolute villain.
This chapter also lays important groundwork for what will happen near the end of this arc.
Thank you for reading.