Itsuki Hiroto stared at the official dispatch in disbelief. Fresh from his breakfast of "Hero's Rest Tea" and "Cleric's Comfort Congee," he had barely settled into his corner of the Imperial Logistics Bureau when a parchment scroll arrived bearing the seal of Chancellor Beltram:
> URGENT
Captain Hiroto—Your presence is required at the Borderlands Peace Summit.
Your duty: oversee logistics for both human and demon delegations.
Discretion advised.
—Imperial Throne
Hiroto let out a long, weary sigh. Discretion? As if I have any left. He massaged his temples, wondering whether to feign illness or simply run away and hide in a barrel. Before he could decide, Virelya Arkwright strode in, full armor gleaming, her expression that familiar blend of exasperation and resolve.
"Morning, Captain. Ready for your new assignment?" she asked.
"I'd rather run a three‑day inventory audit in Glintveil," Hiroto replied. "But alas, destiny calls."
Sera tumbled into the room clutching her satchel. "Summit supplies! I've packed emergency tear‑gas potions—just in case negotiations get… emotional."
Hiroto blinked. "Tear‑gas? For a peace summit?"
"Diplomacy can be dangerous," Sera said solemnly. "Better safe than regretting."
Virelya slapped a folder onto his desk. "Here's your briefing. The Emperor insists on neutrality: half the supplies go to the human envoy, half to the demon envoy. You'll escort the wagons, set up camp, and remain as invisible as possible. Got it?"
Hiroto scanned the papers. "Invisible. Right. That's why everyone knows my face." He crumpled the sheet. "Fine. I'll go. But I'm wearing a disguise."
Sera produced a wide‑brimmed cloak, scholars' spectacles, and a floppy baker's hat. "The full baker disguise."
"Perfect," Hiroto muttered, pulling the cloak around his shoulders. "Now I look like a confused pastry chef."
---
They set out at dawn in a column of four supply wagons—each pulled by yawning mules with little bells jingling. Virelya rode atop the lead wagon to keep bandits at bay; Sera trailed alongside on foot, carrying a vest of potions; Hiroto stowed himself in the second wagon, half‑hidden under burlap sacks labeled "EMPIRICAL EMPEROR'S EMERALD FLOUR" (for the humans) and "INFERNAL INCENSE AND CANDLES" (for the demons).
In truth, the cargo was much more mundane: dried meats, barley, healing herbs, toolkits, ceremonial tablecloths embroidered with unity sigils, and awkwardly, a dozen specialty tea chests stamped "Hero's Respite Blend."
The road wound through emerald forests and rolling hills scarred by old battles. As they approached the border pass—a neutral zone marked by carved stone pillars—Hiroto peeked over the wagon side. A gravelly voice called out:
"By order of the Human High Command, present your credentials!"
Virelya dismounted and produced a stamped scroll. The guard bowed and waved them through. Moments later, they came upon the demon side sentries: squat imps in black leather, flicking red spark sparks from their fingertips.
"Well met," one greeted, its deep voice rumbling. "Diplomatic supplies for the Demon King's delegation?"
Sera stepped forward, hands raised in greeting. "Yes—supplies for the summit. Holy incense for your shrine, and healing salves for any… unfortunate incidents."
The imps exchanged glances, then nodded. "Proceed. But no magic unlicensed."
With that, the wagons rolled into the Shattered Gate, an ancient archway half‑buried and inscribed with runes uniting two nations. Beyond lay a sprawling plain where the summit was to take place: a circle of tents pitched around a raised dais, with banners bearing human and demon motifs flapping in the wind.
---
Hiroto disembarked, helping to unload crates. Virelya directed the human contingent to one quadrant; demon envoys to another. Sera set out small vials labeled "Tear‑gas" for neutral‑zone security—just in case. Hiroto glanced toward the demon camp and nearly jumped out of his skin.
There, clad in a simple cloak and hood (and surprisingly broad shoulders), stood King Gerald himself, the Demon King, chatting with a horned general. The hood briefly slipped, revealing Gerald's weary eyes.
Hiroto ducked behind a bale of straw. Not again. The Demon King's presence always made him uneasy—he'd already nearly died trying to dodge destiny, courtesy of Gerald's benign but insistent curiosity.
As Hiroto lugged a crate marked "Ceremonial Candles," Gerald's voice drifted across the field: "You there! Warehouse Master! Come speak."
Hiroto froze. Virelya gave him a curt nod: Just be polite. Summoning his courage, he approached.
"Your Majesty," he said, bowing awkwardly.
Gerald held out a hand—grayish skin, faint runes glowing. "I trust your supplies will arrive intact?"
Hiroto swallowed. "Half for the demons, half for the humans. All intact as far as I know."
Gerald's lips curved in a tired smile. "Thank you. I appreciate equal treatment—something I seldom receive from my own generals."
Hiroto nodded, ducking as Gerald removed his hood fully, revealing horns and a mane of silver hair. "It's… an honor, Your Majesty."
Gerald laughed softly, a sound like distant thunder. "No titles here. Call me Gerald." He gestured toward the human tents. "And you?"
"I'm Hiroto," he replied. "Warehouse clerk turned… escort."
"Then I shall enjoy meeting the famed hero in disguise," Gerald said, offering a small bow in return. "Come, let us discuss seating arrangements." The Demon King led him toward two central pavilions.
---
As they walked, Gerald and Hiroto exchanged banter. Gerald picked up on Hiroto's disguise immediately ("A baker's hat? Clever."), and seemed amused rather than offended. He showed Hiroto where to unload demon incense—a stall painted deep crimson—and where to erect the demon shrine, a triangular frame hung with flickering lanterns shaped like embers.
"Must it be so elaborate?" Hiroto asked, handing over a crate of charcoal‑scented candles.
Gerald shrugged. "Diplomacy is theater, Hiroto. Better the fires be controlled than left to rage."
Hiroto pursed his lips. The only raging fire I want is my morning coffee.
They finished unloading, then Gerald clapped Hiroto on the shoulder. "You've done well. Enjoy the summit—perform your duties, then vanish. None of this is your concern."
Hiroto bowed. "Thank you… Gerald."
Gerald grinned, then melted into his entourage. Hiroto exhaled, relief and dread mingling.
---
Moments later, Virelya and Sera found him under the shade of a tent.
"Did you survive?" Virelya asked.
"For now," Hiroto replied. "Sitting next to a demon monarch is surprisingly calming."
Sera handed him a teacup. "Emergency tea?"
He accepted, watching the summit dais being prepared: two long tables facing each other, draped in white and red cloth, with chairs set for dozens of emissaries. At the far end stood the Crystal Pedestal, an ancient relic said to amplify magical wards during negotiations.
"Stay invisible," Virelya whispered. "Your job is logistics—once the summit begins, no one sees the clerk."
Hiroto nodded, swallowing his tea. Invisible. He stepped aside as heralds blew trumpets and chanted openers in both Common Tongue and Infernal Runes.
---
The summit opened with fanfare. A human herald proclaimed, "Welcome, delegates, to the Unity of Flames Summit! May our words cool the embers of war!" The demons responded with a chant roughly translated to "May our bargains be strong and our grudges be brief."
Hiroto shuffled the seating scrolls, ensuring humans sat opposite demons, with neutral mediators in the middle. At his side, Sera handed out water flasks; Virelya kept watch for trouble.
Negotiations began calmly—offers of trade routes, exchange of scholars, joint patrols. Hiroto dared to relax, siphoning off refreshing draughts for tired envoys. He glanced at the Crystal Pedestal, noting a faint glow as envoys spoke.
Everything's going according to plan…
Then a shriek split the air.
A minor human delegate had spilled a vial of "Calm‑Mind Elixir" instead of water. The liquid hissed as it hit the pedestal's base. The crystal flared bright—too bright. Magical ripples pulsed outward, and a low hum thrummed in everyone's ears.
Envoys froze mid‑sentence. The human speaker's voice stuttered as if echoing in a cavern. Across the table, the demon general's horn twitched—its rune‑etched staff vibrating.
Hiroto dove forward, slapping a hand over the spilled flask. "Close the pedestal cover!" he shouted.
Virelya sprang into action, yanking a silk cloth from nearby and whipping it over the crystal. The glow dimmed, but the hum lingered.
Delegates blinked, shaking their heads. The human herald coughed. The demon herald grunted. They resumed as though nothing had happened.
Hiroto rose, wiping his brow. "That—was unplanned."
Sera handed him a wet rag. "Summit hazard #1: magical overreaction."
Virelya gave him a sideways look. "You fix that, and you're a hero."
Hiroto managed a tired grin. "I prefer not to be."
---
The summit continued, tempered by Hiroto's careful logistics and emergency teacups. By midday, envoys shook hands, promising to draft the Peace Accord. Sera quietly distributed anti‐mispronunciation mints to prevent prophetic curses from misread keywords.
At last, Gerald stood and addressed both sides: "Let this accord bind our peoples. And may our future meetings require no such dramatic interventions." He offered a genuine smile to Hiroto, who bowed.
The negotiations closed with applause, banners lowered, and the once‑threatened world inching a bit closer to stability.
As the caravans prepared to depart, Chancellor Beltram approached Hiroto, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Excellent work. The Emperor will hear of this—and I will recommend you for a medal."
Hiroto swallowed. "I—thank you. But please, can I remain unremarkable?"
Beltram laughed. "I'll try, but no promises."
---
Back in the neutral camp, Hiroto packed away the last crates. Virelya handed him a small leather pouch. "For your efforts." Inside: a single medal bearing the Imperial crest.
Sera placed a hand on his back. "You deserve it."
Hiroto stared at the medal. A medal for avoiding a diplomatic crisis. He clipped it onto his cloak. "If this makes me even more visible, I'll throw it into the moat."
Gerald reappeared, stepping into the clearing. "Hiroto, thank you—for everything. If you ever need a calm cup of tea or an escape from your own legend, you're welcome at my citadel."
Hiroto bowed, touched. "Thank you, Gerald. I'll… keep that in mind."
Gerald nodded and departed, his cloak swirling like dusk.
As the wagons rolled home—bells jingling, envoys waving—Hiroto leaned back, exhausted but oddly content. He had escorted a fragile peace between humans and demons, staved off magical mishaps, and managed to remain himself—at least for one brief, glorious day.
Sera nudged him. "So… how was that for 'just logistics'?"
Hiroto cracked a smile. "Piece of cake. Now can I file my reports in peace?"
Virelya laughed. "Don't tempt fate."
And so Captain Hiroto—warehouse clerk, accidental hero, sworn guardian of seals, and now provisional diplomat—returned to Solencia, medal at his chest and tea in his hand, ready for whatever unintended adventure fate would trip him into next.