A violent gust slammed into her face, skimmed past her ears, and a low hum throbbed through every nerve like bees in a jar. Fear hit first; resolve followed. Mizuki braced herself for a fight to the death.
Andrea wore her usual blank mask, now rimmed with killing frost. She truly saw Mizuki as her enemy.
“Form Four, Demon Eagle.”
Elana burst into a winged demon, talons like sickles, eyes burning with the will to kill.
They didn’t know why, but one truth rang cold—Andrea was serious.
If that’s the case, then this battle demanded everything.
Andrea caught Mizuki’s resolve and let a thin flash of satisfaction flicker. She sank her waist, gripped her hilt. Whoosh—she blurred to the Demon Eagle’s face, her sword scything down like falling lightning.
Bang, bang, bang!
Mizuki didn’t just watch; her machine gun spat metal rain, a storm of bullets hissing like hot sand. Andrea saw the surge and held off a beat, and Elana-in-eagle-form seized the moment, her talons whipping like twin comets.
Boom!
Blade met claw. Air spiraled into a cyclone, and the hall howled like a canyon in a storm.
Mizuki raised an elbow against the wind, staggered forward on broken rhythm. She knew stopping was death; Andrea could rush in like winter at any heartbeat.
Her adaptability held like bamboo bending in a gale. Even with Andrea turning savage, she pulled herself together.
“Form Three, Reaper Scythe!”
Violet gloom surged out, hell-forged crescents shrieking toward Andrea like ghosts unchained.
It barely mattered. One flick of Andrea’s blade, and the attack unraveled like smoke. Elana caught the opening, jaw unhinging—an energy orb shot out like a star torn free.
Rumble!
Andrea’s sword whirled, dissolving the strike like salt in rain. She stopped holding back; Mystic Power surged, and her steps turned quick as sparks on oil.
“So fast!”
Elana couldn’t keep up. In her eyes, Andrea’s path was a wild river—no pattern, no mercy. Every cut sought a vital point, and every hit drained her Mystic Power like a leaking vein.
“It’s Sword Dance…”
Andrea’s proudest art—Sword Dance—her name-shaking finisher in the Underworld.
Mizuki couldn’t fathom why Andrea would spend her finisher on her.
“It’s over.”
Andrea’s tone was mild, like dealing with a chore. Her blade struck again and again, and Elana’s body couldn’t endure. Feathers turned to light-dust, then collapsed back into the pendant.
“Elana!”
“Worry about yourself.”
Andrea pivoted like a hawk and dove at Mizuki. Mizuki snatched up the Reaper Scythe, met the attack head-on. Against a master of sword, the scythe felt like straw.
Swish!
Merciless, Andrea’s blade opened Mizuki’s flesh like silk.
“Pain!”
Fire raced her nerves. She almost blacked out, swayed, then forced herself upright, face gone iron-gray.
“What, that little sting breaks you?”
Andrea’s eyes held a cold, mocking sheen, winter on glass.
In the Underworld, wounds are a given. If you can’t take this, how can you stand on that soil?
“Miss Andrea…”
“Look at me. I’m your enemy right now.”
Her voice was flat as stone. She didn’t care if Mizuki lived or died.
Mizuki bit down, lifted her weapon, and rushed in again.
Bang, bang, bang!
Up close, she had no edge, but the path behind her was a cliff. No retreat. No mercy.
More cuts carved into her skin, blood threaded out like red vines, her face tightened with pain. Andrea stayed a sculpture of ice.
Mizuki threw everything she had, every trick, every breath. Against Andrea, they shattered like sand against a wave.
Against others, those moves might hold. Against an Underworld elite, they were nothing.
The gap between her and the strong was a chasm, a watershed she couldn’t cross.
Cough, cough…!
Mizuki collapsed to her hands, spat red onto the floor, breath rough as torn cloth.
She had no strength left, not even to stand. Her body burned and throbbed; every cell screamed in protest.
Andrea saw her spent. Normally, she would have stopped. But—
Thud!
Her kick cracked into Mizuki’s ribs, sending her skidding like a tossed doll.
Pain gnawed bone; life felt worse than death. Blood welled fresh. She sucked air that tasted of iron, reached for the Reaper Scythe—her hand wouldn’t lift.
“Every strong one in the Underworld didn’t grow strong from training alone.”
Andrea set her blade’s tip to Mizuki’s throat, cold as a winter star.
“If you haven’t faced life and death, you won’t grow.”
Andrea had walked that road. She knew what Mizuki lacked—experience carved by the edge.
Miyuki Kiseki came from the Outer World, raised in a sweet, sheltered glass. Without hardship, she could hardly do more than dream. Training someone like that—no soft hands.
Underworld elites are forged in mortal trials. Practice alone is a dry well.
Andrea, Yuuya, Yanbu Junichi, Kananin Rin, even Yunshi Bianqi—their strength was born clawing out from the brink of death.
To put it bluntly, the fastest way to grow is to walk once through the gates of hell.
Mizuki rose slow, a patchwork of wounds, but her eyes burned clear, a lantern in storm. Her resolve had settled like stone.
If Miyuki Kiseki wants to grow, retreat isn’t an option.
“Continue.”
Andrea lifted her sword. She and Mizuki collided again. Within the Sword Dance, Mizuki’s wounds widened like cracking ice, and blood dripped more and more, painting the floor. Near her limits, she refused to fall; she knew one fall now, and she might never rise again.
She didn’t come from the Outer World to this dark corner just to live. She came to take someone’s hand and walk forward with it.
Though she didn’t even know whose hand to take…
Because she loved two people…
Andrea saw Mizuki soaked in red, clothes dyed like autumn leaves in rain. Her expression softened, a thaw around the eyes, but her sword didn’t stop.
“Please… continue.”
Now Mizuki understood why Andrea fought her so seriously. This was tempering. Without life and death, some truths stay locked.
Andrea was teaching her that truth.
“Mizuki, at this rate…”
“Don’t worry about me, Elana. This is the road I chose. So I’ll keep… walking.”
She wanted to hold that person’s hand, press that body to hers, see that face up close. But she knew—
She wasn’t worthy yet.
