The first light of the year spilled over the horizon, painting the sea in molten gold.
Frieren stood at the docks, her expression unreadable as the sunrise mirrored across the waves—just as Himmel had described decades ago.
Beside her, Fern clasped her hands together, her breath catching.
"It's beautiful," Fern murmured.
Frieren glanced at her. The girl's eyes shone, her lips parted in quiet awe. For a moment, the elf saw another face superimposed over Fern's—Himmel's grin, Heiter's drunken chuckle, Eisen's steady presence. The memory was fleeting, but it left a familiar ache in her chest.
["We wanted you to have fun too." ]
A wry smile tugged at her lips. So this is what he meant.
But before she could reply, a ripple of mana prickled against her senses. Cold. Familiar.
Her fingers twitched.
"Fern," she said, her voice low. "We're leaving."
Fern blinked. "Eh? But the festival—"
"We're being followed," Frieren cut in sharply.
She was already steering Fern away from the crowd, her grip firm. The mana signature pulsed again—closer now, laced with malice. Him.
She knew that presence well, after the number of times she had faced him since their first encounter—back when she was still in the Hero's Party during the expedition against the Demon King. Disguised—if you could even call it that—as a painter on a commission Himmel had requested as he often did after their achievements, it had been the first and only time during their journey that Himmel wanted a painting instead of a statue.
Despite the fact that the demon had been thoroughly overpowered by the Hero's Party, unable to inflict any real damage—he had still managed to escape.
Frieren led her apprentice into a secluded alley, far from the crowd, all the while tracking the presence with her mana-detection senses.
The alley they ducked into was narrow. Fern opened her mouth to protest, but the words died as a figure materialized before them.
It was him.
The demon was short—maybe five centimeters taller than Frieren at most.
At first glance, he looked harmless: a small teen in a ridiculous hat. The bonnet sagged under the weight of oily crow feathers, half-hiding a mop of mussed black-and-white hair and two beautiful ivory-like curved horns. His oversized coat hung off him, stitched from rectangles of black and white fabric as if an amateur tailor made it. Dozens of brushes poked from straps across his chest and legs, clinking like wind chimes as he shuffled forward.
The only thing that ruined the "lost art student" look was the massive brush strapped to his back—its handle carved from something disturbingly spine-like, the bristles dripping ink so dark it seemed to devour the light. His face didn't help either: pale as grave dirt, smeared with paint, and those eyes—empty, starless pits.
He smiled softly, fiddling with a small, clean hand brush. His right hand was stained with colored paint—a sharp contrast to his otherwise monochrome appearance. The peculiar brush had a dark cherrywood handle, silver bristles which seems to come from a rare animal, and a paint scalpel embedded in the opposite end.
In his left hand, he held a girl—no older than Fern—who choked, her fingers clawing uselessly at his arm.
"Frieren," he greeted, voice smooth and soft. "I missed you."
A smile on his lips, but his eyes were hollow.
Fern's staff was already in hand, magic crackling at her fingertips, but Frieren stepped forward, her gaze locked on the demon. The girl's terrified whimpers filled the silence.
"Dürer. Let her go," Frieren said.
The demon tilted his head. "Why? She's my insurance. You wouldn't risk a human life, would you?" His grin widened as he shifted behind the girl, using her like a shield.
Frieren's fingers curled.
Her eyes moved constantly, relentlessly searching for an opening.
Memories flickered. She couldn't one-shot him—not without preparation.
And his mana reserves were far greater than they had been years ago.
Fern's voice cut through the tension. "Frieren-sama, we can't let him—"
"I know."
The demon's grip tightened. The girl gasped.
And Frieren made her choice.
She fired a Zoltraak.
--- ////
5 Years Before the Demon King's Defeat
The battle had been brutal, but victorious. The Demon Lord Teufelsmauer lay dead, his fortress reduced to rubble, and his army scattered like ashes in the wind. The Hero's Party—Himmel, Eisen, Heiter, and Frieren—stood amidst the wreckage, breathing hard but triumphant.
The villagers of Thale, who had lived in fear of the demon, welcomed them with cheers and open arms.
That night, the town square buzzed with celebration. Lanterns cast a warm glow over the cobblestones, ale flowed freely, and laughter filled the air. Himmel, ever the sentimental one, leaned against the tavern's wooden counter, swirling his drink thoughtfully.
"We should commemorate this," he declared, raising his voice over the din. "A statue? Something grand in the middle of the town, to remind the world of our victory!"
Eisen snorted into his mug. "This village barely has a blacksmith, let alone a sculptor."
Heiter, who hadn't reached his drunk threshold yet, shrugged and suggested, "A painting, then. Less permanent, but just as meaningful."
Himmel's eyes lit up. "A painting! Perfect!" He turned to the barkeep. "You wouldn't happen to know an artist, would you?"
The man scratched his beard. "Actually, there's a traveling painter staying at the inn. Calls himself Dürer. Bit odd, but talented from what I've seen. You should ask him tomorrow—he usually tends to his materials in the evening."
---
The Next Day
Dürer was, indeed, odd.
He sat at a corner table in the inn, hunched over a sketchbook, his fingers moving with practiced precision. His oversized hat—a ridiculous thing drowning in black feathers—cast a shadow over his face, but the flickering candlelight caught glimpses of his features: pale skin, a mess of black-and-white hair, and a smile that seemed just a little too eager.
When Himmel approached, Dürer practically leapt from his seat.
"The Hero's Party!" he exclaimed, voice brimming with admiration. "It's an honor! I've heard so many stories—your battle against the Demon King's Army, your travels—oh, I must paint you!" His enthusiasm was infectious, his gestures animated, his smile shining with excitement.
Himmel grinned. "Then it's settled! A portrait of us all, to remember this day."
Dürer clapped his hands together. "Yes! Yes, I'll capture your glory perfectly!"
The session began in the town square, the party arranged before the town hall as Dürer set up his easel. He worked quickly, his brushstrokes confident, his chatter ceaseless.
"You're even more impressive in person," he gushed, dabbing paint onto the canvas. "Himmel, your smile—the way it catches the light! And Eisen, your axe—the way it catches the light! And Frieren, your magic—how colorful and beautiful it is, even though I've never seen you cast a single spell! And Sir Heiter, your ability to consume alcohol with such divine grace in the middle of a pose is so magnificent!"
The corners of Himmel's mouth twitched slightly at the comment about Frieren before he restrained himself from laughing—along with the rest of the group—at the remark about Heiter.
The painter's words sparked laughter among them as he began sketching.
After some time and a few pose adjustments, Frieren—who had been silent until now—narrowed her eyes.
Something was off.
Dürer's movements were strange, his posture giving Frieren an uncanny feeling that her friends didn't seem to detect.
But his mana levels were only double Heiter's.
Wait.
Frieren's pupils dilated suddenly.
Too much for a simple painter.
Her fingers twitched.
Without warning, she lashed out—a beam of pure magic slicing through the air toward Dürer's head.
He moved.
Not as if ambushed, but as if he had been waiting for this moment. His head tilted just enough for the spell to miss, the force of it sending his ridiculous hat flying.
For a split second, everything froze.
The hat tumbled through the air, feathers scattering. Beneath it, two ivory horns curved from Dürer's hair, stark against the bright blue sky.
His smile didn't waver.
Then—the fight began without a single word.
Himmel and Eisen were on him in an instant, blades flashing. Himmel's sword aimed for his neck, Eisen's axe cleaving toward his torso.
Dürer twisted, evading the decapitating strike—but not the second one.
Eisen's axe split him clean in two.
Blood painted a crescent moon beneath the brushstroke of Eisen's axe.
Silence.
The two halves of Dürer's body crumpled to the ground. The townsfolk screamed, scrambling back.
They fled the village as the memory of the demons remained fresh in their minds.
The party stood tense, weapons still raised.
Slash!
Himmel suddenly pivoted, his sword whipping around in a second decapitation strike—aimed at the fallen hat.
From beneath the shadow of the hat he had worn before the attack, a new figure emerged—Dürer's true self revealed.
All traces of his warm, human affectation and passion had vanished. His face was now cold, his voice silent, the previous friendly demeanor nothing more than a discarded mask. The demon stood dripping with an ink-like black substance that somehow refused to stain his clothes as it pooled around his feet.
The previously bisected corpse dissolved into inky stains on the ground.
With a fluid slide, Dürer evaded Himmel's follow-up strike, his body passing effortlessly through the ink puddles left behind—which suddenly surged upward.
An array of wind blades cast by Frieren sliced toward the demon.
"Tintenpanzer," Dürer murmured.
With a casual wave of his hand, the surrounding ink formed a turtle-like carapace that enveloped him completely. The wind spells shattered harmlessly against the dark shield.
Himmel braced himself for a single powerful thrust while Eisen fell back to guard Heiter and Frieren. The elf mage launched a continuous crimson mana blast at the ink protection, which cracked slightly but immediately began repairing itself.
As Himmel's strike reached its apex, his blade thrust forward with perfect precision—aimed directly at the upper section of the ink carapace.
The ink shell burst like a bubble from the impact, a silhouette rapidly flying upward.
Dürer used a signature spell of demons, flying.
He was grasping a giant paintbrush—as long as his height—with a spine-like handle.
The painter shot into the sky on his ink-brush staff, the bristles shedding oily trails that remained suspended in the air.
His ascent was eerily graceful—silent.
But Himmel didn't hesitate.
He launched himself upward after the demon, sword gleaming, wind magic wreathing his enchanted boots. "Don't let him gain altitude!" he barked.
Eisen leapt seconds behind, his axe held in both hands. A gust spell from Frieren hurled him upward with greater momentum than the enchanted boots could provide—silent coordination honed through years of battle.
Frieren herself remained grounded, her staff alight with energy, glyphs forming around her in rapid sequence.
Dürer's brush twitched.
"Monochrome - Croquis."
Lines of ink etched themselves into the air—mid-flight sketches that shimmered, then solidified. A giant bird with serrated wings and empty sockets shrieked into being, diving at Eisen. Another—a humanoid with swords for limbs—burst forth, spiraling toward Himmel to intercept him mid-jump.
Clash.
Eisen roared, cleaving through the ink avian with a brutal swing. Feathers of pitch scattered like sparks. Himmel danced midair, his sword ringing against the blade-armed summon in a flurry of sparks and motion.
Having bought himself time, Dürer didn't attack.
He sketched.
Constantly.
Endlessly.
Each flick of his brush painted new black ink creatures—bats, avians, wyverns of smeared ink that roared.
Forcing the melee fighters to return to the ground, as they lacked concrete aerial maneuverability.
Frieren sent a bolt of searing mana arcing upward—a lance of light with the heat of a sunbeam. Dürer twisted, his coat flaring. He drew a circle in the air with his brush, and Tintenpanzer flared again—a shield of coalesced ink, this time webbed like a spider's egg sac nearly destroyed. The spell collided with it and dissipated.
Another glyph bloomed at Frieren's feet. She was already incanting the next.
Distracted by the elf, the painter didn't see Eisen using his enchanted boots to reach him after destroying the fragile ink beasts.
Above, Eisen met the demon mid-sky, the two colliding with a thunderclap. His axe swung in a wide arc—but Dürer vanished into a smear, dissolving and reforming a meter away. Black droplets rained down as his paintbrush carved new abstract symbols into the air.
A swarm of ink locusts erupted from his brush—biting, gnashing. Eisen grunted, swiping through them, his armor sizzling from their acidic touch, forcing him to retreat again.
Himmel swooped in from behind, his blade slashing downward—
A parry.
Dürer deflected the strike with the shaft of his giant brush. Sparks screamed from the impact, but his silence held. No taunt. No laughter. Only the faint dripping of ink and the whisper of air rushing past.
He used the momentum of the hero's sword strike to create distance.
Then he moved again.
A slash of his brush. A ripple through the sky.
He pulled one of his completed paintings from under his coat—impossibly large for the space it had occupied.
A beautiful, crimson sun sinks into the horizon, casting molten gold across a tranquil sea, while streaks of lavender and indigo clouds drift overhead.
"Coucher de Soleil en mer N°1500."
He cut the painting in two with the scalpel at the bottom of his brush. Then the painting dispersed into ash, flying upward before disappearing behind the clouds.
"FRIEREN!" Himmel shouted.
From the ashes of the painting, the sun fell.
Not a metaphor, not an illusion—a sun-like fireball crashed downward, trailing ribbons of fire and black smoke, a celestial inferno from a masterpiece.
The sky turned red.
The wind howled as the massive orb of flame descended toward them. Heat seared the air. Stone and shadow curled away from its light. The very clouds above recoiled, and the heavens themselves seemed to hold their breath.
"I see it!" Frieren answered sharply, her previous attack spell nearly ready—though she had to alter the ending sequence to salvage the situation.
With a single motion, she raised her staff and struck the ground. A high-tier multiple barriers spell unfolded—a shell of interlocking sigils that shimmered like glass, covering both her teammates and the battlefield, taking the brunt of the impact.
When the smoke cleared, the shield was fractured—but intact.
A failed painting indeed lacked firepower, but he could spam them.
Himmel dove again, this time finding his mark. His blade stabbed deep into Dürer's shoulder, drawing a spill of black blood through the air.
The ink-demon didn't flinch.
Instead, he used it.
Dürer swept his brush into his own wound, soaking the bristles in his blood. Then he slashed downward—and from the trail, a giant fox burst into existence, formed entirely of jet-black plasma. Before acquiring more detail—bright white fur, multiple giant red eyes covering its head, each full of concentric circles.
It snarled, lunged at Himmel.
Creating distance again.
Another clash. A dodge. A counter.
It was war in claw and sword strike, in blood and ink.
The sky became the canvas.
The air trembled with the raw energy of momentum from both fighters.
Suddently, The dwarf landed another glancing strike, scoring across Dürer's ribs. Eisen—now healed by Heiter—followed up with a brutal axe swipe that tore off part of the demon's coat, revealing his pale skin lacerated.
Frieren cast another barrage of wind lances, slicing through summoned ink-wolves that lunged from thin air. Her staff thrummed with power as she whispered a layered incantation—binding glyphs to slow Dürer's movement.
It worked.
Dürer stuttered mid-air, his form bound by golden sigils.
Himmel soared forward. Blade-first.
Eyes locked.
Aisen did the same.
Frieren extended her staff for a finishing blow—
*Slash. *
*Splosh. *
Ink again.
Then Dürer appeared among the ink-wolf pack near Frieren and Heiter.
The scalpel at the bottom of his paintbrush aimed for Heiter's neck.
*Slash.*
A lock of silver hair spiraled through the air.
Her pigtail.
One of them. Cleanly severed.
Heiter quickly regained his footing.
The shock of it made her blink.
Her fingers tightened.
"You…" she whispered, but there was no room for rage.
Frieren's eyes narrowed.
Her severed pigtail was now in the demon's hand before he tucked it inside his coat, as if it were a normal action.
She had saved Heiter—but at the cost of some of her hair. Was it a win or a lose ?
She would kill this demon.
She lowered her staff slowly, one hand brushing against the back of her head where the hair had been cut.
"Die," she murmured.
"Get ready," Heiter replied behind her, his tone grim. The priest had taken up a defensive stance—more support than attacker—but divine magic already built in his hands, ready to be unleashed if necessary.
Himmel and Eisen landed a second later, their boots cracking flagstones. Both were winded, bruised, their gear scorched with magical residue—but their eyes burned with fury.
Himmel more than Eisen, as he had lost some hair from being too close to the fire spell earlier.
Dürer said nothing.
He never had to.
A flick of his wrist, and his brush dragged a wide arc across the air, spilling more of his own ink-blood onto the earth.
From this single stroke rose monsters—twisted, half-finished beasts of failed imagination: headless wolves with writhing centipede legs, mannequins clad in fragmented armor, fish with bird wings that shrieked. They surged toward the party.
"Monochrome - Carnet de Croquis."
"Take the left!" Himmel shouted toward Eisen as he moved to the right flank.
Heiter blessed his allies with a rapid wave of divine blessings. "Strength. Speed. Ward."
Then, before the second round could begin—
The monsters created by Dürer turned into a giant pitch-black smoke screen, lingering and covering at least five kilometers around the battlefield.
"Retreat. Don't move," Heiter ordered. He then cast a clearing blessing, dispelling the smokescreen and revealing the damaged town—though, thanks to Frieren's barriers, the destruction was minimal and could be repaired within two weeks.
The group groaned and sighed.
The demon had fled and survived.
The painting remained unfinished and taken by Dürer.
And the demon had extracted the first half of the painting commission from Himmel.
And most importantly—Frieren had lost some hair.
It was a loss.
--- ////
Present
A pair of legs and a lower torso stood upright, with no upper body remaining.
The Zoltraak confirmed that it had been an ink clone—and Dürer seemed to have improved them.
After standing upright for a few seconds, the remaining lower half of his body dissolved into ink, leaving the kidnapped and panicked girl with Frieren and Fern in the alley.
An otage situation with Frieren's level of precision was plain stupid.
Hasn't he become more intelligent after all their other encounters and battles?
Was he a 'special' case among the demon ?
"Don't be afraid," Fern said gently, approaching the trembling girl to reassure her while Frieren tried to determine—among all the mana signatures that suddently appeared—which one was the real Dürer and which were clones and decoy.
But in that moment of inattention, the girl—who had seemed and was entirely human—took advantage of the situation.
Out of nowhere.
The hostage delivered a sudden suplex, slamming Fern into the ground like a sack of potatoes.