A Fitting Tribute

A room where black cloth fluttered. There was no draft to speak of. It had no windows, the gaps beneath the doors were tightly sealed, and the lanterns hanging near the ceiling shed a faint, dark light—less like flames and more like the embers of dead stars.

Yet, the black fabrics in the room continued to sway. Long banners draped down every wall. Cloth wound around every pillar. Shrouds hung from the ceiling to the floor. All of it rippled in a low, slow wave, as if some invisible hand were gently tugging at them.

The Mourning Room of the Demon King's Army. This was no place for soldiers fallen on the battlefield; its doors opened only when an executive's name was to be etched into the black records. In the center of the chamber sat a massive coffin.

The coffin was empty. Azabel's body had not returned. Indeed, there was no body left to return. Following his clash with Ena, the Commander-in-Chief of the Sword Order, his flesh, his curses, the backup spells harboring his soul, and even the shadow paths he might have used to escape had all been utterly incinerated by the Fire of the Hundred Days.

All that remained of the high executive were a broken fragment of a horn and a few dried crystals of bloody tears, laid out upon a black cloth.

Even so, the coffin was large. Excessively so. It was as if, rather than a corpse, they intended to inter the curses, malice, and deceit Azabel had sown across the world during his lifetime, along with the delicate balance of the war fronts that had vanished with him.

A black shroud draped over the coffin. It swayed silently, in perfect rhythm with the other fabrics in the room. Or perhaps slightly slower. Like the breath of the dead.

It was then that a small object fluttered over the coffin. It was a butterfly made of bubbles. A faint light shimmered inside its translucent wings, and tiny droplets fell from their tips, only to reform into bubbles in midair.

The butterfly did not belong in the Mourning Room. What suited this chamber was black fire, dried blood, heavy silence, and cold voices weighing the death of the strong. The bubble butterfly was too light. Too soft. It felt like a child's idle play.

The butterfly fluttered about, weaving through the black cloths, brushing past the shrouds wound around the pillars, and circling the coffin once. With every beat of its wings, the tiny light trembled. The dark lanterns in the room flickered low, as if reacting to its presence.

The butterfly drifted down, attempting to land on the edge of the coffin. At that moment—pop. It burst with a soft sound. The bubble popped, the light scattered, and a few droplets of water fell onto the black wood.

It was a sound entirely out of place in the Mourning Room. Light, hollow, and slightly ridiculous. And then:

"Ah." With a sullen sigh, a young girl suddenly appeared. She didn't emerge from behind the black cloth, nor did she enter through the door. Her head rose first from a paper-thin shadow of water pooled on the floor, followed by her shoulders, arms, and her entire small frame sliding out into the room.

The girl looked to be about ten years old. Or rather, she merely appeared that way. Anyone who judged an executive of the Demon King's Army by their appearance did not live long.

Her hair clung to her shoulders like wet gray threads, her eyes were as clear as translucent glass beads, and though the hem of her ankle-length robe was damp, it left no wet tracks on the floor. Tiny bubbles drifted around her, forming and vanishing in rapid succession. Like a child's breath. Or like toxic gas bubbling up from a swamp.

Her name was Hisa. An executive of the Demon King's Army. 'Hisa of the Bubble Sleep'. One who manipulated dreams, sleep, and the surface of memories. She draped a thin film of bubbles over human consciousness, blurring the boundary between reality and dream.

Those who met her on the battlefield laughed at first. The sight of a child-like demon blowing soap bubbles was comical. But in the next instant, they would plunge deep into memories of falling asleep in their mothers' arms. Enemies dropped their swords. They let go of their shields. Some fell asleep smiling; others wept, never to wake again.

Hisa's bubbles were not weak. Every time one popped, a layer of a person's memory was torn away, a fragment of their dream altered, and their grasp on reality slipped a little further. Though she possessed the most childlike appearance among the executives, no one treated her like a child. Well, except for one person.

"My butterfly died because it hit Azabel's coffin." Hisa stared blankly at the spot where the bubble butterfly had popped. Then she pouted. "Azabel is a fucking bastard."

The black cloths in the room swayed a bit more violently. Several of the executives gathered in the Mourning Room turned their heads simultaneously. Nameless Armor watched Hisa in silence. Melikia, the Black Choir Leader, tightened her lips beneath her veil.

Seluan, the White-Faced Duke, shifted his face to that of a child, then quickly to a laughing youth, clearly amused. Urkan, the Butcher of the Abyss, blinked slowly. And Isela, the Blue Observer, let out a very soft sigh. It was the sigh of someone long accustomed to this.

"Hisa," Isela said, her voice low and calm. "You shouldn't say things like that."

Hisa whipped her head around. "Why?"

"Because this is the Mourning Room."

"But it's Azabel's Mourning Room," Hisa replied, her face still sullen. "So that means I can say it even more."

Seluan burst into laughter. The laugh rippled through several faces in an instant—the chuckle of a young noble, the chuckle of an old priest, the sob-chuckle of a weary soldier—before settling on ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the face of a beautiful woman. "She's not wrong."

"Don't you start, too," Melikia slowly turned her head.

"But it's true that Azabel was a fucking bastard," Seluan said smoothly. "In that sense, Hisa's remark might actually be the most honest eulogy here."

Urkan muttered in a low voice, "I agree."

Isela sighed once more. "You all need to learn the concept of mourning."

Nameless Armor spoke very slowly. "Did such a thing ever exist in the Demon King's Army?"

Isela fell silent. It was a difficult question to refute. Mourning in the Demon King's Army was different from human funerals. They did not lay flowers. They did not praise the deceased's virtues. They did not pray for peace.

Instead, they verified the dead one's power, recorded the cause of death, and calculated how the vacancy would shift the frontlines. In such a place, arguing over how impolite the words "fucking bastard" were was indeed somewhat ridiculous.

Even so, Isela said, "At the very least, it is better not to start your first sentence with that."

Hisa tilted her head. "Then can I make it the second sentence?"

"That's not what I meant."

"This is hard." Hisa drifted closer to the coffin. Her feet did not touch the floor; she glided over the watery shadows. With every step, thin bubbles formed and vanished beneath her toes.

She looked at the broken horn fragment on the black cloth. Azabel's horn. A piece of that grotesque horn that looked as though it had pierced through his own eye socket. The bloody tear crystals lay beside it. Within the dried, dark crystals, a faint scent of curses still lingered.

Hisa stared at them. A bit of the playfulness faded from her childlike face. "He really is dead."

The room fell quiet. The words had been spoken lightly, but their weight was anything but. Hisa conjured another bubble butterfly, this time letting it float above her palm. The translucent bubble slowly spread its wings, taking the shape of a tiny butterfly. She watched it and said, "Azabel always acted like he would never die."

Nameless Armor spoke. "It is true that he lived solely to avoid death."

"Yeah," Hisa nodded. "He was always like that. He tried to steal my dream bubbles, tried to mix Melikia's hymns with his curses, asked Seluan for one of his faces, and even tried to take Uncle Urkan's soldiers."

Urkan's eyes turned fierce. "Do not speak of that again."

"You don't like it?"

"I do not."

"Then I won't," Hisa replied readily. She looked back at the horn fragment. "And that's why he's a fucking bastard."

Isela closed her eyes. This time, Seluan didn't hold back his laughter. Even Melikia's lips curved upward ever so slightly. Urkan didn't laugh, but he didn't stop her either. No one could entirely refute her words.

That was the kind of being Azabel was. He viewed his allies' powers as mere raw materials, calculated the lives of his soldiers as the cost of his spells, and blurred the lines between friend and foe whenever it suited his needs.

To him, people were not names, but functions. Bloodlines. Fear. Memories. Prayers. Wounds. Dreams. Resistance. He stripped away such things one by one, turning them into parts for his curses. Thus, while Hisa's words were childish profanity, they were strangely accurate.

Hisa sent the butterfly on her palm fluttering toward the coffin. This time, it flew carefully, avoiding the horn fragment. It circled the coffin once, hovered briefly over the bloody tear crystals, and returned to Hisa. She tapped it gently with her fingertip. It did not pop. A look of mild satisfaction crossed her face. "Still," Hisa said, "Azabel was strong."

The atmosphere in the room shifted slightly. Though spoken in a childlike voice, the executives did not take her words lightly. Hisa was the one who controlled dreams and sleep. She occasionally saw things others could not. The deepest terrors people shed as they fell asleep. The crumbling memories just before death. The surface of consciousness in those consumed by curses. These were the words of one who could see such things.

"Azabel's dreams were strange," Hisa said quietly. "There were always so many eyes. His own eyes were impaled by his horns, but in his dreams, there were eyes everywhere. On the ceiling, on the floor, in the blood, even inside other people's faces."

Seluan's face froze for a moment. Melikia's lips thinned. Hisa continued, "All those eyes were watching him. That's why Azabel hated sleeping."

"Have you seen his dreams?" Isela asked.

Hisa nodded. "Once. Secretly."

"..."

"Azabel cursed me back then."

"And?"

"Three of my bubbles rotted," Hisa said solemnly. "He really was a fucking bastard."

This time, even Isela could not bring herself to scold her immediately. Hisa looked back at the horn fragment. "But he was scared."

"Of what?" Melikia asked.

"Dying," Hisa replied. "He was terrified of it. He was scared of his name disappearing, scared of his curses being broken by others, and hated the thought of the things he had bound moving on without him."

The young girl's voice echoed softly through the Mourning Room. "That's why he kept binding things. He bound people, he bound the dead, he bound dreams, and he bound his own body."

Hisa watched the bubble butterfly drifting over the coffin. "But Ena burned it all, didn't she?"

Isela replied, "Yes."

"Even the curses?"

"All of them."

"His body too?"

"All of it."

"Even his escape routes?"

"Every single one."

Hisa fell silent for a moment. Then she recalled the butterfly to her hand. It landed on her palm, remaining intact once more. "Then he must have been so scared."

The words were strange. Truly strange. A girl who had been calling Azabel a fucking bastard just moments ago was now speaking with genuine empathy about how terrified he must have been. There was a trace of pity in her voice. Ever so slight, but undeniably there.

Urkan's expression soured. "Are you pitying him?"

"No," Hisa shook her head. "I just think he must have been scared."

"That is pity."

"It's not," Hisa pouted. "Pity is when you feel sorry for someone. I don't feel sorry for Azabel. Azabel is a fucking bastard."

Isela spoke up, a beat too late this time. "Hisa."

"Yeah, I'll stop," Hisa nodded immediately. Then she added in a tiny whisper, "Just for now."

Seluan was holding back his laughter. Nameless Armor remained focused on the horn fragment. A low voice rumbled from deep within his helmet. "Though he feared, he did not retreat."

Hisa looked ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠up at his words. Nameless Armor continued, "In that, he died as befitted a high executive."

Urkan exhaled sharply. "I hate to admit it, but you are right."

Melikia spoke softly from beneath her black veil. "Azabel was hideous." Her voice resonated low, like a song. "But he was not weak."

Seluan remarked, "He certainly wasn't loved."

"He didn't deserve to be," Urkan cut in.

Seluan laughed. "True. That much is true."

Hisa gently placed the bubble butterfly from her palm onto the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠coffin. This time, too, it did not pop. The sight of that tiny, translucent creature resting upon Azabel's dark coffin was bizarre. Black cloth. A broken horn. Bloody tear crystals. And a bubble butterfly. It was entirely out of place in the Mourning Room, yet that was precisely why it left such a strange, lingering impression.

Hisa spoke in a small voice. "Azabel." The room fell silent. "You were bad." It was an incredibly simple eulogy. "And you were strong." The dark flames flickered low. "And you died." The bubble butterfly folded and unfolded its wings once. "So don't steal my bubbles anymore."

Seluan finally burst out laughing. Even Urkan let out a quiet snort. Melikia pressed her lips together beneath her veil. Isela closed her eyes, then opened them. It was ridiculous. A truly absurd tribute. Yet, it suited Azabel strangely well.

Noble words, grand eulogies, the wrapping of glory—none of those belonged to him. What suited him were cold, sharp, slightly crude, and oddly precise words. You were bad. You were strong. You died. That was more than enough.

Isela conjured an observation sphere. Within its blue light, Azabel's final records flickered to life once more. The clash with Ena. The white flames. A face laughing while weeping tears of blood. Six layers of curse barriers. The final spell sacrificing his own flesh. And the Fire of the Hundred Days that had swallowed everything.

Hisa blinked as she watched the projection. "Whoa," she said. "He really got completely burned to ashes."

"Yes," Isela replied. "Both his curses and his flesh were entirely consumed by the flames."

Hisa thought for a moment. "Then he won't even be able to dream anymore."

"..." The Mourning Room fell silent once more. Unable to dream. It was an obvious truth for the dead. Yet, for Azabel, it carried a strangely profound weight. He had feared death. He had loathed endings. He could not bear the thought of his name vanishing.

That was why he had bound so many things—with curses, with blood, with dreams, with Holy Stigmas, with others' bodies, and with others' names. For such a being, a death where not even dreams remained was the absolute end.

Hisa carefully lifted the butterfly from the coffin. "Ena is scary." The words were innocent, sounding like a child's simple impression. Yet, beneath them lay the instinctive judgment of an executive of the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Demon King's Army. Azabel had been incinerated. Curses, flesh, and all. Therefore, Ena was terrifying. It was a conclusion too simple to refute.

Urkan spoke in a low rumble. "Will you run just because she is scary?"

Hisa tilted her head. "Of course I should run."

Urkan's eyes narrowed fiercely. Hisa, looking genuinely puzzled, said, "If I don't run, I'll get burned too."

Seluan laughed again, this time for quite a while. Nameless Armor did not argue. Melikia remained silent. Isela nodded quietly. "For now, we avoid her."

Urkan fell silent. Hisa conjured another bubble butterfly. This time, there were two. The two butterflies slowly circled the coffin—one over the broken horn, the other over the bloody tear crystals. Neither popped. Hisa said with a satisfied look, "They didn't die this time."

Melikia asked quietly, "Is that also your way of mourning?"

"Yeah," Hisa nodded. "It's a good thing when the butterflies don't pop."

"Why?"

"Because they're alive." It was an incredibly simple answer. Yet, because of that simplicity, no one in the room could find immediate words to follow. Azabel had never liked living things. More precisely, he had never known how to leave living things be.

Anything alive became raw material, dreams were scraped away like foam, and names were converted into curse formulas. Yet, upon his coffin, Hisa's bubble butterflies remained briefly alive. Inside the dark Mourning Room, it felt like a childish prank, yet strangely, it also felt like a genuine tribute.

Isela opened her record log. She added a new entry.

Isela's hand paused for a brief moment as she wrote that final line. Seluan, watching from beside her, chuckled. "You're actually writing that down?"

"Records must be kept."

"Azabel would have hated it."

"That is exactly why I am leaving it."

Hisa grinned widely. "Yay! Then I want to make one more."

"Stop making them," Isela said.

"Why?"

"If the Mourning Room fills with bubbles, cleaning it up will be a hassle."

"Ah," Hisa understood. "I wouldn't want that either."

The heavy air of the Mourning Room lifted ever so slightly. Just a fraction. It was not that Azabel's death had become light. The reality that a high executive had vanished remained unchanged.

The void in the curse network he had left behind, the collapse of the spells he had planted inside the Holy Church, and the reality that Ena's threat level on the Demon King's Army's classification charts had to be raised once more—all of it remained.

Yet, not everyone had to wear the same face in the presence of death. The executives of the Demon King's Army sent Azabel off in their own ways. Nameless Armor acknowledged the end of a strong warrior by looking at the smallness of his remains.

Melikia heard the end of a hideous being amidst the scent of burning. Seluan remembered him with curses and laughter. Urkan, despite his distaste, acknowledged the vacancy. Isela recorded it. And Hisa... she offered her bubble butterflies.

Even then, she left one final word. "Azabel," Hisa said. "Goodbye." The two butterflies circled above the coffin. "And don't come back."

Seluan laughed at her words. Urkan muttered quietly, "That is something we all hope for."

This time, even Isela did not stop her. The black cloths slowly began to sway once more.

"Still, it would be frustrating to just take this lying down," Seluan said, peeling off one of his faces. "Not that I'm avenging him... but I'll handle the next raid. I'll kill at least a few of their squad captains."

"I'll go too," Hisa said, finally flashing a childlike grin. Had she known who she would be fighting the very next day... she would have probably burst into tears.